“A girl,” Garrick murmured reverently, gently cradling the newborn Lisbet had placed in his arms.

Cindra did not reply, did not even glance up at the baby. Lisbet didn’t like it. Of course Cindra was exhausted from the birth, but she was a strong girl and it had been nothing like this with Atholt. From the first moment she had been unable to take her eyes off the boy and had cried big, silent tears when they took him away to be washed. Now she lay back on the bed, apparently uninterested in the tiny baby lying quietly in her father’s arms. Lisbet didn’t like it at all.

“A girl,” he whispered again, hoisting the soft bundle up onto his shoulder with a father’s grin.

She glanced at Cindra again, her hands lying listless on her belly, her cheeks still flushed from the exertion of birthing. Something felt wrong. The whole thing just felt wrong. She knew Hepsie felt it too. The baby had slid silently from Cindra’s womb, never making a sound, not a single cry though they tickled her feet and poked at her to try and make her. Hepsie had finally declared her healthy, despite her odd silence and all the while the baby had stared up at them with a strange intensity in her wide, green eyes.

But Garrick seemed not to notice and was gazing down at the baby with a father’s adoration.

“Why, isn’t she the most beautiful thing you ever did see,” he exclaimed, holding the baby up so that he could peer at her, his big, bristly, red face close to her small, pink, wrinkly one.

“She looks just like her,” he sighed sadly.

The baby was staring up at her father with that same intense look, her green eyes barely blinking. Covering her head was a soft red fuzz, not unlike the stubble that grew untended on her father’s neck. Lisbet didn’t agree… the baby barely resembled Cindra at all, perhaps she had her mother’s chubby cheeks. But she was the very image of her father.

Lisbet awkwardly maneuvered her swollen body onto the bed, perching on the edge. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the leg.

“Are you alright honey?”

Cindra blinked as though coming out of a daze.

“Lisbet,” she whispered, her voiced wavering, “could you please have Atholt brought here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep now sweetpea? You must be exhausted.”

“No,” Cindra mumbled, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, her lower lip trembling, “I want Atholt.”

Lisbet glanced up at Garrick, but he seemed entirely unaware of his wife’s distress, cooing at the swaddled bundle in his arms.

“Igrayne dear, could you please go and get the Baroness’ son for her. Don’t mind if he’s asleep. Just bring him please.”

“Of course your ladyship,” Igrayne replied scurrying off to the adjoining nursery.

Cindra was scrambling towards the bedside, wincing in pain as she swung her legs over the edge.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea,” Lisbet said softly, looking to Hepsie for assistance.

“I’m fine,” Cindra muttered.

“Yew just take it easy now Yer Grace. Yew’ve just popped out a baby and it certainly isn’t being the easiest thing in the world to do,” Hepsie chided, “Yew can get up if yew want but just take it easy, alright love.”

Cindra didn’t seem to hear her as she launched herself from the side of the bed, propelling herself towards the door where Igrayne was standing cradling her curly-haired son.

Where Cindra’s face had been dull and lifeless before, now it was all sparkles and rosy-cheeked joy.

“Atholt!” she squealed, gathering the sleepy boy into her arms, “There’s my darling boy.”

Garrick did not even seem to have noticed the entrance of his son.

He was reverently kissing the top of his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the red fuzz on the crown of her skull.

“So much like her,” he whispered again, clutching the infant tightly to him.

“Cindra love,” he called out to his wife, “can we name her Isabelle?”

“Arright Graney… yew can open yer eyes now!” Arran drawled, his arms clasped tightly around her.

Her feet dangled prettily in their soft slippers, the folds of her wedding dress falling neatly around her legs. She was a soft, white bird gliding through the air, her feet never touching the ground. She had never felt so beautiful or so loved.

She slowly opened her eyes, squeaking in surprise at the sight she beheld.

“What’s this then Arran?”

“Why, this is just our house then Goodwife Barran. Our very own house,” Arran replied with a small smile tugging playfully at the corners of his lips.

“Our very own,” she murmured staring at the fine eaves, the carefully plastered walls. To the side of them the sea lapped gently onto the beach, behind the house the mountains curving into the sky.

“It’s beautiful Arran,” she sighed, “just lovely. Thank you.”

