The sun beat down, hot and relentless on Maire’s face as she awkwardly waited with the rest of the crowd that had formed in the small market square. She stood, her back rigid, beads of sweat collecting on her brow. Her eyes were on the man, stripped to the waist, thrown to his knees. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped together in prayer. The crowd was restless, some muttering angrily, others apprehensive and some even seemed excited. The King’s man stood tall and sombre, his gloomy mouth drooping at the corners with distate, his perfect hair slicked back from his shining face.

Behind him stood the Earl with a look of savage victory on his ugly face. A guard hovered expectantly above the half-naked man, a cruel, metal cane held nonchalantly in one hand. The crowd shuffled their feet nervously on ground that was trampled hard by the feet of village goers and the animals they brought here. The sawn off log that Hynde trembled before was slick with blood from some recent slaughter. Freshly killed chickens hung in rows in the market stalls, plucked and naked, their gooseflesh matching the arms of the frightened man that kneeled before her.

And it was her fault he was there.

The King’s man cleared his throat and began in a solemn voice, “We stand here today to enact the will of the Kingdom. One Reynard Hynde is to be punished for his crimes here in the marketplace, on the 10th of July of the year 1103. Reynard Hynde is charged with the crimes of disturbing the peace, inciting a mob with the intent of injuring a member of the nobility and threats made against a member of the nobility.”

His face a blank slate he droned on, “The punishment for these crimes is to be six lashes, doled out by a member of the King’s guard.”

He gave a short nod to the guard, “You may proceed.”

The guard, nodded, a scowl on his handsome face. The cane snapped up in the air, glinting dark and angry in the scorching light and flicked down onto the defenseless man’s back.

He arched forward slamming into the log, an animal groan issuing from between his clenched teeth. His eyes were tightly closed, his face set in a grimace of pain but still bravely defiant. Someone gasped behind Maire.

The cane arced up again through the air, all the force of the guard’s muscular arm directed at Reynard’s back. It hit with a wet thwack and droplets of blood splattered onto the ground beside the kneeling man.

Maire shivered in horror at that impact, her hands flying to her face, trying to cover her eyes. But she could not look away and the cane rained down again on Reynard’s trembling shoulders. He shuddered and moaned at the impact blindly clutching at the edge of the log.

“God have mercy,” she murmured.

Beside her, the ship’s first mate mumbled, “And you people call my countryman barbaric.”

But the cane was soaring up through the air, almost elegant in its smooth trajectory as it hissed through the air to strike Reynard’s back which had grown slick with blood.

He yelped in pain, gasping, panting open mouthed his head hanging low.

He suddenly rose halfway, his eyes snapping open, “Lord, forgive me my sins. Forgive us all. We only mean to serve yew.”

But his eyes were not raised to the heavens. Deep and brown and rimmed with tears of pain that were spilling down onto his freckled cheeks. They were fixed straight on Maire.

The guard growled in anger and threw the weight of his body against the next blow. It sliced into Reynard’s back splitting open the skin in a new welt that dribbled thick, dark blood. Reynard howled in agony, his mouth wide open, a tendril of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth, snot and tears mingling in his patchy red beard. His eyes were still fixed on her, staring and wide, accusing but at the same time pleading.

Maire felt her own tears slipping unhindered down her own freckled cheeks. Surely he had suffered enough.

“Please, please stop it,” she cried through her chattering teeth, the crowd murmuring angrily in agreement.

But the guard was not finished and the cane sliced into the ragged skin of Reynard’s back, arcing up in a welter of blood. Reynard fell forward his forehead grazing the log, slipping in the slimy chicken blood that was coagulating in the heat of the sun.

The guard tensed and Maire realised he was going to hit him again. It had been six already. Maire had counted each one, her jagged fingernails pressing into the palm of her hand.

“Oh please no,” she chattered.

“Enough,” the King’s steward intoned, “it is done.”

Reynard hunched, shivering over the log, his back a shredded mess.

The King’s men walked away, the Earl snorting as he gazed at the injured man. The crowd dispersed quickly, not wanting to help a convicted man, or agreeing with the justness of his punishment. Maire was frozen to the spot, not knowing whether to leave or to rush forward and comfort the man her actions had condemned.

But one man remained, hulking Bryce Ballard who went to kneel beside the hunched man. He laid a big hand gently on Reynard’s arm, wiping the chicken blood from his face with his sleeve. Carefully he helped the unsteady man to his feet, supporting him with one sturdy arm.

Maire crept forward, tiptoeing toward the men. Bryce turned to stare at her, his eyes dark, his face expressionless. Reynard cringed beside him, trying to straighten out his tattered back and wincing in pain as the flesh tore open more with every bend of his back.

