Garrick stirred lazily his body heavy in the blurred summer light that was streaming down through the smudged windows. The heady scent of horses mingled with the musty smell of the hay he was lying amongst. He heard the rustling of the straw scratching together and felt the stack beneath him gently shifting.

He opened his eyes blearily but it was only Isabelle, crawling in beside him as she liked to do late at night when everyone else was sound asleep. Then they would lie with their arms around each other, chattering and laughing, or comforting if the day had been hard. Well into the night she would stay until their eyelids drooped heavily and they were close to sleep. Then she would patter off softly on her little feet lest their father discover them there in the morning.

She was wearing her thin white nightgown but it was streaked with dirt. There was dirt clinging to her flaming red hair and he could see shadows of black beneath the perfect crescents of her fingernails. Then he remembered she had sneaked into the stable to be with him, so of course she would have got dirty. His heart gave a great pounding throb as he looked at those dirty little feet and he thought of the lengths she must have gone just to see him.

She tentatively reached out a pale hand towards him. He could see the fingers trembling as she held back from him, her slender body perched awkwardly on the edge of the haystack.

How could she think him angry with her, as she sat there as though waiting for permission to approach him? He reached forward and grasped her chill hand in an instant, twining his fingers around hers, tangling his heartstrings with hers.

He heard her sigh, as her shivering body relaxed against his in relief and he wrapped his arm around her. She was so very cold! He held her tighter, rubbing his hand against her frail arms trying to impart some of the warmth of the stable to her freezing skin. She had become so thin since he had last seen her. He thought he almost could have snapped her bony arm between his hands.

She leaned her little face against his, into the crook of his neck where it had always fitted perfectly and he gave an involuntary shiver at the chill of her skin, the dampness of her hair. She was gently stroking his hand with her fingers, leaving icy trails along them.

He buried his face in her hair to smell the familiar scent that always clung to the strands, the earthy smell of the forest, of oaks and birches and autumn. The scent was still there, but only faintly, underlying a powerful stench of moist decay and disintegration that filled his nostrils and made him choke.

“Where have you been my Isabelle? You smell like a tomb. You know Father will beat you if he catches you in the crypts again. Your curiosity will get you in trouble again, it will”.

“Garrick…”, she whispered, her voice the dry rustling of the wind moving through the dead leaves of autumn.

“It’s alright my love. I’ll hide you from him, if he finds out. We will tell him it’s my fault, that I made you go down there and he can beat me instead. I am stronger”.

“Oh Isabelle how I have missed you!”

She squeezed feebly at his arms, her limbs all skin and bones and angles and then he felt her drawing away from his embrace. He tried desperately to cling to her, but his arms would not move properly and it was as though her body was smoke, winding away from his clutching hands.

He sobbed in despair, “Isabelle please… please don’t leave me again… please…”.

She leant down over his useless body and hissed, “I will come to you again my Garrick”.

She kissed him softly on the cheek and an icy burning pain flared there as his eyes began to blur.

“We will be together Garrick…”, she whispered and then she was gone.

“Garrick! Garrick!”, he heard the loud shouts of men and the frantic whinnying of the horses in his pounding head, trying without success to block them all out.

“Yer Lordship… wake up!”, he felt strong hands shaking him and opened his eyes blearily.

Noah stood above him, and he could see Arran’s worried face bobbing around behind him.

“I’m fine…”, he managed to croak, his throat dry as he struggled to lift himself up with trembling arms.

He looked around in confusion, for he was lying on the floor and where was Isabelle? And then he remembered with a dreadful hollow pang and he understood where he was.

He looked up at Arran’s peaky face and the boy was staring at him with that same wide-eyed terrified expression that seemed to flit across his face a hundred times a day.

“What… what is it boy?”, he snapped as he stumbled to his feet.

“It’s just… it’s just… what’s happen’ to yer face me Lord?”, he wavered.

Garrick brought a hand up gingerly to his face, shuddering in pain as his fingers touched raw open flesh.

He brought his hands slowly down before him, staring in disbelief at the blood that was smeared on his trembling fingers. In his ears he thought he heard the hollow echo of her whisper, “We will be together…”.

Garrick found he was almost panting as he made his way from the ships, up the hill to the workings of what was to be the castle. His stomach churned, broiling in the scorching heat, beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his face.

When he saw who was guarding the gate he suppressed a groan of annoyance. Kelgar had a very high opinion of himself, particularly since he had been made, out of necessity castle guard. Garrick was not in the mood for his sarcastic comments, particularly not today.

He belched, an unpleasant acidic wave burning its way along his oesophagus as he forced himself to swallow it back down. He would not degrade himself by losing the contents of his stomach in front of an upstart fool like Kelgar.

Unfortunately Kelgar had noticed.

“Had a rough night then have we Your Lordship”, he drawled, his lips turning up slightly into a condescending sneer, as he stepped to bar the way into the inner courtyard.

“I don’t know about your rough night Sir”, Garrick scowled, “but I was sound asleep in bed with my wife”.

Which was true. He had been, it had just taken a few tankards of ale to get there. Well perhaps more than a few. He had stumbled to bed as usual, ashamed as Cindra shrank away from his hands, his attempts at gentle caresses turned to fumbling pawing.

But he couldn’t bear it if he did not drink. Then she would come to him in his dreams, always dancing away from him, teasing as he reached out to touch her. To experience the pain of losing her again every morning when he woke was too much and so he drank to keep her away.

He only wished he could find a way to stop his wife from dreaming of her. But he could not help that, someone must have told her what he had done so of course she now found him repulsive. And it was natural for her to have nightmares about such a thing, but it frightened him a little that she was growing so exhausted she had not even realised Atholt had burnt his hand. How it could have happened he could not conceive of but there it was, the evidence that Cindra’s attention must have wandered for a moment. And then how she had woken in the night screaming about it. But of course she had such a terrible fright that night so she must have forgotten about Atholt’s little accident.

He was now standing directly in front of Kelgar, glaring down at him. Sometimes it was a definite advantage to be so tall.

“Now if you would mind standing aside sir, you are in my way”, he snarled.

“Of course, of course your Lordship”, he said with a smirk, stepping aside and waving Garrick through, “can’t be too careful these days you know. There’s all sorts of bad types on this here island”.

“I hope you are not implying I am one of these “bad types”", Garrick said scornfully, pushing past before Kelgar had a chance to answer, tired of the other man’s snide remarks.