“Well don’t be thankin’ me love. Yew think these two hands of mine can build all that. Yew should be thankin’ Noah an’ Steen. It was mostly them that done it,” Arran blushed modestly.

“Thank you,” she breathed, feeling Arran’s arms tighten around her floating body.

“Aw… it was being nothing Arran,” Steen mubled as Hepsie clutched his arm tightly, smiling softly.

“I didn’t help at all!” Maire cried, “but I would have if they’d been asking!”

“Well, maybe you can be helping me with the gardening Mairey. We can plant all the beautiful flowers from the forest,” she smiled, snuggling against her husband’s chest.

Her own house. Her very own house. It was more than she had imagined. Her very own house to live in with the man she loved. She was sure it was a dream and any moment she would crash from the bed as his arms released her, awake and alone, tangled in the blankets.

But she did not wake.

“Well now,” Noah said gruffly, “Perhaps we’d best be leaving these young’uns to get some rest.”

He winked at Igrayne, his bushy eyebrows framing twinkling eyes, “They must be awful tired after such a big day.”

Gena tittered beside him, her hand reaching for his.

“They won’t be sleeping!” Maire cried, jumping from foot to foot. Igrayne wondered if she hadn’t had a little too much mead.

“Oh Graney, let me have a kiss then. It won’t be the last I’d wager but it don’t matter.”

She leaped forward, planting a sloppy kiss on Igrayne’s cheek.

“Yew’d better tell me all about it in the morning!” she giggled, and Igrayne blushed feeling the warmth of Arran’s chest against her cheek.

“Goodnight dear friends,” Arran’s voice was deep and rumbling from Igrayne’s position huddled against his chest, “thankin’ yew again fer all yew’ve done fer us.”

Their muffled goodbyes faded into the distance as Arran carried her into their house and carefully set her down.

“So,” she giggled, “it’s just us now then.”

He did not reply, his gaze upon her, his green eyes burning with the intensity of copper fire.

She could not fail to remember that he had stood in a room like this before, with a bride like this before. She was new and fresh, like a tiny chick pecking her way resolutely from the egg while he was the shadow soaring high above, coasting on updrafts while she stretched her glistening wings.

His hands fell to her waist and he slowly spun her like a feather twisting on the breeze. His fingers were sure and steady as they went to the laces of her dress.

She wanted to protest, to say something but his fingers were nimble, pulling the laces one by one, as though he plucked the feathers from her body slowly exposing her goose pimpled flesh.

The laced material of her gown slowly slid to her feet, falling in a rumpled pile, white and soft like feathers in a nest.

She turned to him, searching his face for any sign of the Arran she knew, the timid, nervous man who would make her laugh until she wanted to cry. This was an Arran she had not seen before, an Arran of resolute intensity whose eyes glinted from beneath his dark hair, following her every move as though she were a mouse scuttling on the ground far below oblivious of the beak that would soon break her spine in two.

“Igrayne,” he groaned, closing the gap beside her, his arms wrapping around her half-naked body, his lips finding the crook of her neck.

She stood rigid, suddenly frightened as his lips tickled the soft skin that stretched taut over her collarbone.

“Arran,” she tittered as his fingerstips stroked her back.

“Mmmmh,” he murmured, his lips slowly moving their way down towards her breast.

“Arran, but you’re still wearing all your clothes,” she squeaked, “that’s hardly fair is it?”

He looked up at her, that strange look still claiming his features, “Why yer right of course. Now yew just sit yerself down and I’ll get to remedying that fact. No peeking now.”

She plonked down on the side of the bed, closing her eyes. But she couldn’t help it. She just had to peek. She watched him through slitted eyes as he struggled with one boot then the other, fumbled with his belt, whisked his tunic up over his chest and hastily pulled his leggings down.

At that point she shut her eyes, afraid of what might come next.

“Yew can open yer eyes now,” his voice was husky with desire.

She slowly did and was relieved to find he was still wearing his underclothes.

“That’s not undressed,” she smiled giddily up at him as he gazed down at her.

“I didn’t want to be frightening yew,” he murmured.

If she was frightened before now she was terrified. What the hell did he have under there?

He sat beside her on the bed, pulling her close against the hot skin of his body. His arm circled around her neck, fingers heavily weighing on her shoulder were they played with the strap of her bodice. With his other hand he reached up to stroke her face.

