The fist was crunching into his face before he knew what was happening. He felt the bones of his nose cracking under its weight, a dreadful crushing feeling he remembered well and a gout of blood spurted onto the fist that was coming in a second time. Sigurd’s fingers curled around the neck of his tunic pulling him upright as his fist collided with Radomir’s exposed belly.

“You bastard!”, Sigurd was snarling, his teeth bared, “You dare touch her!”.

He grunted in pain, doubling over, wrapping his arms around his body to protect it from the onslaught. He could have balled up a fist and retaliated, Sigurd would have been on the floor begging for mercy in mere seconds. But he did not raise a hand, only tried to protect himself from the angry fists as he had done so many times. He knew exactly which parts would hurt the most and he covered those, waiting for it to end.

He deserved this. He could not imagine what he would do to the man who had lain with Valeriya and so he understood Sigurd’s need to drive his fist into the harsh features of his face. If their positions had been switched Radomir would not have been satisfied with his fist. It would have been his sword sliding into the smaller man’s belly, ripping open his guts his staring eyes startled. Even that would not have been enough.

“Sigurd!”, the Duke barked wrapping his arms around the howling man.

He struggled like a drowning cat in a bag, his fists flying ineffectually towards Radomir’s waiting body.

“That’s enough Sigurd”, Lochan muttered to him as his thrashing subsided. The duke may have been a smaller man but he was by far the stronger of the two.

Sigurd only stared at him, his eery green eyes flickering with barely controlled rage. He stood very straight, very tall, Lochan’s arms still wrapped around him. Radomir was doubled over in pain, his arm clutching at his chest where bruises were already beginning to form.

“I’m sorry Sigurd”, Radomir managed to whisper, as he licked the blood from his swollen lip.

“You should leave now Sigurd. We will send word to you when we hear of how your wife is faring”, the King commanded evenly.

Sigurd gave a hiss of displeasure and stalked from the room, slamming the door shut behind him with an echoing thud.

Radomir stood up slowly, wiping his nose against the sleeve of his tunic leaving a bloodied mess. His wife and the Baroness were seated before the King. Valeriya’s hair had been pulled up into an elegant bun. She wore a high necked gown so that all he could see of her smooth white neck was a small strip of alabaster huddling between hair and robe. She had not even turned to watch the argument between he and Sigurd. He could see that she was swaying slightly in her chair and a sudden cascade of anger flooded his senses. She was ill, how dare they take her from her bed to testify before the King.

“You also Ladies, we are done questioning you”, he spoke kindly and Cindra rose hastily to her feet, all but dragging Valeriya from her chair.

She slid a steadying arm around his wife’s swollen waist and began to march her from the room. Radomir could see that Valeriya was having difficulty, her eyes fixed on the floor as she stumbled over the hem of her gown. She did not look up at him once and his heart sagged inside the prison of his chest. Then she was gone, the scuffing of their fine shoes receding down the corridor.

“The Earl of Moraghdu”, the King’s steward droned as if none of the events of the last five minutes had taken place.

“You may sit down Radomir”, the King’s voice rang out clear as a blacksmith’s hammer striking the anvil.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir all but whispered, carefully seating himself on the wooden chair facing the man he owed his allegiance to.

The chair was warm beneath him, the warmth of his wife’s trembling buttocks as she had sat before her King. Perhaps her cheeks had burned red with shame when he asked her with whom she had lain. Perhaps she had only stared back defiantly, her hot open thighs imparting their sinful heat, scorching the wood that now lay beneath him. A trickle of blood began to dribble down from his nose, tickling the skin just above his lips. He did not wipe it away, this was only the beginning of his punishment.

“I am extremely displeased with your behaviour Radomir. It is bad enough that you seem to be incapable of treating your wife with respect due to her, but now you have decided to expand this to include all women. How dare you stike Lady Inbar. How dare you lay a finger on her”, he paused for a moment, struggling to control his anger.

“You may do as you please with your God given wife and I cannot stop you though it sickens me. But you have made a big mistake in believing you can do the same to Sigurd’s”, the King’s voice was thick with displeasure as he waited for Radomir’s response.

“I understand Your Majesty and I submit to the punishment you choose for me”.

“First of all you are ordered to hand over two hides of the land you have been allotted in recompense to Sir Inbar for handling his wife. The remainder of your punishment remains to be decided depending on the outcome of Lady Inbar’s pregnancy. You do understand that if you have caused lasting damage to the woman your punishment will be severe”.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir mumbled, a drop of blood dripping into his lap.

He understood. If she died he was a murderer twice over and he would pay for this with his life. A shudder of terror rippled up through his body. He clung to the sides of the wooden chair trying to steady himself.

“If Lady Inbar and her child survive this you will never lay a finger on them again, nor any other woman on this island. I will not stand for this brutality. Should I find out this has happened again my wrath will be swift and crushing. I would not recommend testing it if I were you”.

“Now, we have spoken to your wife and it seems she does not know who the father of the child is. I am inclined to believe her. She is still ill and I do not think she is lying”.

Radomir stared at him, uncomprehending. He turned to each of the nobles sitting before him trying to read their faces. Finally his eyes fell on the Queen who was gazing at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“I don’t understand”, he murmured.

The Queen’s brows wrinkled upwards so that the crown sitting on her brow was almost dislodged.

“Radomir you stupid fool”, she began, “We believe that your wife has been raped during the time she was lying unconscious and that is why she does not know who the father is. She was extremely distressed when she realised she didn’t know who it was and that it wasn’t you”.

Radomir recoiled as though her tiny jewelled hand had struck him full across the face, the angular edges of her rings leaving ragged imprints.

“No”, he gasped, his insides freezing in looping coils as he hugged his arms around his waist trying to remember the comfort it had given him before when those arms belonged to a strange, young girl and the scent of hay was all around.

“Radomir, I beg you. Do not go after the man or try and find out who did this. We will do our very best to discover the identity of the rapist among us but I cannot have you going around thumping every man you suspect. I need you and I need the other men. Do not fail me. We will find out who did this and they will be justly punished. But you cannot take the law into your own hands. I will not hear of it”, Eallair’s voice was earnest and remarkably gentle after the ringing steel of moments before.

Radomir shut his eyes tightly, the rage inside him was gone, nothing but a hollow wind blowing over dead coals. He was sickened at the thought of a man stealing into his wife’s chamber, pulling back the covers as she moaned in the throes of fever. Sliding at dirty hand up beneath her nightgown and then pulling it up around her waist. Hurting her while she cried out in her sleep at the pain, running his hands over her slack body, kissing her open panting mouth, twisting his hand in her long golden hair and pulling her sleeping face up to rub against him. Had it been only once, or many times when their heads were turned. It was his fault, he had not protected her well enough.

“Radomir. I am also forbidding you to see your wife. I will not allow you near her until she has given birth and we have sorted this mess out and removed the predator from our midst. You cannot be trusted with her and so you may not see her. I am sorry. I know it will be difficult but I pray that you use this time to repent, perhaps speak with Father Harndall and confess your sins. When the child is born we will have a better idea of who the father is and until then you can rest assured we are searching for this criminal”.

