Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

appeared to her immediately after Aldred brutalised her so that Swanne would grow so

dependent on Asterion, and so grateful to him, that she would do anything he wanted. Aldred

unhinged Swanne‘s mind and made her cruelly vulnerable to Asterion‘s sweetness. Aldred was danger and pain; Asterion was relief from that pain.

Swanne was so grateful to Asterion, and now so desperately dependent on him, that it

was difficult for her to disagree with anything Asterion said to her, or asked of her. Moreover,

she found herself longing for those times when Asterion appeared. In a strange, bizarre fashion,

she almost enjoyed the worst of Aldred‘s beatings and rapes because it meant that Asterion was

likely to come to her within an hour or so of Aldred leaving her writhing in agony.

Swanne was not sure what she wanted most: Asterion; the relief he represented; or the

power he represented.

Strange, that previously she had never thought of Asterion as a possible partner in the

Game. She‘d only ever considered Brutus, or William as he was now, as her Kingman. But she

didn‘t have to use William, did she? Asterion was right. All she needed as Mistress of the

Labyrinth was a Kingman.

It didn‘t matter which Kingman.

The realisation had hit with an almost physical thud one day after Aldred had left her

bruised and bleeding.

All she really needed was a Kingman.

Brutus she had selected because she‘d thought he was the only one left. Indeed, there was

no selection about it at all. It was him, or no one. She‘d come to love him because of his power and attraction and vitality and because he was what she needed to fulfil her ambitions.

But there had been another choice apart from Brutus, hadn‘t there? Why hadn‘t she ever

thought of Asterion? This puzzled Swanne in those long silent afternoons she spent sewing with

her ladies, their heads bent over their embroideries, unspeaking at their mistress‘ demand.

Why hadn‘t she ever thought of Asterion beyond considering him as a threat?

Asterion did not want to destroy the Game. He wanted to control it—a perfectly

understandable ambition, had Swanne thought clearly enough about it before now.

To control the Game, all Asterion needed were the bands. And Swanne, the Mistress of

the Labyrinth.

Imagine the Game she and he could build together!

The power…

The darkcraft in full flower…

Swanne could feel her ancient darkcraft re-emerging. Every time Asterion lay with her it

became that little bit stronger. Asterion had put the darkcraft into Ariadne, and now he was

putting it back into her.

She almost loved him for it.

No…she did love him for it.

As the weeks passed, Swanne found herself hardly thinking about William at all. All she

wanted was to be free again, to be Mistress of a resurgent Game.

And all she needed to do was to ensure that Asterion found the bands.

All she wanted was power, and Asterion seemed more to represent the quicker, surer

pathway to it, than did William.

TWELVE

Hawise had served as Swanne‘s maid and then senior attending woman for over

twenty-five years. She‘d known Swanne as a child in her father‘s manor, as the young woman

who had seduced Harold to her bed, as the mother who had borne him six children, and, by

virtue of Swanne‘s connection with Harold, as one of the most senior women at Edward‘s court.

Swanne had never been an easy woman, even when Hawise had first known her. She had

been reclusive, demanding, cunning, charming. She had never been friendly, or confiding. She

had always seemed sure…of something, as if even from childhood she entertained a distant

vision that only she could discern.

Even if she was never Hawise‘s friend, Hawise was as close to a friend as Swanne was

ever likely to achieve. Thus, it was as a friend that Hawise asked Edward‘s physician Saeweald

to attend her mistress. (After all, it was not as if Edward needed the constant attendance of the

man now, was it?)

Swanne had shocked Hawise (as she had all the other ladies, and all those they gossiped

to) when she had not only moved herself to Aldred‘s palace in London, but accepted the

corpulent cleric into her bed. If Hawise had been shocked by that action, then she had been

stunned by the manner in which Aldred appeared to treat Swanne. Bruises. Bite marks. Ble eding.

Her mistress‘s face gaunt and haunted, her eyes brimming with agony every morning.

