"There was one like this in my world also—we called it God's Well. It was the heart of the city of Atlantis, which was itself the heart of Thera. When the Darkwitch Ariadne destroyed Thera, she also destroyed its God Well."

    "Thank the gods that Genvissa didn't manage to destroy this one," said Saeweald.

    "And to why I need you here," said Silvius. "The well is open now, and who knows who can feel it, besides you and me? Saeweald—"

    "I cannot go down," Saeweald said, looking again at the rough walls. It was not the magic which deterred him, but the simple fact that his twisted body would not allow him to even attempt the climb down. "You need me to stay here, and guard the entrance to the well with whatever power I can summon, while you retrieve the bracelet. In case…"

    "Aye," said Silvius. "I will be as fast as I might, but still…" He stepped close to Saeweald, and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "One day, my friend, you will be whole again, and then you also may go down."

    "Be careful," said Saeweald.

    Silvius nodded, then dropped to the edge of the well, carefully lowering himself down to the first of the twisting edges. Above him, Saeweald stripped off his robe and, naked, the light from the well playing over the antler tattoo over his chest and shoulders, began to hum a strange melody.

    Within moments the entrance to the well had clouded over, and then vanished, as if all that Saeweald stared at was a rough, uneven flooring of gravel.

    Silvius glanced above to make sure that Saeweald had concealed the entrance, grinned, then concentrated on the climb. The way down was

    difficult, but not impossible, and Silvius' pace quickened once he became more confident in finding his hand and footholds.

    After some time had passed, Silvius spied what he was looking for: an opening into the rock wall, partway around the well from where he clung to a ledge. The roaring from the waters—still far below—had now increased greatly in volume, and the rocks had grown ever more slippery with condensation, and Silvius was more than glad he had found the entrance to the burial chamber. Even more careful, now that his destination was in sight, Silvius concentrated on climbing about the rock walls to the opening.

    In a few short minutes he breathed a sigh of relief and leaped lightly down to the floor of the passageway. He made a gesture with his hand, and immediately the passageway was filled with a soft, golden light.

    Unlike the rock walls of the well, the passageway had smooth walls and an

    even, dustless rock floor, and Silvius wasted no time in striding down its length.

    It was only some thirty or thirty-five paces long, leading directly into a

    rounded chamber that looked as if it had been water-carved from the living

    rock.

    In the center of the chamber were two waist-high rock plinths, some three feet wide and seven long, and on each of these plinths rested cloth-wrapped

    figures.

    The corpses of Brutus and Cornelia.

    Silvius halted the instant he stepped inside the chamber, staring at the

    plinths.

    A sardonic smile creased his face as he walked to the plinth that bore the

    larger and taller of the cloth-wrapped corpses. He lifted his hands and rested them gently, almost hesitantly, on the wrappings that covered the corpse's head. "So much power that you have wasted, Brutus."

    Silvius drew in a deep breath, then raised both his head and his hands

    from the corpse of his son.

    "Cornelia," he said, as he stared at the corpse that lay on the other plinth.

    "Poor Cornelia," he said very slowly. "Poor, dead Cornelia. Used and abused by all about you." He walked over. "Cornelia," Silvius said again, "is it

    time to wake?"

    He grinned to himself. "Why, I do believe so!" Then he reached down with both hands to the cloths that wove about her breasts and, sliding his fingers between them, tore them apart. "Cornelia!"

    Something fell from amid the bandages, then toppled from the plinth and clattered to the floor where it lay glinting.

    Silvius drew in a deep breath, then leaned down and picked it up. "Gods," he whispered, "the Greeks always knew how to make a fine piece of jewelry."

    In his palm nestled an exquisitely worked gold and ruby bracelet. Then, suddenly, Silvius' head jerked upward.

    SAEWEALD FELT IT BEFORE HE ACTUALLY HEARD OR

    saw anything.

    A coldness seeping out from the cracks of the lighthouse basement's stone walls that rose about him. The night was cold, yes, but this was different.

    Malevolent.

    Seeing.

    Saeweald glanced at the well, made sure the conjuration hiding the well's opening remained in place, then he twisted about, trying to see in every direction at once, tottering and almost falling as he tried to find a place to hide. Cursed his power that enabled him to hide (however insubstantially) other objects, but not himself!

    You poor fool. What brought you back to this calamity?

    Saeweald felt the voice, rather than heard it. He turned about, trying to locate it.

    There was a movement in the air. Something large, shifting. Behind him? No! To his left!

    Do you look for me?

    Saeweald cried out, terrified. The Minotaur had materialized directly in front of him, no more than two paces away. He was massive, taller than any man Saeweald had ever seen, tightly muscled, overpowering in his presence.

    His ebony bull's head, almost majestic, swayed slowly from side to side, and bright, savage eyes pinned Saeweald where he stood.

    Tell me—what do you here?

    Saeweald found himself compelled to speak. It was though a ghostly hand had seized his throat, squeezing the words from him. "I am tied to the land! I am for the land!"

    That's pathetic. I am for power, did you know that?

    The word was crushed from Saeweald's chest. "Yes."

    And what is this then, that you try so miserably to hide? Suddenly the gravel dissolved, and the God Well lay exposed. The Minotaur's gaze jerked back to Saeweald, and the man cried out as invisible claws ripped agonizingly into his body.

    "It is… ah! It is a God Well!" Saeweald's body began to shake, jerking up and down as the Minotaur's power began to crush him.

    Asterion began to laugh, a great belly-shaking amusement that filled the basement with his merriment. A God Well! How sweet! Shall I destroy it?

    Saeweald had begun to cry. He was no longer capable of speech.

    SARA D

    OUGLASS

    Shall I destroy you, friend?

    Then, just as Saeweald was sure he was about to be torn to shreds, the Minotaur's eyes widened, and the creature snarled. Who is here with you?

    Who?

    Saeweald somewhere found breath enough to speak a single word. "Silvius."

