“Well Kelgar lad, yew have the look of a man who’s not been treated to a good fuck for weeks,” Elbran roared over the drunken sounds of the tavern.

Christ how did he know?

“No… I mean… yes… I mean… oh fuck Elbran, how in Christ’s name did yew know yew uncanny bastard?”

“Cause if yer dick’s anywhere near as droopy as yer smile then we’ve got serious problems.”

“My dick’s not droopy,” he replied, a grimace replacing his droopy smile.

“Oh don’t yew worry Kelgar my dear friend. I know what it’s like. My wife’s been that fat with child before I couldn’t even get my cock anywhere near her. An’ yew know, my cock’s got a rather long reach,” he sniggered and Kelgar joined with a half-hearted laugh.

Aylric was stonily silent.

“Eh Aylric… and no one gets swollen up with a child like that wife of yer’s. Goodness, her tits are so big I’m surprised she manages to lace em up tight in that bodice of hers. Though she’s that nice she probably thinks of other ways to attend to yew I guess she does.”

“Don’t talk about my wife like that!!!” Aylric cried, struggling to rise to his feet.

“He’s just jesting Ayrlic lad, don’t yew listen to him now,” Kelgar soothed, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder and pushing the drunk man back into his chair.

“Ye’ve got to use it Kelgar… otherwise it’ll fall off,” Elbran chided.

“Yew gentleman be needin’ anything?” a crooning voice from behind him almost made him start from his chair.

He turned around and came face to face with the ample bosom of the tavern keep’s wife, Netty. She would have been plump even had she not been with child, her face disconcertingly childlike atop her voluptuous body.

“Ah, no, thank yew,” he mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Elbran raising his eyebrows.

“Suit yerself then,” she purred, turning to stir the rich stew bubbling over the fire.

Her round rump brushed against Kelgar’s arm as she bent and he felt a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the fire being stoked behind him. He saw the blacksmith was listening intently to their conversation.

If only it had just been the pregnancy, but Illewen had been cold toward him since the day of their marriage. The baby was not due for another three months and Kelgar knew that such a state was no deterrent for many women. But Illewen had barely let him touch her since she had told him the news. He was miserable, utterly miserable. Kelgar had resolved to remain faithful to his wife but it was proving a far more difficult task than he had imagined.

“Goodness me, it’s certainly being hot in here,” Netty purred, fanning her face.

A trickle of sweat ran down Kelgar’s brow.

“An’ yew lads are certain yer not needing anything? Anything I can get yew then Kelgar.”

“No, no thank you,” he spluttered taking a hasty gulp from his ale.

She sashayed away and Kelgar sighed in relief.

“I know just the thing fer yew Kelgar lad,” Elbran was saying enthusiastically.

“What?” he asked cautiously.

Aylric scowled.

“Yew need a night or two with our lovely Netty,” he said, his voice a little more hushed, “Lord knows she’s a good one. Do things to yew yer wife wouldn’t dare.”

“Uh… I don’t know Elbran, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Kelgar protested.

“Sure it is, Netty’s a fine lass an’ yer wife doesn’t need to know. What happens in the tavern stays in the tavern eh?” Elbran winked.

“But Wen will be waiting,” Kelgar muttered.

“And he’s a married man Elbran!” Aylric cried, “to our good friend Vance’s widow, God rest his memory. Or had yew forgotten her.”

“Christ Aylric, who needs a priest when I’ve got yew to remind me what’s a sin and what ain’t? Of course I remember Vance, but nothing Kelgar does tonight’s going to hurt him or the lass.”

He turned to Kelgar, “Don’t yew worry yerself listening to Brother Aylric here. He’s got a supple wife at home who does his every bidding. If yer finding yers a little chillier then ye’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. How long has it been anyway?” he asked a little softer.

Before Kelgar could answer Aylric stood abruptly.

“I don’t want to hear any of this talk so I’m off home to my wife and children, God bless their innocent souls. Kelgar, yer a good man, I know yew’ll do what’s right.”

“Kiss yer wife for me,” Elbran called as Ayrlic tramped out the door slamming it shut behind him.

“Somehow I don’t think that wife of his is as innocent as he thinks,” Elbran chuckled, “So how long’s it been?”

Kelgar couldn’t help the crestfallen look that crossed his face, “Actually, it’s been months, many months.”

“Oh Kelgar lad, that really isn’t good,” Elbran regarded him with some sympathy, “then yew simply must have Netty tonight. She’s that sweet on yew she is, only has eyes fer yew tonight.”

Perhaps he should do it, Illewen didn’t need to know and Netty did seem to be taking an interest in him. And Lord knows he was desperate for any kind of affection, however feigned.

“It’s not many a man that stays faithful to his woman Kelgar, and it’s not fer everyone. Besides, if yer not spending the night with Netty our friend Firman, the blacksmith over there is sure to. Burned bastard’s been sniffing around her all night. Save her from bending over fer that brute of a man and yew’d be doing her a favour.”

That did it. Kelgar would be Netty’s tonight then and he would treat her kindly. Lord knows the poor girl deserved a kindness or two.

