Gods' Concubine

by Sara Douglass

  They stood to receive the cheers, waving and smiling, and the breeze caught at Caela’s veil and blew it back from her face.

  “They adore you,” Harold said softly.

  “They adore you,” she responded, turning to laugh at him.

  The crowds continued to roar, and as the sound pounded over them in wave after wave, Harold took Caela’s hand and held her eyes. “I meant what I said to you, that day I came to you in your bedchamber,” he said, his voice only loud enough that she could hear him. “There could be no better queen for me than you. No woman I could want more.”

  The laughter died from her face. “Harold…”

  “I know,” he said. “I know. But I needed to say that.” His face lightened from its seriousness. “And what better place than here, and now, when perhaps we can pretend?”

  “Harold, it can’t be.”

  “Of course not…” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her cheek, where perhaps his lips lingered a moment longer than they should and where, as he finally moved his face away, too slowly, she felt the soft momentary graze of his tongue.

  “Unfortunately,” he finished, and then the sound was fading away, and they sat, and Caela used the excuse of settling her skirts to hide her pinked cheeks from her brother.

  Behind and to one side of them, Judith and Saeweald exchanged a worried glance.

  The afternoon was filled with good-natured sport and competitions. Men wrestled, ran, leaped and shot arrows into distant targets. To each winner, Caela graciously gave a prize: a carved box here, a fine linen shirt there, a copper ring somewhere else. Each time she rose and the successful sweating combatant knelt down before her, the crowd cheered and called good-natured jests, and when Caela had done with handing the victor his gift, then she smiled and waved and revelled in the good cheer of the day.

  The final event had been something the city guilds and fathers had spent weeks planning. It was a new contest, one designed not only to demonstrate the grace and athletic abilities of its participants, but also to delight and astound the crowd.

  A man, clothed only in trousers, strode into the centre of the arena, beating a drum which hung from a cord about his neck. He was a fine man, tall and muscled, and had been the winner of two of the earlier events. He walked to a spot some ten paces before the stand in which Caela, Harold and their attendants sat and, still beating the drum, cried: “Behold!”

  At his word two lines of horsemen entered the arena from opposite gates. They rode barebacked, the horses controlled merely with bridles through which had been threaded late-autumn greenery, while the riders themselves wore only trousers, leaving their shoulders and chests bare. Each man carried a long wooden lance, tipped with iron. Each line was headed by a rider dressed slightly more elaborately than those he led. At the head of one line rode a man wearing a chain mail tunic and Saxon helmet. He carried a bow, fitted with an arrow.

  At the head of the other line rode a man wearing nothing but a snowy-white waistcloth, sandals on otherwise muscular, brown bare legs, and a bronzed helmet, of a design and shape that was not only unfamiliar but markedly exotic. A plait of very black, oiled hair protruded from beneath the helmet, and hung halfway down the man’s back. Around his biceps and upper forearms twined lengths of scarlet ribbon, and the same around his legs, just below his knees. This man carried a sword.

  Caela frowned, leaning forward slightly. “What event is this?” she asked softly, but to her side Harold only shrugged, and no one else had a response.

  The man beating the drum waited until all the riders were in the arena, the lines pulled to a halt on opposite sides of the square, then he abruptly gave a flurry of much louder and more insistent beats, then his hands fell still.

  “Behold,” he cried, “the Troy Game!”

  The crowd roared, intrigued at the display thus far and at the novelty of the event. Judith and Saeweald went rigid with shock. Harold grinned, anticipating some military game that might well prove entertaining, while Caela’s frown merely deepened.

  “The Troy Game,” she whispered to herself, and shivered.

  “Behold!” cried the man with the drum once more. “Listen well to the rules of the Game. Two lines, two ambitions, two corps of riders, skilled beyond compare. Two kings! One the King of the Greeks,” he indicated the man wearing the chain mail and the Saxon helmet, “and one the monarch of that ancient, wondrous realm—Troy!” and he indicated the beribboned warrior wearing the bronze helmet and the simple linen waistcloth.

  The crowd roared again. History pageants were always popular.

  The King of the Greeks kicked his horse forward a few paces, as did the King of Troy. They raised their arms above their heads, flexing their biceps, then shook their fists each at the other.

  “What can we do?” whispered Judith, her face drained of all colour.

  “Nothing, but watch and see,” said Saeweald. He was watching the King of Troy, his eyes narrowed.

  “We propose a dance!” cried the drummer. “He who is quickest and most agile, he who is most skilled, shall win. He who falls first…loses!”

  Again the crowed roared in anticipation.

  As the drummer ran to safety the two lines of horsemen began to move: first at a walk, then at a trot, then at a carefully controlled canter, the lines of horsemen moved into an intricate and dangerous dance, the two lines first interweaving as they each crossed the arena on opposite diagonals, then in a dozen different points as the lines performed circles and serpentines.

  As the horses cantered, their paces carefully measured, then the riders swung their lances in great arcs from side to side: at all the intersecting points where the opposing lines crossed there was only ever half a breath between the flashing down of one lance and the passage of another rider. A single misstep, a minor miscalculation, and the wicked blade which tipped the end of one lance might cut another rider in half.