    A Kingman? The Minotaur was still staring at the God Well. The next moment he'd taken a step back, then another, and then he was fading from

    view. A Kingman?

    And then he was gone, and Saeweald collapsed unknowingly to the ground.

    HE WOKE TO FIND SILVIUS CROUCHED OVER HIM.

    "What happened?" Silvius said. "Asterion …" "Asterion was fcere?"

    Saeweald nodded. His body was throbbing horribly, but it felt as if the Minotaur had not quite torn him to shreds after all. It had just felt like it at the time. "Aid me to rise. Please."

    Silvius lent him his hand. "What happened?" _

    Saeweald briefly told him as he managed to regain his balance, a hand on

    Silvius' shoulder for support. "The instant he heard your name, he vanished.

    'A Kingman?' he said, as if it were the last thing he wanted to hear, and then

    he was gone."

    Silvius frowned. "I had not thought I had the power to overly perturb

    him," he said.

    "You are the one who keeps reminding me that you were once a Kingman. Maybe Asterion has not forgotten it, even if occasionally I do." He managed a small smile. "Perhaps I will trust you, after all, Silvius. Having about me a man who can terrify even Asterion is bound to come in handy."

    Silvius patted Saeweald's hand where it still rested on his shoulder. "I need to see you safe back to your chambers." He managed his own grin, but it was a weak thing. "I think you have need of Judith's ministering hands."

    "Did you find it?"

    Silvius nodded, and held out a hand. In its palm rested the bracelet.

    "Pray to Mag that it works," muttered Saeweald.

    GID6CV

    Caela Speaks

    HEN I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, I LAY FOR A

    very long time, cold and stiff, my belly a terrible, painful weight, and waited for my usual sense of futility to sweep over me.

    This futility was my own constant burden. I had carried it about ever since that first night with Edward (/ find you most displeasing) and I had born it as a woman, as a wife, as a queen. Poor Caela, they whispered.

    Poor Caela. How I hated it!

    The drapes were partly pulled back from the bed—and, oh, the sweetness of having this bed to myself for an entire night—and I could see that someone sat by the hearth, her chin on her chest.

    Slim build, delicate face, dark sweep of hair escaping from the veil askew over her brow.

    Judith. I smiled drowsily, happy in this moment. Alone in my bed, watched over by Judith.

    "You're awake."

    Startled, my eyes jerked to the person who now stood by my side: he must have been sitting toward the head of the bed where the drapes had obscured him.

    "Saeweald." Sweet Lord Christ, he looked worse than I felt. There were great dark circles under his eyes, his skin was blotched, and there were deep lines of pain about his mouth. "Saeweald," I said again, holding out my hand. "Have you not slept?"

    He took my hand and kissed it. "You seem rested, madam."

    "I am well enough, Saeweald." And, surprisingly, I was well enough. Although my belly ached, the great wave of futility and melancholy that had so often been my intimate companion had, apparently, decided to stay away

    i/so

    for this day. "But you? Saeweald… have you been battling demons all

    night?"

    He laughed. "Indeed, madam. Keeping them from your bed." Judith appeared at his shoulder, her tiny hands lifting to straighten her veil and push away the dark wing of hair that had fallen loose.

    Saeweald had sobered, and now he looked at me with an unreadable expression. "Did you dream well, madam?"

    Ah, sweet lord, why did he so constantly inquire after my dreams? "I slept dreamlessly, physician. I am sorry to disappoint you."

    Judith and Saeweald shared a glance, and for some reason that made me

    angry.

    "I am sorry to disappoint you," I said again, my tone decidedly waspish

    now. "If I had known you were so concerned at my dreaming I would have had a nightmare to delight you."

    "I did not mean to offend you, madam," Saeweald said. I sighed, turning aside my face. How I hated these strange, uncomfortable conversations with Saeweald. He always seemed to be waiting for me to say something for which I could not form the words. At times he appeared to be teetering forward on his uncertain legs, as if I were supposed to remember something of great import and then hand it to him to enchant him.

    Although I could not see it, I felt Judith and Saeweald glance at each other

    once more.

    "Bring me water," I said, looking back to Judith, "and cloths. I am not so sick that I want to break my fast stinking of my night sweat. Saeweald, I feel greatly improved this morning. You may take some of your own rest, and, should you need to again inquire after my health, then you may do so this afternoon."

    And with that, and yet one more of those cursed glances between the two, Saeweald bowed and retired.

    LATER, WHEN I HAD EATEN A SMALL BOWL OF BROTH

    and a piece of new-baked bread, washed, and assured both myself and Judith (who would doubtless report the fact to Saeweald) that I had not bled afresh during the night, and when the linens of my bed had been changed and the coverlets shaken, I lay back upon my pillows and prepared to receive what visitors there were. I would have risen, save that apparently Saeweald had threatened both Judith and everyone of my other attending ladies with dire warnings of my undoubted demise should I rise from my bed too soon, and so

    I was condemned to yet another day's rest within my bedchamber.

    To be honest, I was not so very unhappy with that thought. A day abed

    meant a day of peace: Edward would avoid me, the majority of the court

    would find other scandals and intrigues to amuse themselves, and perhaps… perhaps Harold might come to talk awhile with me.

    He had not come yesterday, at least not while I was awake.

    I remembered that there had been a constant stream of people come to view me, to poke and prod me, physically, emotionally and spiritually, to ensure I was still breathing and to depart with further gossip for the court. None of them had been Harold; none of them had been particularly welcome. Edward had come, and said words that I think he meant to be conciliatory (but how could I forget him standing over me, as I lay in humiliation on the floor of his court, screaming at me that I was a whore? How could I ever set that memory aside?), and had then, gratefully, departed, all thin-lipped and pinch-nosed. Several churchmen had come, and leaned forward with wet lips and gleaming eyes to hear what sins of the flesh I had to confess (of which I, boring creature that I am, had none at all, save a weakness of the womb, which was neither my fault nor theirs). A woman or two, wives of senior members of the court, had come, and twittered all about me.