What a start to the day. He had managed to drag himself out of bed, head pounding and mouth dry, long after Cindra had already left. It was his job to oversee the building at the castle, and he hadn’t impressed anyone lately with his efforts.

Noah and Arran were working on the East wing. An anvil had been set up there for Noah, who was at this very moment hammering out new iron supports for the side wall. He was issuing instruction to Arran who was all but jumping from foot to foot like an excited puppy.

“Now then lad, are yew bein’ ready for it? Remember it’ll be bein’ mighty hot so don’t let it be touchin’ yer skin else yew’ll be getting a nasty burn there”.

Arran nodded in agreement, then realising Noah was concentrating on the task and hadn’t seen him squeaked, “Yes… I’m bein’ ready for it”.

“Arright now then lad… now!”.

Noah drew back, and Arran darted forward seizing the glowing hot pin in hands wrapped in a thick cloth and plunging it into the nearby bucket of water, where it hissed noisily, a cloud of steam rising from it.

Now that this process was finished Garrick cleared his dry throat noisily. The heat of the fire was scalding his face and he could feel rivulets of sweat trickling unpleasantly down his back. How he too longed to plunged into the bucket, where the cool water would soothe his sizzling skin, pour into his parched mouth and wash the grit from his bleary eyes.

Noah looked up at him, while Arran was still gazing, fixated at the cooling pin.

“Somethin’ we can be doin’ fer yer Lordship then?”, Noah asked, as Arran turned around with a start, not noticing Garrick’s presence till then.

“I’m just coming to check on your progress”, Garrick croaked.

He cleared his throat in embarrassment, turning to Arran who was not gazing at him as acutely as Noah, “So then lad, I see Noah is showing you the ropes. Have you ever done any blacksmithing before?”

Arran stared at him, his moss green eyes wide and startled. He reminded Garrick of a rabbit he had once shot while hunting, the look of surprise at the thud of the arrow before the pain began to flow through its soft body. The thought brought up a dreadful pang of guilt and sorrow, rushing up through his body so he thought he might be violently ill right there on the ground before those startled eyes. He would never shoot an arrow again.

“N…no Yer Lordship… I ain’t done nothin’ like this before. I ain’t got no experience whatsoever”.

The young man suddenly looked as though he thought he had said too much, “But I am doin’ me very best yer Lordship and I do think I’m qualified fer this here job yew’ve given me”.

“I really really am tryin’ me very best”, he reiterated.

Seeing the young man’s discomfort Garrick tried to change the subject, “So when will you be putting up the next retaining wall?”

Arran stared blankly at him, his fingers tapping nervously at his sides, “errr…”

“We will be bein’ puttin’ up that one next week yer Lordship. We’ll be needing more men fer that so some of those that be workin’ on the church will be comin’ over here to be helpin’.

Arran was nodding his head furiously in agreement.

“But we still got to be makin’ a whole lot more of these here supportin’ pins”, Noah said.

Garrick listened feeling increasingly ill, the fire unpleasantly close, “It’s bloody hot today it is”, he said wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Perraps yew should be goin’ in the kitchen and gettin’ somethin’ cold ta drink and havin’ a bit of sit down”, Noah suggested, “Yer not lookin’ to well there yer Lordship if yew don’t mind me sayin’”.

“It sure is bein’ hot today”, Arran nodded helpfully.

“Perhaps your right, I’ll do that and let you men get back to your work”.

They took the hint and turned back to what they were doing as Garrick stumbled away, heading across the courtyard towards the makeshift kitchen.

He didn’t make it, suddenly feeling intensely ill, guts wrenching upwards and he rushed in through the nearest door, into the stables. He bent over clutching his writhing stomach until the sensation had passed then leaned heavily against the stall.

A soft-nosed mare stuck her head through the bars whinnying softly as she butted her head against his trembling arm.

“Sorry lass… I don’t have anything for you today”, he muttered and then his whole body was screaming with pain and he was on his hands and knees crawling towards the piles of hay in the corner.

He didn’t make it, the world turning red at the corners followed by the dragging curtain of blackness.

Blackness and the soft patter of little feet on dry clay.

Cindra had met Eallair in the hall rushing hurriedly from the room, the roar of Lochan’s curses ringing behind him. Evidently Eallair in his nervous state had said the wrong thing and been sent away. But it was not a time to be alone so she had crept through the door, carefully pulling up a chair beside Lochan without a word, tentatively reaching out a warm, sure hand to rest over his trembling one.

And so they had sat as the hours ticked by, in silence, the only sound the ragged breath whistling between his grinding teeth.

Finally he turned to her and in his eyes she saw such boundless terror that she was frightened herself.

“Cindra…”, he moaned between chattering teeth, “Cindra what if…”.

She didn’t let him finish cutting him off with, “What if what. None of your nonsense then. There will be no what if. She is with Goodwife Cade, the best midwife our kingdom has ever had and all will be well”.

“All will be well”, she repeated again with the best smile she could muster, patting his hand awkwardly.

But even she realised it was a poor replacement for her usual laughing mouth and he must have known it too.

But it was the best that she could do. It was not supposed to be like this. He comforted her, there had never been anything else and now she was terrified of setting a foot astray and ruining everything they had rebuilt over the last months. She had always had his hand to guide her as she tottered on stumpy legs through puddles, his strong arms to lift her when the wall was too high.

But she was all he had as his wife lay moaning and screaming in pain and she would not falter. She would help him along this path as he had done for her so many times before. She squeezed his hand a little more tightly, interlacing her slender fingers with his.

“They will both be fine”, she said again in a firm voice, though to her shame she did not quite believe it. Isaura had awoke bleeding which was not a good sign.

Lochan’s lower lip was trembling as he bit furiously, his eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“I forgot to tell her I loved her before I went”, he said, his voice low and hollow.

“She knows Lochan”, Cindra replied.

“But what if…”.

“I said no what ifs Lochan. She knows and soon you will be able to tell her again yourself”.

She opened her mouth to speak more words of comfort but shut it abruptly at the sound of footsteps coming down the wooden hallways.

Lochan leapt from his chair, gazing in horror at the door that would soon open and admit the rest of his life, whether good or bad.

Cindra silently steeled herself in case it was bad.

The door clicked open and the Queen walked in carrying a squirming bundle in her arms. Cindra did a quick count of limbs, fingers and toes but the baby seemed healthy enough. It was gazing with interest at Madlenka’s thick ponytail the tip of which was dangling within reach of the clumsily grasping fingers. It batted wildly with tiny hands, trying to catch this fascinating object but could not muster the coordination needed to succeed.