“So, it’s you. Little miss tattletail herself,” he mumbled, a groan of pain ratcheting from his throat as he turned toward her.

“I… I’m so sorry. I never thought of this,” she whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes and threatening to spill over her already tear-stained cheeks.

Reynard, sniffed and wiped away some of the muck from his face with his arm.

“Are yew now?” he asked, staring at her with those pitiless eyes, “What do yew think Bryce, do yew think little miss kitchen maid here is awful sorry?”

Bryce grunted, his gaze fixed on his friend.

“I am,” Maire mumbled, blushing furiously, “is there something I could be doing.”

“Yew are, I am, we’re all sorry. We’re all…” he gazed at her with what seemed to be curiosity until his eyes started to roll back in his head and he slumped against Bryce.

Bryce held him steady so he didn‘t fall to the ground, gently slapping his cheek with a meaty hand. Reynard’s eyes flew open.

“Yer bleeding Reynard. Yew need to be stitched,” he rumbled.

“Then there is something yew could be doing,” Reynard stared at Maire, his lips twitching into a half-smile, “I reckon yer owing me a fair few favours. An’ now I don’t got a wife an’ Bryce’s ain’t much to speak of with the sewing needle, if her dresses are anything to go by, no offense Bryce.”

“So lass… how are yew at stiching?”

“Good morning Gentleman,” Eanraig had let himself through the door.

“Normally we knock and wait to be announced,” Garald intoned, rising to his feet.

“Goodness me Eallair, he’s a cheerful one isn’t he. Where on earth did you find him?” Eanraig quipped with a grin.

Eallair fought back a smile, Garald was rather grim, though he certainly got the job done.

Garald towered over Eanraig, “Sir Eanraig Danachold Your Majesty.”

“Good, now we’ve got that over and done with,” Eanraig said briskly, striding over to the chair opposite Eallair.

Eallair watched the grinning man and Garald’s straight back heading towards the door. For a moment he wished his steward would stay. Of course, he could order him to but how would that look.

Eanraig plonked himself down into the chair opposite Eallair, crossing his legs nonchantly, one booted foot jiggling, “So lad… I came here to ask you a question.”

Eallair himself had been meaning to ask the older man something, but had spent the last days deciding to call on Eanraig and then retracting the order when his cowardice overcame him. Garald at least, was no stranger to how poor a ruler Eallair was. He was the one man Eallair truly could hide nothing from.

Eanraig went on in a rush, “Well, of course you know the quarters on the ship are dreadfully crowded. And, well, I’ll be taking the ship with me and wasn’t planning on three womanly additions even if two of them are very small and cute and don’t take up a lot of space.”

“So, I was hoping you could maybe find some room for them here in the castle. I’m going to need a couple of rooms at least… a nursery and of course a study. And a laboratory where I can continue with my experiments. If a library would not be out of the question I have, well… quite a lot of books weighing down the ship,” he gave a dry chuckle, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble of course.”

Eallair cleared his throat, “At present there isn’t room in the castle for anyone, though with the addition of the new working hands that accompanied you we can certainly get a move on with the building this summer. I can promise you a place by the end of summer, though I’m not yet certain about the laboratory and library, since many are still living on the ships. I can offer your wife and children some rooms on one of the ships until the new building is complete.”

He felt himself blushing with embarrassment though he couldn’t say why. He was completely flummoxed by this man who had always been so close to his Father. He could almost hear his Father’s voice of disapproval asking him why he was not doing more for the man who had been his closest advisor.

“I hope that’s alright with you,” he murmured.

“Well, I guess it will have to do,” Eanraig said briskly, beginning to rise to his feet.

Eallair swallowed to try and wet his throat which was becoming increasingly dry, “Wait one moment Eanraig. There is another matter I would speak of.”

Eanraig thunked back down onto the chair, his boots clomping on the table base.

“Well lad, what is it? Spit it out. You look like you’ve eaten a bad apple.”

Eallair gulped and continued, “Well, it’s just that… you must know of the sickness that’s been spreading through the people. Some have already died… the Cade girl, the Dryden’s little boy and the Ulcar’s as well. Countless other are ill. It has started to spread into the castle now too. Lochan’s steward’s family are sick with it and now its made it to some of the kitchen maids who knows how far it will spread.”

“Yes, I would have to be blind not to notice. Bharata has been out amongst the people doing what he can but we’re not magicians Eallair. I can’t offer you a cure, though I am flattered you would think it possible.”

“That’s not exactly why I wanted to speak with you,” Eallair hid his hands, which were beginning to tremble beneath the table.