    Judith saw them off with thankful alacrity.

    Today, perhaps, Harold would come to see me. I closed my eyes, the soft movements of my ladies about the chamber a soothing lullaby and, thinking of Harold, drifted into a light doze.

    I DREAMED OF THAT STRANGE STONE HALL AGAIN,

    and in this dream it felt such a familiar place to me that I knew I had dreamed of it previously; and often at that.

    I smiled in my dream, for now, at least, I might have something to tell Saeweald.

    I walked through the hall, noting as I went that there were great patches of dried blood staining the columns and the floor. Oddly, this did not disturb me, nor did I seem to find it strange.

    There was a step behind me and I turned. Harold! And yet not Harold, for this man wore no beard, and he was dressed in strange clothes, and his face had a different aspect—and yet still I knew it was Harold.

    "Harold!" I said, and, glad beyond knowing, I held out my hands.

    Joy lit his face, and he strode toward me. "Cornelia," he said. "How strange you appear to me."

    I laughed, thinking this some jest of Harold's. "My name is not Cornelia."

    "Is that so?" he said, and then he had taken my hands, and pulled me in toward him, and I had no thought at all of stopping him. He leaned down until our mouths almost touched—and at this moment I abruptly recalled another dream I'd had recently… a night ago, two nights ago?… when

    DOUGLASS

    atner umu..___

    mine.

    He had called me Hades' daughter, and I knew I'd heard those words before—

    shouted at me, as if in accusation. And I had known that man intimately, too. But where? Where? In dream? Or in some unknown day or week or month of my life that I'd somehow managed to forget? Who was he, this man of whom I dreamed? I tensed, my mind in turmoil, but Harold only smiled gentry, and lowered

    his mouth to mine.

    I should not allow this, I thought. He is my brother.

    And yet, even thinking so, I opened my mouth under his, and felt the sweet bitter taste of his tongue, and then the pressure of his hand against my back as he pressed me against him.

    And then, to one side, a sweet laugh.

    Harold and I pulled apart. Standing not three or four paces from us was the most compelling creature I had ever seen. He was very tall, and wore only a crudely fashioned leather jerkin and trousers. His face was both bleak and joyful all at once, his eyes great mysteries that saw far more than just the objects within their sight. He laughed, raising his hands at the end of long, thin, strong arms, and I saw that his square teeth were rimmed with light, as if he would always be incapable of speaking anything but the truth.

    Harold's arm tightened about me, but I could feel that he was not frightened of this apparition, nor angry at its imposition into our intimacy,

    "Are you one of the ancient ones?" Harold asked of the strange creature. "I am Long Tom," the creature said, and I frowned, trying to remember something that tugged at my mind. Hadn't a wise woman said something to me about a Long Tom only recently? What was it? What…?

    The creature began to say something else, but then it turned slightly, and

    cried out at what it saw.

    Then Harold was wrenched from my arms, and I saw the man who had called me Hades' daughter, and now he had a sword in his angry hand, and as Harold fell over backward, his throat white and vulnerable, the sword came slashing down…

    I THINK I SCREAMED. I KNOW I JERKED AWAKE WITH

    such violence I almost fell from my bed.

    That I did not was due to the fact that someone—a man—was holding my

    shoulders.

    I twisted away, sure that it was that brutal man of my nightmare come to murder me, but whoever it was tightened his hands, keeping me safe, and a -~"<-Vi heloved voice cried out.

    "Caela! Caela! Wake, I beg you, for this is nothing but a dream." My eyes cleared, and Harold's face came into focus before me. "Caela," he said again, his voice now a groan, and I took a deep breath, and stilled, and then fell forward into his arms.

    There was a moment, a long moment, when Harold's hand cupped the back of my head, tipping it back, and his face lowered to mine, his mouth so close to mine I could feel its warmth, and then he gave a harsh laugh and laid me back against the pillows.

    Sweet Christ, he had almost kissed me! The memory of my dream still lingered, and I knew that if he had, I would have responded. What were we, Harold and I, that this sin consumed us?

    "By all the spirits of the night, Caela, of what were you dreaming?" I could not lie, not after what had just—almost—happened. "I dreamed of you, that you were with me—" He winced, "—and that—"

    "Caela, do not say it!"

    I stopped, and drew in a deep breath. "I dreamed I saw a Norman drag you away from me, and raise his sword. Then I woke."

    "Caela…"

    "I wish to God," I said very quietly, holding his eyes, "that I had not been born your sister."

    There was a silence, neither of us looking away from the other. The silence grew intense, and I wondered if we were both teetering at the edge of a cliff, and if I would truly mind very much if we fell over. He sighed, and the sound was ragged. "Harold…"

    "Caela, we can't—"

    I sat forward, the memory of his sweet dream kiss still very much with me, and laid my mouth very softly against his.

    I didn't know how to progress. I had never been kissed in passion before, and I was not sure…

    Harold's mouth moved against mine. Very slowly, very gently, and I felt his breath mingle with mine. I opened my mouth, pressing it more firmly against his.

    I felt him hesitate, then respond, and then he was pushing me back again. Caela, we can't. Someone could well walk in."

    Not "We can't, for it is a shameful thing." But only, "Someone could well walk in." I smiled. At that moment I was so intensely happy that I did not care that we had, for a moment, slipped over the edge of that precipice. "I love you, Harold," I said.

    RA DOUGLASS

    I3O ani't/»

    He slid a hand over my mouth, but I could see the emotion in his eyes, part joy, part longing, part fear of what we had done. It was not the kiss that was so frightening to him, I think, but the fact that we'd opened a door that might prove impossible to close again.

    "Not now," he whispered, and his hand fell away from my mouth. "Harold," I said, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. "You are here, at last. I looked for you yesterday. I wanted to thank you for what you said in court. For a moment I thought no one would dare a word in my defense."

