“Please. Do come in. Yer most welcome,” Igrayne’s husband shut the door behind the couple and shuffled back to stand nervously beside her.

“Yes,” she joined in, smiling kindly at the awkward pair that stood in her doorway. The baby was snuffling gently as Harndall held it to his shoulder.

“We really can’t thank you enough for your kind offer,” Harndall smiled timidly at them as the baby squirmed at his shoulder, “we have nowhere else to go.”

“Your that welcome, please don’t even mention it. I’m sure Noah and Gena would have offered, but you know, Gena hasn’t been well since poor little Derry,” Igrayne smiled sadly.

She was desperately hoping the imminent arrival of the new baby would help her grieving friend. It was a dreadful sight to see, their happy family destroyed so quickly. She thanked God again that he had seen fit to leave Arran with her.

“Yes, just make yerself at home. There’s plenty of room fer all of us in here,” Arran rubbed the small of her back gently.

It had been her husband who had insisted they offer the disgraced pair a place to stay. Her timid, shy husband who well remembered the kindness shown to him when he had lost everything. She felt her heart swelling with love and pride. He was such a good, kind man. And Noah had offered Harndall work on the farm. He was so good and kind too. It just wasn’t fair.

“We haven’t got much but we made up a bed for you, I hope you’ll be comfortable. I filled a basket with pillows which you can put little Hannah in,” Igrayne continued.

Harndall nodded gratefully, rubbing his hand up and down the small girl’s back. The countess stared at her, the poor woman looked shocked and confused. It had only been today that the Earl had sent guards to inform her that she was to give up her quarters on the ship. Poor dear only had the clothes on her back. How it must feel to have fallen so far. Her shoulders drooped in exhaustion, her sad eyes seeming to gaze right through Igrayne. Her hair hung messy and limp around her pale face.

“Thank you,” Harndall murmured, “she’s very tired, aren’t you my girl.”

He stepped carefully to the basket, as though afraid his feet would leave scuffmarks on their floor. Valeriya followed, floating behind him like a pale ghost that haunted his footsteps. When he turned to place the baby in the cushioned basket she waited, swaying gently on her feet like a boat that had lost its anchor.

Arran turned to Igrayne, “Graney, I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he whispered.

“Me too! Poor things, it’s not their fault they fell in love. I’m happy we can help them.”

“Yew little romantic thing yew,” Arran chuckled.

Igrayne flushed and swatted at her husband, “Well it’s your fault if I am, isn’t it!”

“Now gentleman,” she called a little louder for the benefit of Harndall, “perhaps you’d be so kind as to go out and check on the pigs so us ladies can get undressed.”

“Of course,” Harndall mumbled blushing.

“Come on then, there’s been this ruddy one with a black saddle that’s always escaping. Let’s go check the bastard, er sorry, the pig is still being there,” Arran ushered the other man out the door.

Igrayne was left alone with the countess who hovered nervously, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

“So, I guess you haven’t got a nightdress but it’s no worry, I’ve got a few and you can borrow one of mine,” Igrayne said cheerfully.

Valeriya just stared at her as though she couldn’t make sense of the words Igrayne was saying.

“Just wait here and I’ll get one for you,” she hurried over to the wardrobe, pushing open the heavy drawers and pulling out her finest nightgown.

This woman was nobility after all and Igrayne wasn’t going to give her one of her old, worn nightgowns, the ones fraying at the edges with patches covering motheaten holes. No, that would be utterly mortifying. She pulled out her prettiest nightgown, white with ribbons at the front.

“Here you are now,” she held it out to the other woman.

Valeriya took it carefully in her hands, her trembling fingers running over the lace fancywork. She looked up mournfully at Igrayne. Igrayne’s heart sank, the countess didn’t like the garment. But then Valeriya began to fumble with the laces on her dress and Igrayne suddenly realised that she probably wasn’t used to dressing herself. It had come as such a surprise to her when she was serving as the Baroness’ lady maid that the noblewoman had not known how to do the very simplest of things.

If they only knew how much effort some of the peasant women went to strap themselves into corset-like paraphernalia to try and emulate the fashions of the nobility. It certainly was not easy to lace up corsetry on your own.

“Oh,” she murmured, “please, let me help you.”

She gently unlaced the other woman’s dress, helping her wriggle out of it and folding it into a neat pile. Valeriya would have to learn soon enough how to take care of herself, but tonight Igrayne was only too happy to show the poor, exhausted woman some kindness. Though Valeriya’s face did not bear the scars of her own, Igrayne was only too aware of the battle the woman had gone through. maids were not generally known for their discretion and Valeriya’s in particular had never been shy about describing the newest bruises on her mistress’ body.

She helped slip the nightgown over the other woman’s shoulders. Valeriya was shivering though the room was warm, too warm for Igrayne’s liking. She carefully tied the last ribbon.

“There we are now,” she clucked, gently rubbing the other woman’s scrawny shoulders.

The baby gurgled happily in her basket, peering up Igrayne with wondering blue eyes. Goodness she resembled Harndall. There could be no mistaking it. What a sweet little mite she was. Igrayne was so hoping for her own little one but each month brought her troubles again. Maybe this month…

“You make yourself comfortable, I’m just going to get undressed.”

She left the other woman standing dejectedly by the fireplace and hastily dragged her nightgown over her shoulders. Her secondbest and almost as beautiful. Though it wasn’t as finely made it was Arran’s favourite which in her mind made it even better than the best.

“Knock, knock,” she heard her husband calling through the door, “Can we come in now?”

She quickly straightened the hemline of the nightgown and called, “Yes, come in.”

They filed through the door, Harndall first, his face grim and tired, lines of exhaustion scrawled deeply in the flickering candlelight.

