24th December 1102

Though he sat in a room surrounded by people, the noise of laughter and clinking glasses all around him, Radomir had never felt so alone.

Christmas had never been a particularly happy time for him. He always felt, no, knew that there was something magical and special if he only tried a little harder and reached out a little further. It would be there in his hands, a warm mince pie or a small piece of mistletoe.

He had not had such things in his house, though there was always the dinner, his mother and he sitting opposite, picking at the roast pork. But it had been special, the proximity of his often distant mother, seated, not with an acre of wooden table stretching between them, but right there, so that if he so wished he could reach his small hand out to her. But then father had always come home, swaggering drunk and the moment had been smashed like the glass decorations he had never had.

Now he sat alone though his table were full. Opposite him was an empty chair. He understood that noone had wanted to sit there, but it unnerved him. He half expected his long dead mother to come creaking through the door, her rotted gown twisting in the chill breeze as she took her rightful place. No, he shook off the memory, the chair was for another, young and beautiful with creamy, white skin and long, long golden hair. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. Even if she had been there she would not have looked at him, nor reached out her graceful long-fingered hand and taken his. He would have been just as alone. Perhaps more so.

“But surely you know Captain, I mean alone at sea without women for such a long time… surely…” the steward’s wife was conducting some vulgar conversation down the end of the table.

“No madam, I can assure you. We simply wait,” the fleet’s captain drawled with an incredulous look on his face.

“Though I for one can admit that on the odd occasion on the battlefield, us menfolk must huddle together for warmth,” Alexis chimed in, “but only for warmth mind you, nothing else. What say you Garrick?”

“Ah, well now Alexis, you’ve let the cat out of the bag. It does get mighty cold sometimes though and that’s all I’ll say on the matter,” he agreed with a great booming laugh.

The steward’s wife was gazing at Alexis like a hungry cat before a large plate of cream. She had been strapped and hoisted into a dress that was much too small so that her large breasts were threatening to spill out and over onto the table amongst the pork and the breadrolls.

Vulgar, dreadful woman. The sound of her voice made his ears grate. If he caught his wife looking at another man like that he would…

What would you do? Beat your fists against her like the brute you are.

His wife, lying alone in the quiet, swollen with another man’s child. He was no better than the man who had done this to her.

“But you know dear ladies, that we always have you in our heart when we go away to battle or sea do you not? “ Alexis continued.

He was a ridiculous, pompous man, wrapped up in brocade and velvet like a big strutting peacock. What kind of shirt was that anyway? He could almost see the man’s navel. And yet, the steward’s wife seemed to find the whole affair quite diverting.

Radomir pictured for a fleeting moment what he would look like in such a getup, dark hairs curling through the ties, the tight shirt bowing out when it reached his thickening waist. He shrugged off the image with digust, why was he even thinking of such a thing?

“No matter where your hands may be?” the queen interjected with a sly look.

The baron let out a great roar of laughter, breadcrumbs spluttering from his mouth in all directions.

“Goodness me Maddy, you’re in fine form tonight. It’s a good thing you didn’t catch me with a mouthful of wine or I fear poor Lisbet would be drenched.”

“Yes,” Lisbet added, “I for one am quite glad you didn’t have a mouthful of wine.”

She carefully brushed breadcrumbs from the front of her dress.

“Oh,” she cried, gazing down into her corset for a moment before looking up again with a blush.

“What’s wrong Lisbet,” Alexis asked a look of mock concern on his face, “is there something I can help you with. Perhaps you needed an extra pair of hands.”

“No, no, I think I’m fine thanks very much. But Garrick, would you mind very much laughing in a different direction next time.”

“You can laugh in my direction Garrick,” the steward’s wife purred.

Radomir snorted in disgust. The evening had become entirely wine-soaked, the conversation vulgar and the people he sat with were behavig in a ridiculous manner.

He clasped his own cup in his meaty hand. Perhaps he should simply join in. Maybe they would not talk to him, but at least he would feel less alone.

But then a picture of his fist colliding with Valeriya’s pretty face surfaced out of the muck. He had been drunk then as he had been so many nights.

He shuddered away from the reeking cup.

He supposed everybody else was enjoying themselves. He craned his neck around to view the people seated at the King’s table.

Then again perhaps not. His eyes fell on Morven, her uncomfortably swollen body draped in a curtain of dark fabric to disguise the contorted belly. It was too soon for her to be so very large. She looked ill, her face flushed red, her eyes drooping closed. She looked in pain.

