Varda carefully unbraided her hair with trembling hands releasing the long strands from the confines of the day, combing her fingers through the thick tresses.

Goodwife Cade had confirmed the suspicions that began with sharp, clenching pangs in her abdomen and subsided in a trickle of blood. It was lost, it was gone and nothing she could do would ever bring it back again.

She shuddered in helpless despair, her mouth open wide, panting with the silent sobs she refused to release. They would remain, tangled into writhing knots, struggling to be free. At least she could keep something inside her.

She brought a shaking hand to her mouth unconsciously as though to push her grief back deep inside where it was only hers to view. She did not like it here, on display for the scrutiny of others. They would inspect it in the cold flicker of candlelight, turning its spasming malformed body over and over in their hands as they shook their sympathetic heads. She could not bear it and so she willed the grotesque squirming thing to retreat to where it belonged, in the dark where it slowly gnawed at the edges of her soul.

She unlaced her robes, carefully avoiding brushing her hands against her belly. She pulled her arms from the sleeves, holding the dress before her. It hung limply from her hands, as empty as she.

She folded the hollow arms over the hollow belly, holding the neck to her body with her chin pressed firmly to her chest. The dress lay softly in her arms as though in a lover’s embrace while she cruelly contorted it into shapes a body should not make. She thrust it into the chest before her, with all the other empty bodies lying neatly together like corpses piled into a plague pit.

She held her hands wide from her body as she had when stretching out the arms of her dress, unwilling to bring them to her stomach. They hung there as tense as the robes were limp, her fingers trembling in the flickering candlelight.

Then she dropped one hand furtively to her belly, running it over the flat pale expanse between her hips. It had only been days ago that she had noticed the very tiny swell that had not been there before. How many times in those days had she carefully moved her hands over that curve, wondering at the difference.

It was still there, the slight change in gradient as she moved her hand slowly downards. With a silent cry of pain she collapsed to the floor leaning heavily against the solid, wooden chest, curling her knees towards her useless body.

How could it be that it was gone, another tiny creature that never was. How cruel that she could still feel her swollen belly, that her breasts still ached when there was no longer any reason for it. She supposed those changes would go too, slowly trickling away like her nothing child and she would be returned to her normal state, flat belly, boyish hips, small breasts and no one but her would know that there had ever been a difference.

That was something at least. No one would know. Not even Sigurd. She had not told him this time, had not wanted to cause him the pain. Some more selfish part of her had not been able to bear the thought of replenishing his endless torrent of grief. She could not bear to comfort him anymore. To listen to him sob as though he were the only one who had lost something. She had been right not to tell him. It was better not to give him hope for there was very little left.

She slowly pushed herself to her feet, opening the chest again and selecting another empty body to clothe her own in. She stood before the mirror carefully arranging her face until she was happy with the blank unfeeling stare that gazed back at her.

She blew out the candles and lowered her aching body onto the bed. Soon Sigurd would come back and she wanted to be asleep before then or at least pretending to.

She knew they would need to try again, that he would want to keep trying until the voracious hunger of her silent grief had devoured her soul and she was truly empty. But she could not do it tonight.

It was early Spring, and that meant not only was it both Eallair and Lochan’s birthdays, but also nearly a year since they had left their home for this godforsaken island. Despite the hardships faced by the people, Eallair had declared that this be a day of celebration. He had also insisted that everybody present wear red and gold, the royal colours of Branwhuld that had been so often a fixture of court celebrations in the past.

So they had solemnly unpacked their fine dresses and tunics from the musty chests that had hidden them from sight and remembrance. Each of them had carefully shaken off the dust, hanging the cloths to air away the musty smell of a year, empty sleeves hanging limply, kinsmen of Branwhuld dangling from the gallows. But tonight was a night to remember the good things, to be happy despite their exile.

Looking up at Lochan as he danced with Cindra, Isaura thought he looked happy. She was glad, he had not been so for as long as she could remember, the strain of her illness weighing heavily on his shoulders. He was a strong, willful man but she did not know how much longer he could carry this burden, and she thought it might almost be a relief to slide from his desperately grasping hands and let him finally be free.

But then, there was so much to live for, and she was not ready to let go yet as the moving form inside her reminded with a gentle kick. No, all she could do was hang on, despite the pain, despite the diseased, winding fingers that tried to drag her down and hope that she had enough strength left to hold on to him and that he was strong to carry the weight of them both.

She sat next to Morven, both too exhausted to partake in the energetic dancing before them. Morven had not recovered well from her illness, frequently out of breath, clutching at the pain in her chest. And so they sat together watching their husbands dance with other women.

Next to them, Garrick was lounging, his head heavily propped up on one elbow, his eyes bleary. He was obviously drunk, and Isaura thought it a pity to see him that way. The whole night, he and Cindra had barely said two words to one another. Garrick had poured back ale after ale as Cindra chatted animatedly with everyone but him.

Eallair seemed to be having a good time, slightly bleary-eyed himself, but with a good-natured smile plastered on his face, oblivious to any tensions in the room. He was dancing with Varda, whose graceful steps served to conceal his every clumsy movement.

Isaura’s eyes wandered down to her boyish hips which were swaying rhythmically in contrast with the King’s flailing motions. She could not help but notice the flatness of her stomach and she felt a pang for the woman. She herself understood well the suffering that came with an inability to bear children. She rubbed her belly gently, softly murmuring a small prayer of gratitude.

But tonight Varda looked happy, Isaura was surprised to see she was actually smiling, a genuine proud smile directed at the King. Of all of them, Varda had been the only one who hadn’t carefully folded away the robes of Branwhuld, wearing them defiantly every day, to remind them of what they had left behind.

Her gaze fell on Sigurd who was perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, watching as his wife danced with the King. Every now and then he smiled shyly towards Varda but she never looked his way.