Matters had improved vastly in the time since Edward‘s death. On those nights Aldred

spent with Swanne (and that was most of them) there still came the sounds of muffled sobbing

from behind the locked door of the bedchamber, and often in the morning there would be rusty

streaks of dried blood staining the bed linens, but Swanne seemed to be improved within herself,

and her bruises and wounds were far less, even non-existent for days on end.

And yet…

Swanne was changed somehow, and most definitely not for the better. Her loveliness had

become brittle. Her eyes, if possible, were darker, more unknowable, and often Hawise found

Swanne watching her with a calculation and bleakness she found deeply disturbing. And despite

her almost incessant bleeding, Swanne also appeared to be with child again (Hawise spent much

time on her knees before whatever altar she could find praying that this child was Harold‘s final

gift, and not Aldred‘s loathsome welcome) although Swanne denied it with vicious, hard words

the one time Hawise dared to venture the question.

And Swanne was growing thinner, as if the child (or whatever it was, if Swanne had been

telling truth) was eating her from within. In Swanne‘s previous pregnancies she had never grown

thin, but had blossomed and bloomed.

In essence, Swanne was growing thinner, harder and darker—and more sharp-tongued as

each day passed.

Hawise feared her mistress had a fatal, malignant growth within her and, though she

knew Swanne would not thank her for it, took it upon herself to send for Saeweald. It was all she

could do, and that Hawise did that much for a woman who had never given her much beyond

harsh words said a great deal about Hawise‘s generosity of spirit.

―I did not send for you,‖ Swanne said as Saeweald stood before her, one hand gently

fingering the copper box of herbs at his waist. In his other he grasped firmly a large leather

satchel that Swanne presumed contained all the tricks of his trade.

Swanne‘s mouth curled. All Loth‘s ―tricks of his trade‖ vanished that night he‘d

murdered Og along with Blangan in Mag‘s Dance two thousand years before.

―A friend sent for me,‖ Saeweald said, and Swanne‘s eyes slid towards Hawise, standing

calmly a few paces away.

―No friend to me,‖ Swanne said, and Saeweald had to refrain from hitting the woman.

Gods, as Genvissa she‘d at least managed to maintain a semblance of respect towards the women

and mothers in her circle. Even as Swanne she had managed a fragile veneer of sisterly

communion with the women about her.

But this naked contempt? Swanne must be sure of herself indeed, and that worried

Saeweald.

He‘d been glad when Hawise had approached him, handing to him on a platter the perfect

excuse to visit—and examine, by all the luck of the gods!—Swanne. He‘d heard from Caela how

Swanne had accused her, and then how the Sidlesaghes were concerned there was something

wrong with the Game and the land, some dark shift, and that it was possibly connected to

Swanne.

Well, and that was no surprise. Every ―dark shift‖ somehow connected to

Swanne-Genvissa. If there was one lesson he‘d learned in his lives, then that was it.

―Do not discard friendship when it is offered to you,‖ Saeweald said as he set his leather

satchel down by his feet. He expected Swanne to sneer again, but she smiled, almost as if

genuinely cheered by some thought which had come into her head, and then laughed, and

gestured for one of her women to bring a chair forward for Saeweald.

To Saeweald‘s surprise, he saw that it was Damson, and he asked after her as he took the

chair.

―Damson is well enough,‖ said Swanne before the woman had a chance to answer for

herself, and waved her a dismissal.

―I‘m surprised to see Damson in the archbishop‘s household,‖ Saeweald said as he sat

down.

Swanne raised her brows. ― I”m surprised you even know her.‖

―I attended her once for a fever.‖

―Well, she is of no matter, her health of even less. Damson asked if she might join my

household here, and I saw no harm in it. I suppose she thought it preferable to serving that

mealy-mouthed jade Harold took to wife.‖

They were sitting in the chamber Aldred had put at Swanne‘s disposal. Saeweald had

never been to the archbishop‘s London palace previously, and he had to admire the comforts