She shivered away from his hand, but his touch was persistant, her body pinned in place against his. His fingers slowly sought the humped mass of skin beneath her left eye, moving over the hummocky, pink mess. They caressed the lumpy ridge of her brow with its line of scars marching away from her nose.

She felt as though he had laid her plucked and naked on the table and was only deciding which piece was most succulent to carve.

“Arran, I’m scared,” she murmured, her cheek against the rough, curling hairs of his chest.

He flinched as though she had slapped him, “Of me!” he yelped like a kicked puppy.

“No, no! Of this! This whole thing. You’ve been doing it before but I’m as blind as poor Gena wandering in here,” she muttered, “You’ve done it all before… and what if I’m no good at it.”

Arran carefully pulled her trembling body onto his lap.

“Grane love, I’ve never been doing this with yew now have I?” he was smiling sheepishly at her, “so I’m just as new to it as yew an’ just as nervous I might be doing something yew don’t like.”

He pulled her close to him, and on his face was her Arran’s tentative smile though his eyes still followed her every move.

“Perhaps we can be nervous together yew and I. I know a little more than yew so at least we won’t have any nasty mishaps,“ she giggled as he grinned at her, “but yew an’ I… we’re new and there isn’t nothing to be afraid of because we’re going to help each other along alright?”

She nodded and with a burst of courage tentatively leaned forward to kiss him softly on his smiling lips. He responded gently pressing her to him, his arms around her body which was no longer trembling.

And when their kisses grew more fevered and passionate and he lay her back on the bed she felt as though she were stretching her new wings and soaring upwards into the sky. But she was not alone, for he was beside her, his feathers softly brushing against hers as they rode the warm updraft higher and higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Igrayne eyed Kelgar suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at her his eyes wide with shock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a sniffle form the front row.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arran gulped and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly it didn’t matter that all these people were watching. Suddenly it didn’t matter that his priest had broken his vows to God in adultery with the Earl’s wife. 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.

The room was messier than Lekha had ever seen it. A half-finished bottle of wine was propped up against the bed leg along with a host of used plates and cutlery. Barely visible, tucked amongst the black lace of Varda’s mourning dress was baby Rowan, silent and still while Himani squirmed and mewed in her own arms. The bed was strewn with barely begun embroidery, picked up for a moment and then flung discarded onto the growing pile. There was a large basket filled with piles of bread, stale and hard with spots of green here and there.

“We come in, yes?” she asked at the door and Varda nodded a silent consent.

She tiptoed in, shushing the wriggling baby pressed against her breast.

“Oh, I did not see you Mara,” she cried in surprise as the small birdlike girl was revealed sitting behind Varda, her hands in the woman’s hair. Varda’s hair had been woven into three complex braids, though it was greasy and unwashed it was a thing of beauty to behold. The thick braids hung heavily down her back like carefully wound rope. As a sea captain’s wife it had always been the only thing she liked about life on the sea, the intricately woven rope, the deft sailor’s knots, the webbing of the sails all strung out above. It was as beautiful as the hair she modestly covered and hid from the world.

Mara gazed at her calmly, tying off the final braid with her nimble fingers. Baby Rowan watched her movements with interest. Mara’s hair was braided too, a long silky plait sliding down over her shoulder. Lekha had only ever seen it messy and ruffled, pulled into a scruffy tail at her back. She wondered if Mara had finally allowed Varda to touch her hair.

“I see you have very much bread my friend,” Lekha murmured.

Varda did not look up, her eyes dull and fixed, her hands pulling at a thread that had come loose from the lacework. The more she tugged the more it unravelled. Lekha felt a pang at her friend’s pain, the Varda she knew would have straight away pulled out a needle and thread and patched up the problem.

“Did you make this hair Mara,” Mara looked up at her struggling to understand her words.

They had that in common, Lekha still had so much trouble with the language. She had heard that many women learned from their husbands, whispering sweet nothings on the pillow before they slept. But not her husband. Not him.

Lekha gestured toward the braids, “You make?”

Mara nodded quickly, a look of pride flitting across her pale features.

“It is very beautiful.”

If Mara did not understand from the words Lekha hoped that she understood from her smile.

“Varda my friend. I have brought my baby, Himani, she would like to meet with you,” she murmured softly and Varda started as though suddenly awakened.