    "Your husband does not deserve you," he said, and in my mind 1 heard what he meant to say. I would be the better husband for you. "I did come last night, but late, and you were already asleep. I did not want to wake you."

    "So he came to me, instead," said another voice, and I felt my own face stiffen even as I saw Harold's lose all expression as Swanne's face appeared

    over his shoulder.

    Ob, Lord Christ, that the "someone" who should walk in would be her. She looked serene and beautiful and powerful—very sure of herself as I never truly was—and as she moved up to Harold she put a hand on his shoulder and looked down on me.

    "You quite enlivened your husband's court yesterday, my dear," Swanne

    said. "Are you quite well now?"

    Harold's eyes had dropped away from both of us, his head turned slightly down and away. I felt a great sorrow then, for I understood that where once Harold had loved Swanne, now he found her irritating, and an embarrassment.

    "Aye, sister," I replied. "It was but my monthly flux, more burdensome

    than usual."

    "Is that truly so?" she said. A very slight frown creased her forehead, then she lifted her hand from Harold's shoulder and placed it on the coverlets of

    the bed, over my belly.

    "Swanne…" Harold began, but I shook my head—she could surely do no

    harm—and he subsided.

    "Is that truly so?" Swanne repeated, and her frown increased. Something shadowy and unknowable darkened her eyes and the pressure of her hand increased slightly, although not uncomfortably so.

    "My lady?" I said, glancing at Harold who was watching Swanne's face. "Your womb is empty," Swanne said, and her voice was slightly puzzled. She leaned back, raising her hand away from me, and looked at me, the frown

    still marking her lovely face.

    "Do you believe, too, that I have a lover, and lost his child?" I said, bitterly.

    "I am a virgin still, Swanne."

    My eyes briefly, meaningfully, locked with Harold's.

    She nodded, and made a small smile with her mouth, but I could see that her mind was consumed with something other than our conversation.

    "So," she said softly. "He has made his first move. I wonder why this was so important to him…" Her voice drifted off.

    By now both Harold and myself were staring at her. "Swanne?" Harold said. "Of whom do you speak?"

    She blinked, and her face set into hard, cold lines. "Of no one who concerns you, my dear."

    And with that she turned and left us.

    't^ WANNE WALKED FROM THE QUEEN'S APART-

    "■■■k ments, her gait smooth and elegant, her shoulders back, her X*^^-*^ beautiful face held high. She walked until she reached the head of the staircase where windows overlooked the Thames, and there she stopped, folded her hands before her, and stared out the window.

    She had felt nothing in Caela's womb. Nothing, and yet, for all the time she's known Caela in this life, the woman's womb had always held a faint

    trace of Mag.

    Swanne sighed, ignoring the stares of servants and officials who hurried by, and once more a small frown wrinkled the otherwise smooth skin of her forehead. Swanne had been reborn into this life with her powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth intact, but with her two other sources of power strangely muted. In her former life as Genvissa, Swanne had been the powerful MagaLlan, or high priestess to the goddess Mag, commanding great powers of magic that she drew from the goddess herself. In this life her powers as MagaLlan were virtually nonexistent. This had not surprised Swanne. Mag was all but dead, clinging to life only in the dim recesses of Caela's womb (and, as a virgin, Caela would have provided the goddess of fertility and motherhood with no power at all) and the ancient power of the land that Swanne had known as Genvissa was hidden under a heavy cloak of time and forgetfulness. There was no source of power for a MagaLlan, and Swanne spent no time weeping over what she had lost.

    What did frighten Swanne was that the dark power of the heart of the labyrinth, which she'd inherited from her foremothers, and which Ariadne had won from Asterion, was all but gone as well. Why? Was that Asterion's malicious hand? Or because her mother in this life had been but an ordinary woman, and Swanne had needed the direct blood link from a mother who wielded the darkcraft in order to wield it herself? She didn't know, and that

    frustrated and frightened her.

    Her power as Mistress of the Labyrinth should be all that she needed, but

    Swanne had wanted the darkcraft as well. Badly.

    If she had it now, perhaps she'd have more of an idea of what was happening about her. She would certainly have more hope of influencing and directing it.

    Whatever power she did or did not command, Swanne had managed enough of it to be able to recognize the faint trace of Mag within Caela's womb. Today, even that faint trace was gone.

    Its absence could have been attributable to a number of causes: Mag had simply faded away completely, Swanne had perhaps lost touch with enough of her own remaining power to lose contact with Mag, something, or someone else had destroyed Mag within Caela's womb.

    Swanne knew it was the latter. Caela had been attacked yesterday, and whatever faint trace of Mag remained had been deliberately murdered.

    And there was only one person who had the power to accomplish that and had possible reason to want to accomplish Mag's death. Asterion.

    Swanne stared out at the gray waters of the Thames. It was a cold, blustery day with sheets of rain driving in from the northeast at periodic intervals. Winter was not far away.

    "Why?" Swanne whispered. "Why?"

    Why would Asterion want that final, helpless remnant of Mag dead? Swanne well knew of the previous life's alliance between Mag and Asterion, using Cornelia to destroy Genvissa and stop the completion of the Game. Swanne could also understand why Asterion might want to tidy up loose ends; if nothing else, the Minotaur was a methodical creature, and he most certainly needed neither Mag's nor Caela's, all but useless, hand.

    So why not kill Caela and dispose of both of them at the same time? Why leave Caela alive?

    Why go to all the trouble of removing Mag in such a spectacular fashion when he could just as easily have murdered Caela and left no loose ends at all?

    What are you up to, Asterion? Swanne thought. To be honest, Swanne had no idea why even she was alive. Asterion wanted to destroy the Game. If that was all he wanted, then that was easily enough accomplished.

    Kill her. Kill the Mistress of the Labyrinth. If there was no Mistress of the Labyrinth, there was no Game. As simple as that.

    Or kill William, Brutus-reborn. If there was no Kingman, then there was no Game.