Her eyes came to rest on the large tapestry which was now hanging on the wall. The women had worked hard to make this gift for the King, spending many hours during the winter, their needles flicking through the fabric. Out of the threads had appeared the soaring heights of Branwhuld, emerging from embroidered forests around. A small company on horseback were turning for one last look at the fallen city before they embarked on their journey to a new land. The scene was woven with threads of sadness stained with their tears, stitches of defiance hotly pulled through the heavy material with angry hands and here and there, small knots of hope.

Below the tapestry Lisbet and Cordell had forsaken the dancing for now and were laughing, sharing some private joke. His arm was gently resting around her shoulders as she giggled at whatever he had said.

Lisbet had worn her hair down for a change. Isaura couldn’t remember if she had ever seen it that way, the wild curls cascading down her shoulders. She noticed that Cordell’s hand was almost continuously buried in her hair, caressing the thick strands between his fingers.

He pulled her in closely for a long kiss, oblivious to those around him. Isaura knew this sort of love and she was glad for them, glad that they had been given a second chance at happiness.

She wondered if she would get a second chance. But then again she had taken her first, as she sat in the gardens of the castle, Lochan’s arms wrapped around her slender waist, her face pressed against the warmth of his neck. She had the man she wanted but now her illness was slowly destroying him.

Sigurd was gazing at them longingly, his smile fading, drowning in the stagnant, green pools of his eyes. There was a man who had never even had a chance.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud grunt from beside her. Garrick’s big shaggy head had finally carried him down and he was snoring loudly, his mouth hanging open. She shivered in distaste. How could that dreadful drink change a man so much?

“No Alexis, that is not the key to a woman’s heart”, she was distracted by the Queen snapping at Sir Hwratar.

Beside her Morven was looking up in interest too. She looked over at Alexis who was dancing with the Queen. She always found him slightly ridiculous, especially today with his ruffled shirt and his tight pants. There was a man who thought much too highly of himself.

And that silly little moustache of his, curling above his smirking lips. Really she could not understand how any woman could find it attractive, but it seemed they did. She had often overheard her maids conversing about handsome Sir Hwratar.

Since Morven’s recovery he had become even more insufferable than usual. Morven usually managed to curtail his outright flirtations but since her illness she seemed to have given up, too exhausted to care.

Isaura followed his gaze down to the point on which it was focused, which happened to coincide with the Queen’s ample bosom.

“My eyes are up here Alexis”, she scolded, a brittle smile plastered across her face.

“Oh… Your Highness… you did not think… oh I never… I was just admiring your jewels… er jewel that is”, he smiled winningly.

“They’re all the same aren’t they”, Morven sighed beside her. Perhaps she did care after all.

“What do you mean dear?”, Isaura asked. Everyone knew what sort of a man Alexis was but not everyone was married to a man like that.

Morven said nothing but her gaze turned rather pointedly to where Lochan was dancing with Cindra.

Lochan did look like he was having a good time. She could tell he was happy because he was smiling with his eyes too, not just the dreadful forced contortion of his mouth he wore so often these days.

So he was happy. It was his birthday and it had been a lovely night with their friends. And he did like to dance. And was fond of his young cousin. It didn’t mean anything.

Just then Lochan’s hand swooped close to Cindra’s face as they danced, stopping midflight to cheekily pinch her chubby cheek.

“If you were referring to my husband he is not like that”, Isaura retorted haughtily a burst of anger and doubt flaring in her.

Morven looked at her sympathetically and patted her hand, “Yes dear, of course you’re right. Not all men are like my husband. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you”.

They were startled by a sudden loud snort next to them, as Garrick awoke, rising to a sitting position, blinking in confusion.

His blurry eyes fell on his wife’s form, giggling as she danced around Lochan and the dull look on his face abruptly changed to one of anger. He lurched out of his seat and stumbled towards them.

Lochan noticed first, stopping mid-movement his arms falling to his sides as saw Garrick’s reddened face. Cindra did not see for a moment more, turning towards Lochan first with an inquiring look, then noticing her husband’s bulky form standing before them she stopped.

She slowly lowered her arms, looking straight at Garrick, the radiance of her expression gone, her smile frozen on her face, her eyebrows slightly raised in defiance.

“S’my wife your dancin with Lochan”, he slurred, his fists balled at his side, his mouth curled into a sneer.

“Yes of course Garrick”, Lochan replied congenially, “I was merely minding her while you had a nap. Was it a good sleep then? The sound of our revelry wasn’t too loud for you”.

Isaura could clearly hear the sarcastic lilt in her husband’s voice but it appeared Garrick was too drunk to notice.

“Mphf… well thanks”, he replied, roughly grabbing his wife’s hand, “but I’m back now so she doesn need you anymore”.

Lochan turned away as they began to dance awkwardly, Garrick swaying drunkenly, Cindra’s entire body going stiff as she avoided his pawing hands. His smile fell on Isaura and she instantly knew she had been wrong, that smile was meant only for her.

“Well then my beautiful wallflowers”, he said with a laugh, “I was hoping for a dance but unfortunately I haven’t arms enough for two”.

“Oh that’s alright, I am too tired for dancing anyway”, Morven replied with a forced laugh.

“I think I am too dearest”, Isaura smiled weakly at her husband, wishing with all her heart that she could bend her fragile body to her will.

“How about we make our own dance then, a very slow one without all this arm-waving nonsense. A dance that only goes on as long my lady’s feet aren’t tired”.

“Alright then”, she said smiling as he gently helped her to her feet.

“Garrick, you’re going the wrong way!”, Cindra shrieked, “Ow! And stop stepping on my feet you big clumsy oaf”.

Isaura looked over at the unhappy couple, wondering what could have changed so much between them. They had always seemed so good for one another, and now they could barely stay in the same room without arguing. It was sad to see, but it made her value her marriage all the more.

Lochan carefully wrapped his arms around her swollen waist, rocking her back and forth slowly while the other whirled around them.

