Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Silvius‘ good eye gleamed at me from deep within his hood, and I nearly burst into tears.

I almost spoke his name, but he put his finger to his lips and winked.

I contented myself with squeezing his hand. ―What do you here?‖ I asked, speaking low.

―Come to see if you need any comfort.‖

Oh, he was too good to me.

―Oh,‖ I said. ―Good man—‖ damn this audience for not allowing me to say his name!

―—I am glad you are here. I wish to say…that…‖

I wanted to apologise to him for how I had acted that night we lay together, for not being

what he deserved, but I did not know how to phrase the words.

―Do not worry, my lady, you were all that I deserved, and more. Tell me…have you lost

that emptiness?‖

I shook my head wordlessly.

―Ah, I am sorry for it. I had hoped…‖

―I know.‖ Again I squeezed his hand. ―So much has changed in so few days.‖

He glanced at the back of the closely grouped nuns, as if he could see Edward through

their substance. ―I know. There is a disturbance in the Game.‖

―Long Tom has felt it also.‖ Silvius‘ eye jerked back to my face as I continued. ―The

foundations of both land and Game have tilted slightly.‖

―And does he know what has caused this?‖

―No.‖ Now it was I who looked about the chamber. ―Swanne is altered. I wonder if it is

she who has…has…‖

―Has?‖

―I don‘t know.‖ I felt close to tears, and Silvius lifted his free hand and touched my

forehead, making the gesture look like a blessing. I wished he could keep his fingers on my face,

but of necessity he needed to drop them away as he did. I took a deep breath and tried again.

―Her manner. Her very being. It is different in some way. Sharper, edgier. More acute.‖

―Then what has happened, has happened to Swanne,‖ he said.

―But what could it be?‖

He shrugged.

―Asterion?‖ I asked, glancing around me, wondering if he was here, among us.

Undoubtedly.

―If Asterion did anything to Swanne it would be to kill her. That I could imagine.

Especially if he was angered that another band had been moved. Who else would he suspect

apart from Swanne?‖

―He could suspect me. He came to Edward while I and Long Tom moved the second

band, and he saw I was not here. Then Swanne came to me, and asked questions…‖

―Lady,‖ Silvius said very gently, ―how could he suspect you? He is certain that Mag has

been killed. He cannot know you for who you truly are.‖

I shrugged, closer to tears than ever. If only I could sleep, rest, close my mind to

everything…

Silvius‘ hand tightened about mine. ―I can feel him,‖ he said, beating his other hand in a

closed fist gently against his breast. ―I can feel that motherless bastard in here. He is confident.

He is crowing with confidence. The Game has shifted, and he has caused it. Swanne has ‗shifted‘

and I cannot think but that he has caused this as well. Caela…‖

―Yes?‖

―If Asterion murders Swanne or otherwise corrupts her, we are lost. You know that, don‘t

you?‖

I closed my eyes, and gripped Silvius‘ hand tightly.

―I know that,‖ I said.

SIX

6th January 1066

Edward lay dying. He‘d taken almost a week about it, but now, in the heart of the bleak

midwinter, it was his time.

He was screaming.

There was no need for him to scream so, but Edward was approaching his salvation and

he wanted everyone to know that he was going to grab at it with both hands. There was no

possible means by which salvation was going to avoid him. No possible means by which God

and His saints were going to escape an eternity without the Confessor by their side.

Humility had never been Edward‘s strongest attribute.

His screams were terrible to hear. Gurgling with the blood and pus that now almost

completely filled his lungs, they rippled about the crowded chamber like a rotten sea.

It appeared that anyone who had even the faintest connection with the king had squeezed

themselves into the chamber.

Caela was there, the chief mourner and witness. Her face was pale and expressionless,

her every movement measured, as if she kept herself under tight control.

Most of the highest clergy currently within a day‘s ride of London were there: Wulfstan,

Bishop of Worcester; Eadwine, the Abbot of the newly consecrated Westminster Abbey;

Stigand, the Archbishop of Canterbury; Spearhafoc, the Bishop of London; Aldred, the

Archbishop of York, his eyes weeping, his chins wobbling, his plump hands twisting and twining

before his ample stomach; and sundry abbots and deacons, including many from Normandy.

Many earls and counts and senior thegns were there, including the earls Edwin and

Morcar, brothers to Alditha, who were there less to witness Edward‘s death than to ensure

Harold wed their sister as soon as possible. Among the other men of rank who attended were at

least eight members of the witan. Their eyes rested on Harold far more than they rested on

Edward.

Swanne was there, standing well back and hardly visible, but with her black eyes darting

about, watching the crowd more than they watched Edward.

Saeweald also attended. He stood at the king‘s side, silently using linens to wipe away

the worst of the effluent that projected from the king‘s shrieking mouth before handing them to

Mother Ecub, prioress of St Margaret the Martyr, who placed them in a basket at the bedhead.

No doubt, once the king was dead, the basket‘s contents would be souvenired by eager

hands, kept against the inevitable day when Edward would be sanctified and the purulent linens

would become valuable relics.

Finally, packed at the furthest distance and generally jammed against the walls of the

chamber, stood the king‘s most faithful servants: his bowerthegn, his palace chamberlain, his

royal men-at-arms, the laundresses (Damson among them) and the stable boys who had served

Edward with love and devotion and who wondered, if Edward were to find himself a place with

God and His saints this night, what place there might be for them in the new court.

This relatively small group of servants were, truly, the only ones there whose primary

concern was to mourn.

Everyone else had their own agenda, the most common of which was to ensure

themselves a prominent place in the new court. The sound to be heard in that moment after

Edward drew his final breath would be the thud of knees hitting the floor as men pledged their

allegiance to the new king, Harold.

Edward‘s shrieks grew louder, more incoherent. It was difficult to distinguish individual

words, but no one had much doubt as to their intent: Edward was letting God know of his

imminent arrival, and was telling the world that it would be a poorer place indeed for his absence.

The dying king sat propped upright against a welter of goosedown pillows. He had on a

linen nightshirt, open at the neck so that it revealed his thin, labouring ribs, billowing out from

his skeletal arms as he waved them around. Edward‘s staring eyes were fixed on the golden cross

held in the trembling hands of a monk who stood at the foot of the bed. The darkened chamber

was lit by only eight or nine fat candles in wall sconces, and what light did manage to find its

way through to Edward‘s bed consisted of greying, shifting shadows.

As Edward‘s shrieking shrilled yet higher, and the pustulence he emitted from his mouth

became thicker and more foul, several members of the witan who stood close to the huddled

clerics stepped forward and urgently began to whisper to Stigand, Spearhafoc and Aldred, the

three senior clerics present.

The whispered conversations grew heated, both the members of the witan and the clerics

gesturing and, occasionally, looking worriedly at Edward.

Finally Aldred nodded his head, as if he agreed with what the witan argued, and turned to

his two fellow clerics, adding his weight and influence to the reasonings of the witan.

After some moments Stigand and Spearhafoc nodded as well—by this stage most eyes

were watching this discussion rather than the king—and Aldred wobbled to the king‘s side and,

holding a careful sleeve to his mouth lest the king spatter him with his dying, began to speak to

Edward in a low, but compelling, voice.

―My dearest liege,‖ he said, ―your time is upon you. See! God holds out his hands before

you! The saints chorus their jubilation!‖

On the other side of the bed Saeweald turned his head as he accepted a clean linen from

Mother Ecub, taking the opportunity to roll his eyes very slightly at her.

Ecub‘s face remained expressionless, but Saeweald thought he could see a slight

relaxation of the muscles around her eyes: she was as amused as he.