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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yew little romantic thing yew,” Arran chuckled.

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

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

“Of course,” Harndall mumbled blushing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She beamed at him, her beautiful wonderful husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not,” he asked ominously.

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

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

“You love him?” he moaned.

“Yes,” she whispered.

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

“And you don’t love me?” he choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day was scorching hot. Filthy hot. The sun glared down at Harndall like an accusatory eye, wide and unblinking as he shrank beneath its gaze. Sweat poured down the back of his neck as he trudged up the hill to the castle. The courtyard was empty, save for a few ruffled looking chickens, desperately trying to gather up fluffy chicks that were scattering in all directions. The thick material of Harndall’s robe clung to his skin, hanging heavy and damp, sticking unpleasantly to his arms.

It was all so stupid. He wasn’t even a priest any longer and yet he had no other clothes to wear, only a musty box full of scratchy, poorly made robes. Though he walked in the garb of a priest it was no longer his function and so, what use was he? All he knew was of murmured psalms and sacred rite. Father Harndall was no more… now just plain Harndall and he had no idea how to approach that. Father Harndall…

“Father Harndall!” A desperate voice cried out making the sticky hair on the back of his neck prickle as though it were some pitiful disembodied message calling up from deep within his soul.

He shivered with superstitious fear, but the voice came again, more solid and tangible and he turned towards the sound. It was only Maire, the scruffy-haired kitchen maid. She ran up to him, a panicked look on her flushed face, almost tripping on her tattered skirts.

“Father Harndall… oh Father Harndall,” She cried, clinging to the arm of his robe which scraped unpleasantly against the soft skin of his arm.

“It’s just Harndall now,” he muttered, staring down at her as she glanced around nervously.

“Sorry, Harndall. Ye’ve simply got to be getting’ away. They could be here any moment now. Sundown they said. I’ve been looking fer yew everywhere I have,” she puffed and panted.

He could see she had been running, her lank red hair plastered to her freckled face.

“Listen to me,” she glowered, “Yew’ve got to be hiding.”

He couldn’t hide from what he had done, what he was continuing to do. He looked at this small, red-haired messenger in confusion.

She poked a grimy finger at him, “They’re coming after yew. They say they want to punish yew fer yer sins. Says it’s being yer fault all them babies died.”

So he would be punished after all. All those deaths. Perhaps it was his fault. His sin had been so great. He had abandoned his people.

“Well then,” he gave a melancholy sigh, “I suppose I deserve it.”

“That may be, but if yew don’t mind me sayin’ it hain’t fer us mortals to judge. Yew can make yer peace with God,” her voice was soft, almost kind. Then it grew hard, a steely ring to it, “But there’ll be no peace skewered with a farmer’s pitchfork in yer behind so yew’d best be hiding.”

“Thank you kindly miss, but I think I am in the best position to make this decision,” he drew himself up haughtily, “Good day.”

How he had failed them. God had granted them into his keeping and all he had brought on them was betrayal and death after death. And he could not stop himself. He would sin again and again for the love of her. There was nothing he could do. He deserved to be punished. He deserved…

The tiny fist met his face with a resounding thwack. He reeled back, startled at the impact and the awful throbbing pain in his nose. His hands flew up to his face while the world tilted and spun with stars.

“Why you little… you little wretch,” it was a word he’d never used before but it felt good on his tongue. Almost as good as an all-consuming kiss from Valeriya. Almost as good as the first pint of ale he had downed and the many that followed as he tested the limits of drunken revelry for the first time.

“What is the matter with you?!” he growled, pinching his nose between his fingers to try and ease the pain.

It was another first. The first time he had been punched in the face. The first time he had been punched at all. It was difficult to savour it through the unfamiliar boiling rage and aching pain.

“No… what’s being the matter with yew, yew big oaf?!” she shrieked at him, her face growing a nasty shade of purple with anger, “Yew’ve got to go an’ find yer woman an’ yer child an’ get the hell out of here.”

“What do you mean my woman and my child?” he barked and then his heart sunk. Surely they wouldn’t… it wasn’t their fault.

