The fist was crunching into his face before he knew what was happening. He felt the bones of his nose cracking under its weight, a dreadful crushing feeling he remembered well and a gout of blood spurted onto the fist that was coming in a second time. Sigurd’s fingers curled around the neck of his tunic pulling him upright as his fist collided with Radomir’s exposed belly.

“You bastard!”, Sigurd was snarling, his teeth bared, “You dare touch her!”.

He grunted in pain, doubling over, wrapping his arms around his body to protect it from the onslaught. He could have balled up a fist and retaliated, Sigurd would have been on the floor begging for mercy in mere seconds. But he did not raise a hand, only tried to protect himself from the angry fists as he had done so many times. He knew exactly which parts would hurt the most and he covered those, waiting for it to end.

He deserved this. He could not imagine what he would do to the man who had lain with Valeriya and so he understood Sigurd’s need to drive his fist into the harsh features of his face. If their positions had been switched Radomir would not have been satisfied with his fist. It would have been his sword sliding into the smaller man’s belly, ripping open his guts his staring eyes startled. Even that would not have been enough.

“Sigurd!”, the Duke barked wrapping his arms around the howling man.

He struggled like a drowning cat in a bag, his fists flying ineffectually towards Radomir’s waiting body.

“That’s enough Sigurd”, Lochan muttered to him as his thrashing subsided. The duke may have been a smaller man but he was by far the stronger of the two.

Sigurd only stared at him, his eery green eyes flickering with barely controlled rage. He stood very straight, very tall, Lochan’s arms still wrapped around him. Radomir was doubled over in pain, his arm clutching at his chest where bruises were already beginning to form.

“I’m sorry Sigurd”, Radomir managed to whisper, as he licked the blood from his swollen lip.

“You should leave now Sigurd. We will send word to you when we hear of how your wife is faring”, the King commanded evenly.

Sigurd gave a hiss of displeasure and stalked from the room, slamming the door shut behind him with an echoing thud.

Radomir stood up slowly, wiping his nose against the sleeve of his tunic leaving a bloodied mess. His wife and the Baroness were seated before the King. Valeriya’s hair had been pulled up into an elegant bun. She wore a high necked gown so that all he could see of her smooth white neck was a small strip of alabaster huddling between hair and robe. She had not even turned to watch the argument between he and Sigurd. He could see that she was swaying slightly in her chair and a sudden cascade of anger flooded his senses. She was ill, how dare they take her from her bed to testify before the King.

“You also Ladies, we are done questioning you”, he spoke kindly and Cindra rose hastily to her feet, all but dragging Valeriya from her chair.

She slid a steadying arm around his wife’s swollen waist and began to march her from the room. Radomir could see that Valeriya was having difficulty, her eyes fixed on the floor as she stumbled over the hem of her gown. She did not look up at him once and his heart sagged inside the prison of his chest. Then she was gone, the scuffing of their fine shoes receding down the corridor.

“The Earl of Moraghdu”, the King’s steward droned as if none of the events of the last five minutes had taken place.

“You may sit down Radomir”, the King’s voice rang out clear as a blacksmith’s hammer striking the anvil.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir all but whispered, carefully seating himself on the wooden chair facing the man he owed his allegiance to.

The chair was warm beneath him, the warmth of his wife’s trembling buttocks as she had sat before her King. Perhaps her cheeks had burned red with shame when he asked her with whom she had lain. Perhaps she had only stared back defiantly, her hot open thighs imparting their sinful heat, scorching the wood that now lay beneath him. A trickle of blood began to dribble down from his nose, tickling the skin just above his lips. He did not wipe it away, this was only the beginning of his punishment.

“I am extremely displeased with your behaviour Radomir. It is bad enough that you seem to be incapable of treating your wife with respect due to her, but now you have decided to expand this to include all women. How dare you stike Lady Inbar. How dare you lay a finger on her”, he paused for a moment, struggling to control his anger.

“You may do as you please with your God given wife and I cannot stop you though it sickens me. But you have made a big mistake in believing you can do the same to Sigurd’s”, the King’s voice was thick with displeasure as he waited for Radomir’s response.

“I understand Your Majesty and I submit to the punishment you choose for me”.

“First of all you are ordered to hand over two hides of the land you have been allotted in recompense to Sir Inbar for handling his wife. The remainder of your punishment remains to be decided depending on the outcome of Lady Inbar’s pregnancy. You do understand that if you have caused lasting damage to the woman your punishment will be severe”.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir mumbled, a drop of blood dripping into his lap.