Still Cindra was frightened to look upon the woman’s face and see what lay there. She glanced at Nyawe who was smirking slightly but that did not give her the answer she sought. Nyawe was the sort of woman to smirk at another’s misfortune, particularly if it meant one less wife in the world.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she saw the joyful smile that was plastered across Madlenka’s rosy face. Surely if things had gone badly she would not have been able to smile so.

“My wife…”, Lochan managed to croak.

“She’s doing fine Lochan, a little tired but otherwise fine. She’s resting now but you can see her soon”, Madlenka replied.

“And I have a little someone here who is very keen to meet you”.

Cindra peered around Lochan’s shoulder to see the baby gazing with rapt attention at her father. What a dear little thing it was! And so robust. She could not quite believe it had come from the belly of Isaura. All her energy must have gone into this small pink thing which was now snuffling softly in Madlenka’s arms.

“This is your daughter Lochan”, Madlenka said softly, holding her out to his outstretched trembling arms.

Lochan took the baby carefully, as though frightened she would break if he bumped too hard, cradling her tiny body in his arms.

The two gazed at each other, the baby awkwardly patting at his face with her soft hands.

“My daughter… “, he repeated in awe, his mouth working painfully between a smile of wonder and a grimace.

“Alright then, we should leave the two of you alone to become acquainted. Come on then ladies”.

“I want her to stay”, Lochan murmured, his mouth against the soft skin of his daughter’s head.

“Of course she can stay with her papa, I meant the rest of us silly”.

Cindra moved to leave but Lochan said softly, “I meant Cindra”.

The smile dropped from Madlenka’s face as she stared at Cindra sourly. Her disapproval was obvious and Cindra knew why. It should have been her husband there with his friend, not Cindra. It was not the place for the women to be that night.

“Very well then”, she said haughtily and turning on her heel they left, closing the door with a loud click behind them.

A rattling sob rose in Lochan’s throat, muffled by his daughters neck.

Without a thought Cindra rushed up, wrapping her arms around the two of them. She stroked Lochan’s shivering back, burying her face in the warmth of his hair. His wife was not here to comfort him and so it was obvious that she must.

They stayed like that for a long time as Lochan wept, with Cindra and the baby clinging desperately to his shaking body.

Cindra sighed in relief as she entered the small bedroom. She had been looking everywhere for Atholt and here he was, safe and sound with his aunt.

“Well there you two are”, she smiled, “I was worried sick. I should have known you would have him Isabelle. You could have let me know he was with you though”.

Her heart began to slow, pounding out a throbbing beat in her temples. Her head was aching but it was probably just the heat. Perhaps she would sit down and rest for a moment since Isabelle was minding Atholt anyway.

“Hope you don’t mind if I take a seat, I really am feeling quite tired”, Isabelle did not answer, so Cindra took that as a yes and slumped down onto the bed.

In fact, it wasn’t just her head that was hurting, but her entire body seemed to have joined in, a deep, rhythmic pounding stretching out to her extremities and then triumphantly thumping its way back again.

She heard the soft whimpering of Atholt. Just like him, to want his mother now when she was so very tired. Couldn’t he just be happy with his aunt for now. She looked up to see what the problem was and caught sight of Isabelle in the mirror.

Her insides contracted in an icy rush of fear as she saw the face gazing back at her in the mirror. Isabelle’s skin was pallid, clinging grotesquely to the angular bones beneath, their stark white forms visible in places. Her eyes were dull and milky, sunken into the dark hollows of their sockets, staring blindly as she turned rigidly towards Cindra, her limbs awkwardly jerking.

Atholt was struggling weakly in her arms, his tiny body shivering at her frigid touch. He raised a feeble hand towards his mother, his eyes welling with tears that threatened to run down his trembling cheeks.

Cindra leapt to her feet, her exhaustion forgotten.

“Give him to me!”, she cried, reaching out towards her son’s precious body.

Isabelle stared at her blankly, clutching the baby to her wasted chest.

Terrified for Atholt, Cindra reached forward and yanked him from Isabelle’s unresisting arms.

She pulled his warm body against hers, shuddering in terror as she watched Isabelle’s face. Isabelle looked at her nephew, lying in Cindra’s arms, her head pivoting slowly downwards on her emaciated neck with an audible click.

Without warning searing flames burst from her chest, showering Cindra and Atholt with sparks.

Cindra leapt backwards with a shriek of horror. Atholt began to howl, writhing in her arms so that she almost dropped him.

She began to move, slowly backing towards the door, still facing Isabelle, her tiny hand clenched into a trembling fist, ready if she came towards them. Isabelle turned to watch them go but she did not move as the sparks began to set alight the rug beneath her feet.

She turned towards the door, desperately groping with her free hand at the doorknob. Atholt was screaming in her arms, coughing and choking on the smoke that billowed up around them.

Cindra sobbed in terror as she realised that the door was locked, and try as she might she could not manage to wrench it upon. She beat against it with her fist until her knuckles were bleeding, praying that someone on the other side would hear her.

The tapestry burst into flames with a roar of heat, great tongues of fire raged upwards through the embroidered forest turning the leaves and trees into blackened ashes, carefully woven threads curling up in the heat.

Isabelle stood amongst the flames, unaffected by the baking heat as the hungry flames licking up her body. Tendrils of fire wrapped around her, peeling back her robes with incandescent fingers, to consume the pallid flesh beneath.

Cindra stared transfixed by the horrific sight, as parts of Isabelle’s body began to crumble away, the skin boiling and bubbling on her face, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a dreadful leer of pain or pleasure.

She saw Isabelle fall to her knees and then she disappeared amongst the towering flames.

Suddenly, with an animal cry of pain, Isabelle launched herself from the fire towards Cindra and Atholt, her hand reaching out towards Atholt. Atholt’s hand flew up in panic as Cindra tried to shield him. Isabelle managed to brush his frantically waving hand with one charred finger, before the fire drew her back into its depth, folding her writhing body in the searing heat of its embrace.

Atholt screamed in pain, a raw red mark flaring up where Isabelle had touched him. The drapes on the bed burst into flame with a rush of hot air. Cindra felt scorching pain as her dress caught alight, the flimsy material of her veil curling and crackling in the heat. She pressed her body over Atholt’s tiny form to protect him from the baking heat that surrounded them.

Cindra woke, her heart pounding, her face hot and sticky, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body. Her nose had begun to bleed again, hot liquid pouring down to her mouth, a metallic taste in her throat.