A warm breeze pushed its way through the door with the men, Lord it was going to be warm in here tonight with the five of them breathing. Perhaps she would open a window so it wouldn’t be so stuffy. Oh, but then they would have to worry about the mosquitoes coming in. But the coals were still glowing hot from her cooking fire. She would open the window, better itchy than suffocating.

Harndall gazed down at the bedding where Valeriya had curled up in a pitiful bundle, her head resting on one of the pillows. Her golden curls spilled down her back. The baby lay in the basket, silent but awake, her blue eyes wide.

Arran tiptoed over to her side as she unwound her hair from its braid, “Well now, aren’t yew just being pretty as a peach.”

She beamed at him, her beautiful wonderful husband.

He gently took her in his arms and kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose.

“Now yew should be getting into bed and closing yer little eyes. I’ll blow out the candles, but no peeking. I know yew’ve been eating yer carrots my little bunny,” he gave her quick squeeze and pushed her playfully toward the bed.

She scooted down beneath the covers, laying her head on the scratchy pillow and listening to the scuffling of men undressing in the darkness.

She sighed in contentment. She knew they had done the right thing, taking in these poor harried people into their happy little home. Tonight they had done a good thing. No matter what everyone might say.

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?”

“An’ God shall reward us fer doing his work on Earth an’ we shall be blessed. Our suffering shall end and we shall rise up,” the ugly red-headed one was shouting to the angry rabble that mulled in the courtyard.

Christ, this was worse than he had thought. The bastards had weapons too. That huge farmer was carrying a scythe like he was the grim reaper himself. Well they had chosen the wrong bloody day for an uprising.

If it had just been the disgraced priest’s blood they were calling for he might have turned a blind eye. By God he might have almost picked up a great axe and joined them. But they had the gall to threaten his wife. His wife… his heart gave a great, throbbing pang and he swallowed back the bile. Not that the sanctity of marriage had meant much to her in the end…

But by God they had chosen the wrong day to get in his way.

“What in the blazes is going on here,” he roared.

The red-haired man froze, Hynde was his name wasn’t it, made Radomir think of pigs. In the half light the side of Hynde’s face that was turned toward Radomir glowed pink and angry, his jaw set in a rigid sneer. He gripped a huge axe for chopping wood in one hand.

The setting sun made mockery of the faces of the crowd, dividing them in two, one side stained blood red the other a dark shadow. These were the same men and women that worked so dutifully on the farms of Mhalwae, ploughing the difficult land and harvesting its meager offerings. Now they seemed half demon in the trickery of twilight, as though a candle held close would reveal the darkened side was twisted and deformed into a death’s mask. The fine hair on the back of Radomir’s neck prickled.

“Turn around and face me you coward,” he growled.

Hynde turned towards his voice so that the setting sun fully illuminated his face and Radomir saw it was nothing more than an ugly, flat-nosed, freckled face that had spent too many days in the sun. A scar ranged defiantly across the nose. The eyes were bland and brown, the beard patchy. It was merely the face of a man. There were no demons here.

“I asked you a question man. What is going on here?”

Hynde stood tall, a defiant look upon his face, he clutched the axe, fingers curled almost lovingly around its wooden length, “We’ve come fer the priest an’ his woman. An’ that godforsaken child of their’s.”

Radomir strode towards the man, his sword raised at the ready.

“By his woman I take it you mean the Countess? My wife,” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Beggin’ yer pardon yer Lordship but yes. An’ yew who of all people have been most wronged by them surely will not stand in our way.”

“I don’t see how whether I have been wronged or not is any of your concern,” Radomir snarled.

“We’ve all been wronged by them yer Lordship, that wanton woman and the faithless priest. Betrayed we’ve been. An’ God has turned his back on us because of it. Yew must see that it’s true.”

“And what do you intend to do with them?” Radomir asked, his voice going ominously quiet as he felt his rage boiling up again smothering the hurt and betrayal beneath its blanketing heat.

“We will punish them! In the name of the Lord. They must be punished. It is his will. We have all suffered enough,” Hynde shouted at him and he heard members of the crowd murmuring in agreement.

How dare they defy their King. How dare they defy him.

“And the baby. Does she also deserve to be punished?” Radomir asked softly.

Lord knows he didn’t like the child, at times despised it even as a symbol for everything he could have had but which had somehow slipped between his grasping fingers. But he did not forget that it was not her fault. She wasn’t responsible for the sins of her parents. She was only an innocent babe. In another circumstance she could easily have been his daughter.

“She is an abomination!” Hynde spat, “The demon of their sin in the flesh.”

The crowd exploded, some members raising their weapons in support, while others cried out their outrage at what he had just said. So they were divided, they didn’t all follow Hynde blindly though he was obviously a compelling and charismatic leader. He could quash this uprising though he was only one man without support.

“We demand yew let us have them now!” Hynde cried raising his axe in the air as a threat.

Radomir was a trained swordsmen, no farmer clumsily wielding an axe instead of a plough. His blade flashed out against Hynde’s throat.

“Drop your weapon,” he growled.

The arm holding his axe fell to Hynde’s side but he didn’t let it go.

“Don’t yew see yer Lordship. God will punish us over an’ over until all our children are dead an’ our wives barren if we don’t do his will. He will punish us like he has punished us again an’ again fer turning a blind eye to the sins of our people. He’s taken from us our home, our wives an’ our children. This cannot go on,” Hynde spat with a sneer on his face.

Radomir glanced at the crowd. Though many had fallen back, trying to dissociate themselves from the ranting man before him, there were a few who stood firm. That great, hulking bastard with the scythe was looking particularly ominous.

“Drop your weapon now you sorry son of a bitch or I’ll run you straight through,” Radomir snarled pressing the tip of his sword against the man’s throat so that a trickle of blood ran down his neck to his dirty tunic.