“But who will protect her”, his voice was so quiet it was barely a breathy sigh. There was a polite knock at the door behind him.

“Enter”, the steward called out at a small nod from the King.

The door swung open and Radomir recognised the soft thudding of Hepsie’s determined limp. It was the thumping step of the executioner lumbering up the stairs of the scaffold, wrapping his thick hands around the axe.

“Goodwife Cade Your Majesty”, Garald announced.

Radomir half-turned to look at her face and then his courage faltered, knowing his doom might be written there.

“How is Lady Inbar Goodwife?”, the King asked in subdued tones.

Radomir waited like a condemned man with his head on the block, throwing his arms wide at the last minute. He waited for the whistle of the axe and the brief flare of pain followed by unending darkness.

“She’s bein’ fine Yer Grace, though her nose is bein’ a bit of a mess. I’m thinkin’ it will be healin’ alright though as I set it real careful”, Radomir could hear the anger ringing through her voice and he knew that it was directed at him.

“And the baby?” the Queen asked fretfully.

“Fer the time beins’ the baby is fine. We managed to be savin’ it but I can’t be promisin’ yew it’ll last till the end. It’s got a long way to be goin’ till it see the light of day an’ Lady Inbar’s goin’ to have to be bedridden the whole time which she won’t be likin’. But there’s still bein’ some hope”:

The air whistled from Radomir’s lungs in a soft sigh of relief. The trotting of hooves the moment before the axe fell. The messengers halting the proceedings, the Royal pardon at the last of moments. The pardoned man’s hands falling to clutch at the wooden block, clinging to it for long moments and then leaning heavily on it as he rises trembling to his feet.

“Here we are then”, Cindra’s friendly voice was very close to her ear, one warm hand kindly resting on her hip to steady her. It was so difficult to walk. If only the floor would stop moving about like this it would be a whole lot easier.

“Please have a seat ladies”, she heard a scraping to her left as the King’s steward dragged over a chair for her. She sank into it in relief, clinging to firm wooden structure even as the room bucked around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting back a wave of nausea. A drop of sweat trickled down her flushing face and into the high neck of her gown. She did not want to let go of the chair to wipe it away for fear she would lose her grasp and tumble to the floor.

“I trust you are feeling better my lady”, the King asked kindly, his mouth curving to the side in a pleasant smile.

She nodded carefully not wanting to renew the pounding in her head. Even small movements like this caused her pain, to sneeze would be the ultimate agony.

“I suppose you know why I have summoned you here”, he continued politely, his eyebrows tilting upwards and sliding sideways in concern.

She blinked trying to focus on his face. She would have simply asked him to stop rocking from side to side but it would not have been polite. She stared blankly at him unable to understand his meaning.

“She is still quite ill Your Majesty”, Cindra murmured apologetically, “I don’t think she understands why you have brought her here”.

Cindra turned to her, speaking slowly and softly, “Valeriya dear. The King and the court have asked you to come to visit them in the throne room to speak with you about your baby”.

She paused uncomprehending for a moment, trying to unravel these strange concepts.

Then she smiled in excitement, the baby! Of course they wanted to ask her about the dear little baby. Her heart swelled with pride and she smiled in modest joy.

“Yes, yes. I will have a baby”, she nodded to add further weight, not caring whether her head hurt. Her dear friends wanted to hear about her sweet baby.

She felt a tiny shuffle inside her belly as the baby changed positions. She rubbed carefully with one hand, keeping a firm hold of the chair with the other. The baby stopped moving around at her gentle stroking and quietly settled.

“But Valeriya dear”, the Queen’s voice was congenial too as her face wavered into view, “Your husband, Radomir. Is he the father?”

She thought for a moment and then answered carefully, finding it difficult to form the ideas she wanted to speak with her misbehaving mouth.

“No. He is not a father of it”.

“Valeriya”, Lochan cut in impatiently, “Who is the father of your baby then?”

Valeriya opened her mouth to answer, thinking carefully what to say and then she froze.

“Oh…”, her breath rushed out in surprise. She didn’t know.

She turned to Cindra in dismay, hot tears welling up in her eyes, her pulse pounding at her temple.

“Oh… Cindra…”, she was full of grief, her heart was crying too, “Cindra. I do not know. Who is a father of it?”

Perhaps Cindra could tell her. She thought it was something she ought to know and by the cross looks on everyone’s face she could see she had made a terrible mistake.

“Don’t worry honey. You have done nothing wrong”, Cindra murmured, patting her soothingly on the arm as she gripped the chair beneath her more tightly.

“Well done Lochan”, Cindra hissed, Now you’ve upset her. You bring her in here to brand her an adulteress when perhaps the blame lies entirely with one of you men. Perhaps there is something much worse than adultery lurking in our midst. Had you considered that?”

Valeriya wished that Cindra would not talk so loudly. Her voice was echoing in her aching ears and reverberating inside her skull. She longed to rest her head in her hands, covering her ears and pretend she was somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and cool.

If she closed her eyes then everything stopped, the nearby voices became nothing but whispers, drowned out by the rushing wind in her ears. When her eyes were closed there was darkness, not the stabbing pain of light and the constant rocking to and fro of the ground beneath her very feet. Everything was still. She longed to lay her head on the soft pillow once more and return to the darkness. In the darkness there was no pain, and the tainted creatures that lurked on the edges, just outside the circle of dimmed light she dwelled in never came to close.

“My Lady, Valeriya”, the King was addressing her and so she reluctantly opened her eyes as one must do when the King speaks their name.

His face was twisted and mournful, his eyes dark with sorrow as he gazed at her. In his penitent brow, his noble curved nose she saw the face of a saint, woven into the tapestry that hung in the small chapel of her childhood home. Into his arms and feet sharp nails had been plunged, pinning him to the cross like a fragile piece of lace secured on her pincushion. His face had been pitiful, racked with pain as his eyes were cast heavenward begging for release. Valeriya had always thought it was no way to go into the arms of God, to be sacrificed and weep for it. If it had been her choice his face would have been beautiful, eyes upturned sparkling with tears of joy as he waited for the loving arms of God to carry him to eternal peace.

“I am truly sorry if we doubted you. I for one am humbled by the words of my cousin. We will do everything in a power to find out who did this to you”.

She did not know why he should be so sorry, but she smiled softly at his twisted face, longing to sooth his worried brow.

Behind her there was a heavy knock at the door and it swung open. She turned carefully to see the hulking body of her husband weaving through the door, swaying like a cobra with its cruel eyes fixed on a mouse.

Sigurd gazed down at the floor, his eyes fixed on a small scuff mark just beside his left toe where some heavy chair had been dragged across the soft-wood floor.

He did not want to meet the eyes of the nobles arrayed before him, did not want to see the sympathy, nor the anger that lay there. If he did then surely the tears that were threatening to spill would flood down his cheeks, staining them with shame and humiliation. Either that or he would crumple to the floor like the weaker horse in a fight, futilely kicking with broken legs and screaming in rage.

“How is your wife Sigurd?” the Queen asked in hush tones that thrummed soothingly in his ears.

