“Here we are then”, Cindra’s friendly voice was very close to her ear, one warm hand kindly resting on her hip to steady her. It was so difficult to walk. If only the floor would stop moving about like this it would be a whole lot easier.
Sigurd gazed down at the floor, his eyes fixed on a small scuff mark just beside his left toe where some heavy chair had been dragged across the soft-wood floor.
“Isn’t he amazing?”, Madlenka sighed happily as she gazed down at her son’s sleeping form.
“He is the most perfect prince that ever was”, Eallair replied expansively, a tender smile on his face.
The King rose unsteadily to his feet with an expectant look on his face as they trudged through the door.
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.
“Calm down Lochan!”, Eallair scolded, juggling the squirming baby in his arms, “you’re upsetting him”.
“If you will excuse me Your Highness, but I will confess that the sensibilities of the crown prince are hardly my primary concern at this very moment!”, Lochan snarled in reply.
Eallair was stung by Lochan’s use of his title. He never called him anything but Eallair when they were alone together, and it was an unpleasant sensation to be reminded of his status by someone he considered more than his equal. There had been many a time he had born witness to the dagger of his older cousin’s temper, but never had the point of the blade been turned on himself. He could scarcely find the words to reply and so he stumbled over them like the idiot he seemed to continually be proving himself to be.
“Lochan, stop worrying, Cindra will be fine. You got there in time. She isn’t hurt, just a little frightened”.
He bent his face unthinkingly to the soft, warm head of his son who had laid it heavily against his shoulder, apparently growing tired of Lochan’s ranting.
Eallair understood the sentiment and wished fervently to be small again, resting quietly on someone’s strong shoulder, free from the responsibilities of a Kingdom.
“Stop worrying”, Lochan growled, “Stop worrying!? Had I got there a moment later he would have killed her. It was damn lucky I was there but what if I hadn’t been?”
“And all you can think about is your son! Your people need you more than ever now. They are terrified, people are dying, falling prey to this murderer, perhaps even to a member of our own party as well, and all you can do is croon and coo like a doting git!”
Eallair withdrew his face from the soft skin of his son’s drowsy head as though its plesant warmth suddenly scorched him. He gazed at Lochan, his throat constricting in panic as he tried to keep his benign smile from dragging downwards at the corners and sliding from his face.
He felt sick deep in the pit of his stomach, the unpleasant roiling, churning that was always present whenever a decision was required or his opinion was questioned. His throat felt dry, the fluttering of his heart sucking all the moisture from his mouth as he tried to think of what Lochan would most like to hear from him.
Then he saw the door click open before him and his steward walked in. The corners of his smile leapt up again, the limp arms of a puppet jerked upwards on its strings.
“Garald”, he said congenially with a subtle swallow to hide the dryness of his throat, “I suppose you are here to take this little fellow back to his mother”.
“Yes Your Highness”, Garald said, his soft spoken voice echoing oddly in a room where anger had recently rebounded from the walls, “she is asking for him”.
Lochan strode over to the chair and lowered himself heavily into it with a sigh. Eallair could not mistake the sound of his exhaustion.
He gently passed the baby into Garald’s waiting arms, “Tell the Queen I shall be a while still, she shouldn’t wait up”.
“And you should be off to bed too Garald, your work is done for the night and I am sure your wife is waiting for you”, he winked but even his eyelid drooped heavily on its string, so it was not the hearty gesture he was hoping for.
“Thank you Your Majesty, but I still have some paperwork to attend to before I retire”, Garald replied softly.
“Oh well, as you wish then”, he saw Garald out the door and then came to stand behind Lochan, laying a hand gently on his shoulder.
“She will be alright you know, she’s a tough little thing. Don’t you worry, we haven’t seen the end of her pranks and I am sure these halls have definitely not rung with the last of her laughter”.
Somehow by sheer luck he had managed to stumble on the very thing that was worrying Lochan the most. His cousin’s face crumpled, the haughty ridges crumbling, the angry lines slumping, his expression sagging weakly after holding up the weight of his rage. All that was left was a miserable grimace.
“I’m sorry Eallair”, Lochan mumbled, “You didn’t see what he did to her poor little face”.
He turned towards him and Eallair felt the thrill of apprehension, the quickening of his pulse and knew that his opinion was required again. His throat went dry once more as he tried to stir his brain into action. His mouth twisted upwards into the benign smile that had become a reflex for him when he was panicking inside.
“Something must be done Eallair”, Lochan sighed, “It can’t go on like this. Nowhere is safe for our people now if he would dare to come to the ships”.