The axe fell from the other man’s grasp landing with a thud on the packed dirt of the courtyard. Curious chickens who had wandered toward the crowd scattered with a frightened squawk.

“Stand aside… make way,” the hoarse cries of the guards called out over the mob as they pushed their way through.

The ominous looking brute with the scythe scowled and lowered it to the ground.

“What took you so bloody long,” Radomir growled at them, “arrest this man.”

It was not the sight Radomir had anticipated when he stepped in from the glaring light. In fact, he had to blink a few times before he could really believe it. His wife stood in the middle of the room cradling the child that was not his. And beside her, the digraced Father, his wife’s lover. His breath rushed out in a hiss between gritted teeth. Valeriya looked up, startled, the baby snuffling in her arms. The door shut behind him with a rush of hot, summer air. Inside the throne room was stifling and musty. Sweat prickled on his brow which was already molding itself into a fierce grimace.

“Radomir,” he saw her lips form his name though the sound was so faint, he wasn’t sure Harndall had even heard it.

But the man went rigid and began to turn slowly to face him. Valeriya was staring at him, her eyes sad, her head drooping on her neck like a wilting flower.

A single vein stood out on Radomir’s temple. He felt the blood thundering through it causing it to pulse and throb as though all of his rage was collected at that one point. Every muscle was flexing, tightening against his will. He lowered his head and the cords of muscle in his neck contracted as he clenched his teeth. The blood pounded, until he thought the vein must simply burst, and he would die there, lying in a puddle of his own liquid rage.

“What the hell is this?” he managed through gritted teeth.

“Your Lordship,” Harndall mumbled, pale and sweating, “you see, there’s a mob gathering outside and they’re calling for our blood. They, they think it’s our fault that those people died. We came to ask for the protection of the King.”

“The King’s not here,” Radomir growled.

“I think they’re going to kill us,” Harndall murmured looking ashamed.

“Kill you? Kill you? I’ll kill you, you pathetic worm!!” Radomir lunged towards him, the blood from that single vein roaring in his ears.

The baby gave a piercing shriek, writhing in Valeriya’s arms so violently she almost dropped the distressed child.

Radomir’s fist closed around the fleshy skin of Harndall’s throat and squeezed. His other fist flew up, smashing into the other man’s face feeling it crunch beneath the force.

“Radomir,” Harndall gurgled and Radomir clenched even tighter.

“Radomir please don’t!” Valeriya screamed, trying to hold the baby which was squirming from her grasp, “Hannah shh shh it’s alright… Radomir don‘t hurt him!”

He should have stopped to listen but it was a voice he had long been able to ignore as she begged him for mercy when he beat her. There was nothing but his boundless rage and his fists, nothing but the man who had taken everything from him and Radomir’s hand tightening around his throat.

“I’ll make you wish they’d killed you, you son of a bitch. Call yourself a priest! Call yourself a man of God! Where in the bible does it say you can fuck another man’s wife!! You wretched dog!”

The other man’s face was growing purple, his eyes bulging. He was gasping for air, his mouth wide and gulping like a fish pulled from the water, his body feebly flapping around, his hands batting pathetically at Radomir’s arm.

Suddenly something slammed into Radomir from the side causing him to lose his grip on Harndall’s throat as he staggered to keep his footing. Harndall fell to his knees coughing and wretching.

It was his wife, who was now stumbling over her skirts to stand between him and her lover, clinging tightly to the terrified child who was wailing in her arms.

“Get out of the way Valeriya,” he thundered, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His heart was pounding, straining with the anger that was flooding his body. He was sick in his gut, a burning acid pain as he watched her stand before that man. She would not meet his eyes, her gaze lowered as she tried to calm the squalling child.

“Please your Lordship,” Harndall croaked from his knees, “I beg you. Make sure they don’t hurt Valeriya and the baby. I don’t care what they do to me. Please…”

“Hold your tongue you scoundrel, I don’t want to hear it,” he growled at the cowering man, “get the hell out of my way Valeriya. I’ll make him sorry he was ever born.”

“No,” Valeriya said, sidestepping to block his path to the injured man.

“Why not,” he asked ominously.

“Because I love him,” she mumbled, and still she would not look at him.

Her words were a bucket of icy water thrown in his face. They trickled down the back of his neck paralysing his spine, making his legs shiver. They choked him as they poured down his throat freezing solid in his gut. The shock loosened his muscles, his fists uncurling, his mouth hanging open as he stared at her.

“You love him?” he moaned.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He had thought her incapable of her love. He had seen her dalliance with the priest as some sort of punishment for his actions. He had thought it long over. He hadn’t thought of this…

“And you don’t love me?” he choked.

“No,” she mumbled, looking down at her child, the child that should have been his.

But no… she had loathed his child so much she had rid herself of it. She had hated him so much she had made him the murderer of his own son. Or perhaps it would have been a daughter, a little girl with blonde curls like her mother and his own grey eyes.

To his great shame a big tear welled up and rolled down the side of his ugly nose. He briskly rubbed it away with his sleeve so Harndall would not see. The baby was sobbing now, great gulping gasps as tears streamed down its face.

She didn’t love him. She had never been his.

Harndall had staggered to his feet and was clutching at Valeriya’s arm.

“Please Radomir, please help them,” the wretch was begging.

“Ill help you,” he found himself saying, rasping through the jagged ice in his throat, “All of you. I have been left in charge here while the King is away and so it is my duty to keep the peace.”

He took a deep shuddering breath scowling at the pair of them, standing before him like bride and groom seeking his approval. Blood was streaming from Harndall’s nose and coagulating, sticky in his beard. Finally his wife was looking at him, her eyes shocked and welling with tears.