He felt rude but he could no more meet her soft, concerned gaze than he could go and bury his face in her long red hair and sob until he was spent.

“I do not know Your Majesty, Goodwife Cade is with her now”, he managed through gritted teeth, tracing the gouge marks with blurring eyes. They were scored deep into the rotten, waterlogged floorboards like claw marks scratched into the soft flesh of an unprotected belly. How easy it was to damage them, despite the careful workmanship, the many months and years of careful planning that had gone into the laying of those planks, the building of this ship. So many months, destroyed in the single scrape of a heavy chair.

“Well Garald, what have you found?”, the King asked his steward.

“Your Majesty, there is a precedent for this in Branwhuldian law. The text states that should any man strike or injure the wife of another he must forfeit 2 hides of land to that man. Such is the penalty for damage of property”, his voice was clear, his words blunt.

Sigurd’s eyes moved upwards, passing over the hazy faces of the King and Queen to rest on the proud, golden griffin embroidered into the tapestry behind His Majesty’s head. The creature’s powerful claws were outstretched even in repose as though it only waited till the unsuspecting enemy drew close. Then the claws would slash out, tearing across tender skin, ripping it open and exposing the raw meat beneath. That cruel, gaping beak would surely plunge into the ragged wounds, shredding sinew, rendering muscle from the bone.

He shivered at the thought of the gouge marks at his feet, a momentary terror of the beast stepping down from the tapestry, the woven golden threads becoming corporeal as its curved talons carved their mark into the floor. The Griffin’s cold, knotted eye stared down at him from the red, velvety folds of its prison.

“But what of the baby?” the Queen’s voice rang out, hollow as the low cry of a grotesque, winged silhouette wheeling high above the ground.

His heart contracted painfully as he was reminded of the child, another son or daughter he might never hold in his empty arms.

“Your highness”, Garald began slowly, his mouth twisting into a sad half smile, “until a child enters the world it is not truly a person at all and thus the law holds no sway in the matter”.

Sigurd felt bile rising in his throat as his stomach clenched in uncontrolled anger. It surged upwards, burning in the back of his mouth as he struggled to contain the bitter remarks that were blistering on the tip of his tongue. He was quite unprepared for such a strength of feeling, his hands curling into trembling claws, his mouth a gaping grimace.

“My child”, he managed to hiss from the boiling, turmoil that was his body, “no person at all”.

The anger was so great and terrible now that he could feel it frying and spitting inside him, droplets of fire spattering upwards and threatening to burst from his mouth in a torrent of fury.

“I’m terrible sorry for what has happened Sigurd”, Eallair said soothingly, “You can be assured that The Earl will be punished justly”.

It was too much and the words exploded forth in a screech of rage, “Justly! Justice… what is your stinking justice worth? Two hides of land… is that what losing a child is worth. Two hides of worthless land on this hellish island! Tell me Your Highness… what is that worth?!”

Some part of Sigurd was curled up inside him, drawing his knees to his chin and sobbing, begging him to be quiet, to stop yelling. Pitifully pleading, please let’s stop insulting the King and just find somewhere to hide and weep. But the Sigurd whose slitted eyes glared at the King, flicking occasionally to the impassive, beady eye of the griffin above was not listening.

“And what if she dies? My wife, Varda. What if she dies because of this? What will be the justice then. Three hides, four?” he held up his fingers mockingly as he all but shrieked through grating teeth.

The King’s voice burst from his lungs in an angry roar, “You can be sure that if she dies he will suffer a far, far worse punishment and I shall be the one to meter it out”.

Faced with the power of Eallair’s anger, Sigurd’s defiance winked out like a flame in a strong gust of wind.

He hung his head in shame, unable to look his King in the eye, “I am sorry Your Highness”, he murmured, “I did not mean to be so disrespectful. I am much shaken and upset by these events and in terrible fear for the fate of my wife and unborn child”.

“Understandable Sigurd”, Eallair’s voice was kind and gentle again, “You are forgiven. Do not fear for Lady Inbar. She is in the most able care of Goodwife Cade and you can surely trust in her skills as she has proved time and again”.

He took a deep breath and continued, “You must trust me Sigurd. Should you seek vengeance and take matters into your own hands you will be betraying your King and shall also face my wrath. I need the competent men in my Kingdom and that includes both you and the Earl. I will not stand for fighting amongst my subjects”.

Sigurd nodded, unable to speak for fear of the growing lump in his throat turning to tears.

There was a load rap at the doors and then they swung slowly open.

“The Baroness of Tadghar and the Countess of Moraghdu”, Garald droned, rising from his chair.

Lyiss opened the door and quietly slipped into the stables. She wanted to see if her favourite bay was here and she was not disappointed. Sael was chomping blissfully on a mouthful of hay, her velvety nostrils flared as she noisily inhaled. The smell of the stables was pleasant, a combination of warm horse and the heavier scent of fresh hay.

Sael nickered softly as she saw Lyiss, straining her head towards the gaps in the bars through which Lyiss could stroke her face. Lyiss raised her hand to oblige, but was distracted by a muffled sobbing coming from the darkest corner of the room.

She followed the sound and was stunned to see the Earl, perched on a bale of hay, quietly weeping into his open hands.

She stood for a long moment staring at him in disbelief. This was the strong, tall man who had frightened her so, looming above her in the corridor and issuing commands. Now he sat before her, his bulky arms curling around himself, sobbing with abandon. She had not realised that men cried too, her brother certainly never had in her presence.

He had not noticed her yet, she could quietly turn on her heel and sneak out to avoid an awkward conversation. And yet, he seemed so pitiful, his hair that was usually tied back so neatly had come undone and hung in a messy trail down one shoulder. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, spaced to mirror his shoulders like a warrior preparing for battle, but his thighs were trembling. Perhaps he needed help and just because she was shy she would run off and leave him in his predicament. No, she would not.

“Er… Your Lordship”, she squeaked, her voice wavering as she spoke, “are you needing some assistance? Is something wrong?”

His head snapped up and she could see the tear stains running down his cheeks, like rivers in the continents of his weathered face. He gaped at her in shock and then began to hastily wipe his face with the back of a meaty hand. His mouth was open, as he sucked in breath, trying to gain control of his emotions.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his throat rough form sobbing, “have they sent you here to find me?”

He looked up at her now and she grew awkward beneath his steady gaze.

“I’m sorry My Lord, I do not understand what you mean”, she stared down at her slender fingers to avoid his eyes.

She had noticed them before, they were an intense grey, like the colour of the King’s prize stallion, a wild beast that calmed only to His Majesty’s touch.

“Ah well. You will know soon enough. My wife is pregnant with another man’s child”, he choked, brushing back a thick strand of hair with his shaking hand.

She stared at him in amazement, compassion welling in her thudding heart. The poor man, what a terrible betrayal.

“I’m so very sorry”, she murmured, venturing a few steps towards him.

He gave a rasping laugh that caught in his throat and almost turned into a ratcheting sob, “Oh but that’s not all Mistress Elmvarn”.