There had been many times that he had considered that he would have made a better husband for her than that the strutting upstart she had chosen. He pictured her soft face staring up at him in horror as his fist was swinging down towards her and he knew he had been wrong.

But if she had been his he would not have made her come to this party, sick and swollen and tired. He would have been content to have a small table set for two, where they could sit opposite each other, picking at the pork. He could have reached out his hand and taken her fevered, clammy one in his.

The captain’s wife did not look like she was having a good time either. Her face wore a constant mask of confusion as she tried to follow the conversation. If she had sat opposite him he would have made the effort to speak slowly.

If only Valeriya were here. If she was well again he would make things right somehow. He would be a different man, a better man, a man who protected her and cared for her. He would take her delicate hand in his and solemnly promise to be a good husband. And he would do everything in his power to live up to that promise.

There was a soft knock at the door. Radomir almost leapt from his chair to answer it and then remembered he was an Earl and there were other, less important people who answered doors. Besides, the steward was already carefully sliding from his chair as he went to get the door. He supposed the man was accustomed to listening for such knocking, however faint it was.

He carefully opened the door, a chill breeze blowing into the large, warm hall. It was dark outside, a small figure shivering in the doorway. Though he could not see her face, he instantly knew her, from the shape of her boyish body, from the defeated slump of her shoulders, from the lank hair that straggled in front of her face.

The steward quietly ushered her inside and they stood talking in the doorway. Radomir did not think anyone else had noticed them as the raucous laughter and loud conversation did not cease.

Radomir watched them closely though. Lyiss was not wearing a coat, and she was shaking from the cold. Her soft, sweet face bore a look of concern as she hurriedly whispered to her brother.

Radomir strained to hear their conversation but her voice was too quiet, like the soft rustle of mice inside the wall cavities which had always kept him awake as a child. It was not the noise itself, but the thought that if he only listened hard enough he could hear them, discussing cheese and nest-building in their high, squeaky voices.

Garald was nodding and gesturing over at the King’s table. Lyiss nodded in timid agreement.

He turned and walked over to the other table, leaving Lyiss hovering nervously by the door. His long legs carried him surely over to the Baroness, where he stopped, gently tapping her on the arm.

After a moments whispered conversation she also rose, trotting surely over to his table.

“Well hallo Cindra,” Lisbet grinned at her, “sad you got put on the boring table are you. Thought you better come over here for a bit more lively conversation.”

“Er, yes, can I talk to you for a moment.”

Their heads close together they began to loudly whisper, but once again not loudly enough for Radomir to hear anything more than the rise and fall of their conversation. Lisbet’s eyes widened and she nodded.

They both walked gracefully towards the door, gliding past the table like regal swans on the surface of a still lake, their long, flowing gowns giving no indication of the movement of their legs. Then Lisbet turned to stare at him as she passed and he felt as though something was very wrong.

They went out the door, with Lyiss following hurriedly behind.

He dashed after them, his long legs catching up easily with Lyiss who was straggling behind. Outside the air was chill, the warm haven of the party not touching the frigid winter night. The door slammed shut behind him and with relief he gulped in the fresh air though it seared his throat and nostrils. He had spent too long cramped up inside with suffocating conversation and the heady, smell of mulled wine and roasted pork.

“Mistress Elmvarn, please wait,” he called out to her.

Her shoulders slumped even further, her head gazing at the stonework beneath but she stopped and waited. He could see how cold she was and he thought of offering her his cloak but then realised he had none. He suddenly longed to draw her to him, crush her against his chest and hold her until she was warm again. He shook off this idea in horror as she turned to him.

“I’m sorry, I see that you are cold. I won’t be long. But please, please tell me what is going on.”

He could not see her face in the darkness but he heard her breath coming fast through her chattering teeth. He thought if he leaned a little closer he could have felt its warmth tickling his face.

She sighed, “I wasn’t supposed to tell. But my Lord, it’s your wife. She has begun travail.”

A great fist of fear grasped his heart and began to squeeze, “But it’s too soon. The midwife said it would not be till next month.”

“She is there now My Lord, don’t be afraid, sometimes babies come early,” she reached out a tentative hand and patted him lightly on the arm, “I’m sure she will be alright.”

From that simple touch Radomir felt such a rush of warmth and sympathy that he thought he would cry.

“Do you think they would let me wait outside?” he asked softly.

“We can ask,” she murmured, “but we must go now.”

Arwaduhn, Elmvarn, Hwratar, Inbar, Moraghdu, Murchadh, Tadhgar, The Church, The Royal Family