“Er, Elbran… how do I, yew know. Go about asking?” he asked softly.

Elbran smiled, detailing the discrete method that the tavern keep had fostered to avoid embarrassment in such a tiny tavern.

Kelgar nervously approached the tavern keep, a rotund man with hair slick with animal grease and smoke. Rinan Kerswell had a rat-like face, pointy teeth that poked from his mouth when he leered and an unpleasant blotchy complexion. Rinan was the sort of man who would have sold his own children if he thought it would get him a copper or two. Perhaps he would, if they were girls. Kelgar remembered the tavern keep had one son, and he found himself hoping that the one on the way was also a boy.

“I’d like some of yer fine honey mead,” he whispered awkwardly.

“Certainly, yew’ll find a jug of it upstairs,” Rinan replied with a smirk.

“Oi, Rinan yew dirty fuck, get me another,” Grimm the furrier snarled.

“Yew wait yer turn or yer out on yer arse,” Rinan growled, while at the same time reaching out a discrete hand for Kelgar to put the money in.

He nodded to the ladder in the corner and Kelgar gingerly climbed, feeling the heat of blacksmith’s glare as he went.

The room was small and dirty, stinking of boiled lard, cooking smoke and unwashed men. He heard a small toddler whimpering in its sleep behind a ragged curtain that split the room in two. He sat heavily on the straw bed, feeling it creak and rustle beneath him, head in his hands. He waited for Netty but he was thinking of Illewen.

He had failed her.

The sun was shining brightly and a stiff wind was blowing out to sea taking with it the stench of too many hot days. It was the perfect day for the ship to set out, the sails already billowing with the impatient breeze. The ship was creaking as it rocked to and fro while the men worked to release the ties that held it steadfast. The rising tide was already lapping at the barnacle-encrusted sides with her salty tongue, waiting to carry the ship away once more on her foam crested back.

It was a perfect day but not for Kelgar. He would be left behind when the ship floated out to sea, left to shamble his way back to the castle. Left to guard a half-finished keep while his brother was off having another adventure. Left to crawl into bed each night beside a wife who shrank away from his touch.

Sir Eanraig was bidding farewell to his daughter who was looking well. Her hair was starting to grow back, red and luscious and she had a healthy glow to her cheeks again. His wife stood beside with their oldest child who was clinging to her mothers plait and gazing at it with the avid attention that suggested she was about to put it in her mouth. The blonde haired young woman stood and silently stared at her husband’s tearful farewell and Kelgar thought he noticed a twitch of annoyance on her flawless face.

At the shoreline his brother, Osras was bidding his wife farewell. They stood locked in a seemingly endless embrace.

Kelgar did not think Polina lay rigid and silent, doing her duty as his brother moved above her. Not like Illewen. It was all he could do to bring himself to touch her.

He smiled, a smile so brittle he was sure his face would crack along the scars and fall to pieces on the sandy beach. He wondered if his heart already had. Each scene he saw was one more boot, thoughtlessly crushing another meaty piece beneath its heel so that it grew smaller and smaller and mingled with the sand.

Sir Arwaduhn was there, kissing his pregnant wife tenderly goodbye. Beside them her sister’s family said goodbye to their father Denel, kisses from both the girls and finally their mother. Tears and sniffles all round.

He had asked if Illewen wanted to come down to the beach with him. Perhaps he had thought she might hold his hand and stand beside him as his wife, to say goodbye with the rest of his family. But she had not come. She had said she was tired and the baby was kicking. She wanted to rest. The baby was kicking, Kelgar could even see its movements sometimes. He longed to reach out and rest his hand on her belly, to feel his child moving inside her but he couldn‘t bring himself to. And she had never offered.

Close to the water the Duke huddled together with his cousin who had carried his little daughter out to bid him farewell. He had heard the rumours about the Duke’s wife, and he deeply pitied the man. When he saw the haunted look in the Duke’s eyes Kelgar knew he had no right to be miserable at the path his own life had taken. He had a healthy wife and soon, God willing a healthy child.

The King and the Queen stood waiting to send their best wishes with the men who would do their work across the sea. The King was wearing his cheerful smile, the Queen regal as always despite the heat and her pregnant state. The new Father was climbing up the steps to give a final blessing to the ship before it set off on its important journey.

Beside him stood the wives of the captain of the fleet and his first mate. The captain’s wife stood sombre and elegant, while Eyvir, the First mate’s wife tittered and giggled beside her.

“Have you come to bid me farewell then wife,” the captain rumbled, his face solemn, his eyes sad.

“Perhaps you have been doing the cracking of her shell Rasmus,” Lekha’s twin grinned beside him, “I tell you, my sister, she is warm and soft but you not believing me.”

“I did not come for you,” Lekha spat at her husband, “I come to say the goodbye to my brother.”

“Not today then friend,” Mahavir winked at the captain and embraced his sister.

They murmured together in their own language for a moment and Lekha kissed him carefully on both cheeks.

“Husband, you bring him back alive,” she growled at Rasmus who shrugged impassively.