“There now, I think the little one in there at least wants to dance with me”, he looked into her eyes with a wistful grin, “judging by the kicking I would wager it’s actually quite enthusiastic about this dancing thing”.

It had only been recently that he had tentatively begun to speak of the child she bore within her. It was only recently that they had dared to hope that perhaps this would finally be the one. If not she knew they would never hope again.

She pressed her face against the warmth of his neck as she had done that first day in the garden.

“Happy Birthday my darling”, she whispered in his ear.

“There now y’see”, Garrick drawled at them with a goofy grin on his face, “mush better dancing with your own wife isn’it”.

“Garrick! You stepped on my toe again! Keep your stupid clumping feet away from mine! And don’t be vulgar!”.

Isaura ignored them and leant forward to gently kiss her husband’s smiling mouth.

The door opened with a thump and Varda had to suppress a sigh of irritation.

“Good evening Varda”, Radomir rasped.

“Good evening your Lordship”, she replied dully, not looking up at him.

She hated that he took the liberties to call her by her first name while she was forced by etiquette to use his title.

“How are you doing today my love?”, he asked shambling over to the side of the bed, where his wife lay deep in the throes of fever.

Varda realised then that he was staring at her over the bed, expecting her to answer for his wife. She rose gracefully to her feet and stared back at him.

“Unfortunately your Lordship she is about the same as last night, her fever has not abated yet. She is stable for the moment however, at least she is not getting worse”, Varda tried to dull the blade of her tongue on bland medical details, reducing the urge to slice it through his uncaring body.

He bent down his hulking shadow falling across his wife’s face. Varda could not help but think of the golden glory of the sun blotted out by the towering darkness of a storm cloud, seething and roiling while the sun tried to meekly peek her face through the holes.

“Valeriya love”, he had slid one brawny arm beneath her shoulders and was now shaking her body, “Valeriya… it’s Radomir. Can you hear me?”.

He loomed above her, his massive form dwarfing the pale, wasted figure that lay below him in the bed.

Now he was shaking her harder, Varda could see her head lolling back and forth on the pillow.

She realised she had been unconsciously clenching her fists into tight balls beside the soft flowing of her skirts.

She unclenched them and drew her hands into her sides, picking at the fabric by way of distraction.

Valeriya had begun to whimper softly, Radomir’s desperate clawing obviously causing her pain.

Varda struggled to soften her features which had involuntarily curled into a scowl before she spoke.

“Radomir, you are hurting her, perhaps you should be a bit more gentle”, she said with as little feeling as possible.

Suddenly Radomir leapt to his feet and was stumbling towards her. She recoiled back in horror from his grasping hands.

“We must get Hepsie!”, he shouted, “She is sick… look at her, she is in pain! Go and get her… go… NOW!!!”.

She tried to be as calm as possible, for all their sakes, “Radomir, you know that Goodwife Cade is busy helping the the Baroness give birth right now. She cannot come”.

“Besides, your wife is no worse than before, the only thing to be done now is wait. I will call Goodwife Cade if she deteriorates at all. But right now, she cannot help”.

“NO!!”, he roared at her, the little patience he possessed dissipating, “You listen to me Varda! I outrank you and I demand that you go and fetch me Hepsie right now. My wife is sick! That is more important than some squalling brat!”.

Varda felt every part of her stubbornness rising to the occasion. She would not let this booming man defeat her.

“Your Lordship”, she said pleasantly, with an exagerrated benign expression on her face, “of course you outrank me, there’s no doubt of that. But perhaps I should remind you that the lady in question is in fact the cousin of the King himself. And I do not doubt that he would not be overly pleased if something were to happen to her… or that “squalling brat”, was that how you put it?”

His face began to go red with rage, twisted into an ugly grimace and she could see his strong fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Listen wench, don’t you play innocent with me! Go and get that woman for me… you know I cannot go into that room. Don’t play these women’s games with me, I have no patience for them.”

She felt her blood boiling in her veins from the moment the word “wench” left his mouth. Her right hand began to twitch with a desperate urge to slap it across his cruel mouth.

“I will not go!”, she snarled, “And you will not either! Your wife cannot be helped and the Baroness is in the middle of the most difficult process a woman will ever face. You will stay well away from them do you hear me?!”.

His demeanour abruptly changed, all the tightness of his coiled muscles drizzling out of his body, as a knowing smirk crossed his face.

He leant towards her one eyebrow raised, “Ah, so that’s how it is Varda. I can’t help but notice the lack of swelling at your belly”.

She turned her face away from him as though she had been slapped.

“Jealous are we?”.

He gazed boldly at her body, his eyes slowly moving over every angular feature of her abdomen and her small breasts, as though they were his hands roughly caressing her naked body. She felt a desperate urge to cover herself, to cower in the corner from him even though she was fully clothed.

He leaned in so his face was almost touching hers, close enough to feel the heat rising from his body, to smell the metallic tang of his sweat.

She felt his hot mouth at her ear, the heat of his breath was scorching as he whispered, “Couldn’t your man do the job darling… too limp to rise to the occasion eh? Poor little Varda, what you need is a real man inside you to finish it don’t you?”.

She shuddered in disgust, her cheeks flaring crimson red and turned her head away but he followed with his.

“There now… not so defiant after all are we”, he purred, his breath on her face, the touch of it sending a new wave of heat expanding the blush down her throat.

“Will you get Hepsie for me now?”, he asked.

She looked up at him, gazing boldly into his eyes and murmured, “No… no I won’t”.

Then she turned on her heel and strode over to her seat. She would not be pushed, she would not be threatened. He might stand in the room gazing at her body with his smouldering eyes all he wanted. She would not interrupt Hepsie and she would not leave Valeriya alone with that man unless he forced her to.

Varda looked up at her, neatly tucking away the embroidery she had been working on as Hepsie silently waddled into the room.

