Miriamele shivered as she entered the cathedral, though the room was warm and stuffy. Great roaring fires rose in the braziers around the room, curling tendrils of smoke leaving great sooty stains on the soaring buttressed roof. They said N’nkasha had come from the desert, roaring out of scorching depths like a sandstorm, flaying all unfortunate enough to cross his path. It was hot there, on the Southern Continent and so the fires were tended till they flared higher and higher and always he cried, “not hot enough” in his rasping tongue.

A trickle of sweat snaked down Miriamele’s brow as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. N’nkasha had chosen the Cathedral as his throne room, profaning the sanctity of that room with death after death and every rampant fury of his insatiable lust. It was told he had taken the first wife, his moon wife on the very altar of their God.

Shapes loomed at her through the smoke and the shadows, scantily clad dancers twisting and writhing obscenely. The gleaming oiled bronze skin of the guards, cruel curving blades in their hands and tattoos obscuring their faces. And seated before the altar was the God King himself.

The eunuch jabbed her sharply in the back, “Stand up straight little star, the God King does not want to bed a hunchback.”

Her trembling hands fell to her side. They had dressed her in thinnest of silk, all but transparent so that no curve of her adolescent body was hidden from view. She longed to cover herself, to curl up and hide but the eunuch was pushing her forward into that room with its rank, charcoal smell and its hundred cruel eyes all fixed on her.

She crept ahead of him, past the dancers and to the front of the room where the God King and his night sky regarded her impassively. Akana, his moon wife was swollen with his child, her huge belly painted in gold with strange symbols, bells from a vest that barely covered her heavy breasts jingling as she shifted her weight. Akana had borne him child after child, four girls and a boy but never the Sun child that he awaited.

Beside her were the star wives, Lubaya from the conquered Jungles of the South and Nagale, a peace offering sent by the Tassril to ensure the God King’s favour. It was said that Lubaya had once been a great beauty but when the son she bore was stillborn the God King had torn her eyes out in a fit of rage. The child had not opened its eyes and so she never would again. The ruined mess of her face was hidden under a heavy veil. Miriamele was glad she could not see it.

“God King, my sun, my golden light. Please allow this pathetic worm to speak,” the eunuch intoned in the language of the Kerthqua, his voice high and weak.

Miriamele had been trained in their words, deep in the sanctuary of the harem, preparing her for the night when sun and star would dance. That night would come soon she had been told, on all hallows eve when the people of her culture said the dead walked the earth. The Kerthqua believed that on this day night stalked through the daylight, dragging her ragged cloak of destruction behind and bleeding the land as she walked. To save the world from eternal night the God King must pierce a star flooding the sky with light once more. After coming of age and choosing his moon wife, the Sun King would take a new star wife each year to protect the world from endless night.

N’nkasha gave a slight nod of his head.

“The third star is rising great Lord. She comes before you now to bathe in your boundless light.”

“Hallo Mirri,” a voice called from behind the throne.

“Shut your mouth maggot meat,” the fat usurper Faldorn growled from his plush seat.

She had tried not to look at the wasted man tied to a crucifix, another mockery of their religion that N’nkasha had profaned the church with. But she could not help it, her eyes finding the face of the man she had known, Estan, cousin to the King, brother of her sister’s dearest friend. His face was a ruined mess, scars new and old streaking across the skin. His left eye was gone, N’nkasha had plucked it out and thrown it to the dogs. His arms were frail where muscles had once been strong enough to wield a great sword. Pale scars snaked across his chest and open, ragged wounds weeping pus and blood. He should have died when he was supposed to. It would have been a merciful fate.

She fell to her knees before the God who walks the earth hoping he would ignore this indiscretion from his very favourite plaything.

He gazed down at her, his golden eyes glowing with unholy light. Such eyes were the inheritance of the Sun King, only the child that had such eyes could take the throne when the final fire took him. She gave a shudder, suddenly afraid that child would be hers.

He rose slowly to his full height, towering above her. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, all long, slender limbs, angular, like some great golden insect waiting to tear her apart with his slavering jaws.

But he turned and went to Estan, hanging weak and exhausted on the cross.

“You would speak to my star in this way pink dog?” he rasped in common, bringing his huge head close to the broken man’s face.

“We’ve known each other since she was a child,” Estan replied boldly.

Please, please Estan, please stop.

She rose trembling to her feet.

“No one may know the star but the Sun King,” he purred drawing a razor sharp golden knife across Estan’s belly, opening up the flesh behind it.

Estan gritted his teeth in pain but did not cry out. He looked up at the God King, defiance written on his mutilated face.

“Now dog, there is no pleasure in your silence, the third star wants to hear you scream.”

He jammed his long finger deep into the oozing wound and Estan cried out in agony.

“How I wish I could pull the feeding snake from your belly but then you would die and that would be a shame,” he drew his finger along the bleeding cut as Estan writhed and groaned.

Please oh please stop.

“Please,” she moaned out loud and then frightened went completely silent.

N’nkasha went rigid, slowly drawing his finger from the wretched man’s belly. His knife flicked out and for a moment Mirry thought he was going to kill Estan. But he was only cutting the ropes that bound him to the crucifix and the injured man fell heavily to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“Come to me little star,” he beckoned with one bloody finger. From the corner of her eye she saw the Tassril star shudder. The moon wife was looking steadfastly ahead.

“Would you plead for this man’s life my star?” he crooned.

He reached up to stroke her cheek with his soft fingers, leaving a bloody trail down her face.

She was paralysed with fear, repulsed by the slithering of his finger as it slid over her cheek coming terrifyingly close to her eye. She tried to answer but she had lost her voice.