She waited for the baby’s cries to subside in her ears as she groped her way out of the terrible nightmare until she realised that she was awake and Atholt was really crying.

She pushed herself out of bed, rushing over to his crib. He was lying there, his tiny arms flailing in panic, his cheeks stained with tears and sweat.

“Shhh my poor little man, it’s alright then. I’m awake now”, she lifted his feverish body carefully from the crib and into her arms.

He wailed as her nightgown brushed against his hand and she peered down at him in the darkness. There on his tiny hand was a small patch of blistered, red skin, the shape of a finger tip. She looked down into his horrified upturned eyes and shrieked.

She felt Garrick by her side, the unpleasant warmth of his large body, the stench of ale on his breath.

“What… what’s wrong… is somethin’ wrong with Atholt”, he slurred heavily leaning against the crib.

“She burnt him!”, she shrieked mindlessly, “she burnt him!”.

Garrick’s arms reached furtively towards them and then dropped uselessly to his sides.

Cindra squeaked in terror as the strange pale man began to stride towards her, murmuring throatily in a language she did not understand. This must be the man that had attacked Goodwife Rawtharn so viciously and she wasn’t about to stay around to see what he had in store for her.

She turned to run and almost collided with him. She hadn’t even seen him move and now he was standing on her other side, blocking her path so she had nowhere to run to. She was trapped. She tried to scream but it felt like his icy hands were already around her throat, and she found she could not.

He chuckled softly, hissing between his sharp teeth, “Shh shh petit fille. Be not afraid. I give you great gift”.

He had begun to purr to her in English now, advancing on her like a great cat circling a tiny shivering mouse.

She backed away slowly until she came up against the wall with a bump. There was nowhere left to go and she waited shuddering in terror for the moment when he pounced.

He pressed up against her pinning her to the wall with an arm on either side and she could feel his ropey muscles, taught beneath the fabric of his clothes. She tried to squirm away from the chill caress of his hand on her neck but she found she could not move as he whispered in her ear.

Inside she panicked, her terrified heart flailing in her breast, the mouse in the jaws of the slavering beast, limbs skewed, whiskers quivering. But try as she might to lift her tiny arms and push him away she could not muster the will.

He brought his face close to hers, his icy lips brushing against her trembling open mouth and she could taste the metallic tang of blood on his breath.

She waited for the crunch of the jaws to end her life, snapping her fragile bones, severing the arteries through which her blood thundered, but it did not come. He was nuzzling her neck, growling softly words she could not make sense of. His hands stroked down her shivering arms, his slender fingers caressing where the skin poked through the lace of her sleeves, chilling the blood the ran frenzied beneath her skin.

Then he stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides and she felt a brief surge of hope. But his glowing red eyes were still on hers as he gazed at her hungrily.

“Now come to me”, he opened his arms like her father waiting for her to run on stumpy legs into them and she was sickened by the comparison.

He wasn’t finished with her, now he was just playing, sending her tiny body soaring through the air and letting it plummet to earth between his cruel paws. She began to cry, hot tears that streaked down her face mingling with the freezing rain.

She would not come to him, even if it meant the end of her. He smiled at her and the moonlight glinted off his sharp, curving fangs.

“Come to me ma fille… come to me”, he crooned and to her horror she felt her body detaching from the safety of the wall and creeping, trembling in fear into his outstretched arms.

“Bien, ma fille, bien…”, he muttered, his arms wrapping around her shivering body and pulling her close to him.

She found her hands were moving on their own, clasping around his neck, holding fistfuls of his coarse black hair, her tear-stained face pressed against his frigid cheek.

She felt his icy mouth sliding along her soaking neck, his rasping tongue tasting her and she waited for those sharp teeth to pierce the skin, for the exquisite pain and then the ecstasy. He was right, this was a gift, it was all she had ever wanted.

But suddenly he drew back, spitting, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Tainted as well!” he cursed, “Do every of you splay-legged whores have filthy blood running in the veins”

Cindra stood trembling, upset that he would reject her so. She reached out a shaking hand towards him but after a moment it slowly fell to her side.

“And I am so damn hungry! Years I wait for someone to come, anyone to come to this godforsaken island and now so many come and still I don’t take my fill!”

Then the fog lifted from Cindra’s mind and she remembered what was happening. She opened her mouth and let out a piercing shriek that rang long and loud.

“Merde! Tais-toi! Shut your whining mouth little wretch!” he grabbed a fistful of her hair in his hand and swung her around, tired of the game now, wanting only the fast kill.

She smacked face first into the bulkhead, staggering as he pulled her to her feet. She tried weakly to struggle away but his heavy hand came up and smashed into her delicate face. She blinked, trying to recover as his fist came at her again.

This time she collapsed, sliding down onto the floor at his feet, gazing in terror at the big black boots that would surely pound into the softness of her body. Blood ran down her face from her nose and into her mouth and all she could smell was the sharp metallic scent, the thick fluid choking in the back of her throat as she feebly held up her arms to protect her face.

Then she heard the pounding of boots and she closed her eyes expecting to feel sharp pain rattling through her body. But there was nothing and she thought perhaps she was dying, moving beyond the realm where she could feel pain to a place where she never would again.

“Merde!” she heard her attacker growl again, and then his boot clomped out of her vision.

“You!” she heard Lochan’s voice roar and she began to weep with relief, “You! Stop!”.

She looked up with blurry eyes, to see the pale man jump with catlike grace onto the railing. He turned and snarled at her and then launched himself over the edge.

She waited to for the splash as his body hit the water far below but it never came.

And then Lochan was beside her, his arms wrapped around her shivering body, his strong hands stroking her hair, his voice whispering comforting words in her ear.

“Oh my poor dear”, he murmured, “He’s gone now, you are safe. Did he hurt you? Did that bastard hurt you?”

She could not even answer between the racking sobs that were tearing from her throat. She leant heavily against him, burrowing her face beneath his hair and pressing it against the warmth of his neck.

They stayed there until her weeping finally subsided and she tried to stand on her trembling legs. He was on his feet in an instant helping her to hers and holding her upright with gentle hands.

He reached up and carefully wiped her nose with the edge of his sleeve. She could see the white of it stained red with her blood. It spread through the rain-soaked fibres of the fabric, a dendritic network of tiny veins exactly like those that ran just beneath surface of her shivering skin.

“I didn’t finish the bet Lochan”, she said in a wavering voice, “I only ran around the ship two and a half times”.

He exhaled sharply, the air rushing between his teeth and he pulled her to him, crushing her body against the warmth of his.