“What is it then,” Eanraig sounded exasperated.

“What I wanted to know is, had you any knowledge of this illness before? Did you know before you landed on Mhalwae?” it was said, Eallair waited nervously for the reply.

“My dear lad, what are you trying to say here,” Eanraig whined.

“I want to know whether you knew of the sickness before you came here,” Eallair held his ground, though his hands were planted firmly on his thighs to stop their errant shaking.

“Lad, we had to rush here. Bharata, he can see things, things a man shouldn’t ordinarily. He told me of my daughter and how ill she was. And he told me there wasn’t much time. We had no choice. She’s my daughter Eallair,” Eanraig whined.

“Those little boys that died were somebody’s son,” Eallair murmured.

“So what is it you’re accusing me of here Eallair!” Eanraig’s voice was vicious as he scowled at the King, “Yes… we knew about the sickness. There had been deaths. Not many. We disposed of the bodies overboard and quarantined the rest. We thought we had it contained. Nobody sickened for a week before we landed here.”

“I see,” Eallair mumbled.

“No I don’t think you do Eallair. You may as well be accusing me of murdering those poor children though you sit here and do it in a gentlemanly fashion. I did the best I could given the circumstances. Any man would have. I had no idea the sickness wasn’t contained.”

Eanraig’s voice was growing louder, his shoulders shaking with barely contained rage. Eallair could not stand up to a storm like that and flattened back against his chair trying to make himself as small as possible.

“But why didn’t you tell us there was sickness on board. We might have been able to stop this,” Eallair mumbled.

“Because I didn’t deem it necessary information,” Eanraig snapped.

Eanraig took a deep breath, his body relaxing into its former languid pose, “Now. May I have your word that apartments will be made ready for me and my family by the end of the summer.”

Garald looked up with a start as his wife clomped into the King’s study. Her dark tresses were tousled, cheeks flushed, her green eyes wild.

“Nyawe,” he stammered with a tentative smile, rising to his feet, “this is a surprise, is there something I can do for you?”

His heart galloped in a sort of crazed excitement, it had been so long since she had paid him any heed whatsoever. Of course that was his own fault, but still, he couldn’t control the way his soul cantered and leaped to find her here.

She stared at him, her dark eyes growing suddenly angry, face rearing up into a scowl.

“You certainly can Garald. You can tell me who the dirty slut you’ve been sleeping with behind my back is so I can claw her roving eyes out!”

“What?!” he cried in shock, all his composure leaving him, “What… what are you talking about?! I haven’t slept with anyone but you… and not even you for many months now.”

“But… I don’t believe it,” she wavered, her face as confused as he imagined his was, “but you were doing penance for so long. I thought… I thought you must have had an affair…”

“Why would you think that,” he gasped in shock, “you… you know what I did. Why I had to do penance.”

She shook her head in confusion, tendrils of dark hair escaping and falling in front of her eyes.

“Will you make me say it? It was because of… you know… what I did to you. The priest said I must abstain for one month. But if you would just forgive me Nyawe I… I won’t treat you so again.”

“What did you do Garald?” she asked looking suspicious again, “I don’t know what it is you have done so how can I know if I should forgive you? Are you sure you haven’t been seeing other women?”

“Nyawe,” he mumbled, his cheeks flaring a bright and painful red with shame, “you know. It’s because… because I raped you.”

“What?! When?! Was I asleep?!” she cried in consternation, blowing an errant curl from her brow with pouting lips.

“I… I don’t think so. You… you cried out. Because I hurt you.”

She stared at him in shock, could it be that she did not even remember what he had done? Had it been so terrible she had blanked it out?

“Garald you goose, I was crying out in pleasure not pain. Do you think if I had really wanted you to stop I wouldn’t have done something about it?”

“But… but you said no, and I… I hurt you… I know I did.”

He didn’t understand, he had been so sure of the wrong he had done to her. Could it be these last months of agony and shame were nothing but a misunderstanding.

“At first a bit, but then it… it was exactly what I needed Garald. Have you really been walking around these last three months thinking you raped me?”

“Well you thought I was sleeping with someone else.”

They stared at each other awkwardly. Garald’s palms were going sweaty in the stuffy room, his tunic sticking uncomfortably to his prickling back. She must have been sweltering in her riding cloak. Her skin was dewy and pink, her startled, green eyes staring into his own. Strands of sable hair were plastered to her hot skin.

