1st December 1102

The baby was moving, softly bumping against the sides of her belly, blindly somersaulting. Going for an afternoon stroll, thought Varda sharing a silent smile with the unborn child in her belly.

At least one of us can.

She moved her hands slowly over the swell of her abdomen savouring every exquisite moment. Hepsie had told her she wouldn’t be quite so happy when the baby was bigger and it decided to kick her in the bladder every now and then for good measure. Varda couldn’t imagine being unhappy even then because it would only mean that her baby had good, strong, healthy legs.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called out, unsure of who it could be. She did not have many visitors. Sigurd came when he could, but there was much work to do to prepare for the looming winter which was even now icily creeping over the mountains and settling in the chill valleys.

It was someone she had not expected to see, Lekha Afwelin, the captain of the fleet’s wife.

“I see they have you in here, locked away. And there is no light,” she gazed through the door disapprovingly.

Varda didn’t quite know what to say to this, “Yes, I must not get out of bed or I might lose my baby.”

Lekha clucked her tongue, the scowl on her face making it clear she did not agree.

“I thinked that you might be needing a company. So here am I.”

Varda stared for a moment, trying to understand what had warranted this. She had barely spoken with the women, perhaps once or twice about the weather. But she was glad to get whatever company she could, so she put those thoughts away and smiled.

“Yes please, I would dearly love some company. It does get rather dreary in here.”

“I may sit?”

Varda nodded and Lekha shuffled in, all rippling material which she primly folded around her as she sat. She did not slump or slouch into it like many women did, but perched rigidly on the very edge of the chair, her back proud and straight.

“You will call me Lekha,” she pronounced in a haughty tone, “and I call you Varda?”

“Oh, yes… well I suppose we have no need for bothersome titles,” Varda mumbled though, in fact she was extremely attached to her bothersome title of Lady Inbar.

“You have very much bread,” Lekha snapped, staring in an accusatory fashion at the offending basket.

Varda did in fact, have very much bread, more than she could eat but her helpful husband seldom came to the room with empty hands. She feared by the end of this that she would be the size of a house, with all the laying about and eating sweets.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I do. I couldn’t possibly eat it all but my husband keeps bringing more. Would you like some?”

“No thankyou. Too much bread hurts the soul.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Your baby, she moves?” Lekha asked, noticing Varda’s hands which were even now unconsciously stroking her swollen belly.

“Yes,” she breathed, “mostly in the afternoon. It feels… so much…”

She stopped herself suddenly, remembering that Lekha had also had a baby, a little boy. The baby had died not so many months ago. They did not know why, only that he had gone to bed a healthy, happy child and never woken again. Hepsie had said perhaps God needed another angel but she would not have said it to Lekha. Lekha did not share the same God as they.

She hastily removed her hands from her belly.

“Lekha, if I may call you that,” Lekha nodded briskly, “I, I was so very sorry to hear about your son.”

The pain on the other woman’s face was abrupt and sharp and gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Like the swift cut of the surgeon’s knife to bleed out the necessary bad humours it seemed that Lekha took her grief in ragged, ripping moments before rapidly stiching it up again.

Varda was not like that, she scratched and tore at it with her fingernails, unpicking the stitches so she could gaze into the fleshy meat of the wound.

“It is their will and so another must be sent,” she intoned, “it is always this way.”

“And I do not fear for him, my family, they will show him the way. He will not be lost”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean show him the way?” Varda asked softly.

“To the other side. Behind the curtain. Only the dead go there.”

“I shall have another,” she continued with a wistful smile, “I have not told yet. It is early. But she is strong. She will have health.”

Her hands subtly moved to her waist, where, somewhere, hidden beneath the thick folds of heavy material there must be the soft curve of a slowly growing belly.

“I am very glad for you,” Varda murmured warmly.

And she truly was. Something about this woman was endearing, a kind of straightforwardness that Varda appreciated. Too many times had she tried to wind her way through the labyrinth of women’s social etiquette and gotten herself entirely lost. It was nice to speak to someone who flicked the niceties away with disdain even if it was because she didn’t understand them.

“I am also glad. Now my husband can paw one of his village sluts instead of putting his grimy hands over my body,” she almost spat the word husband.

She looked over to Varda, “Your husband, he too like that. Never enough.”

“Oh, well. Sometimes I suppose,” Varda replied, slightly embarrassed.

But it was not true, for Varda’s husband would never dare to ask if she did not offer. It was the way she wanted it. But she supposed the Captain of a the fleet was not a man to take no as an answer.

“Yes. They are all like this. Men,” she added, her intense gaze falling darkly upon Varda’s blushing face, “That is why women must help each other if they can. It is all we have.”