“Let’s get you inside where it’s warm and Lisbet can take care of you”, he breathed into her hair as his hands stroked slowly up and down her back.

Cindra scrambled up the stairs hoping to warm herself with the exertion. A cool breeze had sprung up and it was damply grabbing at her hair. Her feet were freezing, but she only had to make one more circuit after this and then the stupid thing would be done. She puffed as she ran, almost out of breath. Goodness, having Atholt had really gotten her out of shape. She would have to get outside more often. It might be fun to go and see what was happening with the construction of the castle, or even the church. They must have made a lot of progress since they had renewed building when the snow thawed, she mused as she puffed her way up the stairs.

Luckily there as noone around to witness her efforts, she was thinking, as she came to the top of the stairs and collided with a solid body.

“Ooof”, said the body as they both went tumbling down onto the deck.

It was Lochan, and now she was lying on top of the poor man while he blearily peered up at her.

“Oh my goodness! Lochan! I’m so very sorry, are you alright”, she squeaked in dismay.

“Mmmphf…”, he blinked a couple of times, “Cindra?”.

“Yes, yes it’s me, have I hurt you badly? Can you move at all?”

“Hmphf”, he tried to shift weight and when he found he couldn’t he laughed.

“Perhaps I could move if you weren’t lying on top of me! At least somebody got a soft landing. These poor old bones are getting too old for you to tackle me you know”.

“Oh, oh I’m so very sorry!” Cindra cried scrambling to sit up and get her weight off Lochan’s chest, “I forgot I was squashing you”.

“And you have gotten a damn sight bigger than the 5 year old who used to launch herself at my knees and try and topple me”, he replied, gingerly sitting up himself, “but don’t worry, I seem to be intact for today but I don’t recommend you repeat the process or you might have to ask Hepsie how to put me back together”.

He grinned suddenly, noticing her attire, “Well then young lady, what on Earth are you doing running about in your nightgown? I thought those days were over too.”

Cindra blushed, remembering how as a child she had often interrupted important meetings, tearing in on her stubby legs in nothing but a nightgown and demanding her father’s attention. Everyone had laughed at her but not him, he had only reached down and placed her on his big strong knee, letting her play with his beard until she fell asleep in his arms. Her heart gave a sharp pang at the thought of him and she had to choke back an unbidden sob.

Lochan noticed her distress and gently stroked her arm, “Now then, I didn’t mean to upset you. You can run about in whichever outfit you choose, I only ask that I not be the target of evening nightgown clad offensives”.

He always knew how to make her laugh and she giggled as she helped him to his feet.

“No it’s alright. You see, the reason I am running about like this is that I lost a bet with Lisbet and this is my punishment… oh blast!”

“What’s wrong?” Lochan asked his smile falling.

“Oh it’s just that now it’s gone and begun to rain and I still have to run around this ruddy ship one more time or I will never hear the end of it”, she gazed up at the sky in dismay.

“Well then I guess I had better send you on your way”, he was shaking his head slightly with a knowing smile, “It just like you to make a bet like this Cindra. But don’t be too long out here or you’ll catch a chill. You’re not even wearing shoes!”

“Well I don’t wear shoes to bed do I?” she replied with a laugh, “And wouldn’t I look silly clomping around in boots and a nightgown”.

“Only slightly more silly than you look now dear”, he said affectionately, “Now come here and let me pinch that chubby cheek of yours for luck and it’s off with you. I’m going inside, it’s too damn miserable out here for me”.

He reached up and gently pinched her wet cheek with a tender smile.

“Off you go!”, he cried with a chuckle.

She trotted off down the stairs, trying to run in a delicate way to minimise the jiggling, knowing he was watching.

Once out of sight, she ran fast to the opposite side of the ship, the cool wind whipping at her face, the fat raindrops splashing down onto her flushed cheeks.

It would be nice to get inside she thought, away from the cold where Lisbet was surely waiting for her with a cup of mulled wine and a nice warm fire.

“Only one more time to go”, she sang as she rounded the corner, stopping abruptly as a man she had never seen before emerged from the shadows.

“Bonsoir ma belle fille”, he crooned in a voice as icy as the sleet that pelted her face.

“Well then my dear Cindra”, Lisbet clasped her hands as she spoke, a gleeful grin spreading across her face, “I think you and I both know your time has come”.

“But Lisbet!”, Cindra cried with an exaggerated shiver, “it is so very cold outside tonight and here I am with nought but a flimsy nightgown”.

“Would you be so very cruel as to send me out on a night like this”, she battered her eyelids with her most endearing look, clasping her hands beneath her chin for added effect.

“Very cold my big fat belly!”, Lisbet retorted.

“Oh!”, Cindra cried in mock dismay, “oh how can you say such terribly crass things. I would not have expected it from a lady such as yourself. I shall feel ashamed to be seated in your company”.

They could not hold in a snigger at this, thinking about the earlier altercation of the day. That Nyawe really was too much.

“Now Cindra, there is no escaping your duty tonight… you have already made every excuse under the sun and it is positively barmy outside this evening. So you better hike up the skirts of that flimsy nightgown of yours and get going around the ship on your pretty little ankles”, she looked down appraisingly, “which are decidedly not swollen and for that very fact you should be exceedingly glad. Oh to run again…”.

“I on the other hand, am going to go inside, rest my dreadful ankles on something soft and watch your progress through the window”.

“But Lisbet!”, Cindra quickly scrabbled around for an excuse she had not already used, “it is so dark. What if I fall and twist one of these pretty little ankles? What will we do if we only have one lovely ankle between the two of us. Someone needs to draw the eyes of the menfolk, else they be continuously focused on the slender ankles of a certain black-haired hussy. And to be honest with you, I just don’t think one will be sufficient”.

“Oh Cindra… truly, you are killing me. Enough with the excuses. You lost the bet. I won. Therefore the end result is you, this ship and three times a nightgown clad run”.

“Beside”, Lisbet gazed upwards, “There is a full moon tonight so I think those ankles of yours are safe”.

“Now my lady, do you think you are up to the task or must I admit that my friend is a coward who cannot keep her promise”.

“Now, now Lisbet, don’t be too hasty to bring out such words. There is not a doubt that I am braver than most, I simply had a few concerns that needed to be dealt with. Do I not look like I am up to the task”.

She paused, lifting her arms in the air in mockery of their husbands posing before an arm wrestle, “Can you not see these bulging biceps”.