All of a sudden she launched herself at him, knocking him back against the table with a resounding thud. His nostrils were filled with the heady smell of animal sweat and beneath the intoxicating scent of her hot skin rising from the woollen material of her cloak. Her mouth was upon his, hungry, insatiable so he found himself panting for breath as his head turned this way and that to meet her ravenous kisses. He was growing unbearably hard, pressing against the warm curve of her thigh for some meagre relief.

The King’s desk dug painfully into the muscles of his buttocks. The King’s desk! He pulled hurriedly away from his wife.

“Hello,” he said with an uncomfortable chuckle.

“What seems to be the problem?” she purred, rubbing against the front of him like a soft, dark cat.

“Uh… we’re… in the King’s study,” he replied, glancing furtively around expecting His Majesty himself to walk in at any moment. Of course, he was out at sword practice…

“Are you going to let that stop you,” she growled, the warm swell of her thigh bumping against him so he could not suppress an errant groan.

His whole life had been about stopping, not taking what he truly wanted because that would have been a sin. If the cake looked delicious he could only sit and stare because gluttony was the cardinal vice of children. When the first sprigs of his downy adolescent beard appeared he shaved in an icy bucket of water, nicking himself for want of a mirror because gazing too long would have left him prey to pernicious vanity. And lust… well wasn’t lust the worst of all.

He grabbed his wife suddenly, so she squealed and swung her around until her round ass was perched on the table edge.

Fumbling frantically he found the hem of her skirt, all the while his lips on her neck, her collarbone, the salty tang of her sweat mingling with horsey scent in his nostrils so that he felt dizzy. He ruched her skirt up, over the deliciously round calf, over the firm swell of her thighs, up around her waist. He felt her hands reaching down to grapple with his belt, yanking up his tunic, scrabbling with his leggings until he was exposed, throbbing in the warm air of the room.

With a shuddering groan he slid inside her slamming her against the desk, the candlestick beside them threatening to topple as the flame shivered and danced.

All his life he had done as he was told, never giving into temptation, doing what his mother said was the right thing. And now here he was fucking his wife on the desk of his King while the books slid one by one to the floor beside her booted feet. He had never felt so alive, bewildered by the taste of her mouth, dazed by the musky smell of her skin, spiralling out of control till all that was left was his body and hers and the rhythmic shaking of the wooden table like a bark bound branch quivering in the wind.

His heart was cantering out of control, capricious as a giddy foal, unsteady on trembling legs. He heard her cry out but it was far, far away. He sped towards her, bolting headlong through the acres that separated them till he was careening on the brink and with a shuddering moan he let himself fall.

They hung together for a long moment, panting and breathless and then Nyawe fell against him with a sigh. She gently nuzzled his neck, her face warm and wet against him.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he murmured unable to stop himself from grinning.

“Mmmhmmm.”

“On the King’s desk!”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“Nyawe?”

“Mmmm, what is it?” her tousled head peeked up from his shoulder, her green eyes soft and warm.

“Do you think… can we do it again sometime?”

Alexis wandered into the stables to saddle up a horse only to be greeted by the all too agreeable sight of Mistress Elmvarn. Her face was flushed a delicious pink from the cold air, her ebony hair come loose from its braid and tumbling around her face in luscious curls. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, her sumptuous pout turning up into a warm smile.

He had intended to go for a ride but this was all the better. Perhaps he still would.

“Why Nyawe, what a great pleasure it is to see you on this fine morning. Have you just been for a ride?”

He knew she had, her tangled, windswept locks, the light bristles of horse hair scattered over her cloak, the slight sheen of sweat on her neck. Not long before Nyawe, the irresistible steward’s wife had clamped her warm, soft thighs around a rippling muscled beast. Alexis felt a hot throb just imagining it.

“I certainly have,” she purred with a grin, “and I can’t say I would be averse to another.”

Her gaze slid from his face, down his chest where his heart was beginning to thump, over the fine folds of his cloak and further. She stared shamelessly and he felt himself growing painfully hard.

She flicked her eyes up to his, dark and hot beneath the bobbing curls that were plastered in places to her moist skin, “What do you say?”

Good Lord she was beautiful. The steward had to be a flaming idiot to let things lie for this long. Either that or his preferences tended in another direction. Alexis could not have lain beside a woman like this for an hour without touching her, let alone months.

He lunged at her with a throaty growl, ramming her into the wooden pillar, his body pressing up against the warm, soft front of hers in all the right places. He leaned his hips against hers and she moaned, her eyes growing bleary with desire, her pouting lips opening for him.

His mouth found the salty skin of her collar bone, covering it with kisses, biting and nipping at it hungrily. He kissed his way up the groove of her pale neck, his mouth finding hers and he could not suppress a groan at the feverish intensity.

They both came up gasping for breath, panting , his chest grazing against hers.