“No stupid things, you hear,” she said a little softer.

Mahavir murmured something gently in their own language and then turned to his wife.

“Now you,” he purred, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her passionately.

“Mahavir, you must be so disgraced?” Lekha hissed and then returned to their language spitting out what sounded to be very grave insults.

But Mahavir wasn’t listening as his wife lunged at him, tipping him off balance.

“Now then lassie,” Sir Eanraig called out with a chuckle, “please don’t maul him too badly, he’s an important member of my crew.

Suddenly Osras was barrelling into Kelgar’s arms with a grin on his face.

“Brother,” Kelgar cried as the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Brother!” Osras replied giving him a hearty slap on the back.

Osras released him and gave him a stern look, “Yew’ll take care of the place here won’t you while I’m gone, keep an eye on everything.”’

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kelgar replied quickly.

“And don’t yew sleep with my wife while I’m gone,” Osras gave him a wink that was almost a scowl.

“Osras!” Polina shrieked slapping at him and Kelgar’s brother gave a great guffaw.

Kelgar gulped. There had been a time when he had come extremely close to doing just that. But that had been before they were married.

“Yew rotter!” Polina gave him another hearty slap for good measure.

“Yew know I’m just joking,” Osras chuckled, “but if yew do I’ll skin yew alive.”

Kelgar finally laughed, “Keep yerself safe yew great lout.”

They were all leaving him behind in the stagnant life that had captured him on Mhalwae. There was not adventure for him here. Nor love. Just life, plodding along, trying to make it through each day and steel himself for the night. God he wished he were getting on that ship.

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

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

And it was her fault he was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God have mercy,” she murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh please no,” she chattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bryce grunted, his gaze fixed on his friend.

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

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

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

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

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

“So lass… how are yew at stiching?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drop your weapon,” he growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maire wished she were anywhere else. She would even have been happy scraping burnt porridge off the bottom of the big, black pot which was the thing she hated most in the world. Anything but sitting here, next to him.

It was all made infinitely worse by the fact that he kept looking at her. Every time she dared to glance in his direction she would catch him staring at her, his grey eyes furtively darting away as they met hers. It was really a bit much. It didn’t help that even when she stared straight ahead or focused on the inane conversation that she could still feel him. She had crept as far from him as possible so she was wedged cosily against Igrayne’s leg. But it didn’t matter, the man seemed to radiate some sort of heat so that even though they did not touch she could feel him. She could smell him too, a dizzying heady scent that was not masked by the steaming roast that was spread upon the table. It was the intoxicating scent of his skin, of his hair that she well remembered from the time she had pressed her face in shame to his muscular chest.

And now he was staring at her. She may as well have been the roast, spread askew on the table for all to see as Kelgar picked up the knife to carve off the first piece.

“Kelgar, do you think that meat smells quite right?” Illewen murmured beside him and Kelgar turned back to mutter softly in her ear.

Maire felt hot and flushed, a rising nausea in her belly that refused to be stilled. She gulped down a slosh of mead which burned her throat and churned in her stomach.

She did not even have to look at him to know that he was looking at her. All of the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as though he had stroked a finger along the soft skin that resided there. She glanced quickly at him and sure enough, he was gazing at her again with a bewildered look on his face.

There was a dreadful wrenching in her gut like the knife twisting into the juicy roast and she suddenly felt like she might be sick all over her plate. The smells of the carved meat wafted on the breeze so thick and heavy she could almost taste the blood on her tongue.

“Mairey love,” Igrayne looked over, concerned, “are you alright my sweet.”

She leaned over and whispered, “Did you drink too much mead, it’s awful strong stuff?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she murmured, swallowing her nausea and trying to smile.

Igrayne eyed Kelgar suspiciously.

Leaning back from the table she tapped him soundly on the shoulder.

“You’re not upsetting our little Maire now are you Kelgar. That would be awfully bad wedding guest behaviour. Or worse… are you a boring conversationalist?”

“I… I don’t think so. Well, that is I hope I’m not,” Kelgar stammered.

Good Lord, what was wrong with the man. Kelgar never stammered.

“Alright then. We’ll forgive you just this once, won’t we Maire,” Igrayne chuckled, “but don’t do it again.”

“Don’t… er what?” Kelgar asked confused, but Igrayne had already turned back to her husband.

Her husband, their husbands, Illewen’s husband. They all had a husband didn’t they. Not Maire. She was the only one at the table who didn’t have a husband.

And she was happy for her friend but right now she would rather have rinsed out beer mugs where the last inch of beer had started to grow fungus on the surface than have sat next to her and listened to Igrayne cooing into Arran’s ear.

“Yew bein’ alright there Maire?” Hepsie called over the table looking all happy with her happy husband and their happy marriage, “yew look a little under the weather. Perhaps some water next love.”

Hepsie was not so much older than her and yet she was happily married with a baby and another on the way. Why was everything so unfair?

Oh God, he was looking at her again. It was more than she could bear. His glance was searing the side of her face leaving a trail of flushed skin wherever it went. She knew it was spreading down over her neck and her breast and for a moment she wished she had not worn this bodice. Already she felt naked under his gaze. He had seen every inch of her before so why, oh why did he have to look at her now. What more was there to see?