His other hand darted out like a snake and closed over her throat. Squeezing the air from her he lifted her bodily from the ground, struggling in his grasp.

“Who are you to ask me anything?! I am the God King. Perhaps this man has already pierced you?!” the Sun King roared shaking her like a ragdoll.

“If I find your light already spilled I swear you will suffer like no one ever has. I will flay the skin from your flesh alive star-child!”

Her vision was growing dark, the blood vessels in her eyes bursting as her struggles grew weaker. Her hands pawed ineffectually at his arm, which, strong as iron, closed tightly around her windpipe. Just as she was losing consciousness he released her.

He caught her in his strong arms as she fell.

“There now little star, you must not anger me so. Shh now.”

He pulled her gasping and spluttering for air to his chest. Her face scraped across the jagged medallions that covered his oiled chest. Her nostrils filled with the acrid scent of his sweat, the sickening sweet smell of his perfumed hair. She choked and coughed, tears running down her face.

“Shhh shhh, little light, little star,” he murmured.

He was running his hand along her spine, pressing her against his body.

She felt one of his hands closing over her breast as the darkness engulfed her.

The sun was shining brightly and a stiff wind was blowing out to sea taking with it the stench of too many hot days. It was the perfect day for the ship to set out, the sails already billowing with the impatient breeze. The ship was creaking as it rocked to and fro while the men worked to release the ties that held it steadfast. The rising tide was already lapping at the barnacle-encrusted sides with her salty tongue, waiting to carry the ship away once more on her foam crested back.

It was a perfect day but not for Kelgar. He would be left behind when the ship floated out to sea, left to shamble his way back to the castle. Left to guard a half-finished keep while his brother was off having another adventure. Left to crawl into bed each night beside a wife who shrank away from his touch.

Sir Eanraig was bidding farewell to his daughter who was looking well. Her hair was starting to grow back, red and luscious and she had a healthy glow to her cheeks again. His wife stood beside with their oldest child who was clinging to her mothers plait and gazing at it with the avid attention that suggested she was about to put it in her mouth. The blonde haired young woman stood and silently stared at her husband’s tearful farewell and Kelgar thought he noticed a twitch of annoyance on her flawless face.

At the shoreline his brother, Osras was bidding his wife farewell. They stood locked in a seemingly endless embrace.

Kelgar did not think Polina lay rigid and silent, doing her duty as his brother moved above her. Not like Illewen. It was all he could do to bring himself to touch her.

He smiled, a smile so brittle he was sure his face would crack along the scars and fall to pieces on the sandy beach. He wondered if his heart already had. Each scene he saw was one more boot, thoughtlessly crushing another meaty piece beneath its heel so that it grew smaller and smaller and mingled with the sand.

Sir Arwaduhn was there, kissing his pregnant wife tenderly goodbye. Beside them her sister’s family said goodbye to their father Denel, kisses from both the girls and finally their mother. Tears and sniffles all round.

He had asked if Illewen wanted to come down to the beach with him. Perhaps he had thought she might hold his hand and stand beside him as his wife, to say goodbye with the rest of his family. But she had not come. She had said she was tired and the baby was kicking. She wanted to rest. The baby was kicking, Kelgar could even see its movements sometimes. He longed to reach out and rest his hand on her belly, to feel his child moving inside her but he couldn‘t bring himself to. And she had never offered.

Close to the water the Duke huddled together with his cousin who had carried his little daughter out to bid him farewell. He had heard the rumours about the Duke’s wife, and he deeply pitied the man. When he saw the haunted look in the Duke’s eyes Kelgar knew he had no right to be miserable at the path his own life had taken. He had a healthy wife and soon, God willing a healthy child.

The King and the Queen stood waiting to send their best wishes with the men who would do their work across the sea. The King was wearing his cheerful smile, the Queen regal as always despite the heat and her pregnant state. The new Father was climbing up the steps to give a final blessing to the ship before it set off on its important journey.

Beside him stood the wives of the captain of the fleet and his first mate. The captain’s wife stood sombre and elegant, while Eyvir, the First mate’s wife tittered and giggled beside her.

“Have you come to bid me farewell then wife,” the captain rumbled, his face solemn, his eyes sad.

“Perhaps you have been doing the cracking of her shell Rasmus,” Lekha’s twin grinned beside him, “I tell you, my sister, she is warm and soft but you not believing me.”

“I did not come for you,” Lekha spat at her husband, “I come to say the goodbye to my brother.”

“Not today then friend,” Mahavir winked at the captain and embraced his sister.

They murmured together in their own language for a moment and Lekha kissed him carefully on both cheeks.

“Husband, you bring him back alive,” she growled at Rasmus who shrugged impassively.

“No stupid things, you hear,” she said a little softer.

Mahavir murmured something gently in their own language and then turned to his wife.

“Now you,” he purred, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her passionately.

“Mahavir, you must be so disgraced?” Lekha hissed and then returned to their language spitting out what sounded to be very grave insults.

But Mahavir wasn’t listening as his wife lunged at him, tipping him off balance.

“Now then lassie,” Sir Eanraig called out with a chuckle, “please don’t maul him too badly, he’s an important member of my crew.

Suddenly Osras was barrelling into Kelgar’s arms with a grin on his face.

“Brother,” Kelgar cried as the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Brother!” Osras replied giving him a hearty slap on the back.

Osras released him and gave him a stern look, “Yew’ll take care of the place here won’t you while I’m gone, keep an eye on everything.”’

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kelgar replied quickly.