“Well, that certainly was a kiss and a half,” she murmured with a smile of childish gratitude, “have you got anything else up your er… sleeve?”

“I certainly do, but I most certainly don’t hide it in my sleeve. Would you like me to show you?”

“Oh, I think I might have some inkling, you see, something has been poking me in the thigh all this while. Could that possibly be your something else?” she giggled.

“I think you’re getting warmer.”

She began to slide her hand down the front of his cloak, her small, pink fingers rubbing against the thick material.

“Warmer… warmer… hmmm really rather warm there…”

“Hot,” he choked as her hand found its target.

“God, it’s been so long,” she growled throatily, pawing at him, fumbling trying to undo his belt.

So it had, he thought suddenly serious. And the last time had been painful and frightening for her. He pulled away gazing somberly into her wild, green eyes.

“I promise to be gentle Nyawe, I won’t hurt you like your husband did,” he murmured.

She pulled away from him as though scalded.

“What the hell did you say?” she spat, “What the hell do you know about that?”

Suddenly her face was ugly and hard, her eyes screwed up as though he had struck her, her mouth curving up into a nasty sneer.

“I’m sorry, I, your husband told me what happened,” Alexis felt his ardour subsiding as he stared at her shocked at the transformation from purring kitten to enraged tiger.

“That is, ah, he confessed to me.”

“That filthy bastard! How dare he discuss that with anyone. Lying, cheating son of a bitch. I suppose he told you who the splaylegged slut he’s been fucking is. I suppose you’ve probably been fucking her too. Tell me, who is the feculent trollop? Who is it?”

Alexis was shocked and confused by her fury, she had drawn herself up, her shoulders raised like a hissing cat puffing up to appear more menacing. Alexis was certainly menaced.

“I don’t know what you mean Nyawe. He only told me that he forced himself on you and had been doing penance for that. I suppose I shouldn’t interfere but the old lad really does seem sorry about it. I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”

Alexis was burning his own bridges, but he did feel a little sorry for the old boy and he wasn’t sure anymore if he was ready to tangle with this furious wench.

“Forced himself? Penance?” she stared at him incredulously, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

She darted out of the room, leaving Alexis in the company of nickering horses.

“Well ladies, I suppose I will be wanting a ride after all,” he sighed.

Good Lord, well that sounded rather naughty didn’t it, he thought.

“Ahem, you know, a gallop, a canter and whatnot.”

He really wasn’t making it any better was he, “Oh whatever, you know what I mean.”

Alexis stood at the doorway to the church. It was a filthy winter day and he had gotten well and truly sodden and cold on the way there. He had been concentrating a little too much on not slipping over on the slick ice that covered everything, and not enough on what he was actually going to say when he got there.

It was confession day and Alexis had racked up quite a few choice ones for the priest. That is if the current events hadn’t put the poor bloke out of business. Certainly, screwing the nobility wasn’t exactly on the priestly agenda but Alexis found it difficult to believe anyone could spend so much time praying and not get the odd urge to take the old holy candle out of the robe for a quick dip in the wax. No, Alexis could relate to that, in fact it was rather more easy to confess to another sinner than to the irritatingly pious.

Now let’s see… there had been that brief encounter with naughty Taebeth, the Miller’s wife, bless her ugly little heart.

And Elaye Relnath had given him a good rollicking or two while her husband’s head was turned the other way. That was two, had there been more. Oh, of course. He had forgotten that saucy little blonde minx, what was her name. She was married to whosit-faceit the farmhand. It would come back to him he was sure. That was three. And he had coveted another man’s wife, a few actually. Better mention that.

He was sure there was something else, but it would probably come back to him when he got started. He pushed open the heavy doors with an appallingly loud creak.

Peering inside he noticed a figure sitting stiffly upright on the pew closest to the front. Didn’t look like the priest, no wait, that fastidiously neat ponytail. It must be the King’s steward.

“Sorry for letting all this cold air in and making such a racket,” he called out congenially.

The steward didn’t turn his head. Alexis, strode down the aisle, snapping his fingers. It was awfully silent in the big, empty room. He let the door swing slowly shut behind him.

“Mind if I sit beside you,” Alexis he asked, upon reaching the pew Garald was seated in.

The other man sat stock still as though frozen in the cold. Or maybe he was asleep with his eyes open. Alexis could sympathise. He found this church business to be deathly dull.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Alexis plonked down on the seat next to him, “suppose you’re waiting for the priest too. Doesn’t matter, I don’t mind waiting my turn. Where is the old fellow hiding?”