“I struck Lady Inbar, and by the crunching sound I’d wager I broke her nose. Now I find out she was with child, although probably no longer”.

His thick, black eyebrows creased in dismay as he gazed at his hand, Lyiss imagined the very one that had collided with Lady Inbar’s fine features.

She suppressed a gasp of horror imagining the flare of blood, the wet grinding noise as the cartilage shattered. She had heard it before, as a child, a fight between two cousins ending with a broken nose and a black eye. But she could never conceive of such a thing being done to a lady.

And then she remembered the Countess’ battered face, the rumours and the gossip that had circulated through the winding hallways of the ship. She had not believed it possible, had not wanted to. How very naive she had been.

“Oh”, was all she replied.

“That is not all either”, Radomir continued hoarsely, “last year, I beat my wife as I have often done when she angered or disobeyed me. I did not know she was with child at the time, else I hope I never would have done such a thing. But who knows. When I am angry I am no longer myself”.

He paused for a moment to draw a deep, shuddering breath.

“She… she lost the baby… and I think she was glad because it was mine”, his voice caught in his throat as a single tear rolled down the side of his humped nose and dripped onto the dry sheaves of hay.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered breathlessly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know”, he gasped, “I don’t have anyone else to tell. And you asked… you asked”.

He began to sob again, his body slowly rocking back and forth, the hay rustling beneath the weight. His shoulders shook, his hair falling over one side of his face and curtaining it from her searching eyes. He rested his head in his big hands, the occasional tears sliding free of the confines and trickling down between his fingers.

Lyiss stared at him, trying to hate him for what he had done but she could not. She only felt pity for the poor creature weeping before her. He had indeed done dreadful things, but it seemed he had also been used in such a way. And she understood how it felt to never be asked, what it was like to have nobody to tell.

She went over to perch beside him on a hay bale. She did not say anything, did not know what to say. She merely sat next to the shivering man, watching the tears roll down his face, her hands resting awkwardly on her thighs.

Suddenly for reasons she did not quite understand she was overwhelmed with a wave of desperate pity. She launched herself at him, wrapping her scrawny arms tightly around his grief-wracked body.

He stiffened for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides and then they clumsily found their way around her body and awkwardly clasped her back.

Lyiss had never been so close to a man, and she felt her heart beating more rapidly as his warm hands pressed her to him. His scent was overpowering, not unpleasant, but a heady mix of sweat and hay, as well as the faint metallic undertones of blood. She felt dizzy and a little sick as she pressed her face against his warm shoulder.

He clung to her like a drowning man, his fingers curling round her back. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast. She fought the urge to sob at the feeling, the simple warmth of another human’s body that she had so craved as a child growing in a family where love was not spoken of and showing affection all but forbidden. Her fingers too, were clutching desperately at his tunic, grasping at his knotted hair.

Suddenly he broke away from her, looking for a moment into her eyes, and then closing his own.

“Thank you”, was all he said, carefully removing his arms from around her waist, and untangling her own from his hair.

He rose to his feet, gazing down at her. She stared up at him, her cheeks flaring red with embarrassment at her sudden, brazen behaviour. Suddenly he was the tall, frightening man again, towering above her and she nothing more than an insignificant piece of smut lying amidst the hay.

He looked down at her for a moment, his eyebrows knitted above dark grey eyes that swirled with confusion and then turned from her and strode through the door.

Lyiss closed her eyes and tried to cool her blazing cheeks and calm her thundering heart. Her hands were pressed so hard against her thighs, her knuckles turned white.

Radomir thrust open the door to his wife’s room. The rusty hinges squealed at such rough treatment, the warped wood of the door bending beneath his forceful hand.

He was greeted by a brief look of surprise from Varda, then it rapidly tightened into a defensive glare as she saw the dark, look on his face. Her hair was arranged differently, smoothly sweeping back from her high brow and hanging in dark curls around her shoulders. It made a difference from her usual severe braid that pulled her hair high and tugged at her scalp. As he gazed at the harsh set of her mouth and the proud tilt of her chin he was reminded that a clever hairstyle did not make a woman beautiful and her least of all.

Valeriya didn’t even look at him, staring blankly at the wall.

He saw that he had interrupted Varda helping his wife into her nightgown after Hepsie had examined her. Valeryia’s pale skin glowed silver in the candlelight, her dank, greasy hair hanging limply down her clammy back. His gaze trailed down over the soft humps of her breasts. He could see now that, though her shoulders were frail and wasted her breasts swelled, round and firm. He followed their curves down to the top of her belly. When standing beside Varda with her flat, trim stomach the gentle swell of his wife’s was extremely obvious. He wondered that he had not noticed before, but then he had never expected her capable of such a betrayal. He found himself wondering why. There had not been a single person that he loved who had not betrayed in some way in the end. Not a single one.

And now his wife, his lawful, wedded wife had lain with some man like any cheap, dockside trollop. He wondered if she had liked it, had she moaned and thrashed when he ran his hands over those swollen breasts, cried out in pleasure as he entered her. Had she taken him between those plump, luscious lips of hers as she had never done for him. Had it been only once or had it been many times when Radomir had left his beside vigil to sleep or shit. And yet she had been cool to the attentions he paid her. It was too much to bear. His heart was twisting inside him, roasting like a hog on the spit, the cruel flames licking at his tortured body.

“You splay-legged slut!”, he whispered hoarsely.

Now she turned her head slowly to look at him with tired eyes. One hand unconsciously moved up to rest lightly on the curve of her belly. So she knew.

“What has the she done to deserve these harsh words My Lord?”, Varda demanded coldly.

The fire flared, fuelled by the grating sound of her voice, “That little strumpet has bedded another man and now she carries his simpering whelp”.

Varda stared in shock at Valeriya, her mouth falling softly open. He saw a flicker of emotion pass over her face, a slight tightening of her jaw, her shapely brows flitting into a confused frown, eyes glancing at the gentle curve of Valeriya’s belly and then she composed her face into a look of fixed incredulity. But he had seen the guilty look in her eyes no matter how quickly she had purged it from them. So she had a part in this too.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to make Valeriya his own again, reclaim the territory that had been besmirched by another man. He would show her who she belonged to no matter how much she wept or begged for him to stop. He wanted to shove himself between her clenched thighs, to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her breast, to rake his fingernails down her back until it was bloody. He wanted to hurt her like she had hurt him and he knew no other way.

He lunged forward pouncing on the frail form of his wife and wrapping his arms tightly around her unresisting body. He glared fiercely at Varda.

“Get out. I wish to be alone with my wife”, he growled.

He yanked Valeriya’s face up by the chin and looked into the clear grey of her eyes. They stared back at him blankly with no hint of the defiance that used to dwell there. They glittered in the candlelight, like twin pools sunk deep into the limestone bedrock. His own eyes were grey like the churning sea in the moments before the storm broke pummelling at the cliffs with its force. While the towering rock could withstand many years of wave after wave breaking over the curving landforms, it would eventually crumble leaving nothing but sand, bleached bone-white in the sun.

He looked at the smooth, pale features of his wife’s face for some emotion, some feeling but he may as well have gazed at the flecks of sand looking for some hint of the coastline’s former grandeur.