    What was happening that she couldn't understand? Swanne's frown deepened, and she chewed her lower lip as her thoughts tumbled over and over. The Game had changed, she could feel that herself. Even incomplete, was it a danger to Asterion? Did he fear to be trapped by it, even though she

    IJ-T

    and Brutus-reborn hadn't managed the final Dance? Was the only way Aster-ion could destroy the Game completely was to use either her or William?

    "The bands," she muttered, keeping her face turned full to the window so that none of the passersby could see her mumbling to herself. "It must be Brutus' kingship bands. Asterion needs those, either to destroy them, or to use them to destroy the Game. Dammit, Brutus, where did you hide them? Where?" Suddenly irritated beyond measure by her inaction, Swanne abruptly turned away from the window and walked, as fast as possible without attracting undue attention, down the stairs, through the Great Hall and back to the

    quarters she shared with Harold.

    She could put to good use the free time Harold had given her by his spending the morning mooning over his sister's sickbed.

    HAROLD LISTENED TO THE SOUND OF HIS WIFE'S

    footsteps fading away. Gods, had she seen what was going on? Another moment or two and Harold had been sure he would have thrown all caution to the wind and taken his sister there and then.

    What a fine sight that would have been for Swanne, had she been a few moments later. Her husband squirming frantically atop his own sister's body. It would have cost him everything. It would have cost Caela more.

    For the first time in his life, Harold cursed the high birth of himself and his sister. If they had been lowly peasants, they could have simply moved to a far distant village, and lived as man and wife.

    But the earl of Wessex could not just abscond with the queen… "Harold? What did Swanne mean? 'He has made his first move.'" Caela was looking at him with a puzzled face.

    Harold pulled his thoughts back into order. Where had his self-control gone? "Do not ask me to interpret what she means, Caela, for I cannot!"

    "Sometimes she makes me feel as though she carries about with her such a great secret that could destroy all our lives," Caela said. "Sometimes when she looks at me… ah!" She gave a small smile. "I do not know what to make

    of your wife, Harold."

    "Nor I, indeed," he said, then paused. "She envies you, I think. She thinks

    she would do better wearing the crown herself."

    Caela studied him silently for a moment. "And will she wear it, Harold?" Harold took Caela's hand between both of his, using the excuse to drop his eyes away from her scrutiny. By all the gods, what did she mean with that question? He rubbed at the back of her hand with his thumbs, gently, caressingly,

    deciding to take Caela's question at face value, and using the time it bought him to think over all the issues it raised.

    Ah, the throne. Edward was an old man, likely to die within the next few years, and still he had to name a successor. In theory, the members of the witan elected a new king, but in practice whoever was named by the former king had a powerful claim.

    Edward was driving his witan, and well most of the Anglo-Saxon nobles in England, into despair over the issue. It was stunningly important that he name a successor, if only because there were so many men who wished to claim the throne: not merely Harold, who had the strongest claim, but the Danes, the Norwegians, the Normans, the French… half of Europe, come to that, entertained ambitions to add the English throne to what they already held. If Edward continued to prevaricate then he risked tumbling England into chaos on his death.

    Caela watched Harold's face, knowing what he was thinking. "You are the only one who can take the throne, Harold. Even Edward must know that." Harold snorted softly. "And has Edward actually spoken to you of this?"

    "Does Edward speak to me of the succession?" Caela laughed softly, bitterly. "Nay, of course he does not. He has 'spoken' only with his body, keeping it from me, that I may not breed him a Godwineson as his heir."

    For an instant Harold entertained the vision of Edward making love to Caela, and his heart almost went cold in horror. "Then he is a fool. Better, surely, that a child of his own body take the throne than risk the slaughter of half of England as rival princes fight it out."

    There was a lengthy silence, neither looking at the other, which was finally broken by Caela.

    "I have not seen Tostig," she said, "yet I know he lingers about Westminster. Have you…" her voice drifted off at the expression on Harold's face.

    "We have fought," he said, "and now Tostig wastes his time in sulks. I wish that he put aside his disagreement with me long enough to wish you well."

    "Over what have you disagreed?"

    "Tostig wants me to send my army north to subdue Northumbria to his wishes. I refused… I cannot afford to waste men and arms in the north when I may need them here."

    "Tostig has not done well this past year," Caela said. "If only…"

    "Yes," Harold said. "If only, indeed."

    She squeezed his hand. "All will be well, Harold. Surely. You are brothers, and disagreements will be set aside soon enough."

    "Brothers can be enemies as well as any other men, Caela. I pray only that we can resolve our differences before Edward dies."

    "And what," Caela said, determined to change the subject yet again, "have

    you heard of William?"

    Harold sighed, and sat back, letting Caela's hand drop to the coverlet. Tostig was a trifling threat when compared to William of Normandy. Not only was William a seasoned warrior with a seasoned army behind him (he'd spent over twenty-five years battling half of Europe to keep Normandy, and he could just as easily turn that army on England), but he also had a claim to the throne. Edward's mother, Emma, was a Norman woman, and close kin to William; close enough that William might make a claim through her blood. It wasn't much of a claim, but it was there, and it was strengthened by the fact that during his many years in exile (necessitated by the Danish Cnut's seizure of the throne on the death of Edward's father) Edward had formed strong bonds wire William and had spent many years an honored guest in the Norman court. Some men rumored that in his gratitude Edward had promised England to William on Edward's death—and if Edward would not lay with Caela, then this was the reason: he did not want to breed an heir that would break his vow to William.

    Personally, Harold did not believe it. No man, surely, could hand over a throne in gratitude for some bread and wine and a bed for a few years.

    Could he? Harold shook his head very slightly. Edward was fool enough for anything, and who knew what he might have promised William one drunken night when Edward might have thought he'd never regain the English throne

    from Cnut?

    "Edward has never said anything?" he said to Caela.

    Caela shook her head. "I know only that they exchange letters."

    Harold grunted. "William is preparing the ground to claim that Edward

    has always wanted him as heir."

    "Edward is preparing that ground," Caela said, "with the Normans he

    keeps at court."