“And don’t yew sleep with my wife while I’m gone,” Osras gave him a wink that was almost a scowl.

“Osras!” Polina shrieked slapping at him and Kelgar’s brother gave a great guffaw.

Kelgar gulped. There had been a time when he had come extremely close to doing just that. But that had been before they were married.

“Yew rotter!” Polina gave him another hearty slap for good measure.

“Yew know I’m just joking,” Osras chuckled, “but if yew do I’ll skin yew alive.”

Kelgar finally laughed, “Keep yerself safe yew great lout.”

They were all leaving him behind in the stagnant life that had captured him on Mhalwae. There was not adventure for him here. Nor love. Just life, plodding along, trying to make it through each day and steel himself for the night. God he wished he were getting on that ship.

“I can’t believe it! Little Mirry… poor, sweet little Mirry. Marrying that monster! I knew my mother and Lucinde were evil but I can’t believe they would do this!”

Lisbet was distraught. And to think she had complained about being married to Cordell! Her little sister… only fourteen. And marrying a beast.

“Are you listening to me Cordell?” she all but shrieked at her husband who was calmy getting Eidel ready for bed.

“Mama?” Eidel whimpered sleepily.

“I am love but hush now, you’re upsetting your daughter. And yourself. Just sit down for a moment and I’ll be with right with you. I just need to put this little one to bed.”

“I can’t sit down… I… I just can’t. I can’t stop thinking about her. My poor baby sister. It’s just… horrible.”

“Now Eidel, give your mama a kiss,” Cordell murmured.

Eidel gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek but she scarcely noticed.

Little Mirry… kind, patient… she had sat and let them play dress up with her for hours, pulling their brushes roughly through her curls as they fashioned new hairstyles. Never complaining. Never crying. Not even once.

And now her mother and sister, had clawed their way to the higher ranks in the new society, stomping on the bones of their former friends. The price was her sister, Miriamele, always the prettiest of them. Bartered for status. The next wife to the dreaded God King.

“Cordell,” she whimpered, “It’s just abominable! All the rumours…”

N’kasha was known as the great scourge of the Southern Continent. For years battles had raged there as the tribes sought to hold their territory. And one by one they had fallen. He was known as a powerful ruler, a great warrior and to many, he was God. But most of all he was known for his cruelty.

“If I could just get to my mother and Lucinde right now… I would… I would claw their eyes out.”

She began to tremble all over as she remembered that N’kasha was said to have done just that to one of his wives in a fit of rage.

“Oh God… Miriamele… she’s so young…”

Her heart was pounding, her body shivering with fright and passionate anger. The baby was kicking so very hard…

Cordell’s arms were suddenly around her turning her to face him.

“Lisbet love, please calm down. You must think of the baby,” his voice was warm and calm, his touch reassuring.

She let out a sob, collapsing against his chest. He held her tightly as she writhed in his arms.

“What if he hurts her… her pretty eyes… Mirry…”

Her breath was coming fast, gusting through her lungs and pouring out again so she had to gasp for air. She felt sick, as though she might lose the contents of her stomach on the front of Cordell’s tunic. Her knees were giving way. Littly Mirry… and that… monster…

Cordel pulled her firmly to her feet.

“Look at me Lisbet,” he commanded, his hand gently turning her face so that she was gazing into his calm grey eyes.

“But Cordell…” she whimpered.

“No Lisbet… just look at me. You need to calm down. This is not good for the baby. Now take a deep breath. Good. And another.”

Her breathing finally slowed and Cordell wrapped his arms around her.

“You have to be careful love, you can’t get upset like that,” he murmured kissing her softly on the cheek.

“Now. Listen to me. I know this is dreadful news and the last thing you wanted to hear. But all hope is not lost.”

“What do you mean,” she whispered, suddenly afraid at the sombre expression on his face, “what did the King say to you?”

Cordell looked mournful, “He is sending me abroad with Sir Danachold and the Duke. They are to meet with our allies to plan an attack. And I am to go to Branwhuld and meet with the underground rebellion to try and get as many refugees out as possible. Denel’s coming too.”

“Oh Cordell,” she cried, suddenly the fear for her sister replaced with a great, throbbing strum of terror for her husband.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t be here to see this little one born,” he fondly rubbed her belly and wistfully smiled, “Lord knows what sort of name you’ll give her without my guidance.”

Her eyes were swimming with tears as she wrapped her arms around her husband pulling him close.

Over his shoulder she saw their little daughter, so like him, drowsily clutching her dolly, already half asleep.

“I didn’t think of this,” her voice was muffled by his hair.

He pulled away from her so she could see his face, his eyes warm and loving, a sad smile playing on his lips.

“Now you listen ‘Bet… if there’s any way I can do something about your sister I swear to you I will. I don’t care if they put me in stocks when I come back… I’ll help her if I can.”

“You would do that for me,” she mumbled, her lower lip trembling.

“I would do anything for you,” he smiled.

“Cordell… oh you’ll be careful won’t you. I don’t know what I would do without you. God, I’m such an idiot. All the time together we missed because I was so pigheaded. And now… what if something happens to you… what if…”

He silenced her with a kiss.

Lisbet followed Cordell through into the stuffy heat of the kitchen, unsure of what to expect. She had been told, as impossible as it seemed that her family was in here. She just didn’t know which members…

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her sister Lillemor and her husband Denel, with a number more children than they had at last count arrayed before them.

“Hullo Lisbet… Cordell,” Denel heard the click of the door and turned towards them.

Lisbet was reassured to see he was the same honest-faced, sunburnt Denel of old, though he looked more weary and older than she remembered.