“He’s not here,” Garald finally intoned, turning his head like some sort of animated gargoyle, “He isn’t allowed to give confession anymore. The King is trying to decide what to do with him.”

“Sticky sort of a situation isn’t it,” Alexis replied heartily drumming his hands on the tops of his chilly thighs, “don’t really expect your confessor to behave in that sort of way do you. Not that I blame him though, must be a dreadful bore being a priest.”

“Say, I’ve run into you a few times here lately. Have you been doing something naughty? You’ve been here every time I’ve come in for the old confessroo lately.”

With a wife like Nyawe, Alexis found it difficult to imagine the Garald hadn’t been doing something naughty. And Alexis was exceedingly curious as to what that might be. He had always been a little disappointed that things hadn’t worked out with her, though he held out high hopes for the future. Perhaps he could get a little pointer a two.

“I was coming for some quiet prayer time actually Sir Hwartar. Also to confess, though I suppose I won’t be doing that today.”

Garald turned away to stare fixedly at the flickering candles either side of the altar, the flames dancing like saucy wenches.

“Now if you don’t mind.”

Alexis suddenly had a fantastic though, “Master Elmvarn my dear friend. I’ve had the most blessed idea. Here we are, both sitting bored in this musty old church, just itching for a good confession but we’re lacking the priestly element. But surely confessing in the eyes of the Lord is enough, and if his beady eye isn’t fixed here on this church I don’t know where else it would be on this chilly island of ours, though I have to admit I sometimes wonder if he isn’t watching me while I take my bath. So why not confess to one another. God is listening and we have a witness. That would work wouldn’t it? Unless you‘ve done something so terrible you can‘t tell me. Say, you haven‘t murdered anyone have you.”

“No,” Garald replied in a strangled voice, “but I suppose you’re right. I have done nothing that I should not also confess to you. Perhaps this will serve as further penance for my sin.”

“Well out with it then my good man, I haven’t got all day you know.”

“Well… you see… the thing is, I raped my wife,” Garald muttered, his face creasing up into a guilty, flushed mess.

Alexis thought he must have heard wrong, “You… raped… her? You raped Nyawe?”

Surely it should have been the other way around.

“Yes, I know… it’s abominable. I raped my own wife. She told me no and yet I forced her.”

“Er, how did you force her exactly?”

“Well, we were lying in bed after she said no and I,” he gulped, “had my way with her. God, I’m despicable.”

“Umm, forgive me for being crass, but is it even possible to rape one’s own wife? Isn’t it their wifely duty to fulfill your needs. Though, personally I wouldn’t want to push my dear Morven. But there’s always other willing ladies around if your wife’s not in the mood.”

He was finding it difficult to imagine a time when the steward’s oversexed woman would not be in the mood. She had just popped out a sprog though. That was always a bit demotivating.

“What I’m saying Garald, you don’t mind if I call you that, is that I’m not that sure you actually committed a sin here.”

“It doesn’t matter if I did or didn’t. She won’t come near me anymore. She hates me.”

“Oh dear, seems you’re in a bit of a pickle. Can you do something nice for her? Have a new dress made or some such nonsense? I’m sure she’ll forgive you in time and if she doesn’t, you can always remind her of her wifely duties. I’d give it a while though. How long has it been?”

“Three months,” Garald replied miserably.

“Three months! Good grief! Are you sure your cock hasn’t shriveled up for good. Perhaps you had better get to work on that dress before you become a Eunuch.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Garald pouted, facing the front of the chapel again.

“Alright fine. I guess it’s my turn. Let’s see. There was Taebeth, the Miller’s wife bless her ugly little heart…”

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.

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.”

Kelgar stood before the door for a long time before he finally had the nerve to open it. He was not the sort of man to hesitate, to think before he acted. Kelgar was a man who barged in, who took what he wanted with both hands and did not relax his grip until he so chose. That was the only way, he would grow bored or it must be wrestled from between his strong fingers. So it had been with Polina. Osras had ripped her from his clenched fist like the favourite toy horse, or the tastiest morsel. He had always taken what Kelgar wanted most. But it was never without a fight.

But for some reason now his grasp was weak, feeble like a man who had just woken from a deep slumber. He tried to flex his fingers, to curl them into the shape he knew they must be to hold as tightly as he could but they were limp and he knew it was all sliding away. There was nothing he could do about it.

He took a deep breath and knocked roughly on the heavy, wooden door.

“Come in,” a soft voice called and he pushed it open.

She was sitting beside the fire, her knees curled up against her chest as she watched Rothdyn weakly kicking his newborn legs while Kendrick patted ineffectually at his chubby, velvet-clad knees. Her dress had ridden up to reveal one perfect, milky-white ankle above the top of her boot.