She slowly uncurled from the bed and came towards Lekha with a brittle smile, “Oh Lekha, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

Varda peered down at Himani who was kicking her fat feet inside her swaddling and blowing bubbles with her small, pink mouth. Lekha thought she was the most beautiful thing that the Gods had seen fit to make but she was afraid her friend would not agree.

“Oh Lekha, isn’t she the prettiest thing? What a sweet little face she has!”

“You think so?” Lekha glowed with pride.

Her daughter was beautiful, fine pale features, dark eyes and the most delicious rosebud mouth imaginable. She had a daughter! A tiny friend to whisper her sorrows to in the darkness and share her joys with. A daughter who would grow long hair that she could carefully braid, a daughter to secretly teach the ways of her people that were in danger of being all but forgotten. A little piece of herself that she could hang her failed hopes and dreams on.

“Yes, I do!” Varda cried reaching out to stroke her daughter’s soft head, “I’m so happy for you Lekha.”

Lekha saw that it was true. Despite her friends great sadness she truly felt joy with her. Her friend, her only friend was happy for her. It was a good feeling.

She glanced over at Mara who was staring at them, dark eyes large in her pale face, her lips pressed into a thin line. Lekha wondered if she was trying to follow the conversation. Or did she understand more than she let on? She did not know what to make of the strange, small girl but her friend, Varda had taken her in and so it was Lekha’s duty to understand her.

“And how Rowan is?” she asked Varda who was staring at her snuffling daughter.

“Oh Rowan,” Varda exclaimed a fleeting look of surprise passing over her face.

She reached around and carefully picked up the small boy from the bed, cradling him lovingly in her arms. She stared down at his squashy face as he stared up at her with his sea-green eyes.

“He is just fine,” she replied softly, pain twisting her features for a moment before they relaxed again.

“He has got so big already!” Lekha exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s a strong boy,” Varda murmured proudly.

Rowan was staring at Himani, his mouth opening and closing like a small, pink fish. Himani squirmed in her arms.

“Look,” Lekha chuckled, “he is looking at Himani. Perhaps they will also be friends.”

She winked at Varda but her friend was not looking at her, gazing down at her son with a heart-rending look on her face.

Lekha hastily looked away. It was not polite to gaze too long on such pain as it took something away from the person that was not for sharing.

She hoisted Himani up to give her a big kiss on the forehead. The girl wriggled and mewed, perhaps expecting a feeding.

“Now you. You must stop making eyes at that boy. You, you are too young for that.”

Rowan gurgled in dismay. Varda gave a short laugh swinging him up to her shoulder and patting his swaddled back.

“Poor Rowan. Already unlucky in love,” she cooed, snuggling th baby against her neck.

“Perhaps they will be lucky. They are so very small. So much life ahead. Perhaps they will be lucky,” it was all she hoped for her baby, her Himani.

Conall had been so very unlucky, taken from this world so soon. Taken from her arms so soon and spirited away to the other side. Perhaps her daughter would be more lucky.

“Perhaps,” Varda muttered into the folds of Rowan’s swaddling.

Darina was utterly exhausted. Hepsie said she had lost a lot of blood. But what was a little blood? She had a beautiful, healthy boy. Eallair. She would name him Eallair. Perhaps the King would even agree to be his Godfather. A little blood was worth the squirming bundle that lay beside her on the bed, his pink mouth open his brown eyes wide.

She heard the door open softly.

“How are we doing in here then?” Hepsie sang out, drying her hands briskly on her apron.

“Oh we’re being just fine, aren’t we then Eallair? He’s even fed just now Hepsie. Ravenous little monster nearly was tearing my nipple right off,” she smiled proudly at her son.

“Well, I guess that’s being a good thing,” Hepsie laughed, “Though yew might want to be a little bit more careful then Eallair or no food will you be getting!”

Darina wiggled carefully up into a sitting position, wincing in pain as she try to find a spot to sit on that didn’t hurt.

“Isn’t he a beautiful boy?” Darina gently placed a hand on her son’s head feeling the soft, delicate hair that grew close to his scalp, “He looks so strong. Aisling wasn’t this big when she was born.”