“Have you no shame you damned hussy!”, he snarled at her, shaking her by the shoulders, desperate to illlicit some sort of response from her limp body.

She yielded none.

“Who was it you open-lipped whore! Whose seed are you growing in there! I’ll run the adulterous bastard through with my sword!”, he shook her hard, her limp head snapping back and forth, like trees whipping this way and that in the howling wind.

“Leave her alone you big brute!”, he heard Varda’s waspish voice shrieking in his ears and felt her strong fingers wrapping around his arm and pulling him to the side.

The fury that welled up inside him knew no bounds and it exploded from his mouth in an thunderous roar. He grasped a great fistful of her thick, black hair pulling her to the floor. She knelt before him, struggling against his hulking body. He slapped her so hard his hand was stinging. That would teach the meddling bitch.

“You like it down there, on your knees slut”, he growled, slapping her again, “you’re no good for anything else”.

He glanced at his wife to see if she would grant him some response now. Valeriya merely watched, her eyes dull, her body drooping.

He yanked Varda to her feet by the air and as she stumbled towards him trying to regain her balance his fist cracked out like lightning. He felt the satisfying crunch of the fine bones of her nose beneath his pummelling fist and blood splattered on his tunic.

She groaned in pain, bringing a trembling hand up to her face to wipe away the blood.

“Your husband should have done that long ago but your husband is weak as piss”, he snarled, “You can inform him he may thank me later for saving him from your shrewish tongue”.

He raised his fist again, expecting her to cower from it and flee the room. But she did not, his clenched fist wavering as she slowly raised her face. He could see that he had broken her nose, it was slightly bent with blood streaming freely down her face.

“You shouldn’t have done that Radomir”, she swallowed, choking on the blood that was running down the back of her throat.

He stared at her, the gleam of defiance in her dark, green eyes, the hatred in her voice.

One eye was beginning to swell shut as the blood trickled steadily from her nose. Her mouth was twisted into an ugly sneer.

“I do not belong to you”, she hissed, “you have damaged another man’s property and for that you will surely pay”.

The door swung open and Hepsie limped in.

She grimaced as she saw the blood running down Varda’s face and onto her dress and Radomir’s half-clenched, twitching fist.

“Oh my dear, oh Lord sakes… Yer Ladyship. The baby?”, she cried, wringing her hands.

He glanced at his wife, her back against the wall, eyes blankly fixed at the wall behind him. She was gently stroking her belly, her white hands flitting back and forth.

“Not hers yew bloody fool!”, she snapped at him, following his gaze. She wrapped her arms around Varda’s rigid body.

The words were any icy trickle of rain down his spine, cooling his boiling blood and pooling acid in the pit of his stomach.

“What do you mean?”, he whispered, the last breath of wind before the downpour.

“The Lady Inbar is with child”, she hissed, turning back to Varda.

“Oh God, not again”, he choked, reaching a shaking hand towards the woman he had just injured, “I… I did not know”.

“Don’t matter if yew knew or not, it’s bein damn wrong to hit a woman tis”, Hepise lashed back at him, “Yew should be bein’ downright ashamed of yerself yew great brute”.

Her words rang true and a flood of shame and misery drenched his insides as the swollen black clouds of his rage disgorged. It did not matter if the storm subsided now. The menacing black clouds would still hang on his horizon, gradually filling until it burst forth again in a torrential gale of fury. He could never change who he was, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m so sorry”, he murmured and then fled.

“I do be believin’ she is truly getting a damnsite better if yew be excusin’ my language yer Lordship”, Hepsie’s dark skin blushed prettily as she checked herself for swearing.

Radomir found himself charmed. He was in a good mood today, and the little woman had done so much for his wife. The night before Valeriya had finally allowed him to kiss her, her mouth soft and pliant beneath his. Afterwards, she had rested her tired head against his chest. And he had not even had to force her! She had done it of her own volition. He felt warm inside at the memory of her wispy golden hair tickling his chin, her flushed face drowsily drooping against his fluttering heart.

“An’ of course she be puttin’ on a lot of new weight which is a good thing though I’m guessin’ yew be knowin’ the reason why as well as I be”, she winked at him as he stared at her confused.

But his jubilation was such that he glazed over the strange comment and continued listening. He supposed Hepsie believed he had been bringing her sweets, though he had obeyed her advice in everything despite their many arguments over her ministrations. Secretly he had a massive respect for the young woman that had grown phenomenally in the past months. She had managed to nurse his wife back to health from the very gates of the dead and for that he would be forever thankful.

“She let me kiss her last night!” it suddenly popped out as he found himself desperate to tell someone and having noone to tell. He felt giddy, like the shy, young boy he had once been finally working up the courage to steal a kiss from the sun drenched lips of a plump, blonde milkmaid behind the barn.

She wiggled her eyebrows at him, “Well then Yer Lordship, I think we both be knowin’ she let yew do a lot more than that”.

She shook her finger at him as though he were a naughty child with a widening grin, “An’ after all the good advice I been givin’ yew too”.

“Men will be bein’ men I suppose”, she sighed melodramatically and then cast a flippant grin up at him.

Radomir’s smile grew brittle as he tried to comprehend what she was saying. What was it she was accusing him of. He had done no more than kiss Valeriya for longer than he cared to remember.

“I don’t understand Goodwife Cade”, he forced the words out between his clenched teeth, frightened of what the answer would be but not understanding quite why.

“Aww yew big dunce. Yew men are all bein’ the same. Can’t be seein’ the answer if it be starin’ yew straight in the face”, she laughed up at him.

Suddenly the smile that had seemed so friendly and kind a moment was twisted into a mocking grin. And he had trusted this woman. Now she was laughing at him just like all the rest. He didn’t know why he had ever expected something different.

“She’s pregnant yew ninny”, she exclaimed, rows of teeth golden in the flickering candelight, “though I must admit I did not see it myself. I was thinkin’ her lack of women’s troubles was bein’ because of the illness but today I was feelin’ the littl’un move”.

He barely heard past the first sentence, her voice muffled by the ringing in his ears as his body was suffused with hot, molten rage. His hand flew back of its own volition to strike her filthy, lying mouth. It hung in the air for a long moment, twitching like an insect caught in a web as he tried to control his need for her pain.

Finally it dropped to his side where he grasped a large bunch of his tunic and hissed through gritted teeth, “What did you just say wench?”.

Hepsie was gazing at him, her mouth sagging open in surprise. He had a vivid image of him standing above her, his hands twisted in her hair as he thrust into that slutty, open mouth while she squealed and struggled against him.

His throat caught in dismay as he strived to control his burgeoning anger. It was no good, he was losing himself in the labryinth of white hot rage that ever dwelt within him and he did not know how to find his way back amongst the twisting paths and dead ends.

She was still staring at him but her mouth had slowly closed and now her lips were pressed tightly together in a thin line.

“Yer wife Me Lord. The Countess. She’s bein’ with child”, she whispered.

“That little bitch”, his voice was a low thundering, growl that he could barely recognise as it ripped from his throat.