“But I don’t ever want to see either of you again do you hear me!” he spat, swallowing frantically to stop himself from vomiting and sobbing and slamming his head against the wall until that was the only pain he could feel.

His wife stared at him and he saw tears were running down her marble face. It was the first time he had seen her cry.

Harndall knelt on the hard wooden floor his hands clasped in fervent prayer as he hunched before the altar. Valeriya had crept in silently and now watched, afraid to disturb him. The chapel was cool and dark after the blazing heat of the summer sun and sweat prickled on her brow, her hair hanging plastered to the back of her neck, her dress sticking to the clammy skin of her back. The warm, comforting scent of molten wax and incense tickled in her nose so that she involuntarily sneezed.

Harndall turned in alarm, his rigid body relaxing when he saw that it was her.

She tiptoed forward, the soles of her shoes shuffling on the swept, wooden floor.

“I suppose I should say Bless you, though I’m not sure it would be appropriate any longer,” he crept towards her with a wry smile.

It was his way, to gently poke fun at the things that pained him most of all. She had learned that during the days spent with him in the simple ships chapel, feeling the worst pain of her life, aching in her very soul. He had taught her to laugh again, even when she despaired that she could not. And now he was hurting and she could not think of a single thing to say. His pain was because of her. And yet, she could not feel sorry when her very soul sang to be here with him. Surely God would understand. They were meant to be together.

He grew suddenly serious, his gaunt face calm, “Valeriya, I need to tell you something.”

She swallowed hard, her heart beating its way up into her throat. She had known this moment would come, that he would leave her. How could he reconcile his life as a priest with their love? He would cast her off. She understood, but it did not stop her from feeling like she would die.

He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, “I have told Father Earnulf that I cannot be a Priest any longer. I can’t go on betraying the people’s trust. They have a new guide and he will take care of them.”

She gasped, her heart slithering down into her belly with an acid thud. She had not thought of this… this sacrifice for her. She felt weak and dizzy, and her knees would have collapsed beneath her had Harndall not caught her before she fell.

“Harndall no,” she cried softly.

He smiled sadly and she could see from the red circling his eyes that he had cried long and hard.

He held her tightly, his hands stroking her back, up beneath her coiled hair where her skin was hot and beaded with perspiration.

“You didn’t think this could go on the way it was did you?” he murmured, “I could not continue. It was not right to do so. You must see that.”

“But Harndall, is this really what you want,” she mumbled, afraid of him saying yes, but terrified he would say no.

He reached up to stroke her flushed cheek, “Yes my love. This is really what I want. I can’t go on, torn in two different directions. I cannot have both.”

“But Harndall…” she began weakly, but he interrupted her.

“No buts Valeriya. I have to make a choice. And I choose you.”

His hand was soft and cool, soothing the firey heat in her cheeks. And in his eyes, there was such a look of look of warmth and love that no one had ever thought to turn on her. She felt her eyes brimming with tears, a painful smile on her face.

“I choose you,” he murmured and pulled her towards him, softly kissing her.

She was so happy and so terribly sad at the same time that she thought she must tear apart, her fingers clutching the scratchy fabric of his robe, his warm lips on hers, his heart pounding against her breast. It did not matter that it was a sin. It did not matter that she had a raging, jealous husband. Nobody would know. It was only them. Them and God and she hoped he would forgive them. He had sent them Hannah after all.

“Oh Valeriya,” Harndall mumbled and she felt that his face was wet with tears.

She was crying too, their tears mingling like holy water dribbling down the face of a baptised heathen and she kissed him harder.

Nobody would know. They could be together now. Nothing could stop them.

Lochan felt distinctly uneasy. It was Eanraig. The arrival of the boisterous older man, who carried authority as easily as he wore his finely woven clothes had thrown him. This man was a trusted advisor of the former King. A friend who had suddenly materialised, bringing news of the outside into their silent exile. It should have been a good thing. But Eanraig’s presence had sent Eallair’s new found confidence scattering like a flock of disturbed chickens, their feathered arses ruffling in the breeze.

Lochan was worried.

He gazed at the scarred face of the older man, the flickering candlelight casting ghastly shadows over the humps and ridges of his congenial expression.

“So lads, it’s a nice setup you’ve got yourselves here. You’ve done quite a job these last years, though I can see a few places where some assistance might be needed. And of course, I’m happy to offer my services,” he smiled with affected modesty, one leather booted foot jiggling as he spoke.

“Yes, of course Eanraig. That would be very much appreciated. I know you were a great friend of my father and it is an honour to have you here,” Eallair simpered and Lochan felt the dreadful urge to slap him.

“But please, you must have much news from the outside world and as you can imagine, we are somewhat desperate for anything you bring.”

Eanraig slowly uncrossed his legs, leaning heavily on his thighs and gazed intently at Eallair.

“Yes, please Eanraig. Has Lomorrad risen against Faldorn yet. Surely they must have. Can we go home?” Radomir asked softly, looking tired and old.

His face seemed to hang from the dark circles under his eyes, the corners of his mouth only held up tentatively with the coarse whiskers of his beard. It seemed all the fight had left Radomir and Lochan was suddenly not sure it was a good thing as they sat facing a man he no longer knew if they could trust.

“No… Radomir, no. I’m sorry. But the news is not good at all,” Eanraig murmured, a pitying look on his face., “You see, Faldorn is the least of our worries.”

“What do you mean?” Eallair asked tentatively, “What could be worse?”

“Worse… worse is the God King N’nkasha. Yes I see you’ve all heard of him. Well my friends, it seems that the warlord Faldorn was only paving the way for him. He has risen up from the southern continents which are almost entirely conquered and now sits on the throne of Branwhuld,” Eanraig intoned with the morbid enthusiasm of someone relating a ghost story, his fingers absentmindedly tapping his velvet-clothed thighs.