    Harold said nothing. God knows Edward had brought enough of Normandy back with him when he'd finally managed to regain the throne on Cnut's death, and the bonds between Edward and William had been strengthened with further treaties over the years.

    Had any of those treaties encompassed a promise that William could have the throne after Edward's death? No one knew, least of all Harold, and that lack of knowledge kept him awake many hours into too many nights.

    Harold wanted the throne. Moreover, he felt that he deserved it. He alone had kept Edward safe from internal disputes and the ambitions of the Saxon earls. He alone had the moral and military strength behind him to not only take the throne, but to hold it once Edward died.

    He was the only choice, the only Saxon choice, unless England decided it

    wanted a foreigner.

    Or, if a foreigner decided he wanted England.

    Now, as Edward declined into old age, and as it became obvious that he would never consent to get an heir on Caela, the issue of who was to succeed him was becoming ever more critical.

    "If I take the throne," Harold said, reverting to Caela's original question, "Swanne will not be my queen."

    Caela arched an eyebrow, but there was a strange relief in her eyes.

    "Once, perhaps, I would have fought to the death to have her crowned at my side."

    He paused, and Caela did not speak.

    "Once," Harold finally continued. "Not now. She and I have grown apart in these past few years. Strangers, almost."

    "Then that must explain the birth of your sixth child and third son last year."

    Harold took a moment to respond to that. "She has ceased to please me, even in bed," he finally said. "We rarely touch… and even when we do, I find myself thinking of…"

    He stopped suddenly, unable to say that you.

    A silence where both avoided each others' eyes, then Harold resumed. "Swanne cannot be my queen, even should I wish it. We were wed under Danelaw, not Christian, and the Church does not recognize our union. England is too Christian a realm now to try and flout their laws. If I am to be crowned, then I cannot afford to alienate a church which must anoint my right to that throne."

    "You will put her aside?" Caela looked incredulous, as if she could not believe for a moment that Swanne would be content to be "put aside."

    "If I am to be accepted by the Church… if my claim to the throne is to be backed by the Church, then, yes, I must put her aside."

    "She knows this?"

    "We have not spoken of it but, yes, I think she knows of it." He made a harsh sound in his throat. "It would certainly explain her growing distance and coldness this past year and more."

    Caela thought for a moment, then said, "And who will you take for a wife? For your queen?"

    The instant she spoke, the awkwardness again rose between them. "That was a foolish thing for me to ask," she said, "considering how stu-Pidly I behaved earlier."

    "There could never be a better queen for this country than you," Harold said.

    "I shall find you a queen," Caela said, her voice forced. "A good woman, and worthy of you."

    Harold reached out, hand and touched he, mouth briefly with his finger-tips. . . i _-,ft.i., "Vint never so much as

    from the bed and left.

    CbAPCGR

    ACH YEAR LONDON HELD A CELEBRATION TO MARK

    the (hopefully) successful conclusion of the harvest. It was held in conjunction with the more important autumn hiring and poultry fairs, with the city guilds, the merchants, and the folk of at least a dozen of the outlying villages. This festival was held on a Saturday (the preceding three days being taken up with the market fairs), and was one of the few occasions in the year when the city came to an almost complete standstill for the celebrations. In the morning the guilds held a great parade through the streets of London, and in the afternoons virtually the entire city repaired for games, competitions, and general revelry to the great fields of Smithfield northwest of the city, just beyond the ancient walls.

    Edward and Caela, as most of the court, usually attended the afternoon's festivities at Smithfield. It was a good chance for the king to display himself (and his wealth and power and might) to the general public, and to make generous offerings of prizes to those who won the games. All in all, the day was generally one of lighthearted fun and competition and, so long as the weather held clear and the crowd didn't become too raucous with the overabundant supply of ale and beer, Caela generally enjoyed herself immensely.

    This year promised even greater enjoyment.

    The night before the festival, Edward had succumbed to a black headache. He'd retired to his bed, and demanded that he be left alone, save for two monks who were to sit in a corner and recite psalms. Saeweald had given him a broth and applied a poultice that had eased the king's aching head somewhat, but when Saturday dawned, and Edward's head still throbbed uncomfortably and his belly threatened to spew forth with every movement, the king decided to forgo the fun of Smithfield for the continued stillness and peace of his bedchamber.

    The queen should still attend, Harold escorting her—this was, indeed, a true indication of just how deeply Edward's aching head had disturbed his state of mind. To make matters even better for Caela (and for Harold), Swanne

    O

    I4O j «

    decided to remain behind as well, vaguely stating some indisposition, which she felt would only be exacerbated by the noise and frivolity of Smithfield.

    Thus it was that, two hours past noon, Caela found herself seated with Harold in a great temporary wooden stand on the north side of Smithfield. In truth, she also should perhaps have remained behind, her collapse in court only being but ten days previous… but she declared that nothing could keep her from attending, and the sheer joy she felt escaping the confines of Westminster showed in her bright eyes, her constantly smiling mouth, and in

    every movement.

    She was dressed splendidly in a deep ruby silken surcoat embroidered all over with golden English dragons, a matching golden veil, and a jeweled crown. Beside her, Harold had dressed somewhat similarly, if in bright sky blue rather than ruby. His surcoat was also embroidered with English dragons, although his beasts snarled and struck out with their talons while Caela's merely scampered playfully. Harold wore a golden circlet on his brow, gold-encrusted embroidery weighting down the tight-fitting lower sleeves of his linen undertunic, heavy jeweled rings on his fingers and, to remind everyone of his exploits and renown as a warrior, a great sword hanging at his hip. He looked the king as Edward never had: vital, healthy, handsome, powerful, and the crowd gathered in Smithfield roared in acclaim when he and Caela took

    their places.

    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 crowd 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. Just once." His face lightened away 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 to someone 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 patently reveled in the good cheer of the day.

