Gods' Concubine

by Sara Douglass

  And half the court had gone as well, if the emptiness of this hall was any indication.

  Edward had spent the past week expressly forbidding the pagan revelry.

  That not only the general population, but also so many of the court, had completely ignored him had sent him spinning into so ferocious a temper that Judith, who was sitting a few paces away, wondered at Caela’s courage in even speaking to him.

  “Yes?” Edward snapped.

  “My lord, I beg your sanction to take my leave of you this night. I would—”

  “You also would take your part in these devilish practices? You also want to dance with the heathens? How dare you, wife! Christ’s birthday is but days away, and you want to revel in heathenish practices expressly forbidden by our Lord.” His vehemence was so great that Edward peppered Caela’s face with fine globules of spit.

  Judith winced, hating the king and all he stood for. She looked to Caela, knowing her mistress wanted above all else to scream, Yes! Instead, Judith watched with growing admiration as Caela kept her face humble and submissive.

  “Never!” Caela said. “I grieve for their souls in their ignorance. Nay, I wanted to ask your leave, not to join in these heathenish and most vile practices, but to spend the night in humility before the altar of St Paul’s that I might pray for the souls of all who succumb to sin this night.”

  Edward was momentarily lost for words. Caela wanted to spend the night in prayer? He was consumed by a sudden rush of warmth for his wife. Perhaps, in her maturity, she was learning a greater grace and humility than he had ever thought her capable of.

  But…

  “St Paul’s?” he said. “Would you not be better served by our own abbey church of Westminster? There I could join you.”

  Judith kept her face impassive, but her stomach clenched.

  “I have ever felt closer to God in St Paul’s, my lord. And it is in the heart of London itself.” It is the heart of London. “There I feel my prayers might have the greater effect on the souls of those Londoners who might otherwise lose themselves tonight. I beg you, grant me my wish. I feel that much prayer will be needed tonight to counter the effects of these dire, devilish dances.”

  Judith had to bite her lip at that last, and she could see the corner of Caela’s mouth twitch as well. Control yourself, Judith thought, and in that instant Caela did, and her face became as a great pool of sadness and piety.

  “Caela!” Edward said, and reached out both his hands to take hold of Caela’s. “I wish that your brother had your sense of Christian duty, for I note full well that he is also absent from the hall this night. Very well, I grant your wish, and I shall send with you an escort of armed men that you may be kept safe throughout your night of prayer.”

  Caela bowed her head and, as Edward’s attention drifted elsewhere, winked at Judith.

  Two hours later, Caela, accompanied by Judith, Saeweald, an escort numbering some thirty-five armed men (looking unhappy that duty called this night when they would much rather be dancing on the hills) and seven monks from Westminster Abbey, entered the cathedral of St Paul’s via the great western doors.

  There were few people about. A priest or two, several Londoners—among those few who had not wanted to partake in the revelries—and an aged workman huddled in one corner with a tattered cloak wrapped about him.

  It was very cold, and the party’s breath frosted about their faces.

  “Madam?” murmured Saeweald. He had been very quiet on the journey to St Paul’s.

  “I will pray before the altar,” Caela said, and led the way through the nave towards the great gilded altar. There burned several fat candles and dishes of incense, and, in the floor immediately before the altar, offerings of gold, oils and coins left by pilgrims grateful to St Paul for whatever healing he had bestowed upon them.

  Caela walked directly to the altar, bent and kissed the crucifix which sat upon it, then turned once more to Judith and Saeweald, who stood close by her.

  “I will lie prostrate before the altar,” Caela murmured, “for the entire night.”

  “Madam,” said Judith, glancing at Saeweald.

  “What I do,” said Caela quietly, “I do for this land, not for any Christian monstrosity. I need to merge entirely with the land so that it and I are seamless, and tonight…tonight, this is what I shall accomplish.”

  “Caela,” Saeweald said slowly, “are you sure that you go to the right man?”