Hepsie was very grateful that Lady Inbar had offered to sit by Valeriya’s bedside. Her husband had been an absolute nightmare and Hepsie was glad to have finally convinced him to get some sleep. He was constantly pawing at her, stroking her hair, trying to cover her with more blankets as Valeriya’s fever soared.

“How does the Countess be doin’ then yer Ladyship”, Hepsie queried.

Varda gazed over to the bed at the still figure.

“She seems to be resting a lot better since that husband of her’s has left”, the tone of Varda’s voice led Hepsie to believe that they shared a similar opinion of the Earl.

She looked over at the pale figure of the Countess. She was so pallid one could believe she were dead except for the gentle movement of her chest and an occasional whimper of pain. She had lost a lot of blood. Hepsie was surprised she had survived a wound such as hers. They were lucky that it had been such a frigid night last night, the cold had stilled the bleeding. Otherwise she would not have been laying here before them now.

It had taken what seemed like an age to warm her, so frozen was her body. Especially with Radomir hanging over Hepsie, criticising her every action. She had, had to stay by Valeriya’s side, Radomir declaring the woman’s rank over the other beings who sorely needed her attention. Steen had been given hasty instructions of the procedure and gone with some of the other’s to try and save the Father.

So Valeriya had been gently bathed in luke-warm water while Hepsie and Varda rubbed at her limbs, trying to impart some heat back into them. She had carefully sewn up the dreadful wound on the woman’s neck, making the stitches as neat as possible, while Radomir barked that she had better not leave a scar.

Finally some warmth had returned and her heartbeat had strengthened. But then the fever had bloomed, leaving Valeriya soaked in sweat, weakly thrashing in her bed.

What she really needed was blood, but Hepsie did not now how to give it. She had seen the surgeons once before draining blood from an ill person, to rid them of evil humours, but never before had she heard of someone putting blood back in. It was a river that ran one way. All they could do now was wait, bathing her face and trying to give her some water and hope that she would be well again.

Varda turned to her, her face full of concern, her fine brows curving in worry over her eyes.

“Do you think she will survive?”, she asked in a whisper, as though even mentioning the thought out loud were enough to condemn the sick woman.

Hepsie did not like to lie, but she also knew that there wasn’t a lot of hope for the people at this time. This was the third attack and now everyone was confined to the ships, unable to leave for fear of death. They had not gotten much of a start on planting crops for the next year, so they were going to be hard-pressed to ration the food they had left. If the first year had been hard, the second was going to be worse. The people needed whatever hope they could get.

“Well I don’t rightly be knowin’ yer ladyship, but I am thinkin’ it’s bein’ way to soon to give up hope yet. She may be pullin’ through yet… she was in good health before…”, she trailed off. It just seemed so much effort to constantly reassure everyone and keep a cheerful smile on her face. She wanted to lock herself in her room and see nobody for a week. But she knew that was not possible. She was needed.

“What do you think happened to them out there? Do you think what the Earl is saying is true, that Father Harndall did this to her?”, Varda asked, a little of the strength coming back into her voice.

“Well yew not what I be sayin’ to those there accusations he be havin’… bollocks!”, she blushed slightly remembering she was talking to a lady, “I mean… the Father is bein’ a very good man, he would never do such a thing”.

“Beside which”, she said after contemplating for a moment, “he’s bein’ sharin’ those marks on his neck just the same as her, though her’s be far worse and more hasty it looks like. No… I be thinkin’ it’s bein’ something to do with that man that attacked poor Darina. She was havin’ them same marks on her dear neck too. An’ poor sweet Nelly. There’s somethin’ not right about this whole thing… what sort of man goes about bitin’ good people on the neck”.

And the blood, she thought. Too much blood was gone from their bodies, it was unnatural.

Thinking of Darina she hoped the woman was alright. She had gone to stay with her to help with the baby, after the attack. Darina had been quite ill, barely able to feed the baby, so she had lain in bed for many days while Hepsie ran the house. But she had been much better when Hepsie had to leave for the ships, as the Queen herself’s time was approaching.

“Arright then, yer lady… I best be headin’ out to check on those others. Yew just let me know if anythin’ be happenin’ with this poor dear”, she paused, “And try to be keepin’ that husband o’ hers out if yew can… he only seems to be makin’ her worse”.

As she turned and walked out the door a wave of exhaustion washed over her. It was really too much for one woman. Her ankle was throbbing incessantly and the weight of her belly was dragging at her back. If only she could have had Darina and Gena to help her, both were sensible women and irreplaceable in their own ways.

She paused to poke her head in to the room where Morven lay. There was nothing more she could do for the woman, all that was left was to wait as her life slowly ebbed away.

Alexis had refused to leave her side, having only a cursory glance at his sons. Hepsie had tried to convince him to come and see them, perhaps hold them for a while but he had refused. She tried to tell him gently that they might not survive and he should see them while he still could, but he had only closed his eyes, grasping Morven’s clammy hand in his and asked her to please leave. Now he sat beside her, dozing in his chair.

She carefully closed the door with a click. Now she would go check on those babies and see how they were doing. She had much to do before she would sleep tonight.

Harndall pushed open the heavy door and entered as quietly as he could. He knew he was running very late for the meeting but he had found himself unable to leave the distressed peasantry that was residing in the chapel. Valeriya had been right, the people needed him. He had no right to be wallowing in his own misery in his room when such troubled times were upon them. He had put all thoughts of his own inadequacy as a priest from his head and thrown himself into his work. Still, there were nights when he woke up sweating, his limbs twisted in his sheets after dreaming of the touch of her lips.

And now the King had called a meeting to discuss the latest developments. Harndall had already been to see Goodwife Rawtharn after her frightening meeting of the night before. The peasant woman had seemed distant somehow, not terrified as he would have imagined. She had sat and listened to him talk, cradling her small child in her arms, her face blank, answering his questions in a dull voice.