“Kelgar, I don’t feel very well. Do you think there’s something wrong with the mead. It smells so sickly sweet.”

Kelgar turned to listen to his wife who was also darting furtive glances at Maire.

This was really getting ridiculous. Wasn’t there anyone else to look at, at this party? Like the bride for instance.

When Kelgar’s gaze fell on her again she decided it was enough.

“Was there something yew were wanting Kelgar?” she grumbled.

He looked at her his eyes wide with shock.

“No… I… no,” he swallowed hard, not looking her in the face now that her eyes were turned upon him.

“Well, yew just look real nice is all Maire. Real pretty. Yew should do yer hair more often like that. It suits yew,” his face was blank, no sly grin of the past Kelgar. No teasing and flirting. Was this even the same man?

“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

“So Kelgar, are yew thinking’ it’s being a boy or a girl,” Illewen piped in.

“Oh, er… I don’t know. Can yew tell that sort of thing already?”

“I think it’s being a girl,” Illewen sighed contently rubbing her belly, “Matilda felt just the same so it must be.”

Maire felt claustrophobic, the overwhelming happiness flooding the air and the heat radiating from the man beside her making it difficult to breath. She tried to stretch out her arms carefully but accidentally bumped Kelgar with her elbow. He flinched as though she had burned him with her touch.

“Kelgar, I’m really not feelin’ that well. Perhaps there was something bein’ wrong with the mead,” Illewen nudged him, placing a tiny hand on the crook of his arm.

“Let me get yew some water then dear heart,” Kelgar muttered, reaching for the jug.

Maire turned away from them, focusing her attention on Igrayne who was smiling uncontrollably.

“Oh Mairey,” her friend sighed contentedly, “Isn‘t this just the happiest day?”

Arran thought he was going to die. Surely he would die right here right now. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, his mouth was dry and his palms sweaty. He was going to die, right here, right now in front of all this people. There really was no justice.

“Yew alright lad,” Steen chuckled, give him a hearty slap on the back, “Yer about the same colour as yer tunic.”

“I’m being fine,” Arran hissed, noticing the people in the front row beginning to stare, “yew just be keeping’ yer mouth shut alright. I didn’t ask yew to be a groomsman to have yew mouthin’ off the whole time. Just be keeping yer trap shut alright?”

Steen laughed heartily but at least he stopped teasing Arran. Arran stared fixedly ahead afraid to look from side to side. Everyone was looking at him.

There was a sniffle form the front row.

“Yew alright then Gena?” Engin muttered with a grin.

“Yes I… it’s just… well… I’m being so happy is all,” Gena replied her voice choked as she wiped away a tear.

“I think we are all Goodwife Ulcar,” the Baroness called over to her.

Arran was so happy. He was so happy he was probably going to die.

“Oh I love weddings Garrick,” Cindra cooed from the front, “It’s always so happy!”

So very happy. They wouldn’t be so happy when he died right here in front of them from lack of air or dehydration from sweating too much.

There was a hushed murmur from the crowd and they turned to crane their necks as the bride and the Duke came working up the centre. She was barely visible behind the flaming red hair of her bridesmaid which was hanging in soft curls around her face. For a moment Arran was struck by the fact that he had never even seen Maire with clean hair, let alone clean clothes. She looked fresh and almost… well almost pretty.

Suddenly she was upon him, wrapping her scrawny arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Why Arran Barran. I cannot be believing things turned out his way but yew know, I’m so glad they did.”

She clasped him to her again, “Yew better not be hurtin my ‘graney or I’ll be hurtin’ yew, yew hear me.”

“Yes,” he choked and she released him, trotting over to stand beside the priest.

And then there was nothing blocking his view as a beautiful, blonde girl with flowers in her hair slowly walked up the aisle towards him her arms clutching the Duke’s. He couldn’t help the fleeting memory of another beautiful, blonde girl who had swayed up the aisle her arm in her father’s on her face a bright smile.

Igrayne’s smile was more tentative and shy, her green eyes on his face as though searching for signs of confusion or discontent.

“Is this yours,” the Duke drawled, “because I found it on the way here and it looked lost. I thought she might need a home.”

Arran gulped and nodded.

“Are you sure you want him dear, he seems to have lost his capacity for speech,” Lochan murmured a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” Igrayne said softly, a shy smile spreading across her face.

“Well then, what are you waiting for,” the Duke quipped, gently pushing her towards Arran.

What was he waiting for, he reached out and grasped her warm hand in his. Her fingers were strong and sure, twining around his warm and comforting. His heart slowed to a normal rhythm. He sucked in a shuddering breath and felt better.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the priest began but Arran barely heard him.

Suddenly it didn’t matter that all these people were watching. Suddenly it didn’t matter that his priest was possibly an adulterer. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the small girl standing beside him who had so well and truly captured his heart even when he had thought it broken beyond repair. All that mattered was her warm hand clasped in his.