“Get out of my way Goodwife”, he tried to push past her to the door behind which his unfaithful wife lay.

“But yer Lordship. She don’t know it yet! An’ yew musn’ hurt her. She’ll be losin’ it again!”, Hepsie clawed at his massive body in panic trying to block his path.

“Get out of my way slut!”, he roared, gripping her shoulders and throwing her little body to the side.

She hit the salt warped walls with a thud and went sliding down the floor. He heard her moan in pain and some part of him hoped he had not hurt her. But that part was buried beneath so many layers of anger and rage he barely thought it at all. He reached out a throbbing hand and threw open the door.

“I can only stay for a little while today my love”, Radomir said congenially as he carefully sat on the edge of the bed, “If you are lonely I can ask one of the women to come and sit with you”.

It had only been in these last few weeks that he had finally gotten the courage to lie on the bed beside his wife again. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He had the right to demand whatever he asked of her and yet he wanted to wait. What he wanted was for her to want him, but he might as well have waited forever. So finally, one day he had crept onto the bed and sat beside her. She had turned to look at him with her blank, glazed eyes but she had not protested.

It had been a few more days and he had slid across the bed, his body lying close to hers so that he could feel the heat of her fevered body pressing lightly against his side.

“Are you feeling any better today my dearest”, he asked with a brave smile knowing that he could not expect an answer but desperate to break the silence somehow. His voice sounded deep and commanding in his ears, not as gentle as he had wanted.

“I am feeling a little sick”, she replied softly, turning towards him.

His heart gave a surge of joy, his hands beginning to tremble. Her mouth was drooping sadly at the corners, her eyes staring blearily at him. But still she had answered him!

She must finally be getting better. Not only that but she did look a little better. She was finally beginning to eat again properly, gaining some weight which Goodwife Cade said was a very good sign. Her arms looked round again, so that he longed to squeeze them between his meaty hands. He could see the soft curve of her belly beneath her gown where before there had been only a concave hollow.

And she was looking at him, her eyes searchingly gazing into his own as though trying to determine what lay behind them. For the moment they seemed clear again, the haze of fever departing. He could see there was even some colour returning to her cheeks and it did not resemble the flushed red of the long nights where she had writhed in the depths of the fever.

He carefully slid his heavy body across the bed, inch by inch.

“Don’t you frighten her then” his mother’s voice whispered in his ear as they crept towards the baby deer. It was staring at him with wide dewy eyes, its gangly legs shivering, ready to take flight at any moment. Still they had crept ever close, his mother’s warm hand in his, his clumsy feet struggling to tread lightly, the leaves crackling ominously beneath them. “Let’s stop here”, she had said, but he had wanted to get closer, he was not satisfied with just watching. He wanted to touch it, to feel its soft fur beneath his hand, to feel its trembling subside under his firm strokes. He had pushed on ahead until a twig had cracked in half beneath one misplaced step and the deer had bolted hysterically into the trees.

“Can I come a little closer”, he whispered softly, but his voice was rasping in his ears, grating from somewhere on the back of his palate. He was trying to smile but he felt his ugly wide mouth curving into a sneer.

“Yes”, she breathed, a faint wheeze coming between her chattering teeth, her eyes wide and frightened.

He could see that her legs were trembling, beneath her gown.

He put his arm around her frail shoulders, pulling her body against his chest. He wrapped his thick fingers around her arm, feeling the round softness of it. God how he wanted her. It had been so very, very long. He gently kissed her face, his lips trailing down her cheek searching for her mouth. He kissed the very corner of her sad, drooping lips, reaching for her, but then she turned her face from his, her body squirming away.

He caught her firmly in his arms pulling her sharply towards him, pressing his hot wet mouth against hers. She shuddered for a moment and then froze, completely still as his lips tried to prise hers open, his tongue thrusting into an unyielding mouth. She did not move, her lips hanging open, her tongue limply retreating somewhere far back inside her mouth so that when he brushed against it, it was like touching something freshly dead.

He pulled back from her, her eyes staring blankly at his face, the life he had seen in them moments before drizzling away. Her lips were pursed so tightly they were beginning to turn white, her whole body sagging, shrinking away from his massive form.

He had done it again, stumbled onwards ever closer until what he wanted most had scrabbled desperately away from his grasping embrace.

“I should be going”, he choked, pushing himself hurriedly from the bed as she subsided into her usual position, her face blank, her hands clasped atop her stomach.

He opened the door and strode out.

He found he was not alone in the corridor. One of the guards was talking to the steward’s sister. His muscular body was looming above her as she shrank towards the wall her shoulders hunched, arms wrapped protectively around her slender waist.

“I’m really so sorry for what yew saw Lyiss”, the guard was saying, his body leaning closer as her’s flattened against the damp, swollen boards.

She was mumbling something Radomir couldn’t hear, her lips barely moving. Her mud-coloured eyes were wide and frightened, her face so pale he could see every freckle standing out.

All he could see of the guard were his broad shoulders, blocking out the young girl’s body and the grim set of his unshaven jawline.

It was obvious to him that this man was threatening the young woman somehow and it was certainly no way to behave to the sister of the King’s steward. He drew himself up to his full height, pulling his recently slumping shoulders back, setting his face into a scowl.

“What is going on here?”, he boomed.

The guard jumped startled, turning away from the girl to stare at Radomir.

“Oh… oh… nothing Yer Lordship. I was just apologising to Lyiss here for something”.

Radomir recognised him as the guard that had been injured… Hildfirth or something like it. His handsome face was marred by ugly ragged gashes zigzagging across it.

“Cornering her alone in the corridor doesn’t make it seem like the most noble of apologies. And I am not sure she is appreciating your kind words. Perhaps your actions would speak louder and you should leave her alone”.

The guard stared at him insolently, folding his arms. His face twisted into an ugly grimace, the pattern of his scars changing shape with his expression.

“Well perhaps yew should ask her what she thinks Yer Lordship, rather than sticking yer nose where it doesn’t belong”, he retorted angrily, “What do yew care anyway?”

Radomir felt the rage bubbling up inside like molten lava, threatening to burst explosively from him in the form of his fist connecting with this upstart’s nose.

He took some rapid deep breaths to try and control himself and not frighten the poor girl more than she already was. He could see her trembling from the corner of his eyes, her fingers shaking at the end of stick-like arms.

“I care because you are obviously harassing this lady with unwanted attention and she deserves better than to be hounded by an unwashed, scarred nobody like you!”

The smirk slid off the guards face like cow’s hoof jelly on a tilted plate, the skin around his scars puckering. His shoulders drooping dejectedly.

“Begging yer pardon Yer Lordship, my temper was getting the best of me”, he turned quickly to Lyiss his eyes not meeting hers, “I am very sorry”.

Then he turned on his heel and left.

Radomir was left standing alone in the corridor with Lyiss. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide and frightened, her lips pursed so tightly they were almost white. Her face was beginning to blush a furious red that hid even the darkest of her freckles and was stretching all the way down inside her bodice. The nostrils of her wide nose were flared very slightly as she sucked air in through them, not daring to open her mouth. Strands of her long, lank hair slid slowly down around her face. He stared into her eyes, noticed the golden flecks amongst the brown, like autumn leaves trampled into the mud by heavy feet.

