“I must wait,” said Caela. “I can do no more. I shelter. I cannot avenge. I cannot warn.”
“Do you not fear for William?”
“Oh, aye, I do not think I can sleep for the fear I hold for him. Swanne…oh, dear gods, Swanne is his walking death. But I must be true to myself, Ecub. I cannot go to him. I cannot seek him out. He must come to me. He must need the haven.”
“Swanne and Asterion will—”
“I know. I know. But I have to trust in myself and in what will be, Ecub. I can do no more.”
Ecub sighed, patted Caela on the shoulder, then retreated to a stool under the window, blowing out the candle as she did so. The stool was uncomfortable, but there was no point in her sleeping; Matins service would begin within an hour or two, and Ecub might as well spend the time between now and then in contemplation…and in thanks for the unexpected joy this life had brought her.
EIGHT
William had been in England almost two weeks, and he’d yet to have the opportunity to think about the underlying “why” of his presence here. Certainly he was here to win himself a kingdom and all the spoils it could provide him, but that there was far more at stake he had not allowed himself to consider.
There had been no time.
He’d sailed from the Somme estuary on the night of the 28th of September, arriving at Pevensey Bay early the next morning. At this bay, William had constructed some initial defences, but then had decided that the small port town of Hastings, which lay a little further up the coast, would serve his purposes better. Hastings stood on a small peninsula and could be more easily defended, and William wanted to protect his ships, his men and, he admitted in his darker moments, his escape route.
He was a more cautious man now than he had been as Brutus. If Brutus had been forced to linger in Normandy, or Poiteran as it had been then, for over thirty years he would have marched on London the instant he’d landed. William was far more circumspect. He knew the English would be hostile. He was not sure where Harold and his army were…and he knew Asterion was here somewhere, waiting for William to make that one, grossly stupid move which would see him fail.
So William proceeded with care, determined not to move so precipitously it left no escape route. Just outside Hastings William set his men to work, constructing earthen defences and a bailey castle. Neither defences nor castle would withstand a siege, or even a sustained bombardment, but it would buy William the time he would need during a forced retreat.
Now William was standing atop the bailey castle, one booted foot tapping impatiently on the floorboards, gazing north-west over the countryside. There were a few pillars of smoke in the distance: his men had been out pillaging. William had not wanted them to do it, but they had to be fed somehow, and he also did not want to deplete what few stores he’d brought with him. A few paces away stood two or three of his commanders, watching William more than the landscape.
William had called his commanders for a war council, but that could wait for a few minutes.
A few moments more of quiet, where he could think on the underlying reason for his invasion. The real reason, the true reason why so many men were about to die.
To retrieve the bands, and to then complete the Game with Swanne by dancing that final, concluding dance, the Dance of the Flowers.
Ah, stated in so few and such bald words it sounded all so easy, didn’t it? Just retrieve the bands, grab Swanne by the hand, and execute the Dance of the Flowers. No need even for the accompanying dancers, as they’d had two thousand years ago. All that was really needed was the Mistress and the Kingman. Two people, six golden bands, a relatively uncomplicated dance, a dab of magic, and all was done.
All so simple, so easy, all so terrifyingly unachievable should only one or two things go awry.
Like…Swanne. William drew in a deep breath. Where was she? He could feel her, somewhere close (and yet somehow closed to him; she was near, but he could not read her), but he knew there was no way she could approach him openly at this stage.
Yet that did not explain why he had not heard from her in months. Oh, Aldred wrote occasionally, or sent word via trusted messengers, but Swanne had not contacted William since that moment she had appeared before him on the cliffs of Normandy, and that was before last Christmastide. Ten months! What was she doing? Why this silence? Was Asterion too close for her to risk contact?
It was the only reason William could think of for her silence, and it concerned him that Swanne might be so close to danger.
It terrified him to consider that there might be an even more terrible reason for Swanne’s lack of communication.
He tore his thoughts away from Swanne. Yes, she was close, but he could feel others, too. Somehow, the mere fact of setting foot on this land once more connected him to others. Loth was here, much the same as he had been; William knew he would never like Loth as he had learned to like and respect Harold. Erith was here, too, as was another Mother—he could not remember her name, but she was the one who had been intimately connected with Mag’s Dance.
And Caela. He could feel her, far stronger than he would have thought possible. William closed his eyes, scrying out the sense of her: contentment, peace, even a little happiness, and something else that he could not identify…a depth that he could not understand. He suddenly realised that he could well meet her soon; odd, that he’d never thought of that until now. If matters went as planned then he would soon meet Caela face to face.
His heart began to race, and William opened his eyes, apparently staring ahead although he saw nothing. Caela, lovelier now than she had been as Cornelia. What was she doing? Did she still yearn for him?
What would he do if she came to him, and offered herself to him?
What would he do if she did not? William found the idea that she might not yearn for him any more as unsettling as the thought that Swanne might somehow be in danger. No, more unsettling. What if Caela no longer yearned for him?
He recalled the vision in which he’d seen her lie beneath his father, and he recalled also his vision of two thousand years earlier when he’d seen Caela lie down beneath another man, offering him her body.