“Denel hold this baby while I hug my sister,” Lillemor thrust the baby into Denel’s arms where it gave an outraged snuffle and then settled on his shoulder.

“Lilly!” Lisbet lept into her sister’s arms forgetting her swollen belly.

“Ooof! Lizzy my dear you’ve gotten very fat these last years,” it was her sister, the same sarcastic drawl as ever. Her big sister. Her brave sister who had married a commoner for love in secret and so been shunned from the family by their mother. Here on Mhalwae. Here with them.

“So I take it we don’t hate him anymore?” she asked with a sly wink in Cordell’s direction and a pat of Lisbet’s belly.

“Oh… oh no. Oh dear, wasn’t I simply dreadful,” Lisbet blushed ashamed at the memory of how she had tormented her poor husband.

She glanced back at Cordell but he was smiling warmly at her with such a look of love on his face that she felt a bit better.

“Oh good… I never hated you anyway Cordell. But you know… sisterly solidarity,” Lillemor grinned at him.

“Having never had a sister or been a sister I have no experience but I’m sure I can imagine,” Cordell said.

“Well are you going to come and give your sister-in-law a hug then Cordell. You have one of those at least,” Lillemor smiled.

Cordell shuffled over and they embraced.

“It really is good to see you both,” her voice was pained and Denel looked up from the baby to his wife. She gave Cordell a squeeze and released him.

“But look at all these children!” Lisbet cried, “I certainly don’t think there were quite as many last time I counted.”

She glanced over to little Katja sitting silently by herself, planning to share a conspiratorial wink but the small girl was absorbed with tracing her fingers over a knot in the wood protruding from the table surface.

“Now, who’s this little poppet then?” she turned to the baby in Denel’s arms.

“This is Ari,” he said proudly, holding the baby up so she could see his scrunched up face.

“Goodness, he’s tiny. How old is he Lilly?”

“Not even ten days,” Lillemor replied looking more exhausted than Lisbet had ever seen her.

“You had him on the ship?” Lisbet asked incredulously, appalled at the thought of her sister in the throes of childbirth while the ship lurched from side to side in the squalls of the Draldor.

“Yes, but I’d rather not remember if you don’t mind, let’s just be glad we all arrived in one piece.”

“Alright then,” Lisbet murmured stopping down to the small red-haired girl that was clinging to the hem of her skirt.

“And who’s this then?” she smiled down at the tiny girl.

“My name’s Mally,” she squinted up at Lisbet, “wots yours?”

“Lisbet, but you can call me Auntie Lizzy,” she gave the little girl a hug.

“Ahem… that would be Maelle actually,” Lillemor murmured as she stood, “but Mally’s the best she can do right now. It’s Mally, Katty and Awy to her and I’m afraid they’re going to stick.”

“Katty, now there’s a name I recognise,” she turned towards the girl staring fixedly down, her dirty blonde hair hanging softly around her face, “I don’t see her anywhere though…”

“Wait a minute… do you mean to say this fine lady before me is Katja! My goodness I haven’t seen you since you were very small. And now you’re all grown up.”

Katja didn’t look up, grasping great bunches of skirt in her hands.

“It’s okay if you’re shy,” Lisbet said, bending towards her, “I’m a little shy too, I haven’t seen you for so long. But you were always my very favourite of all the little girls I knew.”

Katka looked up at this and lisped softly, “Really?”

“Really,” Lisbet said and a her throat clenched at the thought of all the years of growing up that had been missed, “would you like to give me a hug? You don’t have to.”

Katja thought this over for a moment, “Okay.”

She shuffled off the bench and wrapped her arms around her aunt’s neck.

“I’m so pleased to see you again,” Lisbet murmured in her ear, “We’re going to have such fun you and I.”

She straightened, “Speaking of fun… where’s Mirry? Oh goodness please tell me you didn’t bring mother or Lucinde along did you. I’m not sure the island’s big enough for all of us.”

Lillemor’s face was solemn as she took one of Lisbet’s hands in hers.

“Lisbet love, there’s something we need to tell you.”

“A girl,” Garrick murmured reverently, gently cradling the newborn Lisbet had placed in his arms.

Cindra did not reply, did not even glance up at the baby. Lisbet didn’t like it. Of course Cindra was exhausted from the birth, but she was a strong girl and it had been nothing like this with Atholt. From the first moment she had been unable to take her eyes off the boy and had cried big, silent tears when they took him away to be washed. Now she lay back on the bed, apparently uninterested in the tiny baby lying quietly in her father’s arms. Lisbet didn’t like it at all.

“A girl,” he whispered again, hoisting the soft bundle up onto his shoulder with a father’s grin.

She glanced at Cindra again, her hands lying listless on her belly, her cheeks still flushed from the exertion of birthing. Something felt wrong. The whole thing just felt wrong. She knew Hepsie felt it too. The baby had slid silently from Cindra’s womb, never making a sound, not a single cry though they tickled her feet and poked at her to try and make her. Hepsie had finally declared her healthy, despite her odd silence and all the while the baby had stared up at them with a strange intensity in her wide, green eyes.

But Garrick seemed not to notice and was gazing down at the baby with a father’s adoration.

“Why, isn’t she the most beautiful thing you ever did see,” he exclaimed, holding the baby up so that he could peer at her, his big, bristly, red face close to her small, pink, wrinkly one.

“She looks just like her,” he sighed sadly.

The baby was staring up at her father with that same intense look, her green eyes barely blinking. Covering her head was a soft red fuzz, not unlike the stubble that grew untended on her father’s neck. Lisbet didn’t agree… the baby barely resembled Cindra at all, perhaps she had her mother’s chubby cheeks. But she was the very image of her father.