“Yes dearest, but I don’t expect you to walk on your hands so what use is a bulging bicep to me”, she giggled as Cindra began to grab a the hem of her nightgown, “No no! Put your skirt down, I am sure you have strong thighs, you are already indecent enough as it is without displaying any more skin”.

“Now off with you and I don’t want to see you again until you have been thrice around the entire ship”.

Cindra began an awkward run down the stairs hearing Lisbet’s giggle behind her. Laugh as she may Cindra was a Baroness and she would run like one. Unfortunately her short stature and the lack of a corset to hold in her jiggly bits were making it a little more awkward than she had anticipated.

Also the waterlogged floorboards were really quite cold under her barefeet despite the warmth of the spring evening, meaning that she felt disinclined to leave them there for too long. This had an undesired effect on turning what would have been a graceful gallop, into a clumsy trot.

She wondered what Garrick was doing. Probably in the galley drinking again. She would wake up after some dreadful dream about his dead sister to find him snoring, stinking of ale. She was so involved in scowling that she wasn’t paying attention as she ran up the stairs and she almost ran into a shadowy figure leaning over the railing.

A large portion of the shadowy figure suddenly detached and she heard both a female and male gasp. Then Alexis and Nyawe were standing before her with sheepish grins.

She stood fixed to the spot in shock. She and Lisbet had whispered many things about Nyawe but they had never thought of her and Sir Hwratar. In fact they had never had any proof of their imaginings at all and so, she realised, this was a moment to be savoured.

“Oh… oh your Ladyship”, Alexis said still unconciously gripping the arm of the steward’s wife, “How fortunate you are here”, his gaze wandered downwards to the buttons along the front of her nightgown, “taking some exercise in your… err… night attire”.

She stared haughtily at him until his eyes moved back up to hers, “I… I was just trying to help Mistress Elmvarn. She… she has something in her eye”.

Nyawe tore her arm from Alexis’ grasp and began to rub furiously at her eye for effect, “Yes.. ow.. it’s really hurting. I can’t think what on earth it might be”.

Cindra desperately tried to keep a straight face and not come up with helpful suggestions as to what might have accidentally lodged there. They stood before her, faces flushed, hair dishevelled, their eyes wide in the moonlight. It really was too perfect.

“Do you have any suggestions”, Alexis asked with a winning smile.

Cindra pretended to consider for a moment while he shifted feet awkwardly.

“Why yes Sir Hwratar. I have always thought that perhaps in such moments, the application of one’s tongue to the mouth is perhaps the least useful method of removal of the offensive object. You might have better luck asking Goodwife Cade for help”.

She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively although she was unsure they could see it in the moonlight, probably a good thing on second thought since she suspected she may have looked ridiculous.

“I’m sure she will try a different method. Lord knows how many times the tongue-in-mouth procedure has been employed without a significant result. But really you weren’t to know that it was out of fashion”.

She turned on her heel, scampering down the stairs and onto the lower deck. When she was out of site, she nigh exploded with pent up laughter, leaning against a mast for support.

Really it was too much, to watch them floundering before her, to have her revenge against that woman who had flirted so outrageously and openly with her husband.

She laughed until her sides ached and she was bent over, clutching at her shaking belly. She couldn’t wait to tell Lisbet. But first she had to make it twice more around the ship.

“Isn’t it wonderful news that the Countess has finally awoken?” Lisbet said brightly, trying to alleviate the awkward silence.

The room was so quiet one could almost hear the soft rustle of the thread running through the fabric as they sat with their various tasks. Lisbet was carefully embroidering a pattern of horses on a tiny white gown. Every so often she would pause to marvel at its delicacy, the miniature sleeves flaring out from the smallest of holes meant for chubby little arms. She could scarcely believe that soon she would be holding the creature small enough to dress in such an item.

She gazed across at Cindra who was sitting opposite her, her features set in an uncomfortable smile, nodding her head in agreement.

It was Cindra who had convinced her to come along and she felt sorely out of place amongst women of such a higher rank than herself. But Cindra had whined and pleaded until she had finally agreed but she was definitely beginning to regret that decision as she waited for someone to reply to her desperate attempt at conversation.

“Hmmm… yes I’m sure that the Count is going to be very pleased about that fact… and do you know what else I think?”, Nyawe spoke up.

Lisbet bristled, there was nothing she could not stand more than that women. At least the addition of Nyawe to the small party meant that she was not of the lowest rank, but even so Lisbet wished she were not there. Most of the women despised the Queen’s maid, wife to the King’s steward. But the Queen was very fond of her, and so she was often included where she should not be.

And she knew that they only despised her because of the way she could transfix a man merely by sashaying past him. And she did not like the sideways glances Nyawe threw at her husband with her catlike eyes when she thought Lisbet was not looking.

Cindra spoke up, her tone flat and her eyes flaring, “No, actually Nyawe, I don’t think anyone is particularly interested in what you think”.

Lisbet knew that her friend hated the woman. She had once found her chatting flirtatiously with Garrick in the kitchen during one of his drinking binges and now she could barely stand to be in the same room as her.

“Oh shush Cindra, don’t be silly”, the Queen snapped, “of course we want to hear what you think Nyawe. Please do go on”.

“Well…”, she paused for effect, “I think he’s not the only one who will be pleased. I am under the impression that there is something going on between the lovely Countess and our pious Father Harndall”.

“Have you seen the way they look at each other? I mean, during his sermons his eyes always fall on her and once they are there they are stuck for good. Although I am not that surprised with that dress she often wears. Any man would find it hard to look away when greeted with a sight like that”.

Her eyes flicked down for a moment, probably to make sure her own dress was displaying her assets to advantage.

“Not only that”, she continued barely drawing breath, “but I heard that when they were found the Father had his arm around her. Which begs the question why were they together in the first place doesn’t it?”.

Lisbet could feel anger boiling up inside of her. She glanced at the Queen whose expression suggested she was definitely wishing that she had not encouraged Nyawe to speak.

She was about to open her mouth and speak when Isaura began to cough, a dreadful hacking sound which shuddered through her tiny frame and burst from her mouth. She paused for a moment and an inaudible relief washed through the room. Then suddenly it began again, her mouth open as her frail hands flew up, trying to hold it in, her swollen belly heaving with the effort.

When it finally ended she dabbed her lips with a handkerchief held between her shaking fingers. Lisbet was distressed to see bright splatters of blood staining the petals of the tiny flowers embroidered there red.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry about that”, the poor thing raised her face, obviously embarrassed although there did not seem enough life left in her to let a blush rise in her pale cheeks.