    The final event was 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 center of the arena, beating a drum that hung from a cord about his neck. He was a fine man, tall and well-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 bareback, the horses controled only 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 waist cloth, sandals on otherwise muscular brown bare legs, and a great bronze 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. About his biceps and upper forearms twined lengths of scarlet ribbon, as about 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.

    't<'t*

    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 great 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 waist cloth.

    The crowd roared again. History pageants and games of all sorts 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 color. "Nothing, but watch and see," said Saeweald. He was watching the king of

    Troy, and 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 crowd roared in anticipation.

    As the drummer ran to safety, the two lines of horsemen began to move. First at a walk, then a trot, then at a carefully controled 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, 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 a 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 <-1ear. 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 defense?"

    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 favorites. "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 began to shriek 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 still flashing back and forth in a controlled manner, their riders untouched, 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 center of the arena, then all turned in one beautifully coordinated 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 toward the royal stand.

    As they met the confusion in the center of the arena, each horse leapt in perfect alignment with its neighbors 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 stunning, 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 on his horse directly before her.

    The man's chest heaved as he fought to get air into his lungs, 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!"

    CbAPGGR F1FG66JM

    Caela Speaks

    STARED, 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 that 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 honor us, sir," said Harold. "May we know your face? Your name?"

    That great toothy grin flashed again in the darkness behind the helmet, 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 allegiance?"

    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 very 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 that 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 the laughter 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 honor."

    "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. (And yet some part of me insisted that I had seen it previously.) 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 wary.

    "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 great 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-favored. 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. 1 control you. Be wise. Do not deny me."

    "Brutus?" I whispered.

    And then I fainted.

    I HAVE ONLY JUDITH 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 apologizing 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 great stone hall in which I'd found myself previously. And there, as if waiting for me, was this man called Silvius. 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 he greater friends than you can possibly realize." Then he was gone, and I slipped out of the stone hall and back into dream-

    lessness.

    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 bold 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 the greatest 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 behavior.

    AROLD HAD KEPT LATE HOURS WITH SEVERAL OF

    his thegns, returning to his bedchamber when Swanne was already asleep, so it was that she only heard of what had happened at Smithfield the next morning.

    Harold, imparting the news as if it were of not much interest to her, was stunned by her reaction.

    In all his years of intimacy with Swanne, he'd never seen her so shocked that 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 skillful displays of horsemanship I have ever seen."

    "Describe it," she said.

    "Two lines of riders, each executing a series of twists and turns that intersected and interwove." He paused, thinking. "Labyrinthianlike, truly."

    Swanne paled, but Harold kept on speaking. "The Trojan king, who led one of the lines, and was the ultimate victor, re-created the walls of Troy with his dance—seven walls, seven circuits. It was up to the Greek king, who led the opposing line, to defeat him." He gave a small shrug. "But Troy won out. Its circuits held against the Greeks, who were left trampled in disarray in the dust. Swanne? Why does this intrigue you so greatly?"

    She gave a light laugh, but Harold could see the effort it cost her. "It is not something I could ever imagine the common guildsmen re-creating, my love. The legend of Troy? Why, who among the commoners of London's back alleyways have ever heard of it?"

    "Many, my lady," said Hawise, who had just entered the chamber to see to the bed linens.

    Swanne, who had literally jumped when Hawise spoke, now regarded her with a frown. "Many? Explain yourself, Hawise."

    The woman licked her lips, wondering if she had spoken out of turn.

    "Hawise?" said Harold, curious himself.

    O

    "The story of Troy is retold many a night about kitchen hearths, my lady," Hawise said. "How the Trojans escaped the destruction of their wondrous city, and fled here to ancient Britain, led by a man named Brutus. Why," Hawise smiled, finally relaxing as she realized she had the undivided attention of both Swanne and Harold, "is it not true that London itself was founded by Brutus?"

    There was a silence, during which Swanne continued to stare at Hawise

    and Harold looked at Swanne.

    Then Swanne smiled, an expression that seemed to Harold to be one of the few genuine smiles he had ever seen her give, and touched Hawise gently

    on the cheek.

    "So it is said," Swanne said softly. "And so it may be. And do the Londoners say anything else about the Troy Game?"

    "Oh," said Hawise, "it is but a foolish game, my lady. Children have played it in the streets for years, dancing a pretty pattern across the flagstones outside St. Paul's, claiming that whoever steps on the lines first shall be eaten alive by a monster from hell."

    "And that is what the horse game of yesterday was based on, Hawise?"

    Harold said.

    "Aye, my lord. One of the guildsmen was watching his daughters dancing out their childish game across the flagstones when he thought that perhaps their play could be modified and made into a far more spectacular sport."

    "Well," said Harold wryly, turning away to pick up his over-mantle, "it surely was that."

    WHEN, MUCH LATER, SHE MANAGED TO FIND SOME

    quiet time to herself in the palace orchard, closely wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak, Swanne finally allowed herself to take a deep breath and think on what

    she had heard.

    The Londoners were playing the Troy Game?

    Whether children or skilled horsemen mattered not… they were playing

    the Troy Game?

    Oh, it was not the Game that she and William would control, but it was clearly a derivative of it. It would not command the magic and power of the Game she and William would play, but it was surely a memory of it.

    How had they known? How had this come to be?

    There were many possibilities, the least unsettling of which was that the Trojans of Troia Nova had passed the Dance of the Torches (that they had witnessed her and Brutus dancing) down to their children. The story of the Troy Game may well have survived the generations between that day Brutus alighted on the shores of Llangarlia and now, even if the city and surrounding

    country had been ravaged so many times, and so mercilessly. It took only one person to remember the tales, and to speak them, for a memory to become a permanent myth.

    And yet what Harold had described, and then what Hawise had said about the children's games, was too accurate to be "myth." The horsed game had been devised by an expert, someone who had known the Game intimately.

    Or… Swanne took another deep breath… or the entire event had somehow been arranged by the Game itself.

    Was the Game seeping up through the very foundations of London? Was it making London, and its inhabitants, its very own?