The men had not noticed his entrance yet, so involved in their heated discussion where they. The King had insisted that all the nobility be present for this discussion. Harndall’s stomach turned slightly, seeing Radomir sitting in place between Sir Inbar and Lord Murchadh. He seemed to be the focus of the conversation.

Eallair looked up noticing him standing awkwardly at the door and weakly smiled at him.

“Ah… Father Harndall. I am so glad you could join us. Please… take a seat”, the strain was evident in his voice, which was bordering on exhaustion.

They were all of them tired, he thought, all had spent the day searching for the vagabond that had attacked the poor woman.

The room went silent at the sound of the King’s voice and he felt all their eyes upon him. His hand reached out shakily and found the chair left for him.

He carefully lowered himself into it, glad for its solid wooden build beneath his trembling hands. He felt out of place, he was a man of the church, not used to being involved in discussions of the court. He knew the King had invited him because he had been the last to see Sister Mella before she disappeared and also he had been the only one to get a sensible answer from Goodwife Rawtharn and her distraught husband.

When he looked up Sir Inbar was looking at him expectantly. He felt sorry for the man but wished he wasn’t putting so much faith in him. This was not his domain. Sigurd was someone who came to see him on a regular basis, almost weekly. He had spent many hours pouring his heart out to the priest and weeping on his shoulder for his lost babies. His wife by contrast, came to see Harndall only occasionally and when she did it was simply to recite a list of small indiscretions and receive her penance. He wanted to help the man but he did not know what to recommend to him.

“I just do not understand how we can be so sure that this woman is telling the truth”, Radomir was saying loudly.

Harndall had not seen the man for a long time. He had heard the Earl had been ill and in truth his face looked gaunt, his dark eyes sunken and his cheek bones protruding slightly.

The King and Eallair were staring at him in astonishment.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that this woman is making this all up?”, Lochan asked incredulously.

“Why would she lie about this?”, Eallair asked obviously confused.

“Perhaps she wants the attention”, Radomir replied, waving his arms in annoyance, “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that we can’t necessarily take what she says as definite truth”.

“I know she is one of your subjects Radomir, but I think we can definitely take her word on this. She may have been confused but why would she have wounded herself in such a way. I don’t think it would even be possible to be perfectly honest. She had a human bite mark on her neck. Unless her husband bit her, which I seriously doubt, we are dealing with an unknown killer on the island”, Lochan retorted, “And even more worrying is it was almost identical to the wound on the dead peasant girl, Nell’s neck”.

“Fine, whatever you say, Lord Murchadh”, Radomir said, with emphasis on Lochan’s title.

Harndall was suprised by his reaction, it was not like Radomir to back down in a fight.

“Do you think she could possibly have been attacked by the same creature as I was?”, Cordell asked earnestly, “I mean she was wandering out in the forest alone and we know there is a violent black dog out there somewhere”.

“But Cordell”, Alexis cut in, his voice dull, “Goodwife Rawtharn was inside the house which makes it unlikely that it was a wild animal. And unless she is totally delirious then it was a man that attacked her. You may be right about the death of the peasant girl though”.

Harndall gazed at Alexis’ face as he spoke. His face was pallid, only serving to highlight the dark bags underneath his eyes. The sparkle that had always danced in his eyes had died, doused by the waters of despair. There were whispers that his wife would not make it to the end of her pregnancy, so ill and swollen was she now. Harndall had spoken with Goodwife Cade who had told him that he should be ready for her when she called, he would be needed straight away. Still Morven struggled onwards, her heartbeat thready and irregular, so weak and exhausted she could not move from her bed. And Alexis sat there by her side, holding her pale hand until he had been summoned by the King himself.

“Are we seriously discussing this!”, Radomir almost shouted, “Violent black dogs! Strange men! We know there is noone else on this island, we have been around the whole place. We would know, especially if there was some nobility hiding themselves here! Where would he be living!”.

He noticed a beetle crawling along the table and squashed it beneath his thumb and gesturing angrily, “You sound like a bunch of snivelling women!”.

“Now Radomir, I think you’re going a bit far, everyone is just putting forward their ideas. There’s no need to get angry”.

The King’s expression was one of open concern, and it was obvious to Harndall that Eallair was having a great deal of trouble controlling the passions of his men.

Radomir made a snorting noise and was silent.

“Do you know what I think”, Garrick added, slurring slightly.

Harndall thought it was odd for the large man to be drunk at such an important conversation. It was not like him, but then again it had been many months since Garrick had last visited him for confession. He had no concept of what was going on his head.

“I think it was one of Faldorn’s men”, he continued without waiting for encouragement, “I think it was a scout sent here and if we don’t find him he will be paddling his way home and the first thing we will see when spring comes is Faldorn’s flotilla on the glowing horizon”.

“And then”, he said sighing melodramatically, “it will all begin again and we will be doomed”.

“This is a good point Garrick”, Lochan mused, “But I think you might be overreacting slightly. If it is one of Faldorn’s men we will find him and make him talk”.

“But it really doesn’t explain why he would have bitten her on the neck”, he said with a puzzled expression on his face, “Actually… why would he have even gone to see her at all. If he was a scout for Faldorn wouldn’t he already be heading back with the good news that he has found us. No I don’t think he’s one of Faldorn’s men. But where he’s from then I do not know”.

“No Lochan, I think you’re wrong! He was definitely one of Faldorn’s men and every moment we sit here on our behinds is more time he has to gather information and leave the island. We should be out there searching for him right now!”, Garrick glared at him through squinted eyes.

“Men, men… you all have excellent, valid points. But there is nothing we can do right now. It is pitch black outside and there is a blizzard raging. If he is one of Faldorn’s men he won’t be going anywhere tonight and we will find him tomorrow. If not then he won’t be going anywhere anyway and we will still find him”.

“But your highness”, Sigurd piped up timidly, his eyes wide like those of a startled deer, “Should we be worrying about our wives… it seems to be the womenfolk that this man, if that’s what it is, is going after”.