The priest droned on, Arran barely heard him. He had heard it before but somehow that didn’t matter either. It was as though this were the first time, fresh and new. He was starting again, his heart brand new, the scars faded and gone.

“Repeat after me Arran,” Harndall continued.

And he did all the while fixated on her glowing smiling face, “I, Arran Barran, take thee, Igrayne Woolforth, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

She repeated the vows all the while her green eyes flitting over his face as though memorising every curve, every freckle, every flaw.

“Does someone have the rings?” the priest asked tentatively.

“I have them,” Noah’s voice was deep and reassuring. He placed a warm hand on Arran’s shoulder and handed him the rings.

Arran repeated after the priest, “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, an’ with all my worldy goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, an’ of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He carefully slid the ring up over her rounded fingers.

As she said the words he watched her mouth move, the way her tongue flicked out when she said thee, the way the scar that ran over her lips tugged at the soft corner. She was so divine, even the scars that marred her face. Somehow they made her more beautiful, like the tiny white star-shaped flowers that grew over the marshes, made more special by the rudeness of their surroundings.

She awkwardly giggled as the ring caught on his knuckle as she tried to push it up his finger. He noticed that her hands were trembling and gave them a quick squeeze as she managed to fit the ring on. It sat comfortably on his finger, somehow right where it should be.

”I now pronounce you, man and wife,” Harndall said with a slight smile.

The sun suddenly passed behind a cloud but it did not matter because his wife stood before him, radiantly beautiful, a glorious smile on her lips.

”You may now kiss the bride.”

”Well come on then,” Maire whooped, ”this is the bit we’ve all been waiting for.

He gently clasped his wife around the waist drawing her close to him.

”Igrayne,” he murmured.

”Yes,” she replied with a shy smile.

”I love you,” it was so simple to say all of a sudden and he wanted to say it again and again for as long as he lived, ”I love you.”

Before she could speak he drew her to him, pressing his lips softly against hers. She tasted sweet like honey, and fresh like rain. She was everything there was and the rest of the world fell away. There was no dry chuckling Noah, no clapping cheering Steen, no giggling Maire, no murmuring crowd. There was just Igrayne and her soft, warm mouth.

”Enough already,” Maire groaned, ”now it’s just getting boring!”

They broke apart, Igrayne giggling in his arms.

He looked down at her upturned nose, her wide, startled eyes.

”I love you.”

”I love you too,” she murmured softly, kissing him again.

Varda and Lekha waddled along the beach, their huge bellies swaying pendulously before them, their swollen feet crunching in the icy snow.

It was such a relief for Varda that Hepsie had finally decided she could go outside and get some fresh air. She had deemed that the baby was big enough now that it didn’t matter if it came a few weeks early. Her baby was big enough, her baby was strong enough. She had cried silently when Hepsie left, the accumulation of so many months of fear and worry. Her baby was coming. It was only a matter of time now.

And so she may walk outside again and “air the belly” as Lekha liked to say. Lekha liked to take these walks too, in her country, she had told, a woman didn’t stop walking until the baby came, even when the labour pains hit. Varda had attended enough births to know that it was very different for the women of her race who lay prostrate on the bed, writhing and screaming and falling back on the pillows over and over in exhaustion. Varda wasn’t afraid. She wouldn’t let herself be.

“Goodness me Lekha, it’s a simply beautiful day,” she smiled at her friend, licking her finger to test the direction of the wind.

The chill on the skin of her finger thrilled her, so used was she to stuffy rooms that smelt of sickly sweet breath and underneath it the sharp scent of salt and damp wood.

“A northerly if I’m not mistaken. The gentle breath of Andulas rides in from the north,” she quoted a Ulanbaat poem whose author she had long forgotten.

“Bad, boring weather,” Lekha grumbled with a scowl, “How your people live like this I am understanding not. Bad and grey. Always grey.”

“Oh but Lekha dear, don’t you realise. You have to embrace the grey. It will stay for months whether you like it or not. It makes it so much easier if you decide to like it.”

She threw her head back, opening her mouth to let tiny flakes of snow twirl onto her tongue where they melted in an icy sizzle. The wind on her face was so cold it made her teeth ache but it felt so good, so refreshing. She was more alive than she had ever been, two lives sharing her one body.

“Humpf, I do not want it, to how you say, embracing grey. It is making me happy to hate it. Bad, bad weather. Horrible, cold snow. Give me the hot desert. That is better.”

“Oh, but what is that there Varda?” Varda followed the other woman’s gaze out past the melting ice floes to the churning current between the towering cliffs on either side of the natural harbour.

“What, I don’t see anything Lekha… I don’t…” suddenly Varda saw what had caught her friend’s keen eye.

Out past the breaking waves a tangled black mess floated on the water’s surface like dark weed, bobbing around in the current. Varda squinted her eyes to try and make it out when suddenly the matted, black mass broke the surface, a pale face floundering for a few seconds before it went under again.

“Oh my God! Someone’s out there!”

She reached her shivering hands up to pull off the heavy cloak to dive in and help whoever it was, but on the way up they brushed the giant swell of her belly. She couldn’t go in. She was a strong swimmer but she simply could not risk the life of her unborn child. And how could she swim with a belly this big, she could barely walk.