    For years, ever since she had come to London, Swanne had felt that the Game had changed, become more aware.

    But this aware? Gods, that was terrifying. What if it refused to allow her and William control over it?

    Swanne gave a small, disbelieving laugh. What if the Game decided it would rather have some dirt-smudged child from London's backstreets to dance it to a conclusion?

    "My lady?"

    Swanne jumped again, some stray disassociated part of her mind thinking that she truly needed to ask Saeweald for some herbal potion to calm her nerves.

    It was Aldred, the archbishop of York.

    "My lady," he said, grunting with effort as he sat on the bench beside her. "I do hope I am not disturbing you. It is just that I saw you sitting alone in the orchard while I was taking my afternoon stroll, and I thought to pass a few words."

    Taking my afternoon stroll, indeed! thought Swanne. / have never before seen you walk farther than from one banqueting table to the next.

    "I was thinking," she said, "about that spectacular horsed game the Londoners put on yesterday in Smithfield. Harold seemed quite taken with the skills evidenced."

    "Ah, yes," Aldred said, tweaking at a corner of his robe where it had become uncomfortably stuck under his bulk. "I have heard tell of that extravagance myself."

    "You were not there?"

    "Alas, no, my lady. I thought it better to stay close to our beloved king, should he need me."

    Thought it better to stay close so that you could insinuate yourself even further into his graces, she thought.

    "Aldred," Swanne said slowly. "I may have another letter for you to pass on within the day. You will be able to arrange… ?"

    "I shall be able to expedite its delivery, my lady, with all speed."

    She inclined her head. "I do thank you, my good archbishop." He beamed, and patted her knee, which made Swanne wince.

    ANOTHER MEETING TOOK PLACE IN THE ORCHARD

    that afternoon, but an hour or two after Swanne and Aldred had abandoned

    the trees.

    Tostig was walking through the orchard on his way from his own quarters to Edward's palace when he heard the sound of a footfall behind him.

    Stopping, and both turning about and drawing his dagger in one fluid movement, Tostig saw that two men approached, one of whom he recognized as that man who had talked to him as he'd left the Great Hall after Caela's

    sudden illness.

    "My lord," both the men said, and bowed as one.

    Tostig's hand had not left his dagger.

    "What is it you wish?" he said.

    "To talk only, my lord," said the first of the men. Both of them were fair, but this man's hair and beard were fair to the point of whiteness, and even in the weak afternoon sun it shone brilliantly.

    "I am Halldorr Olafson," said the man, "and this is my companion Orn Bollason. Because we want you to trust us, and believe in us, we give you our true names, and not those we go under while at Edward's court."

    Tostig narrowed his eyes. His hand had not strayed from the haft of his dagger. "You are Hardrada's men," he said. He'd heard that the Norwegian king had agents within Edward's court… but what were they doing approaching

    him?

    "We mean you no harm," said Bollason. "Indeed, we speak with

    Hardrada's voice. Our words are his, and spoken with his authority."

    "And they are… ?" said Tostig. "Hardrada wants England," said Olafson. "He would like you to aid

    him."

    Tostig snorted, and half turned to walk away.

    "In return," said Bollason, "he will give you all of the north. Not just Northumbria, but all of the north."

    Tostig stopped, although he did not look at the two men.

    "Hardrada is a fair man," said Olafson. "He does not need it all. He has asked us to treaty with you. If you pave the way for Hardrada's successful ascension to the English throne after Edward's death…"

    "Then I get the north?" said Tostig, turning back to stare searchingly at each of the two men who faced him. "And the means by which to hold it?"

    "And the means by which to hold it."

    I

    "Talk on," said Tostig, and his hand fell away from his dagger.

    While they talked, all three men noticed the round-shouldered woman walking through the orchard ten or fifteen paces to their left carrying a wicker basket of late-fallen winter apples. They saw her, but they paid her no attention.

    She was but a serving woman, scrounging the orchard for something to see her and her family through the long winter months.

    They did not know that, instead of carrying the apples to where Damson kept her pitifully few belongings, she instead went straight to the river where, after a few moments waiting, a waterman poled his flat skiff to where she waited. Damson handed the basket to the waterman, then bent close for a hurried conversation.

    The waterman nodded and then, as Damson walked away, continued on his journey down the Thames.

    LATE THAT NIGHT, WHEN MOST OF LONDON AND

    Westminster slumbered, one of the standing stones atop Pen Hill shimmered, then changed into its ancient form. It was the senior among the Sidle-saghes, a creature who had once been a great poet, songster, lover, and humorist.

    His name he had long forgotten, but he had grown used to the childish whims of the men and women who had peopled this island after he and his kind had taken to their stonelike watchfulness, and so this Sidlesaghe called himself Long Tom. As he walked, his every movement soft and fluid, Long Tom hummed to himself snatches of melody, the fingers of one hand occasionally snapping in time to the beat of his music.

    The Sidlesaghe skirted London about its western wall, taking the road to Westminster. The Thames was on his left, and as he walked, the river rose up in strange, luminous, rolling waves as he passed, as if it were greeting him.

    "Soon!" the Sidlesaghe whispered, and the river subsided.

    Soon.

    "Soon," the Sidlesaghe said again, and shivered in excitement.

    Far beneath his feet, something rumbled and hissed, as if a great dragon was passing through a long-forgotten mine.

    "One day," said the Sidlesaghe, "but not yet, not yet."

    The beast beneath his feet fell still, and groaned.

    Long Tom's pace picked up as he neared Westminster. There was someone he had to see, to touch, to make words with. A woman of darkness and long memory.

    A woman who could bring him what he needed.

    * * *

    JUDITH HAD SPENT THE GREATER PART OF THE NIGHT

    with Saeweald. Now, as dawn approached, she made her way swiftly and silently from Saeweald's chambers back toward the palace. Locked in thought—and her warm memories of the night past—Judith almost passed out from fright when a long arm grabbed at her from the darkness.