  The drummer had climbed atop the fence which kept the crowd safe from the riders, and was now speaking again, calling out over the riders with a clear, carrying voice. He was minus his drum now, the thud of the horses’ hooves and the wicked swishing of the swinging lances the only accompaniment he needed.

  “See!” he cried. “The Trojan king re-creates the walls of Troy. Seven walls, seven circuits to defeat the Greeks! Will the Greek king defeat him? Will he penetrate the Labyrinth of Troy’s defence?”

  Harold was leaning forward now, his eyes gleaming. “By God,” he said, “see their skill!”

  Caela was staring at the performance before her, her face expressionless, her hands carefully folded and very still in her lap.

  The two leaders, the “kings”, controlled the tempo of the dangerous dance. It was they who sped up, or slowed down the rhythm of their followers, and each had to keep a wary eye on the other. If one slowed down too soon, or too late, or if one did not take speedy note of what the other commanded, then his line of warriors would be broken by the lances of his foe. The two lines of riders were now interweaving at an impossible pace, the tips of their lances gleaming in the sun, sweat dripping from shoulders, horses snorting as they fought both for balance and for breath.

  The crowd had begun to scream for their favourites. “Greece! Greece!” or “Troy! Troy!” and, among the acclaim, it was most apparent that the screams for Troy were the loudest.

  Then, as it appeared that the speed of the dance could not possibly grow faster, or the swinging of the lances more dangerous, there came a surprised grunt from one quadrant of the arena as a horse, turned too tight, lost its balance and collapsed, throwing its rider under the flashing hooves of those who came behind.

  Instantly, there was mayhem. Horses and riders collided everywhere, the rhythm of the dance was entirely lost, and the crowd shrieked in appreciation as the blood spattered through the air.

  Then, stunningly, from out of the melee, came one line of riders still in perfect formation, their lances flashing back and forth in a controlled manner, their riders unto
uched save for their sweat.

  It was the line led by the Trojan king.

  They cantered in a line across the back of the arena, their foes lying mostly unhorsed and bleeding in the centre of the square, then all turned in one beautifully co-ordinated movement so that they faced into the arena, looking toward the royal stand at the far end.

  The Trojan king raised his sword, then pointed it toward the stand. The line exploded forward as the horses, still perfectly in line, galloped towards the royal stand.

  As they met the confusion in the centre of the arena, each horse leapt in perfect alignment with its neighbours so that, for an instant, the entire line was suspended high in the air, then every horse thudded back to earth, their vanquished foes safely behind them, and galloped to the end of the arena, beneath the royal stand, where their leader brought them to a beautiful, perfectly controlled halt.

  Harold leapt to his feet, shouting, punching his fist into the air, applauding the victor.

  Caela sat, still motionless, expressionless, staring at the Trojan king, now sitting his horse directly before her.

  The man’s chest heaved as he fought to get air into his lungs, and his face was mostly hidden by his helmet—but still nothing could hide his great toothy smile.

  “My lady,” he cried, brandishing his sword. “I hand you Troy!”

  FIFTEEN

  CAELA SPEAKS

  Istared, gape-mouthed. I have no idea what had come over me. I felt disembodied, dislocated, disorientated.

  “Climb up!” cried Harold beside me, and I swear I leapt almost a foot, he surprised me so. “Climb up and accept your prize.”

  At least he’d broken the trance which had claimed me. I managed to look at Harold: he was bright-eyed and flushed, flashing a brilliant smile.

  “By God, Caela,” Harold said to me as the Trojan king was clattering up the wooden steps that led to the small platform before our seats, “never before have I seen such skill! Such horsemanship!”

  And then the man was with us, his heat and his sweat and the powerful presence of his body commanding my attention. He stood before us, and bowed deeply.

  “You honour us, sir,” said Harold. “May we know your face? Your name?”

  That great toothy grin flashed again in the darkness behind the faceplate, and the man lifted both his hands to his helmet (his sword already taken by one of Harold’s men-at-arms) and raised it from his head.

  I must confess, my heart was racing. Who was it?

  “A stranger to our shores, by your countenance,” Harold said. “Who are you, and your allegiances?”

  For the moment the man did not reply. He was staring at me, and I at him. The instant he’d taken the helmet from his head I felt overwhelmed by a strange disappointment. His face was familiar—

  Almost the face of the man who had come to me in dream, and who had almost but not quite kissed me.

  —and yet not. Not the face some part of me seemed to have been expecting.

  Oh, but he was handsome! He had dark skin and black hair. Very long, very curly. Regular, strong features…and that smile: it was stunning. The only discordant note in his entire aspect was the leather patch over his left eye, yet even that lent him a rakish air which moderated his otherwise overpowering presence.

  “I am Silvius,” said the man, replying to Harold but not taking his eyes from me, “and I am truly King of Troy. My allegiance? Why, that belongs to your lady here, to the queen, my heart.”

  And he lifted his hand, took mine, and kissed it before any could move to stop him.

  Harold laughed, but it held a trace of tenseness in it now, and, glancing at him, I saw that his smile had died.

  “Well, then,” he said, “welcome, King of Troy. I admit myself envious of your military skills.”