He tried to smile kindly at her, but the corners of his mouth felt uncomfortable so that he wondered if his expression was not more a leer.

“Was he bothering you Mistress Elmvarn?”, he asked, “I can make sure it doesn’t happen again”.

She shook her head slowly, all the while staring at him, her eyes never leaving his.

Her shoulders were hunched, the entire length of her body pressing up against the wall as though she were trying to disappear into it. He recognised the action, she was trying to make herself as small as possible so as not to appear a target.

He suddenly realised he too was looming over her, his bulky body thoughtlessly leaning towards her frail one as the guard’s had.

He hurriedly stepped back, giving her some space, unable to hide his dismay.

He knew she had seen it too, her eyes were fixed on his face, watching his features curiously. He felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny, like he wanted to open the nearest door and run from her. Then he remembered his wife was waiting on the other side and her blank stare would sear his soul even deeper.

“Thank you My Lord”, she murmured, detaching herself from the wall and hurried off down the hallway, her skirts swishing around her long thin legs.

He watched as she left, her thin arms swinging awkwardly at her sides, one little, pink ear peeking out from beneath her hair.

They sat in silence as always. She never looking at him and he with his eyes fixed on her in the hope that she would. That was the way it was.

It was approaching midsummer and the days had grown long and unbearably warm. Valeriya lay atop the sheets, her thin nightdress clinging to her wasted body, like strands of a cocoon wrapping round her lethargic limbs.

Her once curvaceous body had been reduced slowly these past months of illness until she was now all drooping angular limbs. Radomir still thought her exquisitely beautiful, though he would have never dared to tell her so. Her translucent skin, tinged bluish by the veins that pumped exhausted just beneath the surface. The freckles gently sprinkled over the pale skin of her nose and cheeks. He had never really thought them ugly though he had told her so many times for reasons he himself did not quite understand. Her melancholy mouth, swollen like a ripe plum so that he longed to bite into it with his teeth and feel the supple skin split between them. Even the dark shadows around her eyes were beautiful.

He had been told she was improving but it was hard to tell. It was almost as though she had gone to some other place, leaving the rest of them behind to gaze at her with concern from a distance. But then, he had never been in the same place as her really.

Her hands rested protectively over her emaciated body, moving slowly up and down as she breathed, her slender fingers trembling with each exertion.

He gazed down at his own massive hands resting awkwardly on his lap. He had never been quite at ease with those hands, grasping clumsily throughout his life at things he wanted, but never managing to quite hold on to them without crushing them.

If only she would look at him! But no, she was gazing dully at the ceiling. Her grey eyes were glazed, her thoughts flitting elsewhere. Would she never think of him? He was sitting right here in the room with her but she did not even seem to notice.

His meaty hands clenched involuntarily in his lap, the strong fingers curling inwards. He had a dreadful longing to drive those fists into the the fragile structures of her face. Then she would notice him. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, and out towards the powerful fingers, the knuckles turning white as it was trapped in the ends of his fingers. They throbbed and ached as his fingernails made rows of red crescent marks on the softer insides of his hands.

He could force her to do as he wanted with his fists and his strength. He could throw her frail body this way and that, pin her to the bed and thrust himself into her until she cried out and he finally had something from her. Then she would notice him.

He choked back an unwarranted sob. He could do as he wanted, it did not matter. She would never love him. He could hold her in his meaty hands, crushing and crushing until her fragile wings were broken and she would never fly again. He could hold her shattered body, press her against his desperate heart until she was nothing but a mess of mashed up limbs and flesh. And still she would not love him. There was no one in this godforsaken world that ever really had.

He carefully uncurled his fingers and placed his hands flat on his thighs, pressing down hard until the throbbing subsided. He was ashamed of what he had thought, ashamed of what he had done. And there was no way to ever make it right again. He was frightened, frightened of what he still could do.

“Radomir…”, she murmured, barely moving her lips as the word hissed painfully against her lips.

She said it so softly and did not turn to look at him, so he worried that he was hearing things now. But his heart gave a thrill just to hear his name on her lips. It had been so very long.

“Yes my love?”, he replied as gently as he could manage with his deep, rasping voice.

He was not accustomed to gentleness, but to shouting and rage and anger. It was hard for him to know how to be.

“Would you please get me some water”, she sighed her eyes never turning on him.

“Oh yes… of course! You must be very thirsty. I will go at once my love. You just wait here. I will be back in no time at all”.

He launched himself hurriedly from his chair, not quite able to suppress his smile, even thought she would not have seen it anyway. She had noticed him. She had even spoken to him.

He could have taken what he wanted. He could have forced her to do as he wished and fooled himself that it was her choice.

But at this moment the thing he most wanted of all was to bring her water.

She did not look up as he left the room.

She awoke, carefully pushing herself up into a sitting position. She had heard her name called desperately, whispered entreatingly and finally she had stuggled upwards out of the fog that surrounded her. She looked around in confusion, the sounds in her ears muffled. Her body felt like it was burning from the inside, heat rising from her so that she could only peer dimly through the haze.

She thought she heard dully over the ringing, a sobbing, as though the person who was making the noise lay in the next room, so only the smallest sound reached her ears. She turned to gaze at a man, kneeling on the floor beside her bed, his face resting in his hands which were curled into tightly balled fists, the knuckles straining white. He was wearing a plain robe, his hair cut short and as her ears adjusted to the sound she realised he was weeping bitterly, the cries she had heard had only been the loudest.

Poor man, she thought gazing down at his trembling shoulders. She wondered why he cried so, for whom did he weep. Her heart reached out towards him, brushing at his pain with its fluttering fingers.

He looked up with a gasp, hiding behind his clenched fingers, as though afraid of what he saw.

“Valeriya!”, he cried, her name, and it flowed from his mouth like a cool liquid pouring over her flaming body.

She struggled to a sitting position as he clumsily found his feet, standing far above her so she looked up in wonder at his face. It was a face she knew well though it had changed much since she last saw it, slowly hollowed out as though time had scraped at it with his tools, chipping off pieces here and there that seemed unecessary to his artistic eye.

“Harndall”, she whispered, surprised to be able to find her voice at all.

She brought her face towards his, her whole body trembling. She could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes, pooling there and sliding down his face. She longed to feel the chill of those tears falling on her burning cheeks, relieving the aching pain that was consuming her body.

“Harndall”, she repeated, looking into his eyes, recalling that she had never called him this before, the addition of Father seeming somehow a barrier to folly. She was shocked at how easily the wall was broken, how purity and virtue could be stripped with the mere removal of a title.

He was looking at her intensely, his eyes hungry, his hands twitching like pinned insects at his side.

Then suddenly he fell to his knees at her feet his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes gazing up at her, entreating her to ease his suffering.

“Valeriya, I cannot, it is a sin. It is a sin to love you”.

His words plunged into her body like a sword, flaying her skin, scraping through bone and sinew to reach the burning centre of her, the cold steel sliding smoothly into her boiling heart.