“But what can we do Lochan, we have searched everywhere within a days travel and there is no way he could have gotten further away than that”, Eallair pressed his cousin, in the hope that Lochan had some idea of what to do and would direct him, because he certainly didn’t.
“That is why I think we must set a trap”.
Eallair’s stomach relaxed and his heart began to beat normally again, Lochan had come through for him again and he felt a rush of gratitude for his friend. Then the reality of what Lochan had said rushed in and his belly clenched painfully once more. His hunter’s instinct told him that a trap like this would need bait.
“But Lochan”, he cried in dismay, “this is a madman we are talking about. A madman and a murderer!”
His voice lowered to a whisper, “He bit Goodwife Rawtharn on the throat Lochan, and from what you said what he did to poor Goodwife Barran…”
He thought for a moment, “And there is still Sister Mella, from what The countess and Father Harndall remember they were attacked by her. What if she is with him?”
Lochan sighed heavily, “If we go on this way we will lose more people and we cannot afford to. There are pitifully few of us as it is”.
“I think we must take the risk. I believe it is the only way”, he said with reassuring finality.
Eallair did not like to admit it to himself, but he was relieved that Lochan had made a decision and he could follow his lead. He could not entirely ignore his misgivings however as he stared at Lochan’s resolute face.
“God help us all”, he muttered.
“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.
Eallair sighed deeply staring down into the foamy dregs of his half-finished ale. They had been sitting holed up in the King’s private quarters for what seemed like most of the night. Lochan would not have been surprised if the sun was already poking its head over the horizon outside. In here there was not sense of time.
It had been many hours since the King’s steward had come to awaken Lochan telling him that the King was running around in a panic in his underwear. Of course Lochan had dragged himself out of bed to sit with his cousin, his best friend, through this most important of nights. Garrick was with them too… Lochan had met him in the galley, sitting before an almost empty tankard of ale.
And so the three of them sat together, Lochan and Garrick trying to make conversation while the King sighed.
“Do you think she will be alright? And the baby?”, he asked his brows knitted into a worried frown.
It pained him to see his younger cousin like this. Eallair had always been the cheerful one, dragging him up into the light even when he thought he had sunk so low into despair he would not return.
And so he met every question with a reassuring statement, every sigh with a distracting comment. He was reminded of the sad little boy he had found hiding in the pantry after he had accidently broken one of the chapel windows with a skimming stone. They had sat together Lochan trying to distract him while he waited for the inevitable thrashing that would occur when his father found his hiding place. His face had broadened with age but the expression was the same.
“Alright then lads… listen to me!”, he exclaimed as jovially as he could manage, “I have a test for you then, let’s see how good your memories are, you old dogs”.
Eallair looked at him with a confused smile. His brows were still sitting above his eyes in a most distressing fashion but this was something at least.
Garrick took a long swig of his ale, “Alright then Lochan… out with it”.
Lochan screwed up one eye, opening the other one very wide and hoisted his left shoulder towards his neck.
“Now then ya… ya young hooligans! Stay away from me armoury or ya’ll all be in for a hiding ya will!!! What did I tell ya! Take off that chainmail ya bunch of ning nongs!! Ya look like a flock of ladies what with it hanging around yer legs like a dress!! Get out of here! Get away!”.
Garrick, who had been taking another drink from his tankard began to choke, spraying ale across the table.
“Ha! I know who you are!”, Garrick roared, “It’s old limping Anfar that used to be in charge of the armoury… you sound just like him… and the eye… it’s perfect!”
He peeked to the side at Eallair’s face and saw the young man was smiling wider, chuckling softly, the brows beginning to soften. He would have to do better.
“Oh my gawd and you Prince Eallair look at what ya’ve done to my chickens… look at them running about… poor things are terrified… what was ya thinking waving swords at the poor dears! Look… they’ve lost all these feathers from the fright of it!”
“You should be acting more prince-like and less like a pissed-faced buffoon ya idiot! Ya young fools’ll be the death of me… look at these grey hairs sprouting out of me poor old beard”, he theatrically pulled out a tuft of hair, “the Lord take me now before I ever have to deal with the like’s of you lot again!!!”.
It was the memory of being called a “pissed-faced buffoon” that did it, a rolling laugh bursting from Eallair until he was clutching his sides, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Stop… stop Lochan… please… my stomach can’t take it anymore”, he pleaded, the fit of laughter beginning to subside.
