25th November 1102

Garald carefully opened the door. The last thing he wanted to do was wake his wife. She had been so exhausted these last weeks, her body curled up, foetal and warm as he slid into the bed beside, not daring to brush against her.

But she was awake, stretching out languorously on the bed like a great, dark cat.

He tried to clear his throat to tell her not to get up, but she was already uncurling, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and stretching luxuriously.

He tried not to stare at the lily-white skin on the back of her neck as her dark hair brushed sensuously against it, the rosary beads she wore rippling as her muscles flexed. Sometimes when she was asleep, before his terrible indiscretion, he had dared to reach out and stroke the warm skin there. Once, he had even gone so far as to brush his lips against the aching softness of the nape of her neck, the tiny hairs making them tingle.

He swallowed thickly. He mustn’t think of that now. Not after what he had done. He had no right. In a few weeks perhaps. But there was no guaranteeing that Nyawe would ever let him touch her. And he would certainly never force her again.

“Evening Garald,” she purred, slinking towards him.

Her eyes flicked down to the crib where his son lay tangled in the blankets, his wrinkled, red face soft with sleep.

“Someone is finally, very much asleep,” she murmured, her lips curling up into a slight smile.

“Ah, yes. Well that’s good, “ he stuttered, “he hasn’t been doing much of that lately has he?”

Garald was surprised. This was the most conversation they had, had in weeks. Then, he had been staying till late in the King’s study and leaving early in the morning before Nyawe began to stir. He wasn’t exactly avoiding her. He just found it difficult to look her in the face.

He was even more surprised when she ran her fingers deftly up beneath his tunic with a saucy grin. That face, the one he had been so afraid to look upon was now smirking up at him, as her hand found its way into his pants.

He was unable to control the groan that caught in the back of his throat, but he carefully removed her hand and took a step back.

He was confused, was she trying to mock him by imitating his rough treatment of her. Or perhaps she was trying to punish him, to remind him how weak a man he truly was. That one stroke of her soft hand had him quivering despite his promise to the priest, to the Lord, to himself.

“Nyawe,” he chuckled, taking another step back as she advanced on him, “what are you doing?”

“Oh don’t you play all coy with me. After the other night we’re through with that,” she growled with a menacing smile.

She was coming towards him and he did not know how to stop her. If she got her hands on him again he would not be able to control himself.

“Nyawe, we can’t,” he mumbled, backing away.

She looked at him quizzically, the smile tightening and stretching ominously over her face, exposing rows of gleaming white teeth till he thought it could not possibly go any further.

“I… I have to atone. For what I have done. I must not bed you for a month.”

He was stunned when her small, soft hand collided sharp and ringing with the side of his face. He had felt it before time and time again but never from her. It was as though his mother’s red, chapped hand had torn through the very barrier between life and death to humiliate him once again. But he deserved it. He always had.

“You bastard,” she spat, the smile tautly contracting into a grimace.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his face growing hot with shame, his cheek stinging red, “I’m so very sorry.”

She won’t forgive you, you sniveling fool. See. You see now.

“What the hell is wrong,” she wailed, her hands tearing at the dark tresses of her hair.

“What the hell is wrong with me Garald… what’s wrong with me,” she shrieked, her eyes filling with angry tears that spilled down her flaming cheeks.

She hated him. He knew it. What he had done was unforgivable.

He wanted to stop her. He could see she was tearing clumps of hair free but he did not trust himself to touch her. He did not think he could stop at that, the feel of the soft skin of her arms and he would be pressing her flailing body against the wall.

Dirty sinful creature.

“There’s nothing wrong with you Nyawe,” he murmured sadly, “There’s something wrong with me.”

At the sound of his voice her head snapped up, her face twisted into an ugly mask of rage.

You did this. You did it to her.

“I think you had better get the hell out of here,” she hissed baring rows of clenched teeth.

He stared blankly at her, balking at the power of her fury.

“Get out!” she howled and he fled.