“Ha…”, Radomir chortled, “You’re worried about our wives being eaten by some strange creature eh? Don’t you think given the current company you should be more worried by the danger posed by your own little creature that likes to come out in the dark. It seems like that’s what’s doing the most damage to our womenfolk these days”.

He looked pointedly at Alexis who reeled back as if he had been punched. Harndall had often spoken with Alexis, the young man seeming to find it humourous to regail the Priest with all the sins he had commited each week. Harndall knew from these conversations that Radomir despised Alexis. Alexis had often laughed about this, claiming that he had stolen Morven’s heart from the blackened claws of the beast. In reality both men had asked for her hand in marriage, but Morven’s father, unlike most had given her the choice of the two and she had chosen Alexis. Wisely, Harndall though with a sigh, an image of Valeriya’s sad face appearing in his mind. She was a lucky girl to have been given the right to choose.

“Oh… oh Alexis… oh my goodness. I am so sorry. I… I really didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t mean to say anything wrong. Oh… I am so very sorry”, Sigurd turned to Alexis, wringing his hands with a distressed look on his face.

Harndall wished he would be quiet. He had not said anything and perhaps Radomir’s comment could have been ignored, but Sigurd with his bumbling was making it a million times worse.

“No… don’t be silly Sigurd. It’s fine… you haven’t said anything wrong. It was just a joke. I am sure noone meant my Morven”, his voice cracked when he said Morven, and from where Harndall was sitting he could see Alexis’ lip trembling underneath his neatly trimmed mustache.

“Sorry… I… I think I have something in my eye”, he said, rubbing furiously at his eyes with his sleeve. From where Harndall was sitting he could see the tears welling up in Alexis eyes.

“Well”, Eallair said stonily, “I think this conversation has gone on well and truly long enough. We will spend tomorrow searching again, the same groups as today. We WILL find this man. I am sure of it. Now go and get some sleep. I will see you all in the morning”.

Valeriya looked around the room and could not help but think that everyone was enjoying themselves but her. She was glad in her heart that Radomir had not shown up for the Christmas festivities but there was another face she would have dearly liked to see who had not attended either.

Varda and Sigurd were quietly sitting at the table before her, listening to the conversations around them. She thought it must be nice to be able to just sit with someone, to be so comfortable together that words became unnecessary.

The King was laughing at the back of the room with the Queen who was proudly showing off her swollen belly. He stopped occasionally to lovingly stroke her growing figure. Valeriya had to swallow hard to stop tears from coming to her eyes.

The Arwaduhns who before had hated each other so passionately it had been impossible for the other inhabitants of the boat not to hear their frequent screaming matches, were chatting to each other happily. Since Cordell had mostly recovered from his illness they had been absolutely inseparable, and while the occasional fight was heard echoing through the hollows of the ship, it was clear that they had put aside their differences and were very much in love.

The only person in the room who did not look happy was Lochan who was standing in the opposite corner of the room to her, watching the proceedings with a bleak look on his face. She had heard that Isaura’s condition had deteriorated and now she was so weak most days she could not leave her bed.

Their eyes met across the room and she weakly smiled. He didn’t smile back but she didn’t expect him to and she thought his expression had grown slightly warmer than the moment before.

She heard a squeal from the centre of the room and her gaze fell upon Cindra and Garrick.

Cindra was shrieking with laughter as Garrick, who had drunk far too much wine was trying to tickle her. She ducked away from him, hindered by her large belly and ran giggling over to the doorway where a sprig of mistletoe hung.

She stood underneath it looking up at her towering husband, one hand resting on her hip.

“Well… are you going to come and catch me or not”, she said saucily.

“I most certainly am”, he growled, slurring his words slightly.

He leapt forward and gathered her up in his arms trying to kiss her. Unfortunately their height difference, the amount of mulled wine consumed and the size of Cindra’s belly proved to make this a very difficult task.

Eventually he gave up and tipped the small girl backwards, planting a rather large and wet kiss on her mouth while she squealed and squirmed in his arms.

Valeriya sometimes found Cindra a bit too much to handle, and this was one of those times. She wished she were somewhere quiet, away from these jovial people who had so much to live for.

The door opened with a click beside her and he walked in, his footsteps barely making a sound on the hard wooden floor. Her heart began to pound so hard she felt sure that everyone else in the room could hear, that they knew what she was thinking. She shuddered at the thought as she looked at him, her breath quickening the room beginning to spin.

Then he noticed her there and smiled. The room stopped spinning and everyone else in it ceased to exist. It was just her standing there before him basking in the warmth of his smile.

Then she heard a shrill cry from behind him.

“Father Harndall is standing under the mistletoe! He’s going to have to kiss someone… and look… Valeriya is standing the closest!”

She looked up at Cindra in dismay and followed her gaze to the offensive object hanging above the doorframe. Her heart began to flutter in panic and she felt the world going black around the corners. She took a deep breath and willed her knees to hold her up.

She heard the others begin to join in, drunkenly jeering as the two of them stood awkwardly before the doorway.

“Come on Father… it’s Christmas time… even Priests get to be a little bit naughty on Christmas!”, Cindra cried.

“And just because you’re a priest doesn’t make you exempt from the mistletoe rule”, Garrick almost shouted with glee.

“Come on Father, it’s just peck on the lips”, Cordell joined in.

Harndall looked at the King beseechingly, but when Valeriya glanced up at him, he too was staring at them expectantly.

She noticed his eyes were blurred slightly from the drink and then he nodded at them and grinned congenially. She knew that in his head Ealliar thought he was doing the priest a favour, letting him savour a quick kiss from a beautiful woman.

There was nothing else that could be done to appease the party-guests so Harndall stepped closer to her and laid one hand gently on her shoulder. She closed her eyes tightly waiting for it to be over, for the humiliation to end.

