6th April 1103

Eallair’s head snapped up as the steward announced in a low voice, “The Earl of Moraghdu.”

He carefully shut the door behind Radomir’s back.

Radomir hesitated at the doorway. Eallair sat stiff backed in his chair, his eyes which had briefly passed over Radomir now fixedly staring into nothingness. The room was murky, lit by a single candle that hissed and spat as though fighting to light the cavernous space.

Radomir tiptoed forward, a superstitious fear settling on him. He had never seen an Eallair who did not turn nervously to the door, awkwardly push himself from his chair to greet a visitor. Radomir had always wondered if it wasn’t a trick to appear more confident. He had met many a faltering ruler who insisted on standing tall above his subjects, or perched high above them on a dais. It was the ones who could project that kind of power while seated that were truly confident.

Eallair sighed and slumped back in his chair.

“Well Radomir. What can I do for you?”

“Your Majesty, I have come to ask that I be allowed to take my wife back now. It has been many months in which I have been denied her company and I wish it to end. I would like her to move into my chambers in the castle.”

Eallair stared at him unblinkingly.

“I suppose the baby can be given to one of the peasant families to take care of. I do not wish it harm, but I will not have it my rooms.”

He heard his voice shaking as he mentioned the accursed child. He coughed to clear the lump in his throat and growled, “I simply won’t have it.”

Eallair leaned forward resting his weight on the front of his chair. There was a coiled tension in the set of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw and Radomir was oddly reminded of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

“I don’t think it’s a very good idea Radomir,” Eallair murmured, his eyes not meeting the Earl’s.

Shifty bastard, it was just like him to look away as he handed down a man’s sentence.

Radomir felt the anger surging and roiling in his stomach. Who was this snivelling wretch to deny him his rights as a husband? He had been patient for months and months, through Valeriya’s long illness, through atrocities and infidelity, punishment and seeing his wife with another man’s baby lying in her pale arms. He had been through it all.

And yet he still loved her.

He still loved her achingly and horribly, a twisting knife in his gut so painful it kept him awake at night as he bit down on his pillow to stop the tears from coming.

“She’s my wife! I have the right to see her!” he heard himself suddenly shouting as Eallair stared at him.

Well, he would see how this Majesty did without his beloved Duke to tell him what to do.

“You cannot deny me my rights as a husband. It is against the law. If I desire my wife to return to me then so it should be,” he scowled.

It was his right. His Godgiven right as a husband to see his wife. They could not keep her from him. His wife, the filthy priest couldn’t take that from him though he may have taken so many other things. The joy of seeing the first child lying in his wife’s arms as his own. The sanctity of their marriage. Her body. Perhaps even her mind.

“My rights,” he hissed, “my wife.”

They had kept him away from the priest. They had threatened him with all kinds of punishment lest he lay a hand on the dirty beast. None of them meant anything. Not a thing, but the worst threat of all. That he never be allowed to see his wife again. So he had been patient. He had waited. But he had waited long enough.

He was startled from his internal rant by the jarring sound of the King’s voice.

“Your rights? Your rights Radomir? What rights would those be? The right to beat your wife into a bloody pulp at every chance you get?”

Radomir stared in shock at the King. His face, normally so docile and forgiving was twisted into an angry sneer. His eyes usually soft and understanding were hard as glassy marbles.

“Your rights? I decide what your rights are do you understand. Don’t you dare come in here and tell what you are entitled to and what you are not. I decide.”

He took a deep breath and continued, “Now. I do understand your predicament. And you have behaved as I requested. She is your wife, but I have a few conditions.”

Radomir nodded, defeated, swallowing the tears that were embarrassingly threatening to work their way up his throat.

“I do not give permission for you to live with your wife now, but I will grant you visiting rights. You may see her a number of times a week. She is still ill and the restoration of your marriage will not be easy on either of you. Later it may be that you live together once more but for now this is the concession I am granting you.”

The King scowled, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“But so help me God, Radomir, if you lay a hand on her you will have me to answer to.”

“That is all. You may go,” The King dismissed him with a disgruntled wave of his hand.

Radomir bowed deeply, “Thank you Your Majesty, I am in your debt.”

Moraghdu, The Royal Family