“Ha! And do you remember when Lochan snuck into the armoury and greased all the handles of the swords so that when it was time for the knights to practice they slid from their grips with a mighty clang as soon as they clashed! And what a hiding your father gave you after that one. You couldn’t sit down for a week”.
This brought on a new fit of laughter from the three of them as they remembered the woes Lochan had experienced from not being able to sit down. It was funny that he could laugh about it now, Lochan thought, at the time he had not thought it amusing in the slightest and had been very cross with the other two for teasing him about it at every opportunity they got.
It felt good to laugh, it had been such a long time since any of them had heard the happy sound.
“Those were the days weren’t they lads”, Eallair sighed happily reaching for his ale.
The door clicked open and Valeriya walked in carrying a small bundle that was making a large amount of noise.
She looked at the three men, who were red in the face from the laughter and the ale and smiled slightly. It seemed like such a small expression but Lochan could see the amusement flickering in her eyes. And behind it in the foggy depths, an all consuming sadness, so tangible he felt as though he could reach out and stroke it. Her face was pale and smooth, expressionless as a carved marble statue, but one had only to look into her eyes to understand the pain that lay beneath. Lochan knew. It was like gazing into a mirror.
Eallair had leapt to his feet before the others could react and was rushing over to where Valeriya stood.
“Is Madlenka alright?”, he asked worriedly.
“Yes, she is fine. Tired but fine”, Valeriya replied.
“Is that… is that mine?”, he wavered pointing to the baby she held which had stopped its lusty wailing and was now staring up at the King with his own big grey eyes.
“Well who else’s would it be… look at him Your Highness. He has your eyes and if I’m not mistaken your hair too”.
“Meet the heir to your throne Eallair”, she said more gently.
The baby was looking up at him with curiosity, his brows knitted with worry and although Lochan couldn’t see it he was pretty sure Eallair was gazing back with the same expression.
“Can I hold him?”, he asked in a quavering voice.
“Of course you can, he’s yours isn’t he”, she carefully passed the baby to Eallair, with a hint of reluctance, Lochan noticed.
Eallair held him at arms length as though unsure what to do with him.
“Well look at that”, he said in amazement, “He really does have my eyes”.
The baby reached out and patted him softly on the nose with a tiny hand.
“Ha! Did you see that Lochan! It seems the young lad likes my nose! Well I hope you do my boy because there’s a good chance that you’ll have it yourself one day”.
Lochan couldn’t stop staring at the sight of his cousin, a happy father holding this healthy baby in his arms. He felt as though his world was screwing inwards until finally it would reach the centre and he would implode.
He closed his eyes and gasped quietly trying to fight the feeling of suffocation that was growing. Spinning and spinning, sucking into a single point and all he could do was helplessly hang on and hope that it would stop before he was crushed into oblivion. His head was growing light and he had a strong desire to scream and sob and to gnash his teeth, beating his fists against the floor.
He opened his eyes and looked up and suddenly everything stopped. Her soft grey eyes were fixed on his own, holding him in place, a feeling of calm emanating from her. Those eyes were telling him to be strong, and he knew he must for be for the sake of his cousin. He took a deep breath and tried to smile as Eallair turned to face him.
“This is your Uncle Lochan little man”, he proudly presented the baby for Lochan to examine.
He was indeed a fine, strong baby, Lochan thought with a happy pang. He was very glad for Eallair and he must remember that tonight.
“Well done Eallair… he’s a very fine lad.”, Lochan asked, swallowing to try and wet his desperately dry throat, “What are you going to name him?”.
Eallair looked him the eyes and answered, “Kendrick”.
Then he clutched the baby tightly to his chest, choking back a sob.
Kendrick had been Eallair’s father, the King shot down by Faldorn’s arrowmen. The wound was still raw for all of them, but Eallair in particular. He had always been his father’s favourite.
Life was all about grief, thought Lochan. They may have these small happinesses along the way, but when it came down to it, they spent their days collecting woes like shells on the beach, storing them carefully away to pull out and admire in the light. But tonight he would push them back away into their dark cupboard and be happy for his cousin. Tomorrow was another day to caress the bleached lines of their eroded forms, to gaze inside their hidden depths and watch them spiral into nothingness.
Madlenka sat up with a start suddenly very awake, her eyes wide. Something was wrong.
“Oof”, she gasped as a throbbing pain shot through her abdomen, pushing the air from her lungs.
She pushed back the blankets which were now weighing heavily on her tender stomach and tried to adjust herself to a more comfortable position. The baby was always most active during the night and would often choose the moment just as she was drifting off to sleep to kick out hard with its tiny little legs.