Asterion, who had then slaughtered her.
What did those two visions mean? Were they truth? Or delusion?
Was Silvius the reason for Caela’s contentment now? William tried to scry out his father…and found nothing. He frowned. Strange, for if Silvius was flesh enough to seduce Caela as well as shift the Trojan kingship bands then he would be flesh enough for William to feel. But there was nothing, almost as if his father did not exist, or was a phantom of delusion only.
William realised that his commanders were watching him impatiently, but he allowed his thoughts to roam just a little further.
Harold. There had been a great battle at Stamford Bridge, and it was long enough ago that details of it had reached William. Hardrada and Tostig had both been killed in the struggle. Harold had come back to London, rested there some few days, and was now…close. William could sense him. Very close indeed—and was as strangely at peace with himself, as content, as Caela seemed.
Was Harold at peace because he had come to terms with his own imminent death? At that thought William felt a gut-wrenching sense of loss, the strongest emotion he’d felt since coming to stand here in the open air staring out into nothingness. He didn’t want to kill Harold. He didn’t want to be a party to his death.
Not again.
Why hadn’t he taken the trouble to know Coel better?
Or Cornelia, as Caela had once been? Why hadn’t he taken the trouble to treat her better? To understand her?
William gave an almost indiscernible shake of his head. He might as well wish the sun to rise in the west. Brutus had not taken the trouble to know anyone well, not even himself.
“I have a command,” William said suddenly, making his commanders jump. “I would that in the coming battle, if we prove victorious, Harold be taken alive. I do not want him killed.”
> “My lord duke,” said Hugh of Montfot-sur-Risle, one of William’s most trusted men, “is that wise? If we prove successful, then to have Harold still alive would be to invite—”
William had not looked at Montfot-sur-Risle as the man spoke, keeping his eyes on the landscape. “I do not want him killed. Not by my hand, nor by any of my men.” William finally turned to looked at his commanders. “Is that understood?”
As one they bowed their heads.
NINE
Harold sat upon his horse on a long ridge some nine miles from Hastings. Behind him came his army; weary, footsore, straggling in disjointed groups rather than in the units into which they’d originally been organised. Harold turned so he could see over his shoulder. He knew the true depth of his command’s exhaustion, and he wished he had the ability to bring the full complement of men he’d commanded at Stamford Bridge against William.
But that could not be. Many men were wounded, many more scattered along the long road between here and the north. William had both fate and luck on his side.
Harold looked back to Hastings. He could feel William. Somehow, in the few days since he’d been with Caela, Harold had grown far more attuned to the land, to its spaces and intimacies, and to those who trod upon it. William was out there, staring towards Harold as Harold now stared towards him.
There was no animosity, only an infinite sadness, and that gave Harold great comfort. William had changed in this life, and that meant there was hope for the land. He may not have changed enough, but he had begun that road.
Harold closed his eyes and thought of Caela…Eaving. He remembered the feel of her body, he remembered her scent.
He remembered how she had smiled into his eyes, and blessed him.
Whatever happened, all would be well.
Eventually.
The sound of horses’ hooves behind Harold disturbed him, and he looked to see who it was.
One of the English earls, come to receive orders about deploying what was left of their ragged army.
“We will make our stand here,” Harold said, pointing along the ridge. “The escarpments to either side mean that William can only attack us from the front. He cannot outflank us. We can make a good defensive stand here, my friend.”
“We will win the day,” the earl said, but Harold could hear the bravado in his voice.
“Of course we will,” said Harold.
Swanne also stood, secreted within the edges of a dark grove, staring across at Hastings. Like Harold she could sense William’s presence and feel his vitality, but unlike Harold it was not her connection with the land which enabled her to do this, but her ability with the darkcraft.
Asterion moved up behind her, running his hands from her shoulders down her arms.
She nestled back against him. “Bless you,” she murmured.
He smiled. “The darkcraft suits you. Imagine how much better you shall feel once William is dead.”
“Soon.”
“Oh yes, soon.”
Asterion’s fingers kneaded slightly at her arms. She was thin now, the imp within her continuing to sap away at her vitality. But she remained beautiful, and Asterion had no doubt that William, the fool, would not last for more than a few moments against her writhings and pleadings.
“He will be yours within a day,” he murmured, his muzzle buried within Swanne’s dark, curling hair. “This time tomorrow you will be in his bed, trapping him with your dark power.”
With my imp, he thought. Finally working its vile talents to its full potential.
Poor, dead William.
Swanne shuddered. “I cannot bear the thought of lying with him.”
Asterion’s fingers tightened where they rested on her upper arms. “You must. It is the only means by which to kill him and utterly negate his power.”
“Asterion, my love, I don’t really know if I can bear to—”
“You will lie with him!”
She cried out, stunned, and one of her hands fluttered to her belly. Why was the imp nibbling now, when Aldred was not here?
“Yes,” she said, her voice dulled. “I will lie with him. If that is what you wish.”