Then she felt the light brush of his lips on hers and a tongue of fire arced its way through her body. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would burst and she could feel a red burning blush snaking its way up her chest and neck, to settle on her cheeks. The jeers of the others fell away and for a moment, with her eyes shut she could imagine it was just them.

Then it was over and he stepped away from her, his hand leaving a warm imprint on her shoulder, his kiss leaving an imprint on her heart.

They stood staring at each other for a moment ignoring the drunken cheers around them. She could see that his face was flushed too, his pupils dilated and his breath coming quicker than it should have.

And then, without a word, she turned and walked through the doors, leaving them all behind her.

Varda sat in her usual spot waiting for Sigurd to come home, but tonight there was not small embroidery in her hands. Her palms were pressing into her thighs, her fingers working the fabric of her dress between them. She felt a thread come loose and began to absentmindedly pull at it before reminding herself that she did not have many dresses here and it would not do to ruin this one. Then she heard heavy steps in the corridor and she clasped her hands together, waiting for him to enter.

The door swung open and Sigurd walked through it, a wide smile on his face. He had been like this every night since she had told him, despite the dreadful things that had happened. He had told her their room was like a cocoon of happiness for him, a place where he could hide himself from the despair that lurked outside the door. But Varda hadn’t been able to keep the despair out, it had crept through the door with its long limbs to join her before she had even realised. She looked up at Sigurd and she knew he was expecting her to stand up and kiss him on the cheek as she had done in the month since she had told him she was pregnant.

She did not give him a kiss, but instead stood and turned towards the mirror. She knew she was confusing him, but she could not bear at that moment to look him in the face. She didn’t want to see the naive smile that was plastered across it. She thought she might slap it if she did.

“Varda… is something wrong?”, he asked, a twinge of worry entering his tone.

Inside her mind she was screaming at him. Of course there was something wrong, something so very wrong her whole being felt like it would collapse.

She turned towards him closing her eyes tightly so she would not have to look at him.

“Sigurd, I have lost the baby”.

Now that it was said she could open her eyes and stare at him, waiting to see what he would do. She knew in her heart how it would be, but somehow she wished it would be different now.

But it wasn’t. His face crumpled like a small child who has lost his favourite toy.

“The baby?”, he mumbled, “Our baby…”.

And then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob, his long blonde hair falling around his face. She stared at his strong, manly hands, covering his face, catching his tears. His muscular shoulders were shaking and his thick legs looked as though they would buckle.

How she hated him in that moment, watching as his arms wrapped around himself. They should have been wrapped around her waist, her small tear-stained face pressed up against his chest as he whispered comforting words in her ear. It had been her baby too.

Her baby, thinking the words made her want to retch again, and she clutched at her empty stomach desperately. A sob caught in her throat and she choked it back again. She would not cry in front of him. She would not let him see her weakness even if he was happy to flaunt his in front of her. There was plenty of time to cry later, behind closed doors when no-one would see.

She walked over to the set of drawers and briskly opened it.

“I am going to bed now Sigurd”.

She pulled out her nightgown and closed the drawer with a loud thud.

She hurriedly pulled off her gown, dropping it on the floor in her haste to clothe herself once more. It did not matter. Sigurd was not watching her tonight as he often did, out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be doing something else. She hated the way he looked at her, it made her skin crawl. If he had been a real man he would have boldly watched her, his eyes upon her naked body. And she would have enjoyed him watching. But not Sigurd, who had to peek at her with his guilty eyes.

She stood in front of the mirror and hastily unpinned her hair. He was watching her now, his pitiful tearstained face visible to her in the mirror. His eyes met hers, beseeching and she knew he wanted her to comfort him. But tonight, she thought angrily, she would not.

She moved over to the bed and began to pull the covers up over her. It was a chilly night, winter was fast approaching and she thought it would have been nice to lay her head on a warm, manly chest, to feel thick fingers stroking her hair, to hear a deep voice whispering to her in the dark. She pulled the blankets up firmly to her neck. Sigurd was still watching her like a puppy that has been kicked.

“Goodnight Sigurd”, she said firmly and closed her eyes.

She lay there, unable to sleep shivering with cold and sorrow as she listened to the muffled sobbing of her husband.

Just a quick warning guys. This one’s a bit upsetting and a bit gruesome… I found it upsetting to write but maybe I’m just wussy. Just in case anyone doesn’t want to read… the usual… you’ll find out what happened in the next post anyway.

“Here she is! I think I’ve found her here!!!”, Arran shouted, “bring the torches! I’ve found her”.

Lochan and the other men ran to the spot they heard the young man’s desperate voice coming from.

When they arrived he was already on the ground cradling her limp body in his arms. Lochan couldn’t help noticing the glistening blood spattered on her dress and face, her blue eyes open and staring, her once-pretty mouth set in a dreadful grimace. He shuddered, imagining that it could be his Isaura, lying dead before him, her and the baby she was carrying inside her lost to him forever. He could not take it, and he had to turn away for a moment as Arran chattered in terror.

“You’ll be bein’ arright then my lovely Nellie… don’t yew be worryin’ that pretty head of yers… we’ll get yew inside where it’s warm and safe in no time”.

He was stroking her damp hair absent mindly, rocking back and forth her head lolling like a doll’s on his lap.

“She’ll be arright won’t she Sir… won’t she… she’s just a little bit frightened… cause… cause… she’s been bein’ lost all this time an’ it’s a very cold night… won’t she”.

He looked up at Lochan his innocent face pleading, shining a sickly white in the glow of the full moon. Lochan could not take it, he wanted to escape, to flee this dreadful scene and curl up somewhere dark and warm and bury his face in Isaura’s hair. But Isaura’s hair was no longer warm and soft, but lank and plastered to her face as she tossed and turned in the clutches of a fever. There was nowhere he could go.

“Now lad… how about you come over here and let me take a look at her”, he said in a firm voice desperately trying to hide the shake in it.