“Are they going to hurt Valeriya and the baby,” he whispered ominously, bringing his pounding face close to the kitchen maid’s red one which had gone suddenly quite pale as though the anger bouying up her bravado had drained away.

“They wasn’t just talkin’ about yew. They went on about her too an’ yer baby. Saying the three of yew brought this upon them.”

Valeriya! And little Hannah. He had to find them quickly. How stupid and vain he had been to try and play the martyr. Why hadn’t he thought of them?

“I’m sorry fer punching yew,” Maire murmured, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Harndall was already turning on his heel, “I’m sure I’ll thank you one day. If we manage to survive this that is.”

He had to get to them before the mob did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harndall no,” she cried softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Earnulf did not think he had ever seen a man so changed in such a short span of time. And he had been through a dreadful war and the even worse aftermath. When Father Harndall had left Branwhuld he had been full of energy, his cheerful devoutness infectious, his warm smile comforting. What Earnulf saw before him now was a man eroded by the passage of three short years, like a cliff face pounded by waves until finally it crumbled. He always thought the young priest possessed a certain strength hidden beneath his warm exterior. But then, even the strongest of granites could be cracked open by ice and peeled away layer by layer like an onion in a kitchen maid’s calloused hands. He did not like the haunted look in Harndall’s eyes. He didn’t like the gaunt look of the man and the dark circles shadowing his eyes. He didn’t like the defeated slump of his shoulders.

“Father Earnulf?” Harndall said, no trace apparent of the enthusiastic lad who had once recited psalms to him with such fervour.

“Yes young Harndall… it is I. May we come in?” he asked, and over his shoulder to the boy skulking at the base of the stairs, “come now Brand, don’t dawdle.”

“I can scarcely believe it’s you,” Harndall was saying, “have any of the others come?”

“No lad, I’m sorry to say but most of us are dead. Only a few have stayed in hiding, determined to care for those left. Father Agilberht, Brother Cenwalh and Brother Faran. N’kasha took special joy in rounding up the priests of our religion and doing unspeakable things to them. I was lucky to get away with only this,” he reached up and gingerly touched his face.

Harndall slowly began to cross himself, but then, his hand trembling stopped halfway. Earnulf did not like this at all.

“Brand lad, close the door behind you if you will,” Earnulf called out to the boy,

Brand shut the door with an irritated sigh. He probably had that sour look on his face. Earnulf did not fail to remember Harndall at that age, so eager to please. Harndall had been a boy who would offer to clean the altar, to transcribe letters for the older monks, a boy who spent his spare hours gazing up at the roof of the cathedral. He was everything Brand was not. Earnulf was beginning to doubt whether the boy was suitable for a life of priesthood. But it was not his decision. If the boy must cling resolutely to the wish of his dead father, Earnulf would not be the one to shatter that. Earnulf was just waiting and if he was honest, hoping for the boy to come to the conclusion on his own.

“Harndall, this is Brand,” Earnulf introduced the sullen boy.

“Pleased to meet you Brand,” Harndall said softly.

Brand ignored him, gazing around the small house, “I think there’s plenty of room for us here.”

Earnulf bristled and had to remind himself to be calm, “Brand, don’t be impolite. We haven’t even asked Father Harndall yet.”

“Now Harndall, how goes it with you. You seem tired.”

Harndall’s face crumpled, “Oh Father Earnulf. I must talk to you.”

“Now Brand lad, I know I just asked you to close the door, but perhaps you could open it and send yourself through it. Go and explore outside. I’ll come and find you when we’re done.”

Brand huffed and stomped through the door, closing it with an angry thud behind him.

“Now Harndall, please, tell me what has happened,” he asked kindly.

“Oh Father Earnulf,” the young man cried, “ I have sinned. I have sinned more than you can possibly imagine.”

His voice caught in his throat with a sob.

“Now Harndall, I have a very good imagination. How about you try me? Confess to me my son, ease your conscience. Ask the forgiveness of the Lord.”

Harndall sank to his knees, his hands clasped fervently in front of him, his shoulders trembling. It was a pose that Father Earnulf had seen often, young Harndall praying alone in the cathedral.

“Father Earnulf… I… I have a daughter.”

Father Earnulf was not shocked. He had been a priest for many years. He had seen this happen before.