“You poor thing, don’t you be worrying your dear heart silly”, Cindra reassured her, “it is not trouble”.

She looked at Lisbet with an overly, wide-eyed innocent look, “Now what were we talking about, oh that’s right, Nyawe was saying how she was sure that Father Harndall was behaving in a undignified manner with the Countess. Isn’t that right?.

She could feel her friends gaze directly upon her waiting for her reaction and she knew Cindra was just stirring her up because she was bored, but she did not care. The return of anger was a familiar fiery rush in her belly, and she did not try to fight it.

“Yes, that’s right. Nyawe was just slandering the good Father for her own amusement. Shall we continue with that?” Lisbet spat.

Nyawe looked up at her, with a shocked expression but it did not deter her. She could not bear to hear such rumours spread about the kind, gentle Father who had held her hand while she sobbed and comforted her while they prayed together over her dying husband’s bed. He was a good man and it was wrong to say such things as this.

She noticed that the Queen was staring at her rather icicly but she did not care. Somebody needed to put Nyawe in her place and she was going to be the one to do it.

“I mean, have some decency woman! You are speaking of people who have been extremely ill… nearly died in fact. And you come in here saying these dreadful things as though you knew them to be true”.

“You only think the worst of people because perhaps that is the way you feel inside. Maybe you have no qualms about making eyes at other women’s husbands but that does not mean that everyone is like you!”.

She looked up to see Cindra making a pained face at her and she knew she had gone too far but she was so infuriated she was beyond the point of caring.

“You come in here and sit with us, and pretend to be a lady but all that comes out of your mouth is filthy lies about good people. And Father Harndall is a good man. He does not deserve such treatment and neither does the Countess. Just because you spend most of your time entertaining men who are otherwise, does not mean that standard should be applied to all of them”.

“That’s enough Lisbet!”, the Queen hissed, “You have no right to make such claims about her. In making them you bring yourself down to the level of the common gossip you claim to be standing so far above”.

Lisbet was about to retort, about to reply, to challenge the Queen even though Cindra’s frantic eyes signalled wildly to her that it was a stupid idea. But she was angry now and Lisbet was not a woman who was good at controlling herself when she in this state. Who cared if she burnt bridges? Who cared if she was not welcome in the Queen’s society anymore? It didn’t matter as long as she proved her point.

She drew breath and was about to speak when suddenly Isaura began coughing again, this time so hard that her body was bent over, her breath wheezing painfully between her teeth, a small dribble of bloodstained spittle drooling from her mouth.

“Oh for goodness sake”, the Queen said curtly, “Nyawe would you be so kind as to get the poor Duchess a tonic from my room”.

Nyawe gracefully rose to her feet standing before them, her hips tilting defiantly but her features soft and her voice as placid as a kitten’s mew, “Of course Your Highness. I will only be a minute”.

And with that she turned, slinking out the doore her hips swaying rhythmically, a habit so entrained that she did it automatically despite the lack of a male audience. Once again the room was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lochan knocked softly on the hardwood door.

“Come in”, he heard a voice cry cheerfully from within.

He opened the door to the sight of Cindra holding her little son aloft, his legs kicking excitedly.

She was wearing a simple dress that hung softly around the curves of her body. He preferred it to the flamboyant dresses she usually wore at court. In this she seemed more approachable, more real to him and he could remember the days she had shunned tight-fitting dresses the better to run through the forest with him.

He could not help noticing her swollen breasts peeking out the top of her dress and he found the sight somehow intimidating. How things had changed, the passing of the years turning his little cousin into a woman, into a mother.

“Hello Lochan”, she said to him and then to the baby, “look dear, it’s you Uncle Lochan here to play with you”.

She brought the baby close to her face, their button noses almost touching. He reached out his tiny hands and gently patted at her cheeks.

She squealed in delight, rubbing her nose against his and kissing his plump little cheeks.

“Isn’t he just delicious?!”, she exclaimed then proceeded to kiss the baby’s stomach noisily, “I have half a mind to devour you my tasty little morsel”.

She lowered him and turned to Lochan, “Come in you silly man and stop skulking in the doorway”.

“As you wish my lady”, he replied with a faint smile and walked into the room.

“Oh and would you close the door behind you please”, she asked, turning her attention back to the baby.

He thought it was a strange request, given what the servants might think but he did so anyway.

“I see Atholt has noticed your chubby little cheeks then my dear”, he said, raising his hand, his finger and thumb prepared.

She giggled breathlessly, “Oh no not that again. I thought you had forgotten”.

He reached forward gently pinching her cheek. He had not been so gentle when they were children, sometimes forgetting he was bigger than her and pinching her cheeks till she would cry and then letting her pull great fistfuls of his hair with her pudgy hands to avenge her suffering.

“You don’t know about the pinching do you little Atholt, but seeing as you have unfortunately inherited your mother’s lovely cheeks you are going to have to get used to it”.

He leant down and pinched Atholt’s chubby cheek carefully as the baby snuffled and squirmed in his mother’s arms, unsure what to think of this strange new person who had taken such an interest in his face.

“Would you like to hold him?”, she asked, smiling proudly.

Would he? He didn’t know. As the weeks went by and Isaura’s belly got bigger, he had dared to begin to hope. She had never gotten so far, and there were only a few months to go now. He had thought to banish these thoughts from his head after last time, but had found that the mind is not so easy to train. And so with the passing weeks a faint glimmer of hope that this time it would be different had peeked its sunny face through the clouds, a tiny ray of light shining directly onto his heart.

So he would hold the baby, for soon perhaps, godwilling he might be holding his own.

He held Atholt tentatively in his arms, as the baby squirmed towards his mother.

“He doesn’t like it like that you big ninnny!”, she said, directing him with her hands, “he wants to be up on your shoulder, here. He likes to be up high”.

He raised the baby onto his shoulder, were it wriggled for a moment and then went still, resting its warm face against his chest.

“See, that’s better. You’re happy up there aren’t you my angel?”, she smiled fondly at the two of them.

“He’s so warm”, he said, unsure of what else to say.

“Yes he is and so is his poor mother, I am surely suffocating in here. It looks like this summer will be hot if early spring is any indication. Of course there’s no windows or air in this stupid ship. I will be glad when they finish the castle”, she blew a curl that had come loose from her face, then tucked it behind her ear with an expression of annoyance.

“Did you really call me here to talk about the weather Cindra?”, Lochan asked, wondering what exactly was her reason for asking that he visit in her room.