Lisbet awkwardly maneuvered her swollen body onto the bed, perching on the edge. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the leg.

“Are you alright honey?”

Cindra blinked as though coming out of a daze.

“Lisbet,” she whispered, her voiced wavering, “could you please have Atholt brought here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep now sweetpea? You must be exhausted.”

“No,” Cindra mumbled, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, her lower lip trembling, “I want Atholt.”

Lisbet glanced up at Garrick, but he seemed entirely unaware of his wife’s distress, cooing at the swaddled bundle in his arms.

“Igrayne dear, could you please go and get the Baroness’ son for her. Don’t mind if he’s asleep. Just bring him please.”

“Of course your ladyship,” Igrayne replied scurrying off to the adjoining nursery.

Cindra was scrambling towards the bedside, wincing in pain as she swung her legs over the edge.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea,” Lisbet said softly, looking to Hepsie for assistance.

“I’m fine,” Cindra muttered.

“Yew just take it easy now Yer Grace. Yew’ve just popped out a baby and it certainly isn’t being the easiest thing in the world to do,” Hepsie chided, “Yew can get up if yew want but just take it easy, alright love.”

Cindra didn’t seem to hear her as she launched herself from the side of the bed, propelling herself towards the door where Igrayne was standing cradling her curly-haired son.

Where Cindra’s face had been dull and lifeless before, now it was all sparkles and rosy-cheeked joy.

“Atholt!” she squealed, gathering the sleepy boy into her arms, “There’s my darling boy.”

Garrick did not even seem to have noticed the entrance of his son.

He was reverently kissing the top of his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the red fuzz on the crown of her skull.

“So much like her,” he whispered again, clutching the infant tightly to him.

“Cindra love,” he called out to his wife, “can we name her Isabelle?”

The snow had been melting for days so all that was left were muddy patches that sucked at Sigurd’s boots. In the valley everything was dank and wet and streaming, the rigid pine trees dripping with rain from every needle as a mist rolled up from the sea to settle at the foot of the mountains.

Sigurd was cold and uncomfortable, mud splattered up to his knee and soggy socks crammed into squeaking boots. He longed to go home to Varda, thaw out his feet in a bucket of steaming water and crawl into bed beside her hulking, warm body.

The King, who Sigurd suspected had developed a little cabin fever from the long winter cooped up inside the drafty castle, had insisted they go out to survey a new building site at the first sign of thaw. The morning had been relatively warm, a weak sun shining through a thin guaze of clouds but the day had grown progressively grimmer. Now, faced with the long trudge back to the castle, Sigurd wished they would soon turn towards home.

“See Lochan, wouldn’t this make the most perfect place for your castle?” Eallair smiled knowingly at the Duke who was looking entirely unimpressed.

“Your Majesty, if you permit me saying so, we have not even begun to finish the fortress. It is madness to even begin to consider a new phase of building. You need not be concerned on my behalf, I am quite content to remain in my lodgings in the castle. There are docks to be built, and barns to be finished. We are sorely lacking in men. We should not even be entertaining the thought now,” Lochan huffed, his face grim, “I believe Your Majesty needs to focus on more important things.”

An icy drop of rain slopped down from the branches above and trickled down the back of Sigurd’s tunic, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He reached up to rub some warmth into the back of his neck and froze as he heard a soft crackle.

He swung around, eyes scanning the forest but there was nothing there. The rain was growing heavier, making pattering sounds on the mossy bracken and he turned his attention back to the King.

“But come now Lochan!” the King grinned, spreading his arms wide as thought to embrace the Duke and the surrounding forest, “look around you. Would this not be a fine place for a castle. The mountains to your back, a steep climb from the sea. Plenty of available wood. Certainly a bit damp today, but nothing a snug fire wouldn’t fix.”

Lochan stared at his cousin in trepidation, “I don’t know why you are even thinking of this now Majesty. We have not the resources nor the men. We must stay focused on defending the shoreline. Perhaps in a few years, maybe more. We just do not have the manpower.”

There was a faint rustle from the forest. The hair on the back of Sigurd’s neck stood on end as he peered into the gloom trying to determine the source.

“Did anyone else hear that?” he wavered.

“But have you not thought of the defensive possibilities Lochan?” The King went, apparantely oblivious to Sigurd’s concern, “What if the shoreside fortress were to fall. Where would we retreat to? There’s nowhere but the forest and a few scattered farms. They would have us surrounded in no time. But if we had a second line of defense, a fine, strong castle at the foot of the mountains we could make a stand. Even survive a siege. You must see the sense in it.”

It was probably just a frightened squirrel. He was just on edge because Varda’s time was so soon. Every little sound she made would wake him the night as he lay by her side, counting her breathing, terrified to hear a cry of pain.

“Well, Your Majesty. You certainly do have a point there,” Lochan gazed at the King appraisingly, “a second line of defense would certainly serve us well. But I stand by my point, there is no sense in beginning building on a second project when the first is not even near done.”

Sigurd was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, though he could not say why. He peered again into the forest, heart pounding, looking for the squirrel, scanning the dark surroundings. Something felt wrong, his skin was tingling with it.

“Your majesty,” he mumbled, “I really think we should be heading home…”

“What’s that Sigurd?”

The King began to turn when suddenly the bushes exploded as a dark figure launched itself towards them in a blur of black and the frightening glint of silver.