He stared directly at Eallair as though judging how the King would respond to this news.

Eallair’s face crumpled with worry and disbelief, “N’nkasha? What could he possibly want with Branwhuld?”

“Think of it young Eallair,” Lochan flinched at Eanraig’s offhand tone but nobody corrected him as they listened intently, “Branwhuld is the gateway to the Nothern continent. If you hold those ports you can supply a war that could last for all time. It’s the perfect staging ground for the war to end all wars.”

“Good God,” Garrick mumbled underneath his breath, coming to life for the first time that evening.

“Yes, you may say that my red-haired friend. Indeed,” Eanraig nodded, looking round at the confused and frightened expressions of the men around him. Only Lochan kept his emotions hidden.

“But what about Lomorrad? Ulanbaat? Have these places fallen too? Has he taken the archipelago of Fjaerland? God… that’s our last defense before he could come here,” Eallair’s panic was audible as he stumbled through a list of their allies.

“Calm down now lad, take a deep breath,” Eanraig said evenly, “so far they’ve only taken Branwhuld. It is not so easy to wage a war with a spine of mountains like that rearing up before you. It will take a lot of timing and planning. But I can tell you, it will be on the cards. Lomorrad and Ulanbaat are holding strong and making ready lest the hordes of N’nkasha come pouring down the mountainside. But at least when we left things were still quiet.”

“Have you been in contact with Lomorrad at all Eanraig, Ulanbaat? How about Fjaerland? Did you tell our allies about your suspicions that we had survived?” Lochan asked.

“Indeed I did and what’s more I have messages and news from each of them to share with you. I’ve even had contact with some rebel groups in the southern continent. Our friend Bharata in fact, has relatives in many of the tribes. And of course you should be happy to know my lovely wife Tiatny is in fact a princess of Fjaerland, the twin of Ingskel who is married to your Queen’s very own brother. As you know Queen Inaris is a great friend of mine and seeing as she had a few spare daughters hanging around she was happy to offer me one which only makes our alliance stronger. And I tell you, Inaris did not take kindly to the news of the murder of Kaysa,” he gave a sympathetic glance in Eallair’s direction at the mention of his brother’s wife. Lochan could not help but think of their four pretty children… all murdered and gone.

“It’s no good to outlive your children… no good at all,” Eanraig tutted shaking his head, “Everyone is up in arms my friends. The known world isn’t going to sit back and wait while N’nkasha just takes it all.”

“Then you don’t think you could have been followed? Since everyone now seems to know of our presence here,” Lochan’s tone was cold as he scrutinised the older man’s face.

“What sort of fool do you take me for Lochan,” Eanraig’s face suddenly twisted in anger, “of course we weren’t followed. It took every precaution imaginable. Mhalwae’s location is secret as ever.”

“No, no, of course Eanraig… we understand. You’re a clever man. I’m sure you did everything necessary,” Lochan couldn’t help staring as Eallair apologised to the man who had just all but shouted at him.

“But then we must send an envoy,” Garrick suddenly interjected, “if there’s some possibility of retaking Branwhuld we’re going to need the support of our allies.”

“Yes, indeed Garrick… I was just getting to that. Our friends in Lomorrad were hoping if I found you, you would send some men to begin to plan a resistance. Queen Inaris would very much like a word too and I believe the Ulannbaatese would appreciate a visit. I’ve heard tell the Talmasians are stirred up too and you know the Itruskans are so intermarried with Ulaanbatese we can surely ask for their assistance. We are all going to have to bond together if we want to overcome this. Though the Inadden and Kimorese still seem to think this is not there problem, stubborn idiots and I haven’t heard news from Tassril or Ewori. We simply have to hope they hold to the peace treaty and don‘t break ranks and join with N‘nkasha.”

He smiled congenially, “I will off course go, and I can offer my ship… she’s much faster than any of yours with the adjustments I’ve personally made.”

“I’ll go too if Your Majesty permits it,” Lochan said, not looking at his cousin who was staring at him in confusion, “you’ll need someone who knows what’s happening here on Mhalwae and what we can potentially offer by way of assistance.”

“Fine idea, fine idea indeed. We’ll have to leave sooner rather than later if we want to make it back before winter begins,” Eanraig clapped his hands together heartily.

“Your Majesty,” Radomir droned with a miserable look on his face, “I’d like to request that you send me along as well.”

“But Radomir, I need you here,” Eallair said looking unsettled, “I can’t have all my good men sailing off during the harvest season. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to stay.”

“I understand,” he sighed, “it would have been nice to get away for a while, that’s all.”

“It’s not going to be a holiday Radomir,” Eanraig said snippily and then turned to Eallair, “we’re going to need some good men. Of course, I have my own crew but if you have a few trustworthy men we could use that would be very helpful. If possible it might be a good idea to get in contact with the underground rebellion in Branwhuld and see if we can’t smuggle out a few more refugees to swell the ranks on Mhalwae. We’re going to need to start preparations immediately. We should probably leave early next month.”

“Now… if we’re done, I do believe my lovely wife has probably delivered a baby by now and I’d like to go and check what type it is. Goodnight gentleman.”

And with that he strode from the room.

Harndall swung the door open in response to the soft but persistent knocking. It was Valeriya, pale as a ghost in the harsh midday sunlight. He was startled by her dishevelled appearance, her hair falling messily from its bun, her dress torn and slipping from one creamy, white shoulder.

She did not speak, only staring at him, her soft eyes wide and afraid.

“Valeriya… is there… something I can do for you?” he paused a sudden terrible thought forming, “the baby? Hannah? Is there something wrong?”

“Yes,” she gulped, “no… I mean, Hannah is fine. May I come in?”

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, a grimace marring the pout of her soft, pink lips. He suddenly noticed a large red welt forming on the pale skin of her collarbone.