“Blessed woman,” Asterion said, kissing her neck. “You will scream with pleasure. You will.”
She moaned, her body relaxing back against his. “Aye, I will do that for you.”
“But,” Asterion whispered, his hands now running all over her body, “the pleasure will be as nothing compared to what we will feel together, as one, when we finally take the Game.”
She moaned again, and turned in the circle of his arms, and offered him her mouth. There was nothing left now but her need for Asterion, and the thought of the power she would enjoy with him when they led the Game.
Eaving.
The word came as a low moan, a breath on the wind, and it made Caela shiver. She was standing atop Pen Hill, staring south, feeling the swirling emotions that came from the land about Hastings. Harold was there, and William, but so also were Asterion and Swanne.
“Eaving.”
She turned her head, very slightly. A Sidlesaghe stood a pace or two to one side. No, several of them, gathering about her on the breeze.
“Eaving!”
“What may I do for you?” she murmured.
“We beg your aid,” said Long Tom, stepping forth.
“You have it, you know that.”
“Now that you have achieved your union with the land,” Long Tom said, “have you felt it?”
Caela did not have to ask him what he meant. “The dark stain in its soul,” she said. “The tilt in the Game. Yes, I have felt it. Asterion’s hold over Swanne, over the Mistress of the Labyrinth. The shadow that hangs over us all. What can I do?”
“There are two more bands left.”
“Aye.”
“Eaving,” said another Sidlesaghe. “Shelter them.”
“Move them?” said Caela.
“No,” said Long Tom. “Shelter them.”
“Moving the bands may not be enough,” said one other Sidlesaghe. “They can still be found. William can always find them. And if William…if William…”
“If William is trapped by Swanne and Asterion?”
“Aye,” said Long Tom. “Eaving, there are two final bands. Will you shelter them?”
“From William as much as from Asterion,” said Caela.
“Aye. In case. Just in case.”
She thought a long time, staring sightlessly south, feeling all that the land told her.
“There is a way,” she said finally, not yet knowing that this simple decision would prove her salvation in the darkness ahead.
In Rouen Matilda lay abed. She slept restlessly, the bed covers twisting around her body, her dark hair working its way free of its braids and tangling on the pillow, her face covered in light perspiration, one of her hands fluttering over her rounded belly.
In her dreams, Matilda walked a strange and unknown landscape. About her tumbled the ruins of a once-great city. Columns and walls lay in piles of masonry, flames flickering from fires which still burned within them; dismembered bodies sprawled in sickening heaps; a pall of thick, noxious smoke hung over the entire terrible landscape.
She did not recognise the city. The architecture (what she could see of it amid the ruins) was of an unknown and exotic form, and the bodies which lay on the ground were clothed in armour and held weapons of a type she had not seen before. This was somewhere she had never visited, and even within her dream, Matilda wondered at the power of her imagination that it could conjure this vision to disrupt her dreams.
Matilda walked carefully, avoiding as best she could the tumbled masonry and the bodies. She turned a corner and came upon a cleared space.
She halted, transfixed by the sight before her.
A stag lay in the centre of a clear space. He was magnificent, larger than any stag she had ever seen before, with a pure white pelt and a full spread of blood-red antlers.
“You are a king,�
�� she said, and the stag blinked at her as if it were suddenly aware of her presence.
Matilda looked away, studying the rest of the space. Initially she had thought the area was completely clear. Now she could see that it wasn’t. A Labyrinth had been carved into the entire circular space—
Matilda’s mind instantly leapt to that strange gift her husband had sent Edward—the ball of golden string that unwound into a Labyrinth—and to the Labyrinth be had told her was carved into the golden bands he thought might he in the possession of either Caela or Swanne.
—and the stag lay within its heart. In front of the stag, also within the heart of the Labyrinth, were carved letters. They had been dug deep into the stone of the Labyrinth floor, and had been filled with red paint, or perhaps blood.
Matilda stepped forward, not fearful, curious to see what the word was.
RESURGAM
Matilda frowned, for she knew her Latin well enough. I will rise again?
The stag began to move, struggling to rise, and its movement distracted Matilda. She raised her eyes to the stag, pitying the creature, for no matter how greatly he struggled, he did not seem to be able to rise to his feet.
Then the stag paused in his struggles, his ears flickering as if he heard something, and his glorious head twisted so it looked over his shoulder. He trembled, and his struggling doubled, and a sense of great dread came over Matilda.
“What…?” she said, and the stag turned his head to her, and looked at her with black eyes that Matilda instantly recognised, and it said: Begone from here, Matilda. Begone!
“William,” she whispered, and stretched out her hands…
Begone! the stag screamed in her mind, and Matilda wailed, and then she also screamed, for out of the tumbled ruins that bordered the open space behind the stag crawled an abomination such as Matilda had never dreamed before.
It was a gigantic snake, or a lizard, she could not tell, but it had a sinuous, writhing body covered in black scales, and a head with a mouth so vast and filled with fangs that Matilda understood it could eat entire cities (and had indeed eaten this one, which is why it lay in ruins about her).
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