Sigurd’s ears rang with the whistle of cold steel slicing through the rain as it struck out towards them. His heart thudded, a frightened creature shuddering in the depths of his chest and without thinking he tumbled into the King, awkwardly knocking him out of the path of those terrifying blades.

With are horrifying pressure, then release the blades sliced through Sigurd’s flesh, tearing and grinding against his ribs to skewer the hysterical creature leaving it twitching and jerking.

All around him was the clamour of angry shouts, the singing of swords ripped from their sheaths, guttural words spat in a language he could not understand. And there was pain, a great gushing torrent of it that spattered against his spine and burnt up to his brain. With a sickening slither his attacker dragged the clawed weapon from his chest in a welter of his own blood.

Blurry flashes as Lochan and Cordell’s swords carved through the mist, plunging into the dark figure again and again until he sank to the ground.

Sigurd coughed, blood foaming on his lips and dribbling into his beard. He saw the dark blots dropping to form fat splots on the ground at his feet. With trembling fingers, head spinning he felt the ragged edges of the wound, the meaty flesh ripped open.

“What in the blazes?” Lochan growled, “it’s a woman!”

He knelt just clear of the pooling blood that was gushing from the fatal wounds in her body, a tide that was waning since her heart had ceased to beat. With every spasm of his own, Sigurd felt thick blood oozing out between his clasping fingers.

“What the hell is wrong with her face?!” Cordell exclaimed, peering at the hagged, rotten green of her skin.

Lochan gingerly ran a finger across the dead woman’s cheek, “It’s paint is all, see underneath. She may be pale but she’s human enough. Only human.”

Human. Only human. Sigurd was human. Sigurd was torn, Sigurd was shredded, his blood pouring out of the hole he futiley tried to stop with his slender hands.

He sank to his knees, toppling like a felled tree as everything slowly went black. Beneath him the ground was slick with rain, mingling with the oozing mess that was his blood. Above him the menacing pines peered down their, needled heads bending ominously in the rising wind.

“Lochan! Lochan! Sigurd’s been hurt. Please Lochan! Help him!” Eallair whimpered somewhere far above, where the pine trees were.

“Oh God. Please help him.”

Valeriya perched unsteadily on the chair they had offered her. She felt tired and weak but at least her head was clear. Everything had been fuzzy and dull for such a long time. The air in the throne room was chill, but it was refreshingly crisp on her sweaty skin. How long had she lain in that room? They had told her it had been nigh on a year. A year. She had gone in there on a snowy morning and it had been long enough for the icy winter to melt, the seasons to march ever onwards, changing the world from white to green to gold. Now everything was white again. She had hazy memories of the colours and she knew she had not been only in the room. There had been trips outside. But all she could remember was the dark brown of the planks of wood, woven together to form a prison for her, a cage.

“Are you alright Valeriya love?” Radomir asked softly, “maybe you shouldn’t be up.”

She gazed at him. The lines of his craggy face were drawn into an expression of concern, his thick brack brows creasing. His hands were reaching out towards her, as though he wished to hold her, clutch at her. She did not know this compassionate face he wore. He had only ever shown her rage and contempt, his lips curled up into a snarl or a sneer, never drooping and trembling like this. She did not know him.

“Please Your Ladyship,” the Duke was saying, “you required an audience with the King. What have you got to tell us?”

“Be gentle with her Lochan,” the man who was her husband was saying, “she has had a tough time.”

She knew what she had to do. She cleared her throat and began, “I have been told by my lady maid of a crime committed against me. I have been told that the man who is supposed to have committed this crime is to be punished for it.”

She glanced over at Radomir, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, his entire body straining towards her, his grey eyes full of sorrow and guilt.

She turned her eyes to the King, “I am here to tell you that there was no crime committed by the Priest.”

“What are you saying Countess?” the Queen asked softly, her eyes wide.

“I am telling you that there was no crime committed. Yes, Father Harndall is the father of my baby. That much is clear to anyone who looks upon her.”

The atmosphere in the hall was like an indrawn breath, holding for long seconds. The lack of oxygen was stifling.

“But it was not without my consent.”

“No,” she heard the man, her husband’s sharp intake of breath.

She dared to peek up at him. She wished she hadn’t. For some reason she had not imagined this, the look of utter betrayal on his face. His teeth were firmly champed around his bottom lip and she could see the beginning of a trickle of blood there, so hard were they biting down. This was a face she knew. She had seen it once before but only after he had beaten his child out of her with his meaty fists.

“Valeriya, you didn’t… did you?” it was a whispered plea, a final denial.

She had to be strong. For him. For the Priest.

“I did. The crime committed was mine and it was the crime of adultery”.

He stumbled out of his chair, staggering towards her. His hands were outstretched, fumbling like a blind man. He collided with her, his heavy body knocking into her unsteady one, so that she had to spread her feet wide to stop from falling.

“Valeriya no, it isn’t true,” he sobbed, his brawny hand finding her waist where it lay heavy and unpleasantly warm.

He pressed his face against her neck and she felt the sudden warmth of wet tears on her cool skin. His breath was hot and rapid, the pant of a hungry dog the heat of it sticking the feathers of her collar down against her flesh.

His heard jerked up and he pulled her towards him, towards his hulking body. The strong metallic smell of his sweat was in her nostrils, the heady warmth of his body making her dizzy. She froze, terrified by his proximity. He tried to look her in the eyes but she would not meet his, could not meet them.

“Don’t you love me?” he murmured pitifully.

She did not answer him.

“Of course you do, of course you do silly,” he pulled her roughly towards him, so that the entire length of his sweltering body was pressed against hers. Her large breasts were crushed uncomfortably between them as he held her tightly to his muscular chest. Her heart was thrumming like a panicked bird as his crude hands squeezed her fragile body.