“Yer arright my beautiful, beautiful Nellie… I’m sorry for makin’ you cry and run off in the dark… I don’t mind if yew can’t have babies… I still love yew… I do. We can be happy anyway… Nellie… Nell why won’t you answer me… I said I was sorry… Nell…”

His hand was desperately stroking her rigid stomach and Lochan thought he would be sick as he saw the blood smearing on the young man’s pallid hands.

“Yew have to help me! Help me! It’s sick my Nellie’s bein’… we have to take her someplace warm and safe so we can fix her till she’s better… she’ll be arright if we just take her inside”.

He had pulled the woman’s body up into a sitting position and was desperately pawing at her, shaking her by the shoulders.

“Yew’ll be arright old girl… yer Arran will take care of yew just like I always done… won’t you help me”, he said imploringly to the men.

He began to drag at the corpse, trying to get his shoulder under her weight but Lochan could see the young man’s trembling knees buckling under him. Lochan did not know what to do, he was frozen to the spot in horror, his stomach churning, bile rising in his throat. He could hear Sigurd whimpering softly somewhere behind him.

Then he heard a strong, gentle voice beside him.

“Come on then lad, let her go… we’ll be helpin’ her if we can… you need to move yerself so we can see if there’s anythin’ to be done”.

The young man suddenly realising that there was nothing that could be done, fell to his knees the body falling from his arms and sliding to the ground. He began to sob, the terrible abandoned crying of a child, pressing his hands against his eyes. Lochan couldn’t bear to watch his shoulders shaking with sorrow, to listen to the animal noises of grief. He wanted to put his hands over his eyes, to block up his ears and make it all go away.

“Let me give you a hand up then lad, yew’ll be arright”, Noah reached down with his strong arms and hauled Arran to his feet, holding him steady as he swayed in place.

“She’s gone then hasn’t she”, he gave a heartrending sob and almost collapsed, but Noah had his hand firmly on Arran’s arm and he held him there, speaking kindly to him with his calm, deep voice as the young man quietly wept against his shoulder.

Lochan bent down to feel the young woman’s neck for a pulse. She was definitely dead, her heart still and cold, her skin so pale it looked like all the warmth had been sucked out of her. She must have been attacked by wolves, he thought. If only the poor silly girl had not run outside alone. They had warned all the people of the danger. He reached out to close her staring open eyes, he could not bear to see them any longer. He was surprised to see blood on his fingers when her did.

“Sigurd! Bring the torch closer… yes here… over by her neck”.

“That’s strange, it looks like something has bitten her here”, he said quietly, pointing to the ragged flesh just beneath her chin where he had just been searching for a sign of life, “but it doesn’t look like a wolves bite… it’s too neat for that”.

What Lochan did not add, what he did not want to admit to the others was something about the wound that disturbed him greatly. The teethmarks looked almost human.

Sigurd was surprised when he walked into the room. He had expected to find Varda already in bed asleep when he returned but here she was still dressed, sitting in the almost dark room with a small pile of sewing on her lap. She had already taken her hair out of its usual braid, and it fell in gentle waves around her face which was half in the shadows. He was surprised when she looked up and smiled at him as he opened the door quietly.

She hurriedly tucked away whatever it was she was working on, it seemed like something very small and white with fine embroidery on it. She stood up and came to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. This was not usual either, his wife was not one for needless affection and when it did occur it was always in the dark of the room, as they lay together in bed, when the candles were snuffed and he could not see her face.

“Did you find her”, a small worried furrow formed between her slender brows as she questioned him.

He shook his head slowly remembering the ordeals of the night. They had searched as much of the area near the coast as they could before it grew too dark and cold. The Duke had finally decided they should go back to ships and get some rest before they began again in the morning.

“No Varda, we could not. We have searched as much as we could in one night. One party even journeyed out to the ruined church where they found her last time but they could find no trace of her”.

He sighed, “And to be perfectly honest I do not see how she could survive a night as cold as this one, on her own somewhere in the woods. Lochan has said he does not think it likely. I think Father Harndall is near mad with grief”.

He shivered slightly, “Lochan had to order him to return with us, he was desperate to keep looking for her. Poor man. I believe he feels the Sister was his responsibility and he has failed her somehow. But he did as best as he could”.

The mask dropped and a look of misery appeared on his wife’s face. The candlelight shone from behind her and her hair was falling either side of her face in such a way that he could only just see the sad little mouth and the sorrowful eyes.

He was not used to Varda displaying such emotions and he did not quite know how to respond. Where was the wife he knew, with her iron-clad heart and an impenetrable fortress built around her feelings. He felt closer to her than ever before. She seemed somehow vulnerable to him tonight.

He thought it a shame for her to look so sad, where she had worn a content little smile before.

“But Varda, you were smiling so when I came home, I hate to tell you such bad news and make you sad”.

Her face turned up hopefully, “Well there was something I wanted to tell you but I guess tonight is not the best time”.

“No Varda, please tell me. I would like something to cheer me up after the hellish night I have had”.

The small proud smile returned to her face.

“Sigurd… you will be a father in the spring”.

He had not been expecting this either and his jaw dropped. It had been so long since she had lost the baby when they had travelled here and so many of the women were pregnant now that Sigurd had feared the worst. His heart leapt at the though of a son or daughter lying in his arms in such a short time.

“Varda! That is such wonderful news”, he could barely contain his excitement despite the sadness of the night still weighing on his heart. This was a good reason to be happy.

He tenderly took her arm and she looked down at his hand. He had never seen her like this, soft and vulnerable and he felt a desperate urge to protect her and the baby growing inside her from harm. He wished he were a stronger man, a man with courage who was not afraid of anything. Sigurd was afraid of too many things.

He wrapped his arms around his wife, marveling at how she relaxed into them. The stiffness between them had disappeared for a time and now she was soft and warm in the stronghold of his arms.

Sitting through a church service was a trial even at the best of times, but it was made a million times worse by the embarrassment of sitting through it with her husband.

(more…)