She had to admit she was getting a bit sick of this pregnancy thing. She felt swollen and irritable, her feet were sore, her back ached, and she was unbearably hot despite the frigid temperatures outside. And Eallair kept snuggling up to her in his sleep so she had to stick her feet out the edge of the bed to find some sort of equilibrium.
She carefully sat up. Perhaps she would take a walk around the room, that often calmed the baby so they could both sleep again.
Eallair was of course sleeping soundly, snoring gently the covers pulled up to his chin. That man could sleep through an invasion, she thought to herself and then wished she hadn’t. The thought of his entire family murdered and a large percentage of their people, was still raw in her mind. She could only pray to God that Faldorn had not managed to cross the mountain range that lay between Branwhuld and her home country of Lomorrad.
“Oof”, she cried out louder sitting bolt upright, a grimace of pain flitting across her face, “Oh dear. OOOF!”.
Her last cry had been quite loud and surprisingly, Eallair began to stir next to her, his breathing growing shallow.
He sat up, pushing back the covers, blinking drowsily.
“Did you say Oof my love?”, he asked, his voice groggy with sleep, “What do you mean oof?”.
She could breath again now that the pain had subsided but she was quite certain that it was time. She was surprised by how calm she felt. She had been half-afraid throughout the whole pregnancy, worried that her mother’s problems would become her own. But she had made it this far and now the end was in site. She would not think about her mother.
“It means that your going to be a father soon dear heart”, she said softly, swinging her legs to the edge of the bed. She had heard that walking around could sometimes help the pain.
Eallair stared at her uncomprehendingly his mouth falling open.
Then suddenly it clicked, “What?!”.
He leapt to his feet and ran around to her side of the bed clutching his head, his hands pulling at his hair.
“What?!”, he was almost hopping from foot to foot and she thought if he tore at his hair any harder it was going to start coming out in big brown clumps.
She stared at him, somewhat surprised by his reaction. But she had heard that men were exceedingly silly when it came to this and the best thing she could do was send for the women.
She felt a laugh rolling up from her belly and there was nothing she could do to contain it. She couldn’t help it, he looked so foolish, the King, standing there in his underwear, his eyes wide as saucers and his hair sticking out in all directions.
“Why are you laughing? What’s so funny? I don’t see anything funny about this situation!”, he exclaimed, “What are we going to do?”.
She tried to answer but she was hit with another wave of pain, this time so intense she almost screamed, gritting her teeth and waiting for it to pass.
“Oh my God!”, Eallair cried extending his arms out towards her, “Oh my God! Are you alright?”.
She breathed deeply as the pain dulled to a throbbing ache and then turned her attention to her panicking husband. It was clear to her that he needed something useful to do.
“Eallair dear”, she began gently, “Do you think you could light a candle for me? It’s awfully dark in here”.
He nodded his head eagerly, glad to be able to help in some way and trotted off to find a flint.
He bounded back when it was done, almost tripping over the bedspread that lay tangled on the floor.
“What are we going to do now?”, he asked scratching his head.
She could see she was going to have to be gentle with him, he was obviously so terrified his mind had completely shut down.
“Well… do you think… OOOF!!!”, she was interrupted by a clenching pain in her lower abdomen, so intense that she clutched at her belly, breathing rapidly.
“Oh my God! That oof was bigger than the others! What are we going to do?!!”.
When she could speak again she turned her little face up to his.
“Eallair… do you think that perhaps now would be a good time to send for Goodwife Cade and the other women?”, she asked delicately.
“Why yes of course”, he said excitedly, “Why didn’t I think of that myself… they should definitely be here. I’m sure they will know what to do”.
“Yes… I think they probably will”, she replied with a weary sigh.
It was one thing trying to deal with the pain, but trying to deal with the husband was almost worse.
He turned to leave, almost tripping on the folds of the heavy quilt again.
“Eallair”, she called out softly, “Do you think I could have a kiss before you go?”
He turned back to face her, and she could see from his expression how very frightened he was. Her heart gave a painful throb as he looked at her with sad grey eyes, the dark of clouds before the rain.
“Yes of course my darling”, he leaned forward and gave her a soft kiss on the mouth.
He stood back still staring at her and then kissed her again solemnly.
Then he pulled her into his arms, “Three for luck”, he choked and kissed her passionately, his arms clutching at her, his fingers tangling in her hair.
He turned to leave, rushing out the door.
“Don’t forget to put some clothes on”, she called after him.
Then she carefully lowered herself onto the bed and tried to make herself comfortable until the women came.