“What we do… what we do?!” Lekha’s English had deteriorated to a disjointed mess in her panic.

“Call out! Someone must hear… HELP… HELP… SOMEONE HELP!!!”

“Adak! Adak! Adak!… Help!”

A large wave came submerging the struggling figure for so long that Varda held her breath sure they would not reappear. But a small arm broke the surface, then another followed by the dark head. Varda took a deep, gulping breath gazing up to the castle ready to call out again when she saw one of the guards careening across the beach towards them.

“There’s someone in the water!” she cried out and he began to pull off his heavy mail tunic, fumbling with his belt, kicking off his boots.

He stripped off his leggings and sprinted into the water, slipping and skithering over the ice floes. He must have been cutting his feet and legs on the jagged pieces but if so he did not make a sound. He waded in, surrounded by floating chunks of ice, his powerful arms pushing them aside as he dove into the frigid water.

Osras swam out past the breakers, strong arms stroking through the water until he reached the struggling figure. She saw the figure’s arms waving frantically, battering him until he hoisted them out of the water with one arm and held them tight against him.

He began to swim back towards the shore and Varda saw that the drowning person was actually a young girl, her long black hair tangled and wet, her dark eyes wide with fright.

Osras carried her struggling in his arms through the jagged ice floes and onto the beach. She kicked and scratched at him, squealing in fright as he gently lowered her to the ground. She was wearing next to nothing, her slender body clad in a thin robe which clung transparently to her skin so Varda could see the swelling bumps of her tiny breasts and the rounded forms of her thighs.

Varda rushed up to meet them.

“Don’t yew worry now lassy, yer alright now, yer alright,” Osras clucked comfortingly, reaching out towards the girl.

“Nej, nej,” she shrieked, “Rör mig inte!” she swatted Osras’ hand away.

Varda came up beside him, “It’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you. You don’t need to be frightened.

“Snälla, snälla… skada mig inte,” she whimpered, shrinking away from Varda.

Her face was obscenely pale except for two startling red marks either side of her mouth where the skin had been rubbed raw.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” she backed away trying to reassure the terrified creature.

“She doesn’t seem to speak common,” Osras murmured, “where is she from, I’ve never heard that language before?”

“What do you think happened to her?” Varda asked softly.

“I don’t know, but just look at those red marks on her face and her wrists. Someone’s trussed her up good and simple.”

The girl was gazing at them, her black eyes roving wildly like a caged animal.

“She’s bleeding too…” Varda noticed with shock the spreading stain at the front of her dress where the thin fabric clung between her legs.

“I don’t know what they’ve done to her but we’d better get her inside. And I think yew’d better send for Hepsie,” Osras added.

“It’s okay, you’re safe with us. We won’t hurt you,” Varda murmured reassuringly as she grasped the girl’s arms.

“Nej! Nej! Nej!” she shrieked, squirming and writhing but she was exhausted by her ordeal and Varda’s arms were strong.

“Help me bring her Osras, Lekha… send for Hepsie and then get word to the King. He’ll need to know about this. Don’t worry dear, everything is fine now…”

The sound of her sister’s chattering a dull hum in her ears, Illewen stared at the woman in the mirror. She could scarcely recognise her. She was swathed in fine silk, the material hanging awkwardly from her frail shoulders, her hair braided and tied with shiny ribbons. The face was pale and haggard, the brown eyes dull with deeply ingrained hollows beneath.

Hadn’t there once been a sparkle in those eyes? Her husband had always told her so.

The day had been chill and grey, a frigid wind blowing up beneath her skirts, curling around her legs, teasing them apart. The ribbons in her hair were grey too, intricately twined amongst the thick brown strands of hair that he had so loved to wind in his calloused fingers.

“Land sakes Wenny, I think yer in for a time tonight. That Kelgar, he sure is a catch if I do say so myself,” her younger sister Tirsey drawled.

“Tirse! Don’t be so crass! Maybe Wen doesn’t want to think about that right now. You’re probably making her nervous,” Maela shushed.

“But come on now Wenny, yew must be a little excited. I certainly wouldn’t mind to be in yer place,” she winked saucily, “though I suppose poor old Kel would.”

“Tirse!”

“What?! I’m just sayin’ like it is. Wenny’s gone an married one fine looking man is all.”

“You’re probably making her nervous. Are you nervous Wen?”

“No, I’m fine,” Illewen murmured.

She was nothing. Empty. Drained. Was it really possible to be nervous when all that was left was scraped away. She felt nothing.

“Let me take your hair down Wen,” Maela said softly.

Her hair braided and full of shiny, shiny ribbons. She had married Vance on a warm, summer day, her hair flowing down around her shoulders, a wreath of tiny white flowers tangled in the strands. Her dress had been plain, and they had feasted outside under the stars, the bonfire burning bright, his green eyes never leaving her.