“I do not know how she came to be, since I never laid a hand on the woman before that time. But she is mine, I know it.”

The poor lad, he had deluded himself into thinking he had committed some crime. Perhaps some harried scullery maid had tried to claim he was the father so as to secure a better future for her child. And poor Harndall, he scarce knew anything of the world. He had been so easily tricked.

“My dear dear son, this cannot be. If you did not lie with this woman then the child cannot be yours. You have committed no sin. The women, she has committed a sin and I will discuss it with her if you would let me know who it is.”

“The Countess, Father, a married woman,” he sobbed.

Well that wasn‘t quite what he expected.

“And furthermore it matters no longer. For I have lain with her now and broken my vow of celibacy. I have committed the sin of adultery. More than once Father.”

“Harndall my son,” he took the weeping man’s head in his hands, “yes you have sinned. You have sinned greatly. But all is not lost. If you sin no more you can be forgiven and restored. God forgives us these little indiscretions if we truly repent. He knows we are weak and tempted by the flesh.”

Lord knows it had happened to Earnulf when he was just a young lad. She had been buxom and round and so very soft, and he had taken her in such of frenzied passion that he thought he might die. But he had repented and set his mind back to the Lord who had in due time he believed, forgiven his sin. So it would be for Harndall.

“Come now young Harndall, dry your tears. Repent and you shall be forgiven,” he helped the other man to his feet.

“Our Lord is not unkind, remember that he loves us, even when we stray from the flock. Let me be your shepherd to guide you back to the fold.”

Harndall suddenly stood up straight, wiping his wet face on his robe. When he looked at Earnulf his expression was hard as granite, his blue eyes like ice.

“But I love her Father Earnulf. I love her more than anything. I do not repent. I cannot.”

“Then what shall you do,” Earnulf’s voice quavered, in his mind the prized sheep was running from the flock and he feared there might be wolves circling in the darkness.

“I cannot be a priest any longer.”

Earnulf was shocked.

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

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

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

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

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

Frightened, he gestured for her to enter.

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

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

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Water please.”

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

“Radomir tried to rape me.”

He dropped the mug with a clatter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held her up to look at her more closely.

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

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

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

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

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

“What is her name?” Harndall asked reverently.

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

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

Lochan reached the bottom of the ladder and peered down into the gloom. The ship creaked miserably, ice wedging apart the warped boards where the tar had worn away. The hull was dark, lit by a single forlorn candle, flickering weakly in the chill air.

Behind the bars Harndall was hunched over in the chair, his head resting heavily in one hand while the other wrapped protectively around his trembling body.

He did not seem to have noticed Lochan’s silent approach and the Duke hovered awkwardly behind the bars.

He coughed nervously and Harndall’s head twitched up.

“Good evening Father,” he murmured his voice catching in his dry throat. He swallowed loudly as the priest came shuffling towards him.

“Good evening Your Lordship,” the priest replied softly.

“I think you know why I am here,” Lochan began in a quietly controlled voice.

“I didn’t do it Your Lordship,” Harndall countered immediately, the expression on his grief-stricken face cracking and bending like the salt stained boards.

“I would like to believe that Father, but there are some things which need to be explained,” he cleared his throat, continuing, “For instance did you, in fact spend an hour alone with the Countess during the month of April after both you and she were injured?”

“Lochan I was praying! I was only praying. What sort of beast do you take me for? She was ill, I would never have touched her!”

“That was not what I asked Father, and I would prefer it if you called me by my title.”

“I’m sorry Your Lordship,” Harndall replied head bowed, colour rising in his gaunt face, “Yes, I was in the room with her for an hour.”

“And during that time you did not touch her?”

“No, of course not” the priest cried recoiling back from the bars.

“You didn’t touch her at all?”

Harndall crept forward again, “I might have held her hand… I… I don’t remember.”

“Is it possible there are other things you don’t remember Father?” Lochan asked, his tone growing harsh.