  Should it not be me? As Og-reborn?

  Caela studied Saeweald, then smiled, and kissed him on the forehead. Briefly. Gently. No more than a brush of dry lips. “This is right for me, here and now,” she said. “Later, perhaps…besides, you have other duties tonight.”

  He nodded. “I understand.” Saeweald paused. “Be well,” he finished, and at his blessing, grudging as it was, Caela’s face relaxed.

  “Caela…” Judith began, her gaze darting between Caela and Saeweald.

  “I need to do this,” Caela said.

  Judith sighed, nodded, then kissed Caela’s cheek. “Be well.” She managed to summon a small smile. “And enjoy, for it is meaningless without enjoyment.”

  “I shall stay all night,” Caela said. “When I am…gone, there is no need for either you or Saeweald to stay to watch over me. You will be better employed elsewhere. Perhaps,” her eyes danced, “with Ecub, atop Pen Hill?”

  Judith looked at Saeweald, both knowing that Caela’s suggestion was, in fact, more like a command.

  “Come,” said Caela. “Aid me to this floor. And be here to greet me at dawn, when I am sure my bones shall be stiff and cold from this stone.”

  Judith took Caela’s elbow, and assisted her to the floor where, having bowed several times and crossed herself even more, Caela sank down until she lay prone, her arms extended to the side, her face to the floor.

  Saeweald gestured to the escort to stand back at a respectful distance—they removed themselves until they stood in a semicircle about the prostrate form of their queen at a distance of some fifteen paces—and then he folded his hands inside his voluminous sleeves, and bowed his head as if in prayer.

  Slightly to his side, and one pace behind him, Judith did the same.

  In reality, they had their eyes fixed on Caela.

  In Rouen, where the population was engaged in much the same activities as the Londoners, William begged leave from his wife.

  “I have drunk too excessively of the wine this afternoon, my dear. My head throbs horribly. I would retire, I think, and let it settle.”

  “What?” said Matilda, her eyebrows raised. “You would miss the revels?” Unlike Edward, she and William always attended the excitement of the winter solstice fires.

  “You go, if you wish,” said William, his face apologetic as he leaned forward and kissed her mouth. “But I must to bed, or I think my head will burst. Nay, do not think to stay and nurse me. It is but the wine.”

  Matilda shook her head. William had drunk a little excessively this day. “I should force you to drink only milk, like a child,” she said.

  William made a face, then smiled, kissed her hand, and left her. He went straight to his bedchamber, where he disrobed and slid beneath the coverlets.

  Despite the terrible ache in his head, he was asleep within minutes.

  Judith and Saeweald saw the instant that Caela “left”. There was a sudden, strange stillness about her body, and although it still breathed, they knew that Caela was no longer there.

  Saeweald glanced at the armed men and monks standing about. They, too, seemed locked in an eerie stillness.

  He reached down and grasped Judith’s hand. “Come,” he whispered, “the hills call.”

  The main site of the revels for London was on Pen Hill, a mile or so beyond the northern wall of the city. Here crowds had been gathering since dusk and now, as full night fell, they grew increasingly restless.

  Atop the hill itself, standing within the circle of worn stones which had graced the hilltop since a
ntiquity, an elderly woman, clad in little more than a diaphanous robe, cried out and held aloft a burning brand.

  The light revealed her face, and those close enough could see that this year’s mistress of the ceremonies was, as it had been for the past twelve years, Ecub—the strange enigmatic prioress of St Margaret the Martyr.

  Standing just to Ecub’s right were a man and a woman, their eyes riveted on Ecub’s face: Judith and Saeweald, the hoods of their cloaks drawn about their faces.

  Ecub dipped the brand groundward with an inchoate cry, and fire erupted about the hilltop. A great bone fire burned, the stench of the bones meant to drive away evil spirits and witches who might be flying overhead, and men and women rolled forward great hay and wickerwork wheels.