Tonight the blizzard had roared around the ship where the King had been kind enough to let them celebrate in the old throne room. Kelgar’s grey eyes had wandered around the gathered people, occasionally meeting hers with a nervous smile. She had noticed him picking at the buttons of his tunic under the table with trembling, sweaty hands until one fell off and rolled under the table and he blushed bright red.

“There now, let’s help you with your dress love, Tirsey honey, can you get the front.”

Her sister’s hands darted nimbly untying the complicated laces that threaded along the front of her corset. She felt the dress loosening, unwrapping and slipping away. All that would be left was the body. She lifted her arms obediently as Maela dragged her shift over her shivering arms.

The room was cold, but her skin was hot and clammy, tiny beads of sweat cooling in the chill air.

“There now, all done,” Maela cried, she gently rubbed Illewen’s arm, “you’re not cold are you.”

“Don’t yew look as pretty as a peach, that Kelgar is just going to eat yew up he is,” Tirsey snickered, blushing a fetching pink.

Illewen couldn’t even smile, the dragging weight at her lips was too great. How different it had been on her first wedding night, the three of them flushed from wine and giggling as they stumbled around the room, unwinding laces and plucking flowers from her hair. Then she had been nervous, but excited too as she awaited the arrival of her handsome husband.

She carefully pulled back the clean covers, though the gleaming whiteness was no longer important. There would only be blood tonight if her new husband treated her roughly. She didn’t think she cared if he did. Perhaps then she would feel something even if it were only pain.

She sent a furtive glance over to the cradle which was strangely empty. She felt the lack of Matilda’s presence keenly. The little girl was the only tangible thing that Vance had left her with, her deep green eyes a memory of happier times.

She had lain in a wedding bed like this before, waiting for Vance, the scratchy linen brushing erotically against her nipples so they grew frighteningly hard. It had felt so odd then to lie naked beneath the sheet separated from the forbidden world of men by only a thin piece of material. Now she was just tired, waiting for the whole thing to be over so she could let sleep drag her down again into his suffocating embrace.

Her sisters stood at the foot of the bed, all well-wishes and smiles.

“Yew have a good time now Wenny an I want to hear all about it in the morning. Every last detail, yew hear,” Tirsey cried waving her arms flamboyantly, “every one.”

“Sleep well my love. It will all be fine,” Maela added softly, “You’ll see. Things will be better now.”

And then they were gone and Illewen was left alone in the half empty bed, with the empty cradle beside her. When Vance had entered the room she had pretended to be asleep so the stumbling men would not jeer at her as much, but she knew her blush had given her away. When they had finally left Vance had crawled in beside her, his touch warm and furtive, his gaze hot as coals.

She would not feign sleep now. The men knew she had seen a man’s naked body before so why pretend. She would watch as they undressed her husband, the new body she must adapt to. He would climb under the covers and she would let him inside her. But she would never be whole again.

The snow had thickened, layer upon layer of frigid flakes piling up until the landscape was obscured in a swathe of frosty white. It was deep enough that Kelgar’s feet sank up to the ankles with every awkward step and the occasional kick sent freezing snow shoveling into the tops of his boots. He hoped Illewen’s boots came further up her leg. He did not like to think of her dainty legs being chilled.

He stumbled along beside her as she glided gracefully over the ground. He supposed she was so light as to pass over the surface without plunging into the depths, as Jesus had walked on the water. It was probably blasphemous to think that way. He snuck a quick glance behind them and was relieved to see a row of dainty footprints, softly imprinted in the icy mass.

“Wen love, shall we stop here,” she turned slowly to face him, as though the cold air had made her sluggish.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought her here. But where else was there to go? He could have taken her to the stables, but the place was tainted by sordid deeds and reeked of horse shit and sweaty bodies and rotting hay. Here they were surrounded by the pure white snow, the dirty prints from their boots quickly covered up like a blushing virgin by innocent white flakes. Here the only smell was the crisp, fresh scent of winter and the dusky smell of chimney smoke hanging pleasantly in the air.

She looked startled, like a downy hare caught mid hop by the snap of a twig under a hunter’s heavy foot. Her liquid, brown eyes were fixed on his face as though trying to discern whether he was friend or foe. Flakes of snow caught in her brows and her lashes so that the features of her face stood in stark relief.

He gulped a freezing breath in and began, “Wen… well I… yew see, there’s something. Well I…”

Say it, say it you imbecile.

“Yew see… I been doing a lot of thinking lately. A lot. And I’ve come to the conclusion. Yew see. I’ve come to the conclusion.”

Christ this was hard work!

“I’ve been coming to the conclusion that it ain’t no good for yew an’ the littl’ un to live like this.”

He took another deep breath sucking in stray snowflakes that melted wet and icy on his sluggish tongue.

“Vance… he was a good man. One of the best. An’ I would bring him back for yew if only I could. But the Lord doesn’t make things that way.”

Her eyes slowly closed at the mentions of her husband’s name, melted snowflakes forming tiny drops on her lashes that could have been tears. She was so pale and fragile, so beautiful. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

He reached down and gently took her hand in his. It was icy cold, lying limp in his large warm grasp. His fingers gently encircled her wrist. It was so slender he could reach around it with only two of his fingers, the tips meeting chastely on the other side.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought yew out here. Yew must be freezing.”