She slowly reached out a hand, tentatively touching his own. His skin was achingly cool, the merest brush a relief to her scorched body.

She pryed open his fingers, taking his hands in her own and helping him to his feet.

He stood before her, his features written with grief, “Valeriya I cannot”.

He paused to take a deep sucking breath, “I cannot love you. I must not. It is wrong”.

The pain in her heart was so great now she thought it must combust in a fiery inferno, leaving nothing but a pile of blackened ash that would smoulder for a while until it finally grew cold. But that seemed a relief too, for a cold heart could not ache, could not feel.

“I understand”, she mumbled, the fire in her body cracking, sparks spiralling into the air, “But know this Harndall. I love you. With every fibre of my being, with every scrap of my ruined soul”.

The words poured out like flames from her mouth, great tongues of fire flaring out to brand Harndall’s heart claiming it for her own, “I love you”.

She turned to go, and suddenly felt his hand clasping at her arm, his fingertips pressing against her skin, chilling her through the flimsy fabric of her nightgown. His grip was firm and she turned back towards him, opening her mouth to tell him to leave.

She was silenced by his lips against hers, his arms wrapping around her body as the flames roared up inside her.

They fumbled with each others clothing until finally it was gone and she pressed up against him, feeling his cool skin against the length of her body. She was boiling inside while she shivered in his arms, her stomach churning, sickened by his kisses yet yearning for their searing pain.

He tipped her far backwards, so she hung above the bed, afraid to let go and fall into the waiting fire below. She clung desperately to his neck praying he would not let go and that if they fell it would a least be together as one, to be consumed forever in the torrid flames.

But they did not fall and he laid her gently on the bed, his body covering hers like a blanket so that her trembling subsided, and the fire starved of oxygen began to flicker to a soft glow. His kisses fell upon her face like soothing rain, his cool hands stroking her hair and her neck.

She turned achingly towards those soothing hands, but suddenly they were warm once more and the fire mounted in her again, moving through her body with a dull roar as she moaned in pain. The hands scraped roughly at her face, scalding her where they touched.

She opened her eyes to see Harndall’s face and with horror she saw that is was not him at all, but a massive form towered above her, his shadow falling over her burning body, the fire flaring up in glee at the dark.

She heard a muffled voice cry out far above her, a deep sound that made her teeth ache and her head throb.

“Varda! Varda! Get over here! I think she’s waking up!”.

She tried to cry out in terror but all that came from her mouth were a series of urgent animal groans. The flames were now almost unberable, the flesh curling back from her bones, agony blistering through her roasting body.

And try as she might weakly turning her head from them, she could not escape the dreadful grasping hands that pawed hotly at her screaming body.

Harndall shuffled slowly into the room as Varda carefully shut the door behind him. He stopped at the foot of the bed, unable to make his legs move, unable to walk the distance that separated him from her motionless body. A trembling began in his legs, shuddering its way through his thighs and groin, to throb in the base of his spine.

The blankets curled around her alabaster face like a shroud, protecting her frail body in their cocoon. Her lips were parted and he could hear the faint sound of her breath as it forced its way between them, the soft sigh of a breeze stirred in the musty depths of the crypt.

They were only a few steps and yet Harndall could not make his weak human legs walk them. He stood there, before her, frail flesh and bones, wrapped in the scratchy robes of his sin. The illness had taken its toll, his body wasted, the skin stretching taught and angular, his eyes sunken and hollow. His hair had fallen out in tangled clumps until Hepsie had finally cut it all off. It seemed fitting somehow, the crying of a young boy taken from his family, the rough hands of the monks as they pulled at his scalp, shearing away great clumps of hair and sin as it piled around his bare feet. Cutting away his youth, snipping until nothing was left but humility and obedience.

But he was still a man, despite the hymn in his ears, the prayer on his lips, and a man could walk across the room on the legs God had given him. He took a deep breath and stumbled to her side.

He looked down at her pale face, lying among the soft folds of her hair. Her hair had not fallen out like his, still pure it splayed out on the pillow like sheets of spun gold. Varda had carefully plaited it, twisting the strands solemnly between her skilful fingers, turning the lolling head to one side as she worked.

It was too much, to look at her lying there, the light of the candle flickering over her face like a funeral pyre.

“Valeriya”, he moaned his mouth open, his breath ragged between his teeth.

She groaned softly, her eyelids flickering only the whites visible and he thought he heard his name sighing softly from her mouth. Then she cried out, her teeth gritting in pain, her head thrashing on the pillow.

He leapt back from the bed in dismay, his hands flying up in defense, protecting his chest, his heart that pounded frantically, then slowly dropping to his sides in defeat.

A great sob welled up inside him, forcing its way out of his throat with a moan of despair. The blame for her illness was his and his alone to bear, Radomir was right when he said it. She had given herself, her life perhaps for his and he was not worthy by any stretch of the meaning. He was as sinful as the people he protected, if not more but who would hear his confession. He was weary and ill and alone and the world was a cold dark place with foul things lurking beyond the candlelight.

He bent his head in shame, shame for who he was, shame that he had never been different, despite his teachings he was just as guilty as the rest. Even more so for they looked to him for guidance, guidance he was not worthy to give.

His exhausted body crumpled at the side of the bed, rejoicing in the pain flaring in his knees hit the bare wooden boards of the floor.

He knelt there, clasping his hands desperately above the bedcover.

“Our father who art in heaven. Forgive us our sins…”, he began to mumble the Lord’s prayer softly to himself.

“Forgive us our sins… forgive us… forgive us our sins… forgive us”.

“Forgive us… oh Lord forgive me! Forgive me for what I have done, for the evil thoughts that have seeded in my heart!”.

“Please forgive me”, he sobbed between gritted teeth, “Don’t take her for what I have done, for the rotten sin that runs through my weak body!”.

“Don’t take her… please don’t take her. She has done no wrong”, he clenched his fists burying his face in the scratchy folds of his robe as he wept, his shoulders shaking with grief, hot tears rolling down his clenching jaw and spattering onto his hands.

“Please don’t take her. I am to blame. I am weak. I am… I am only man. I am only a man”, he sobbed wretchedly into his hands. His hands, the hands that clasped together many hours in prayer, the hands that tended the sick and comforted the weak, the hands that had trembled whenever she came near, the hands that had held hers rubbing her soft fingers between his own.

“I am only a man!”, he cried suddenly more forceful, finding strength in his grief.

“I am only a man Lord, but I am your servant here on Earth as you have chosen for me and I will continue to do your bidding. I offer you my confession here on my knees as a sinner, if you will hear it”, he raised his arms in submission, “I have been tempted by the flesh and my weak, corrupted body almost failed you. You have sent me here to protect these lost people and I have been callous and selfish. No more Lord, I ask for your forgiveness. I offer you myself once more, your humble and obedient servant, penitent on my knees before you”.

He knelt there beside her bed for a long time, until finally Varda came back in and helped him to his feet. He crossed himself, silently blessing her as the blood rushed back into his cramped legs and he walked from the room.