Her face fell the cheerful expression sliding off like a mask at the end of the masquerade, revealing the true face of the wearer.

“No… that’s not why I wanted to see you”, she replied sheepishly, “I thought perhaps you might be able to tell me something?”.

“What sort of something?”, he asked not sure what she was about to say, unable to imagine what sort of something would require a closed door.

“Who is Isabelle?”, her voice was hushed but it did not disguise the significance of the words.

He felt a chill sinking in his stomach, displacing the warmth of an unpleasant memory that rose buoyantly from its resting place and lodged in his throat.

“What dear? What do you mean?”, he managed to croak.

“See! I knew you would know”, she almost screeched startling the baby who looked at her with wide eyes, “You have to tell me Lochan! You have to, I can’t live like this anymore. Now that he has stopped drinking he doesn’t sleep and I know she is there with him in his dreams”.

Lochan felt fear lapping at his heart like the rough tongue of a rabid dog. What had Garrick told her? Cindra wasn’t supposed to know, they never spoke of it and they had all nearly forgotten. It had been so very long ago.

Then he looked up at her face and he saw the desperation in her wide haunted eyes and he knew he must tell her.

“Alright dear, I will tell you. Just let me put this little one to bed, it is not a tale for small people’s ears”.

He gently laid the drowsy baby in his crib, pausing for a moment to marvel at the perfection of his tiny limbs as they relaxed into sleep, stroking with wonder the soft skin on his head. He was so fragile, his life depending on the delicate housing of his body. It would be so easy to lose him.

Then he turned back to Cindra, “Let us sit, it will not be a short telling”.

He lowered himself heavily into the chair and Cindra perched opposite him on the bed. He noticed with irritation that her troubling bosom was now at eyelevel and he had to make a concerted effort to keep his eyes firmly on her face.

“Please tell me Lochan… you have to. Who is Isabelle?” she repeated the question of before her voice pleading and he could suddenly detect the exhaustion underlying it.

At the mention of that name again, he felt his heart creaking in grief, the rusty hinges of a long forgotten box being forced open once more. He knew now that he would never forget the pain, no matter how many years would pass.

He began as calmly as he could manage, “Cindra, Isabelle was Garrick’s twin sister”.

Her hand flew unknowingly to her breast and once again he found himself forced to drag his eyes away from the area and up to her face. He remembered the high collared dresses her pious mother used to wear and he began to wish she would follow suit, as becoming as she did look clothed like this.

“Garrick… he has a sister? Why didn’t he ever tell me? He never mentioned her. Where is she now? Why wouldn’t he tell me?” she babbled in distress.

He suddenly wondered if he had made a mistake in telling her. He had assumed that Garrick had spoken to her of Isabelle, but now he realised that perhaps she had only heard the name when he was ill and was jealous of this other woman. But then, she did not seem jealous, only frightened and tired.

He waited till she calmed down to say the dreadful words, “Cindra dear, Isabelle is dead”.

She sat silently for a moment and then whispered what he had hoped she would not ask, but knew in his heart she would.

“How did she die?”

He took a deep breath and began, “We had been hunting boar, Garrick, Eallair and I. I remember the day well for it was the first time Eallair was allowed to come out with us. Isabelle had been angry that we left her behind. She always wanted to do everything us boys did, to go with us even if it were forbidden by her parents. Garrick would usually let her come along anyway, hiding the fact from his father, even letting her ride like a boy. He loved her so he did. We all did”.

“She was my betrothed”, he stopped for a moment, contemplating how different his life would have been if he had married that fiery young woman, instead of his beloved Isaura. If he hadn’t been given the choice would he have loved as much?

“But this day he told her she could not come because he knew young Eallair, spoilt brat that he was in those days, would not keep silent about it and once Garrick’s father heard he would surely beat Garrick soundly and most likely Isabelle too. So he quarrelled with Isabelle and told her she must stay home. She was so angry with him, she swore she would never forgive him for treating her like just another girl”.

“We had been following a boar for almost an hour through the forest. We came to a clearing finally and saw faint movements in the undergrowth and Garrick, growing impatient of the endless chase notched an arrow in his bow and sent it flying towards the movements. A scream of agony erupted from the bushes and we realised in horror it was not the squealing of a pig, but the cry of young woman”.

He paused his face contorting in pain, remembering that terrible moment.

“We rushed towards the sound, Garrick arriving there first, all of us sobbing in terror. He found her there, it was Isabelle, she had followed us. The arrow had pierced straight through her heart. She died in his arms”.

“Garrick never forgave himself”, he said with a shuddering breath, “He asked that we never speak of it again and so slowly everyone forgot poor Isabelle. Everyone that is, except Garrick”.

He finally looked up at Cindra who was staring at him, her face grief-stricken and contorted in fear.

“He never told me”, she whispered hoarsely.

“Oh God… he never told me. So why is she in my dreams every night, her face so like his”.

“What?” he breathed, “What do you mean?”

Cindra replied, her voice trembling, “She comes to me in my dreams, since Garrick started drinking. At first I never saw her, I would always catch a glimpse but then I would wake up. But the night Atholt was born I saw her, I looked her in the face. And God Lochan, they burned her alive!”

“I… I don’t understand. You are seeing Isabelle in your dreams Cindra? But why?”

He looked up at her trying to keep the shivering that was rampaging through his body from his hands so she would not see.

“I don’t know Lochan… I can’t sleep without dreaming of her. And if I do then Garrick wakes me in the night crying her name. And always… always in the dream… the banner of their family. Oh”.

Her mouth curved into an overdrawn smile, her eyes filling with tears that threatened to burst their dams and spill over her plump cheeks. He knew that face, it was the face of a little girl with a skinned knee, a little girl who had lost her favourite toy, a little girl who was crying because he had pinched her cheeks too hard.

The dams cracked and tears suddenly flooded over the contours of her face, pouring into her upturned hands.

“Oh… oh Lochan… he never told me”, she sobbed into her tiny hands, “he never even told me”.

In an instant he was on his feet his hands gently rubbing her arms through the thin lace that covered them, his face against her hair. If there was one thing he had never been able to bear it was watching her cry.

“There now… don’t you be worrying yourself. You probably just remembered her somewhere in the back of your mind even though you were little and now you are dreaming of her because of Garrick”, he spoke reassuringly with a confidence he did not feel. He did not know what to think, his mind dulled by churning emotions.

She brought her flushed face to rest against his chest as she had done when they were children, her soft curls tickling his face as she cried.