“The thing is… the thing that I’m asking of yew. Well, yer Matilda is needing a father, an’ yer needing a husband who’ll look after yew. An’ I would be that man if yer having me. I don’t know that I can ever be as Vance was for yew but I’ll do my best to make yew happy.”

Her face thawed, her mouth drooping open into a stunned ‘o’, her eyes squinting shut, her eyebrows darting up. Her hand was still draped, damply in his.

She stared at him for many moments, all of them counted by the pounding of his nervous heart. One, two, three, four, it went on endlessly the only sound in the blanked out world the subdued creaking of the ice laden ships.

Suddenly she darted forward into his arms, their bodies connecting with a soft thud. Startled, he stumbled and then wrapped his arms around her shivering body as she pressed her chill face against his neck. He was moved beyond words as she clutched at the thick wool of his cloak with her trembling hands.

He kissed her gently on her pallid cheek.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured, his lips barely brushing her chill skin as he spoke, his breath warm and heavy.

She slowly nodded.

“Thank you Illewen,” he sighed, wrapping his arms warmly around her slender waist, “I will try to be a good husband to yew and a good father to Matilda.”

She hung heavily from his arms, her head lulling on his shoulder. All was silent, muffled by the thick snow so the dual thudding of their two frightened hearts was almost audible.

The air inside the kitchen was close, heavy with the thick scent of meaty stew. Kelgar broke into a sweat the instant he walked through the door, his chill skin suddenly prickling and sticky.

Esther and Matilda were sitting on the packed dirt floor, their tiny heads bobbing this way and that as they watched the antics of Maire. She was performing some sort of a dance for them, her stick thin limbs swinging this way and that, her scrawny hips swaying from side to side, awkwardly angular.

Her lips were curved into a dreamy smile as she danced, perhaps imagining herself partnered with some handsome prince, her freckled cheeks glowing in the overheated room, strands of coppery red hair plastered to her grease stained face. She had not noticed him and he watched her for a long moment as her slender hands swept through the stuffy air.

Esther suddenly noticed him, her round face spreading into a dirt stained grin. Matilda followed her gaze, the smaller girl merely staring at him with her father’s sorrowful eyes.

“Kel-Kel,” Esther beamed at him, clapping her hands with excitement, her tiny feet stomping out a fanfare on the packed floor to celebrate his arrival.

“Ello Kelgar love,” Polina called over from the table were she was viciously slicing a particularly hard lump of cheese.

She glanced over at them and snarled, “Maire, what in the Good Lord’s name are yew doin’ yew silly bint. Get back to work on that bread, Christ knows it won’t be kneadin’ itself.”

“I was just entertainin’ these here babies is all,” Maire growled with an angry scowl, “Why did yew think they were keeping’ their whiney claptraps so quiet. Yew should be thankin’ me.”

“Whatever yew say love, now get back to that kneading. What can we do for yew today Kelgar? I ain’t got much time so make it snappy.”

Kelgar’s eyes fell on Illewen who, standing at the washbasin had not turned to greet him. His gaze was drawn to her slender neck and the few stray tendrils of hair that had crept their way loose from her bun. The tiny curls were sticking to the moist skin of her neck, a cloud of steam rising from the basin before her. He wondered what she would look like with her hair down. His eyes roved down the row of neat buttons that crept the length of her back to her full hips.

Polina coughed, glaring at him, “I said can we be doing something fer yew?”

Her eyes were brassy and bold, the colour of the copper moulds that hung on the wall behind her. They stared at him defiantly as though daring him to ask what he had come to.

“Well, er, actually I was hoping to talk with Illewen if yew can spare her an’ she wants to come.”

Suddenly Polina was smirking at him like a very pregnant cat who has stumbled upon an unattended pheasant pie. Her eyes were slitted, nostrils slightly flared as though taking in a whiff of the first delicious scent.

“Oh yew were, well that’s different. Of course I can spare her,” Polina purred.

“Would yew like to take a walk with me Wen?” Kelgar asked congenially, trying not to let his voice stutter with nerves.

He felt Maire’s gaze hot on the side of his face and he dared not look to the side. The last thing he needed now was the bother of the child’s awkward crush.

Illewen had not replied, and was staring at him with wide eyes, like a frightened rabbit. Polina spun around, advancing on her, her full girth swaying ominously.

“Of course yew want to go Wen. It’s being that warm in here and yew should really get some fresh air. Yer looking a little flushed. Why don’t yew get yer coat. Maire and I will finish up here.”

“I need some fresh air too,” Maire cried, “I’m looking flushed too. Can I come?”

“No Mairey, I need yew here with me, besides, don’t yew think Illewen’s looking a little pale, she’s needin’ some fresh air.”

“Yew just said she was lookin’ flushed,” Maire grumbled.

Illewen still silent, began to totter towards him.

“Yew two have a nice walk then,” Polina crooned, a gleam in her round eyes, a smile on her round face and her hands settling over her round belly.