Frightened, he gestured for her to enter.

“Please, of course. Come inside. Have a seat.”

She sat rigidly upright in the chair and Harndall saw that her fists had gathered up great bunches of her skirts and were clenched so tightly her knuckles grew even whiter than usual.

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Water please.”

He turned away, fumbling around for a mug. The water slopped above the edges of the pitcher as he poured, the droplets a cool relief for his hot, sweaty hands.

“Radomir tried to rape me.”

He dropped the mug with a clatter.

She still sat, rigid, her back straight and proud but he now saw that her shoulders were trembling as she kneaded fistfuls of her dress. He tiptoed forward, jaw clenched in pain and tightly reigned anger, barely able to breathe at the thought of her frail body held down by that brute of a man.

He could not find the words, could not open his mouth for fear of the tirade of blasphemy that would spring forth. His body leaned unconsciously towards her, hands reaching out to still the trembling of her body.

He gently laid a hand on her shoulder, which she immediately grasped in her own, entwining her slender fingers with his. His other hand reached out as though it belonged to someone else, hovering disembodied above her damaged shoulder, the torn dress and finally settling there, his thumb stroking over the swollen area which was beginning to bruise.

She leaned back against him so that her warm head was pressed against his belly. He could not remember the last time he had been so close to another person and he began to shiver uncontrollably.

Slowly she pulled him forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, holding him so that their faces were so close he could feel the warmth of her breath tickling his nose.

She stared up at him, her sorrowful eyes wide, her soft lips parted. He had never wanted anything as much as he desired to reach down and kiss her sad, drooping mouth.

He jerked away from her grasp, stumbling to the centre of the room, away from the anchor of her pale, slender body. She followed, graceful and silent, flitting towards him like a ghost from the life he could have lead had he not been chosen for this one.

“Harndall,” she murmured and her face was suddenly full of hope and trust as she tentatively crept forward.

Instinctively he staggered backwards, away from the lure of her body, dragging at him as surely as the tide was drawn by the pallid light of a full moon.

“Harndall,” she took a deep ragged breath and then, “I love you.”

His heart flapped frantically, a dark creature winging its way through the night, basking in her forbidden glow.

She reached out her hand towards him and he flinched away, “Valeriya, you can’t! It is sinful… your husband…”

“My husband,” she spat and he shuddered as though struck, “my husband is a great slavering brute who has made every day since he first caught sight of me a living nightmare.”

Her beautiful face twisted into an ugly scowl as though years of subjugating herself to Radomir had warped her face into permanent rage.

“My husband is the most worthless scum to walk this earth. He does not deserve your concern. A sin to love you? It is the most pure and beautiful thing in this wretched life of mine. And surely God knows it too.”

She strode past him, not ghost, not moon goddess but solid woman, her hand brushing against his. She walked determinedly by him, flinging open the door to his tiny bedroom and disappearing inside.

He paused outside the threshold for long minutes, the thudding of his terrified heart counting out a solemn beat. He had never been so uncertain, a tugging at either edge of his soul so it began to fray and tear and he was sure it would rip right down the middle.

Eventually he shuffled into the room determined to tell her she must leave.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, her dress lying rumpled on the floor. Her pale shoulders were arched as she fumbled with a lace, shoulders exposed all the way down the length of her fragile arms. His eyes followed the laces of her corset down to the swell of her behind and the flimsy petticoat which did nothing to hide the rounded shape of her thighs.

He was frozen in place, as she yanked her hair from the confines of its braid and turned to face him. Her body was a silhouette before the flickering candle, her face obscured in the shadows so that she appeared a dark temptress come to take away his soul. He began to tremble like a leaf, a silent prayer on his lips for God to give him the resolve that was slowly but surely ebbing away.

She rushed towards him, her arms wrapping around his shivering body and squeezing tightly.

“I’m so afraid,” he murmured into her hair, through chattering teeth.

“You don’t need to be,” she whispered, her hands stroking through the rough weave of his robe, her body pressed warmly against the front of his.

He felt dizzy and ill, his body desperately hot like a rush of fever. Her cheek was cool against his, her body soft and pliable as he clung to her.

She reached down, grasping fistfuls of the scratchy material of his robe and gently pulling it up. It brushed over his skin, leaving trails of goosebumps despite the warm afternoon. He was naked beneath it and felt a momentary panic in the blindness as she raised it above his head. He was afraid to look at her, ashamed by his nakedness and his obvious arousal.

But when he looked up she was not staring at his body but gazing at his face with a look filled with such love and longing that the shame fell away.

She took a step forward, closing the space between them, wrapping her slender arms around his waist and kissed him. Her mouth was warm and wet and more intoxicating than he could have imagined. She kissed him slowly at first, small tender kisses their lips barely brushing, then deeper and more passionately as he drew her closer.

Her hands ran down the length of his spine as he shivered, pressing against the curve of her hip desperate for some relief.

He kissed her, her solid form, though when he had stepped into this room he left behind his real life, the life where she had a husband and he was a priest. Now there was nothing but the two of them and this felt like the most real thing he had ever done.

He sank to his knees as if in delirious prayer, pulling the round swell of her body towards him, burying his face in the folds of her petticoat where the erotic scent of her was driving him mad.

“I love you Valeriya,” he murmured and it was more sacred than a fervent prayer, more holy than communion.

His whole life had been a lie. There was nothing else he wanted. She was everything. And if he could not have both then so be it.

Warning, this post could be disturbing to some people due to the violent nature of its content. If you want to skip it feel free, this part of the story will be covered in the next chapter.

Radomir gazed at his wife over the scribbled pages of writing that lay open before him. He had never had a neat hand, clutching the quill between fat, sausage-like fingers as his father rained down blows on his shivering weak, shoulders. Forcing himself to write with his right hand had always felt unnatural, even now the letters scrawled away from his quill, sloppy and misshapen.