  Now this man Silvius did look at Harold. “ Oh, I have had many years in which to hone them, my lord. Very many indeed.”

  “Your prize, good man,” I said, collecting myself. I turned, ready to take the gift of a finely woven and embroidered mantle from Judith, who stood behind me (and, by heaven, she was staring at this strange King of Troy as if she were trapped by his masculinity as well!), but before I could lay hold to it, Silvius spoke again.

  “Nay, my lady. Lay that aside, I beg you. It is I who shall gift the prize, I who shall award the honour.”

  “A most strange man,” said Harold, watching Silvius warily.

  I noticed that several men-at-arms had moved quietly closer.

  Silvius reached into his helmet, then withdrew from it the most beautifully worked bracelet that I think I have ever seen. (Yet some part of me insisted that I had seen it in another time). It was of twisted gold, and set with a score of cut rubies.

  “In my world,” said Silvius, his voice now very soft, “it belonged to a princess and a great queen. It deserves no better home now than on your arm, gracious lady.”

  He reached forward, then stopped as both Harold and the men-at-arms laid hands to their swords. The mood was now very tense among us, and I wondered at that, at what had changed between us that Harold should now be so alert.

  “Madam,” Judith said very softly behind me, and in that word she somehow managed to convey both reassurance and the message that I should, indeed, accept the gift.

  “Ah,” I said, smiling a little too brightly at Harold, “put away your sword, brother. Shall this bracelet bite? Shall it sting? Nay, of course not.”

  Then, to Silvius: “This is most gracious of you, and I shall not be so churlish as to refuse.” I held out my left hand, stretching it slightly so that the sleeve drew back from my wrist.

  Silvius reached it forth and, just before he snapped it closed about my wrist, he said, “It is very ancient, my lady, and contains many memories.”

  It clicked shut, its metal cold about the heat of my skin, and I blinked, and looked at Silvius.

  And saw before me, not Silvius, but a man very much like him but with, if possible, an even more powerful presence, and whose face made my stomach clench.

  It was the man from my dream, save with long hair and dressed as Silvius was now dressed.

  And with golden bands about his limbs where Silvius wore scarlet wool.

  Then the man who was not Silvius spoke, and he said, “I am Brutus, and I am god-favoured. It is not wise to deny me.” He smiled, holding my eyes, and it was one of the coldest expressions I have ever seen. “I control Mesopotama. I control this palace. I control you. Be wise. Do not deny me.”

  “Brutus?” I whispered.

  And then I fainted.

  I have only Judith’s and Harold’s relation to say what happened next. Harold and Judith both grabbed at me, and the men-at-arms lunged forth, sure that the strange man, Silvius, had somehow murdered me.

  In the confusion, apparently, he slipped away. Harold sent men after him, but he was never discovered. When Harold questioned the guildsmen who had taken part in the strange event, they shrugged and said that he was a foreign merchant who had seemed perfect for the role as King of Troy, but when asked to remember his name and country, they blinked, and each recounted a different name and origin.

  The man Silvius was never found.

  I woke after only a few moments, seemingly well, and Harold calmed down once he saw me smiling and apologising for the fuss. I lifted my arm, and studied the bracelet. It was beautiful, and the stones glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, and so I decided that it would do me no harm to wear it an hour or two longer.

  So, as the crowds dispersed, Harold and I and our retinue made our way back to Westminster. There I repaired to bed, claiming a headache myself, and taking a smaller chamber next to Edward’s to sleep in so that I should not disturb him.

  I left the bracelet on as I slept, I do not know why, but perhaps it was that which caused me again to dream strangely.

  I walked through the massive stone hall in which I’d found myself previously.

  And there, as if waiting for me, was this man called Si
lvius.

  He stepped forward and, as if the most natural thing in the world, kissed me hard on the mouth.

  I wondered if this were my frustrated virginity causing me to dream of all these men who kissed me.

  “You and I,” he said, “shall be greater friends than you can possibly realise.”

  Then he was gone, and I slipped out of the stone hall and back into dreamlessness.

  In the morning, as she aided me to dress, Judith said, “Madam…are you well?”

  I frowned, because I felt there was much more to her question than her bald words. “ Of course I am, Judith. Now, watch what you do with that sleeve. It is all twisted.”

  Much later, at court (Edward having risen, his ache dissipated), I saw Judith lean close to Saeweald. He asked a question, glancing at me, and she shook her head, as if imparting news of inestimable sorrow.

  I do not know the import of that question, but Judith’s answer made Saeweald frown, and sigh, then turn away, and I had to fight down an unwarranted irritation at their behaviour.

  SIXTEEN

  Harold had kept late hours with several of his thegns, returning to his bedchamber when Swanne was already asleep, so it was not until the next morning that she heard of what had taken place at Smithfield.

  Harold, imparting the news as if it would be of little interest to her, was stunned by her reaction. In all his years of intimacy with Swanne, he’d never seen her so shocked she could barely speak.

  “They played what?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Harold watched her carefully, trying to discern the reason behind her shock. “The Troy Game. It was one of the most skilful displays of horsemanship I have ever seen.”