  The prioress gave a signal, and from brands dipped in the bone fire the wheel holders lit the wheels, and, once they were well alight, sent them rolling down the hill on all sides.

  It was the moment the people had been waiting for. With a great roar, the revelries began.

  On the hill, Saeweald turned to Judith and gathered her in hungry arms.

  “May tonight increase the herd,” he said, thinking of Caela.

  “May she tie herself and this land in everlasting harmony,” she whispered, and lifted her mouth to his.

  “Amen,” murmured Ecub to one side.

  The stone hall stood empty, waiting as it had waited for so many thousands of years. Tonight, however, there was an expectancy in the air, almost a vibration.

  There was a movement in the deep shadows in one of the side aisles.

  Then another. A rustling, as if someone had dropped a cloak or a robe, and dragged it momentarily across the stone flagging.

  And then she walked forth. Caela, yet not Caela. Mag, and yet not Mag. A woman, if nothing else, of startling loveliness.

  She was completely naked, and utterly beautiful in that nakedness. Her glossy dark hair cascaded down her back and across one shoulder. Her blue eyes were deep and very calm and sure. Her body was slim, strong, lithe.

  She walked into the centre of the stone hall, and looked about, as if expecting someone.

  After a moment she began to pace impatiently.

  William tossed and turned in his sleep as dreams gripped him.

  He moaned, desperate, for this dream was no stranger.

  He stood, as Brutus, in a stone hall so vast that he could barely comprehend the skill required to build it. The roof soared so far above his head he could hardly see it, while to either side long aisles of perfectly rounded stone columns guarded shadowy, esoteric places.

  This was a place of great mystery and power.

  There was a movement in the shadows behind one of the ranks of columns, and Cornelia—utterly naked—walked out into the open space of the hall.

  Brutus drew in a sharp, audible breath, but she did not acknowledge his presence, and Brutus was aware that even though they stood close, she had no idea he was present.

  Cornelia looked different, and it took Brutus a long moment to work out why. She was older, perhaps by ten or fifteen years, far more mature, far, far lovelier.

  Brutus realised he was holding his breath and let it out slowly, studying her. Her body was leaner and stronger now, her hips and breasts more rounded, her flanks and legs smoother and more graceful. Her face had thinned, revealing a fine bone structure, and there were lines of care and laughter about her eyes and mouth that accentuated her loveliness rather than detracted from it.

  “Cornelia,” Brutus said, and stretched out his hand.

  She paid him no attention, wandering back and forth, first this way, then that, her eyes anxious, and Brutus understood that she was waiting for someone.

  She stopped, and stared, and breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  “I thought you would not come,” she said.

  The approaching man smiled, and held out his hands.

  He was utterly naked, save for the patch that covered his left eye.

  She ran to him, and took his hands. “Silvius.” Her voice was filled with longing. “It is the death of the year. It is time.”

  There was some uncertainty in his face, even though he was clearly aroused by her naked body and the yearning in her voice.

  “I am not Brutus,” he said. “I am not—”

  “You are everything I want,” she said, and drew him in against her. “Really. This is truly a special night, Silvius.”

  “I pray I do right by you.”

  He was trembling, and she let go of him and ran her hands over his body. He was lean, carrying no fat, and with hard muscles and clean limbs, and she found herself wanting him very, very badly. She was Caela-Mag, she was this land, and she could bear her virginity no longer.

  Not on this night, of all nights. Not on a night when those who still remembered, and cared, lit fires and danced the ancient fertility rituals, begging the land to hold fast through the winter and to emerge fertile and bountiful in spring. To allow her virgin state to last beyond this night would have been vile.

  “Tonight,” she repeated, her voice little more than a murmur, “this land and I, merged forever. This land and the Game,” she touched his face, “wedded forever.”

  She ran her hands up his back, and drew him in for a hard kiss.

  He pulled his head back, just for a moment, so he could gaze at her with a strange, triumphant light in his eye. “Wedded forever, you and I, the Game and the land,” he said. “Oh, aye. Aye.”