Valeriya perched rigidly on the edge of the chair, her frail body alert to the slightest of movements. She did not look at him. She never did. Though there had been six visits like this, her eyes flitted around the stark room, sometimes resting on the hand that grappled with the quill, other times falling on the sinuous curve of the embroidered snake tapestry that was the Moraghdu birthright, occasionally even darting across the pages where his spasming hand spewed up great blots of ink. But never at him. It was as though he wasn’t even there.

“Are you comfortable there my dear?” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her pale form.

She didn’t answer, only turned her body away from the sound of his voice, hunched over like a trembling dove cuddled up in its wings as the rain pelted down.

Christ she was beautiful, though the illness had robbed her of much. Her arms may have hung limp at her sides, scrawny where they were once full and plump, her belly a hollow curve where it was once soft. Her cheekbones jutted out, angular and stark in the white wasteland of her face, a smattering of kissable freckles spread amongst the pallid glare. Her hair, once thick and luscious, drifting in curls down her creamy back, now brittle and thin. And yet, he still desired her more than anything on this barren mortal world. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, ever coveted in the dark of the night. Ever wanted. Ever loved.

He tiptoed across the room, a great hulking figure trying to make himself small to sit beside her on the lumpy couch. Perhaps if he just reached out his hand she would hold it in hers, engulfing the hairy brawn in her tender grasp. His brow prickled with sweat in the stuffy room an errant drop drizzling down the side of his face and catching in the web of his beard.

“I asked if you were comfortable? I had Mistress Rawtharn make all these cushions for you. I was hoping you might like them.”

Still she did not turn to him, not even a glance, her eyes fixed stonily ahead as though she examined in intricate detail the ugliness of his handwriting. All the hours he spent picking out patterns like some blustering woman. All for her, in the hope that she would like the rich embroidery and the sumptuous colours. That she would coo over the fine needlework and material, some of the last available to them from Branwhuld. Her very elbow was now indenting the doughy shape of the pillow, as though she rested heavily on a drowsing body. He imagined her head, resting sleepily on his belly, her golden hair fanning out from her ghostly white face, as he twisted a single curl between his fingers.

“I asked you a question,” he grumbled, irritation flaring, firey and bright in the depth of his gut.

Would she not look at him even now? He fought back a rising urge to slap the dull expression from her face.

“Look at me when I speak damn you!” he shouted and she flinched startled at the molten rage that was pouring from his mouth.

He was startled too, but that part of him was buried deep beneath the cascading flow of superheated fury that was pouring over his insides, drizzling down to fill even the tiniest of cracks.

“Why won’t you look at me?!” he demanded, his voice becoming shrill, “don’t you love me at all?!”

And still she did not turn her head. With an animal growl he threw himself at her, his heavy body slamming her against the couch sending embroidered cushions spilling onto the floor. Her hands flew up to bat him away, but they were ineffectual against the force of his passion and his rage, tiny wings beating helplessly against his muscular shoulders.

He pressed his mouth against her, sobbing incoherently as his lips met hers, crying into her mouth “I love you” over and over as she turned her head this way and that.

She pushed away from him, her legs squirming beneath the weight of his body but he only grasped her tighter, deperate to hold her, desperate that he should not lose her again after all of this.

“Valeriya please…” he wept, tears running down his face and splashing hotly onto hers which was pink-cheeked, eyes closed, hands clawing at him as he squeezed.

She was his. She was. She had to be. He couldn’t love her so much and let her go. She had to love him. She had to. He was nothing without her. Nothing. He would make her his again.

“Please,” he moaned, as she wrenched up against him with all the weight of her frail body, kicking out with sprawled legs as he held her tighter, his body pressing down between them.

She slid from his grasp, slithering to the floor with a thump. He slumped down with her, wrapping his arms around her fighting body.

“Please, please… you love me, you do love me,” he was sobbing open mouthed, snot running from his nose, “Please…”

He clutched at her flailing arms, grappling with her, pinning her like a dead bird laid out for dissection. His heart was thundering in his ears as he sucked in deep shuddering breaths choking on the tears and snot running down the back of his throat.

“You love me,” he wept, “you do. Look at me… see me!”

She went suddenly limp in his arms, her struggles ceasing like an injured bird, its bones cracked and broken. He smothered her with his body, pressing against her feeling the grooves of her hips and thighs meet his aching, lonely body.

And then she looked at him.

His heart stuttered in his chest and froze, his blood clotting icy and thick in his veins.

In her pale grey eyes he did not see love, only fear. The breath that was panting out of her frantic body was not passion only rattling dread. Her bared teeth were not a welcoming smile, but a grimace of animal terror.

She stared at him now, her eyes accusing him of things he had done and what he had tried to do. Hot tears slopped from his eyes and scrawled wet streaks along the perfect, white parchment of her face.

“Valeriya,” he moaned and she held his gaze, unafraid now as he trembled above her.

He rolled off her, crumpling into a ball of shivering shame and sorrow.

What had he done? Oh God, forgive him.

He was nothing. Nothing. With her or without her. He did not deserve her. His soul was misshapen and crude, an untidy scibble by the fickle left hand of God. He did not deserve her.

He heard a scuffle as she pulled herself to her feet. She stood for a moment, hovering by the door.

“Go! Get out of here! Just go!” he howled.

The door slammed shut behind her.

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

He carefully shut the door behind Radomir’s back.

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

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

Eallair sighed and slumped back in his chair.

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

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

Eallair stared at him unblinkingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet he still loved her.