Kendrick gazed up at him with a drool edged smile, his grey eyes curious.

Kelgar did not like to look too long at those eyes, so similar where they to his own. Perhaps he should be glad, apparently he had royal blood in his veins after all. But that would only mean that he was not his father’s true son, that Osras had finally taken that away from him too. Everything was slipping, slithering through his fingers like ash.

Lyiss half-turned to see who had come through the door. He tried to smile but failed, simply unable to remember which muscles must tense in order to make such a thing occur.

“Mistress Elmvarn,” he acknowledged her with a simple nod, his fingers curling into tiny shivering fists beside his thighs.

She hastily rose to her feet, stumbling on her dress which had tangled around her slender legs.
He strode across the room, eager to close the gap between them. In that space lay too much uncertainty, empty hands stretching hopelessly towards her.

But once he stood before her, though he could have reached out his arm and taken her soft, warm hand in his own, he found he did not know what to do.

“Terrible weather we’re having ain’t it,” he mumbled, inwardly thumping himself for being such a lout.

So Osras wasn’t here to do it, no matter, he could do it perfectly well all on his very own.

She nodded silently, her eyes wide.

He leaned forward, “It seems we’re going to have a cold winter. The red berries were out on the trees yew know.”

What the hell was he talking about? Housewives gossip, where had he even heard that?

She shrank away from him, her back bumping up against the screen behind her so that it lurched ominously and he thought for a moment it would clatter to the floor. It did not, and all that was left was more of that pesky silence he seemed so ready to fill with mindless drabble.

“A lot of babies hanging about here aren’t there,” he said ineffectually.

More mindless pratter, he had lost his balls after all. Perhaps Osras had finally taken them too. His brother probably needed a new set since his own were so tightly gripped in Polina’s relentless grasp.

“Anyway, I thought yew might be wanting some company.”

Something was wrong with him. He knew how to talk to women, how to make them giggle, how to make them swoon and finally how to take them in his arms and hold them for a while. With Lyiss it was different. All his arsenal of charming lines and smouldering gazes availed nought. She only shuffled timidly further from his desperate grasp.

“Oh,” she nodded, her eyes lowered, not meeting his, “that was kind. But really, I have plenty of company with these two. They are better company that you would expect.”

He watched her as she spoke, the shapes that her mouth made as she carefully sounded out the words. Her long hair slid limply from her shoulder falling strand by strand to curtain her face. Her shoulders were hunched upwards, shortening her slender neck as though she were a turtle trying desperately to hide in a shell that had suddenly gone missing.

He couldn’t stand it, this feeling of uselessness. Kelgar was used to knowing exactly what a women wanted from him, and knowing that he could deliver it. He did not know what she wanted.

He took a deep, rattling breath and leaped, both hands blindly outstretched.

“The thing is, Mistress Elmvarn. I care for you a great deal and what I would like to know is whether, perhaps yew thought yew might care for me.”

There, he said it. No winking, no sly grins. Just him, Kelgar and his stupidly pounding heart.

She did not reply, her expression turning inward, her body curving away from his so that if possible she seemed even smaller.

His hands floundered in the hollow space, grasping at the air, coming back empty and cold.

There was a heartrending wail which for a moment he strangely thought was his heart screaming, but then he realised it was the high-pitched cry of the baby.

He stared down at his feet where Kendrick was gazing up at them with wide, innocent eyes though his foot was kicking at the baby’s soft, exposed belly.

“Oh,” Lyiss cried, as though suddenly awoken from a deep slumber, “Kendrick no!”

At the sound of her chiding voice Kendrick began to shriek too, and the sound of their wailing voices mingled into a dreadful chorus that rang in his ears and all but set his teeth vibrating.

“I’m sorry, I have disturbed yew from your duties. And mine await me. I will take no more of your time.”

He fled from the room, from the sound of their cries, from her awkward expression, out into the icy cold. It had begun to snow, tiny flakes swirling from above and melting on his face like wet kisses.

He was so stupid, he thought with a sudden grimace, his hands clenched finally into angry fists. How could he think that he could have ever been part of her world. He had strode in there, into the warm where there were velvet-clad babies and rich tapestries, his muddy boots leaving a trail on the fine rug beneath his clomping feet.

He was not part of her world and he never would be. He stumbled down the stairs, striding through the gate.

He gazed up at the grey sky with a filthy look. Now he had guard duty. What a festering sod of a day.

There was a timid knock at the door.

“Come in, “ Madlenka called out softly, reluctant to wake Kendrick.