  Then he gathered her to him fiercely.

  William cried out in his sleep, his arms flailing as he tossed and rolled over, tangling the covers about his legs.

  “I thought you would not come!” she said, and Brutus almost groaned at the love in her eyes and voice.

  “Cornelia!” Brutus said again, taking a step forward, his heart gladder than he could have thought possible.

  And then he staggered as a man brushed past him and walked towards Cornelia.

  This was the man that Cornelia had smiled at and spoken to, and he was as unaware of Brutus’ presence as Cornelia was.

  A deep, vile anger consumed Brutus. Who was this that she met?

  The man was as naked as Cornelia, and Brutus saw that he was fully aroused. Who was he? Corineus? Yes…no. Brutus had an unobstructed view of the man’s face, yet could not make it out. First he was sure that he wore Corineus’ fair features, then they darkened, and became those of a man unknown.

  Cornelia said the man’s name, her voice rich with love, and it, too, was undiscernible to Brutus’ ears.

  “Do you know the ways of Llangarlian love?” said the man.

  “Of course,” said Cornelia, and she walked directly into the man’s arms, her arms slipping softly about his body, and offered her mouth to his.

  They kissed, passionately, the kiss of a man and a woman well used to each other, and Brutus found his hands were clenched at his side.

  “Caela,” Silvius said, his voice rich with love. “Do you know the ways of Llangarlian love?”

  “Of course.”

  “I am not Brutus. I am not my son. Know that.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yet you choose me? Freely?”

  “Yes. Yes! Freely, yes! Gods, Silvius, enough words. I have had enough of this virginity.”

  “As you wish,” he whispered, and grabbed at her mouth with his, and pulled her to him. She pressed her body against his, moaning, and together they half sank, half fell to the floor.

  All his apparent doubts gone, Silvius wasted no time, nor did he seem to have care for Caela’s sensibilities. He put a hand on one of her shoulders, pushing her hard against the stone, and with the other hand he parted her legs and mounted her, thrusting deep inside.

  Caela cried out as she felt the warmth of her virgin blood spill across the stone flooring. She struggled a little under Silvius, but he did not tolerate any resistance, and, both his hands now on her shoulders, he thrust again and again.

  His face, and the one ey
e that shone from it, were very hard.

  After a short while she subsided, accepting him, and then moaned.

  “No!” William shouted, and lurched upright in the bed, grabbing frantically at the bedclothes. His eyes stared straight ahead, but they did not see his own bedchamber.

  They only saw the dream.

  “No!” Brutus shouted, and would have stepped forward and grabbed at the man now moving over Cornelia with long, powerful strokes save that he found himself unable to move.

  He could witness, but he could not interfere.

  The lovers’ tempo and passion intensified, and Cornelia moaned and twisted, encouraging her lover in every way she could, and they kissed again, their bodies now so completely entwined, so completely merged, that they seemed but one.

  Caela held on to Silvius’ shoulders, remembering with every one of his movements those nights she had lain with his son, remembering how Brutus had felt inside her, remembering how he had made her feel, and she wept, silently and softly, because Silvius made her feel none of these things. Silvius was a powerful lover, almost cruel in his strength, but all he accomplished with his body and his sweat and his effort was to make her long for his son.

  Silvius saw her tears, and his mouth caught at hers, demanding, powerful. He lifted his face away from hers for a moment.

  “Do not weep,” he rasped, “for this is all you asked for.”

  Then he lowered his mouth again, his teeth biting and grabbing at her neck and breasts, drawing blood here and there.

  And then he paused, still buried deep inside her, and raised himself on an elbow, looking down.

  His face was flushed and sweaty, his black hair tangled, his breathing harsh and heavy.

  “Do you wish I was Brutus?” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  A strange look came over his face. “You lie.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It does not matter,” he said, and she felt him move again inside her. “All that matters is that I am here, and that you took me freely.”