He understood. If she died he was a murderer twice over and he would pay for this with his life. A shudder of terror rippled up through his body. He clung to the sides of the wooden chair trying to steady himself.

“If Lady Inbar and her child survive this you will never lay a finger on them again, nor any other woman on this island. I will not stand for this brutality. Should I find out this has happened again my wrath will be swift and crushing. I would not recommend testing it if I were you”.

“Now, we have spoken to your wife and it seems she does not know who the father of the child is. I am inclined to believe her. She is still ill and I do not think she is lying”.

Radomir stared at him, uncomprehending. He turned to each of the nobles sitting before him trying to read their faces. Finally his eyes fell on the Queen who was gazing at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“I don’t understand”, he murmured.

The Queen’s brows wrinkled upwards so that the crown sitting on her brow was almost dislodged.

“Radomir you stupid fool”, she began, “We believe that your wife has been raped during the time she was lying unconscious and that is why she does not know who the father is. She was extremely distressed when she realised she didn’t know who it was and that it wasn’t you”.

Radomir recoiled as though her tiny jewelled hand had struck him full across the face, the angular edges of her rings leaving ragged imprints.

“No”, he gasped, his insides freezing in looping coils as he hugged his arms around his waist trying to remember the comfort it had given him before when those arms belonged to a strange, young girl and the scent of hay was all around.

“Radomir, I beg you. Do not go after the man or try and find out who did this. We will do our very best to discover the identity of the rapist among us but I cannot have you going around thumping every man you suspect. I need you and I need the other men. Do not fail me. We will find out who did this and they will be justly punished. But you cannot take the law into your own hands. I will not hear of it”, Eallair’s voice was earnest and remarkably gentle after the ringing steel of moments before.

Radomir shut his eyes tightly, the rage inside him was gone, nothing but a hollow wind blowing over dead coals. He was sickened at the thought of a man stealing into his wife’s chamber, pulling back the covers as she moaned in the throes of fever. Sliding at dirty hand up beneath her nightgown and then pulling it up around her waist. Hurting her while she cried out in her sleep at the pain, running his hands over her slack body, kissing her open panting mouth, twisting his hand in her long golden hair and pulling her sleeping face up to rub against him. Had it been only once, or many times when their heads were turned. It was his fault, he had not protected her well enough.

“Radomir. I am also forbidding you to see your wife. I will not allow you near her until she has given birth and we have sorted this mess out and removed the predator from our midst. You cannot be trusted with her and so you may not see her. I am sorry. I know it will be difficult but I pray that you use this time to repent, perhaps speak with Father Harndall and confess your sins. When the child is born we will have a better idea of who the father is and until then you can rest assured we are searching for this criminal”.

“But who will protect her”, his voice was so quiet it was barely a breathy sigh. There was a polite knock at the door behind him.

“Enter”, the steward called out at a small nod from the King.

The door swung open and Radomir recognised the soft thudding of Hepsie’s determined limp. It was the thumping step of the executioner lumbering up the stairs of the scaffold, wrapping his thick hands around the axe.

“Goodwife Cade Your Majesty”, Garald announced.

Radomir half-turned to look at her face and then his courage faltered, knowing his doom might be written there.

“How is Lady Inbar Goodwife?”, the King asked in subdued tones.

Radomir waited like a condemned man with his head on the block, throwing his arms wide at the last minute. He waited for the whistle of the axe and the brief flare of pain followed by unending darkness.

“She’s bein’ fine Yer Grace, though her nose is bein’ a bit of a mess. I’m thinkin’ it will be healin’ alright though as I set it real careful”, Radomir could hear the anger ringing through her voice and he knew that it was directed at him.

“And the baby?” the Queen asked fretfully.

“Fer the time beins’ the baby is fine. We managed to be savin’ it but I can’t be promisin’ yew it’ll last till the end. It’s got a long way to be goin’ till it see the light of day an’ Lady Inbar’s goin’ to have to be bedridden the whole time which she won’t be likin’. But there’s still bein’ some hope”:

The air whistled from Radomir’s lungs in a soft sigh of relief. The trotting of hooves the moment before the axe fell. The messengers halting the proceedings, the Royal pardon at the last of moments. The pardoned man’s hands falling to clutch at the wooden block, clinging to it for long moments and then leaning heavily on it as he rises trembling to his feet.

Cade, Elmvarn, Inbar, Moraghdu, Murchadh, Tadhgar, The Royal Family