She felt dizzy, trying to gulp in air that was slowly being expressed from her lungs. With every breath out he would only hold her tighter so that when she gasped again there was no more space to fill. She felt her slender bones creaking with the force of his embrace. Her body hung weightless in his arms like a sparrow soaring high above the ground, gliding motionless in an updraft.

She beat feebly at him with her flapping hands but he only held on tighter. The room was starting to waver again, darkness pressing in on her from all sides, the sounds growing dull with the roaring in her ears. She didn’t want to go, to descend into that nothingness again and a guttural cry rent from her silken throat.

“Let her go Radomir,” she heard the faint sound of men’s voices and there was an unpleasant tugging sensation on her arms.

“Christ Radomir! Your hurting her. Get off her.”

Suddenly she was ripped from his grasp, floundering in the frigid air, gasping for breath. She felt herself tumbling towards the ground, careening through the air but before she could fall a pair of strong arms caught her. She dragged heavily on them, her knees collapsing from under her but they did not release her. She was not frightened because the arms held her gently but firmly so she knew she would not fall.

She heard a ragged sobbing, and she turned feebly to see her husband struggling in Sir Arwaduhn’s strong grip.

“Enough of this, all of you,” the King intoned, “it seems that the need for this trial has disappeared. The Priest has committed no crime, except that against the church which will need to be assessed. Mistress Ylder, I think you should take the Countess back to her chamber and make sure she is not injured.”

“Sir Arwaduhn, will you be sure the Earl does not follow her. I do not want you to see her for a time Radomir. And you are to stay away from the Priest. If I hear of anything different you will have to face my wrath. I am sorry for you Radomir. But for now it is for the best.”

Her husband was hunched over and gave no indication that he had heard.

“That is all. You may go.”

“Could I please have some silence,” Eallair asked, his voice barely audible above the low murmur of conversation that filled the echoing throne room. Now that outdoor building had ceased for the winter, Madlenka decided it was about time they set to paneling the hall. She knew a few men that would be up to the task.

Madlenka longed to interject, to call out in her loud, clear voice for some order. To demand the subjects show some respect for their King. But in doing so, they would only respect Eallair less. She remained silent, her fists clenched against the soft material spread across her lap.

Eallair continued resolutely, despite the fragmented ends of conversations drifting around the room.

“We are here to discuss the unfortunate matter of the Earl’s wife. I have gathered you all here because I want you to listen to the evidence that Lochan has gathered with regard to the matter. My decision will be final but I will take into account any opinions that are ventured forth here today.”

They had gone over this little speech together this morning, her head cradled in the warm nook of his shoulder, listening to him sleepily recite the sentences they had agreed on. She was glad to hear he neither stumbled nor stuttered over the words. He sounded like a man in control of his Kingdom.

“Discuss… discuss. What is there to discuss,” Radomir barked across the echoing hall, half rising from his chair, “The man raped my wife. He should be executed.”

“Radomir,” Cindra piped in softly, her voice soothing, “We must go about this in the proper way. Shouldn’t we hear the evidence first and let the King make a decision. If he is found guilty then I am sure His Majesty will decided on a just sentence.”

But Radomir was in no state to be soothed. Mostly people had spent the last week trying to stay out of his way, but there was the unfortunate servant who ended up with a swift cuff on the ear for no more indiscretion than getting in the way. Madlenka understood that he must be there, it would have been cruel to leave him out but she despaired at the idea of the King reaching a descision while he was berated and bullied by the Earl.

“A just sentence… there can be no just sentence but death for what he did. He has no right to lay a hand on another man’s wife. No right. Creeping in and taking her while she was ill. Filthy bastard.”

Lochan interjected, “Radomir, I must remind you that it was not so long ago we sat here deliberating over what your punishment she be after you drove your fist into the face of another man’s wife. Would you please be silent and allow this discussion to proceed.”

Radomir grimaced briefly as he glanced over at Sigurd and nodded briskly.

Madlenka glanced over at her husband noting his lost expression. She would have to prod him a little.

“So it seems to me that we have two issues to deal with. First, did Father Harndall actually commit this crime, what is the evidence? What is the proof? Second, if so, what should his punishment be. Your Majesty, I would like to suggest that we hear the evidence The Duke has gathered on the matter so that you can make your descision.”

Subtly, she passed the command over to him. She had prompted him and knew full well he would seize on her words and continue the line of reasoning like an actor, his prompt muttered from the wings.

“Yes indeed, Your Lordship, would you be so kind as to outline the conversations you have conducted in the previous days.”

“Of course Your Majesty. To begin with I would like to say that I do not think it is enough to condemn a man based solely on the appearance of a baby. We all know that babies look different when they are newly born, their eye colour and hair colour can change drastically. So I would like, first of all, to ask for us to be reasonable, and put the child‘s looks aside and look at the cold, hard facts.”

“First, I have a statement from Mistress Ylder, The Countess’ lady maid stating that she did not allow any men to enter the room during the specified time other than the Earl. More concerning is the statement from Lady Inbar which reveals that she did in fact allow the Priest into the room with the Countess for the period of one hour in order that he might pray by her bedside.”

“She what,” Radomir roared, half-rising in his chair “How dare she. That meddling bitch. Against my expressed wishes she let that man into the room.”

“Don’t you dare speak about my wife in that way you monster,” Sigurd was already rising from his seat, his face twisted in anger, “You have no right.”

