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.

(more…)

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.

(more…)

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.

(more…)

“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.

(more…)

“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”.

(more…)

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.

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

“Good evening Varda”, Radomir rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jealous are we?”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Varda gazed over to the bed at the still figure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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