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

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

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

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

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

“My rights,” he hissed, “my wife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harndall swung open the door in response to the faint knocking that was little more than the scratch of dead tree branches against the thatched roof. She stood there, heavily cloaked in thick, warm fur, a tiny baby wrapped snugly in hides tucked neatly into the crook of her arm. The chill breeze that struggled past her pierced through the scratchy folds of his robe to Harndall’s skin leaving a trail of goosebumps.

Her long illness had not been kind, dark hollows pooling beneath her sagging eyes, her once luscious, golden hair now fell straggly and strawlike around her drawn face. She was still the most beautiful creature Harndall had ever laid eyes on, her skin thin to the point of translucence, the only colour lent to her pallid face by the smattering of freckles that danced furtively across her nose and cheeks. He could not look at the baby.

He turned away from her as she followed him into the room, her feet shuffling on the doorstep as she kicked off excess snow.

“Come inside, it’s cold,” he called but his voice was chill too and inside the room was not much warmer.

He turned to face her as she stood, graceful as always, her head bowed slightly on her long, elegant neck.

They stood for a long moment, the only sound the hiss and crackle of the pathetic fire dying slowly in his stove and the muffled rustle of the baby’s limbs as they struggled softly against its wrapping. He was staring at her face, she would not meet his eyes and Harndall still refused to look at the murmuring baby.

“Why have you come here?” he finally asked when the silence became too much.

She carefully hoisted the squirming bundle to her shoulder, holding the snuffling baby close. Harndall noticed she held the baby tentatively with the lack of assurance of a new mother, as though if she gripped too hard the delicate thing would break into pieces.

“I thought you would want to meet your daughter,” she murmured, her soft lips brushing against the baby’s skin.

Something inside Harndall snapped. For weeks he had suffered condemnation for a crime he did not commit. He had shivered in a freezing, damp cell, been brought before the accusatory eyes of the court and now he had to face the constant scorn of the people. He had all but been removed from his position as a priest, the only thing stopping the King was the fact that there was no one else to tend to the people. But even now HIs Majesty was scrambling for a solution and it may not be long before Harndall was thrown out of the church altogether.

Not only that but this women he loved had lied to save him, had damned herself for him and that was the worst thing of all. Now she had come before him to throw it in his face, well it was too much.

“My daughter! That is not my daughter. How could it possibly be? Why did you do it Valeriya? Why did you lie for me? I didn’t need you to save me. Now you’ve all but damned yourself. Why did you do it?”

The baby wriggled and whined at the sound of his angry voice. Valeriya murmured something softly to it, stroking the rough skin of the hide until it was soothed.

“Did I lie? I thought it was the truth Harndall. Did you not come to me while I lay ill?”

It was the first time she had called him by only his name but he was so dismayed and sickened by her words his heart barely noticed the fact.

“You think I would do that, rape you while you were ill? I never touched you. I would never touch you. How could you think I did it?”

He imagined himself as she must have, coming to her while she lay deep in a fever. Stripping off his robe in the musty heat of the sickroom. Pressing her sweaty, struggling body down with his own, taking his pleasure while she whined and moaned and cried. He felt nauseated at the thought. And yet someone must have done so.

He glared at her, “I would never do that Valeriya. Never.”

She looked saddened, her sagging brow wrinkling as she sought comfort in the warmth of her baby.

“But you were there… or you were a dream. You told me that you loved me even though it was a sin and we lay down together like man and wife. There was nothing evil or horrible about it. It was the most beautiful thing,” she whispered, “Was it a lie?”

He stared at her. She had not lied. She had believed it to be the truth and it had been nothing more than a fever dream.

“I came to you Valeriya, and prayed beside your bed but I never did anything more than hold your hand, I swear it in the name of the holy father.”

“Then how can it be?” she held up the little baby, peering curiously at its face. Still he could not look, frightened by what he might see “she looks exactly like you.”

“Look at her Harndall, look. She is your daughter.”

He finally let his gaze wander down to the tiny face and he was transfixed by what he saw there. Blue eyes, the same somber hue as his own, his mother’s calm blue eyes and as she had told it the same blue of her dear father, his grandfather, gazing through the ages. These were the blue of his family, their history written in the swirling pools as clearly as ink on parchment. Not only that but the baby resembled him so closely it was unsettling.

“How can it be?” he whispered, his voice full of prayerful awe, “she looks exactly like me.”

He was terrified, every essence of his belief tested and tried, found wanting in the cool light of her blue, blue eyes. He had undergone every trial as Job, believing in the overlying strength of God’s plan for him. But how could this be. Unless… it was blasphemous to even think of.

“Would you like to hold her?” Valeriya murmured, holding the small girl out towards him.

“Yes,” he whispered, reaching trembling hands towards the warm bundle.

She felt reassuringly heavy in his grasp, and she stopped her struggling and gazed wonderingly up at him with his own eyes.

He held her up to look at her more closely.

“My daughter, can it really be so? Why would the Lord want such a thing?”

“It has happened before Harndall,” Valeriya voiced the idea that he could not, “a virgin birth. Could it not happen again?”

“But Valeriya, can it be. He was the messiah. She’s just a baby girl. Why would the Lord send this girl to us?What is her purpose?”

“I do not know,” Valeriya replied, her voice filled with wonder.

Harndall lifted the soft bundle to his shoulder, pressing her warm body to his chest. She was silent and still, the only sound her quiet breathing. She felt very much like a normal baby, though he was more accustomed to holding wasted, tiny things with open gasping mouths and precious few moments of life remaining. She was everything a healthy baby was supposed to be, nothing special. And yet he was almost sure she was his daughter. Could there be anything more special and less possible. It was so hard to believe.

“What is her name?” Harndall asked reverently.

“Hannah,” Valeriya breathed, her voice barely audible in the chill room.

“Hannah,” he repeated filled with awe, “the grace of god.”