The door creaked open, admitting Nyawe. Since when had Nyawe ever knocked timidly? Her knocks were an assertion, a defiant thumping of the door announcing to the world that she, Nyawe was entering the room and they had all better take notice.

“Sorry, did I wake you,” she murmured, half hidden by the thick folds of the drapes.

“No, no. I was just lying here thinking a bit. Kendrick is still asleep though”, she nodded towards the cradle.

Nyawe shuffled to the centre of the room, positioning herself in front of the bed. Nyawe did not shuffle, she swayed, she paraded, she strutted.

She stood now, in the centre of the room, her face crumpled like a tragic mask. The curtains framed her, an actor on the stage moments before delivering the sorrowful monologue of his career.

“Nyawe dear, whatever is wrong?” she cried softly, hurriedly climbing from the bed and rushing to her friend’s side.

She was hunched over, her shoulders slumped defeatedly. Nyawe did not hunch and slump, she stood tall, proud and defiant. Something was very wrong.

“I think,” she mumbled, “that Garald is having an affair.”

Her hands flew up to her mouth as though to trap the words that every woman dreaded hearing. But it was too late, they had already slid from her mouth in a mournful phrase and now the room was still with their weighty significance.

Madlenka was frozen in place for a moment, unsure of what to do, trying to organise thoughts that were flitting between pity, anger and guilt at her own happiness.

Nyawe stood before her, statuesque, an expression carved out of grief by hands that knew all the right tools to use.

Suddenly with a heartrending sob, her face crumpled, hand flying up in shame to hide the cracks and warps.

“Oh honey,” Madlenka cried, rushing to put her arms around her friend’s shaking shoulders.

She was deeply unnerved. Madlenka could not remember a time when she had ever seen her friend like this. Even when they had fought as teenagers, huge raging arguments. She would shriek and rant and sob until her eyes were puffy and her nose was red, but Nyawe would only grow ever more icy, her words becoming harsher and colder until they pierced like icicles exactly in the very softest spot.

She knew what to do with that Nyawe, knew that she would be the one to apologise first and then everything would be fine again. She had never realised how brittle indeed ice was, and how one sure strike in the right place would fracture it into a thousand, sparkling pieces. She had never realised how soft and fragile the inside was, all melt water sloshing around.

“Are you sure honey? Did you catch him at it?” suddenly she realised that if there was an affair, then there must be another person involved.

Nyawe suddenly stiffened, freezing beneath her touch, pulling away with only a slight sticking as Madlenka tried to hold her.

“No I did not,” she scowled, “but he as good as confessed it. He has to abstain for a month as penance for some sin he has committed. What else could he possibly have done?”

Madlenka tried to come up with something but couldn’t. It did indeed sound like he must have committed some indiscretion though she had no knowledge of the workings of manly sins and the type of penance they might require.

“I just feel so stupid,” Nyawe snarled, “all this time thinking he thought me ugly when all the while he’s been getting his jollys with some slut on the side. No wonder he didn’t want me. He was all used up by the time it came to me.”

“And to think. I could have done it to him but decided not to. Because I didn’t want to hurt him. How stupid was that?”

Madlenka’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, you could have?”

“Well… I had the opportunity, well and truly thrust shall we say at me in a quite repetitive manner. I should have just done it. Lord knows at least I would have had a bit of fun.”

Madlenka felt rather awkward and out of her league with this but she had to ask, “Er… who was being repetitively thrust at you?”

She had an idea of who it might be. There was that guard, the handsome one that had been scarred so terribly who had been hanging around Nyawe like she was a dog on heat.

Nyawe actually blushed slighty, “Oh well, you know… it was that Sir Hwratar.”

Madlenka tried to contain an unbidden snort of laughter but it did her no good.

“Alexis”, she giggled, “but he has such a ridiculous little moustache.”

“I’ll have you know, he is a rather handsome man,” Nyawe snapped, puffing up like an angry cat, “and a rather good kisser.”

“You kissed him!” Madlenka squealed, “What was it like?! Oh Nyawe, did his silly moustache tickle your lips!”

Nyawe stared grumpily at her and then suddenly she burst into giggles.

“Yes, yes it did tickle most monstrously. I wished he would have shaved the bloody thing off and be done with it.”

“Ugh, oh really ugh.”

“But you know honey, sometimes there is something to be said for a tickly moustache depending on where exactly the man is kissing”, she drawled.

“Oh no Nyawe no!” Madlenka shrieked, shaking with helpless laughter, “now I shall have simply awful nightmares!”

“Maddy,” Nyawe stopped, suddenly sombre, “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

Madlenka threw her arms around her dearest friend, “Only every other day sweetie.”