He would have liked to believe the Father. He was inclined to trust the man who had fought at his side wielding the power of prayer in perfect symmetry with the sword clutched in his strong fingers. This was the man who had spent long nights crammed into his study as they desperately tried to understand the unnatural problem that pursued them. But the evidence was unsettling, the illicit visit nine months ago, the startling resemblance of the baby, the kiss beneath the mistletoe, the rumours of an unnaturally close relationship between the Countess and her priest.

“Harndall, did you ever at any other time lay a hand on the Countess?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the Priest replied, his slender fingers reaching out to cling to the bars as though the weight of the accusation were too much for his frail body to bear.

“No,” he whispered, but Lochan could not fail to notice the shame glowing bright behind his eyes.

“I know it is difficult to talk about, but the night when you were attacked by the creature, you were found in each others arms. Can you tell me the reason for that?”

“Dear Lord, I was suffering from extreme blood loss Your Lordship, I cannot remember much from that night at all and what memories I have are fuzzy to say the least.”

“But you do have some memories…” Lochan felt bad for pressing the man but he would not be happy until he knew the reason for the guilt that was creasing the Priest’s weary face.

“I… I remember that her body was cold against mine. But her hair smelled warm and it was so soft…”.

“I think you are lying to me Father. That wasn’t all. I saw you kiss the Countess under the mistletoe last Christmas and you have failed to include that in your account. And I do not think it was an insignificant kiss. I will ask you again. Has there been another time that you have laid a hand on the Countess?”

“Your Lordship,” Harndall’s voice was strangled, “Yes, there has.”

“Would you care to elaborate for me.”

The Priest’s face was growing hot with shame, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was the night of the attack. She came to me to tell me the news of the birth of Lady Hwratar’s twins. She touched my face and her hand… oh her hand was so very cold. I took them between my own, I think I thought to warm them but it was so difficult to let go.”

The words were rushing out of Harndall’s mouth, and Lochan understood he was hearing the confession of a man alone in hearing the sins of others but unable to divulge his. It must have been a heavy burden to bear. He felt pity for the man but at the same time his heart lay sick and heavy in his chest waiting for the inevitable admission that would seal his friend’s fate.

“And there were times… times when she put her arms around me or placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and God help me how I wanted to hold her in my arms and never let go.”

His eyes closed, his face drooping with exhaustion. Then suddenly his head snapped up and the gaze that met Lochan’s was full of determination and resolve.

“I love her Your Lordship. I love her.”

The Priest’s eyes were earnest as the words poured from his mouth. He repeated it softly as though he liked the sound they made, the gentle vowel in the middle, the purr at the end.

“Then Father, how could you take advantage of her like that?”

“Your Lordship,” the priest cried, his face warping in dismay, “I never did. I would never hurt her. I never did anything but hold her dear, dear hands.”

“Are you sure you aren’t forgetting something?”

“Could I be Your Lordship, you tell me. Can a man forget something like that? I cannot imagine having never knowingly experienced it. If so then perhaps it was I, but I went into that room fully in control of all my senses and I promise you that all I did was kneel by her beside and pray for her full recovery. I do not know who did this to her and the thought sickens me, but it was not I. I cannot believe I would simply forget something like that.”

“No I suppose not. I am inclined to believe you Father, but it will be difficult to convince the others. Are you sure you have told me all. It will be worse for you if I find out you have hidden something more.”

“No Your Lordship that is all. All I have done is to love her with all my heart. though it be a sin against the power invested by me by the Good Lord. I have sinned against the people. For that I am truly sorry.”

Lochan leaned towards the bars, “I will fight for you Harndall. But be warned, at the very least they are likely to strip you of your status at the worst… well don’t think of this now. I will do my utmost best to help you.”

“Thank you Your Lordship. Do not fear for me. If the Lord is testing me then it only so I can become stronger.”

The Priest’s face was serene as he gazed at Lochan from between the iron bars that framed his drained face.

“Thank you for taking my confession. It has been a long time since anyone listened but the Lord,” he murmured a small smile on his lips.

“If we are done perhaps you would excuse me. I would like to pray for a while.”

“We are done.”

Father Harndall turned from him sinking to his knees with relief, his hands clasped reverently before him, his lips moving in silent song.

Lochan was filled with dread that prayer would not serve to alleviate. There were many baying for the Priest’s blood and he was only one man with a sword.