“Silence,” barked the Duke, “Sit yourself back down Sir Inbar, I won’t allow your wife to come to any harm. And you, Your Lordship. Don’t you dare speak of Lady Inbar in that way. And if you so much as look at her funny I will have your hide. Do you hear me?”

Madlenka’s eyes slid over to Eallair, who was sitting there looking sheepish. She longed to reach his hand over and give it a reassuring squeeze but there was no way she could. She didn’t know how much longer she and the Duke could keep up this dance of covering over Eallair’s insufficiency as a ruler. She had hoped for so long that he would step up and take charge with a little encouragement, but lately he seemed to be folding in on himself. It was a desperate circumstance when the people had no one else to turn to.

“Now, as I was saying. I have also spoken to the Priest and…”

There was a hollow knock on the huge, iron doors. The King’s steward hurried over dragging them open. There standing in the rectangle of light was the Countess, her face as pale as the glimpse of snow behind her.

“The Countess of Moraghdu,” Garald solemnly intoned.

Lands sakes… I can scarce be believin’ it meself,” Hepsie exclaimed as she held the baby up so they could all closely examine her face.

“It can’t be,” Cindra gazed down at the squirming newborn, “It simply can’t.”

She resembled most newborns in that she was wrinkled and slightly red but there was no mistaking those eyes.

“Surely not,” she exclaimed again, in consternation, gently turning the baby’s face this way and that, looking for some other more explainable resemblance.

“Oh come ladies, it’s plain as day. We’ve all spent many hours looking into those very eyes as they extolled to us the value of virtue and the folly of sin. We’ve sat and listened as the owner of those very same eyes prescribed to us long lists of punishments for our slightest indiscretion. No, for even the very thought of indiscretion,” Lisbet drawled.

Cindra’s eyes flicked over to the Countess who was lying back, exhausted on the bed. She wondered how much the women knew and whether she could hear their loud whispering. If so, she gave no indication, her eyes closed, her shoulders drooping wearily as she leaned heavily against the backboard of the bed.

“The damn hypocrite!” Lisbet hissed, her angry voice raising abruptly above the rustling of their whispers.

“I confessed to him many times and he just sat there, staring at me with those compassionate, pious eyes of his. And all the time, he was the biggest sinner of us all.”

“Holier than thou hypocrite,” she spat.

Cindra had to admit she was completely taken aback. She would have never expected this of the Father, in truth she would have believed it was her own husband before she would have pointed the finger at him. And yet, there they were, those peaceful blue eyes that had always seemed somehow sad and regretful. Perhaps now she knew why. And it was not just the baby’s eyes, her features where so similar to the priest, the curve of her tiny nose, the eyebrows that looked as though life was something of a surprise to her.

Cindra supposed it was, mere minutes before she had been warm and safely cocooned and now everything was loud and bright and there were people all around who kept staring at her.

“Now, now Lisbet. We can’t be sure of anything. It could just be a coincidence,” she chided, thought deep in her heart she knew the baby was his.

“Coincidence my foot, if that baby is not the good Father’s, I’ll… well I’ll eat my latest embroidery. Hell, I’ll have the cook make a stew, throw in some herbs, a few potatoes. The whole damn lot.”

“Hush now me Lady, yew mustn’t let him hear yew,” Hepsie murmured softly, hoisting the fussing baby onto her shoulder.

“Shush shush my little dove, yew simply mustn’t cry love, yer aunt Hepsie needs to think what to do.”

“We can’t accuse him of anything yet Lisbet, we don’t know the truth of it. Surely it could just be a coincidence. Perhaps they share some distant family tie we didn’t know of,” Cindra continued reasonably.

But it was no coincidence. She was his daughter, there could be no doubt.

“The rumours must have been true after all,” Lisbet sneered, “the good priest off diddling the countess. You remember that kiss they shared, who knows how long this has been going on?”

Cindra’s eyes flicked over to the bed once more but Valeriya seemed to have fallen asleep again.

She lowered her voice even further, “But that’s just it Lisbet. The timing doesn’t add up. She was under with a fever so very long, and it has to have been then. And you didn’t see her in front of the council, she doesn’t know who the father is.”

Lisbet stared at her, her eyes wide as she began to understand.

“If I may be bein’ blunt yer Ladyships, but all this is just rumour an’ gossip. We ain’t knowin’ the truth now, that’s fer the King an’ the menfolk to sort out. But it don’t matter now, we’ve got far bigger fish to fry.”

The baby began to whimper on her shoulder and she jiggled her up and down gently, “hush now littl’ chicken. Now listen, the Earl is bein’ right outside this door an’ we’re damn lucky, pardon me, that this baby ain’t been crying yet. Because do yew think the Earl is going to be waitin’ till he hear’s the King’s decision.”

Cindra began to understand then the sort of trouble they were in.

“No, if he this littl’ missy then Father Harndall’s as good as dead.”

“Yer Ladyship,” she turned to Cindra, her hand patting the baby’s back continuously as she spoke, “Yew need to be getting past the Earl somehow. Tell him its not over yet. Lie yer littl’ heart out, do what yew have to. Then yew go and find Father Harndall an’ yew take him and hide him somewhere the Earl won’t think to look.”

Cindra nodded, her eyes seeking out Lisbet’s which were turned away.

“I’m going to see if the Countess will feed her, that should keep her quiet fer a bit. Godspeed yer Ladyship.”

“Good luck,“ Lisbet mumbled.

Cindra took one last look at the baby. She was staring at her with those mournful eyes, like deep blue pools of water sparkling in an errant rays of sunlight. She stretched out one tiny hand as though to wish her well on her journey.

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.”