“Beautiful he most definitely is,” Hepsie cooed, “and yer right, he is a rather big baby, which is why yer a sitting so carefully there. Yew know the drill Darina. Yew lost a lot of blood. Yer going to be needing several weeks of bed rest to recover. I’ve already told yer husband so.”

“My good for nothing husband. Several weeks and its ploughing time. The farms will be in shambles when I’m out of bed,” Darina growled.

“If you like, I’ll ask Steen to swing by a few times and keep an eye on the farmhands for yew so they don’t run amok,” Hepsie winked at Darina, “it will be our little secret.”

“Thankin’ yew Hepsie,” Darina murmured, still transfixed by the pudgy, red face of her newly born son.

“Knock, knock,” Engin called, “Yer have some visitors who would like to meet the new baby. Can we be coming in?”

“I’ll best be off,” Hepsie headed for the door which opened to reveal her husband and daughter, “Remember what I said. Bed rest! And plenty of it!”

Engin tiptoed in, Aisling perched in his arms her eyes turned flickering to the baby, her neck craning like a curious bird.

“Look there little mitten. That’s yer baby brother. Would yew like to meet him.”

Engin turned and set Aisling down on the bed beside the baby.

“Be careful Engin!” Darina snapped, “she might hurt him.”

“Yew won’t hurt him now will yew Aisling, be careful love, he’s only bein’ little. Good grief Darina, he’s certainly a big baby. He has my eyes!” Engin peered down at the baby beside her, but Aisling was staring up her mother, her eyes narrowed.

The girl was uncanny. Sometimes the way she looked at her…

“Engin. I’m just leaving then. I can let myself out,” Hepsie called.

“No wait, it’s alright,” Engin rushed off to show Hepsie out.

Aisling stared up at her mother, reaching out a hand towards her brother.

“Yew be careful now Aisling,” Darina hissed.

She glanced down at the baby whose mouth was open and gulping like the fish Engin sometime pulled from the pond out back. His eyes were wide and frightened and he began to whimper.

Aisling reached out a deliberate hand and poked at the baby causing him to snuffle and squirm.

As Engin came back into the room Darina deftly swatted Aisling’s hand away from the wriggling baby.

“Don’t yew be touchin’ him with yer grubby hands now do yew hear,” she snapped.

Aisling looked at her for a long moment and then spun around, whimpering, arms wide, “Da!”

In moments Engin had swept the shivering girl into his arms and was gazing at her in concern.

“What did yew do that fer Darina? She was being careful. She’s just a baby. Yer alright then love. Yer alright.”

He smoothed Aisling’s blonde hair back from her face and carefully righted the strands had caught between her trembling lips.

“Yer alright.”

“I don’t want her in here Engin. Take her away. I’m damn tired and me an’ the baby need to sleep now. Take her away.”

Engin nodded sombrely, only his eyes betraying the hurt, “Come on then love, yer ma is needin’ some rest. It’s been a hard day.”

He carried Aisling out and closed the door behind him with a squeak.

Stupid man hadn’t even oiled the door. It had been screeching on its hinges for weeks. If only she hadn’t married a good for nothing…

The baby mewed and squirmed beside her. She reached down and stroked his round belly. At least her son needed her. At least he loved her.

“Well now, you don’t look sleepy at all princess,” Lochan cooed to his daughter who was smiling up at him with wide eyes.

Eallair was standing silently by the fireplace. Lochan could barely look at him. In the past month his cousin had changed in ways that Lochan could not even begin to fathom. He knew he should be pleased that Eallair was finely showing signs of taking up the reigns to his struggling kingdom. Garrick couldn’t have been happier. Lochan felt as though he had lost a friend.

“I just can’t believe that was the end of it Lochan. Where did the warrior come from? Shouldn’t there be some repercussions from her death. I just feel like this isn’t over,” Eallair sniffed with a scowl.

“Your Mama certainly won’t be pleased if you’re still wide awake little sparrow. She’ll say that papa didn’t do his job properly and I’ll get a sound talking to.”

Yvaine nodded up at him still smiling all newly cut teeth and gums.

He knew it wasn’t true. In all likelihood mama wouldn’t even notice if Yvaine were still awake when she retired. She was so exhausted these days even her daughters whimpering cry would not wake her. And so Yvaine grew more and more silent, almost as though, aware that her crys could do no good she had decided against bothering anymore. Lochan would sometime find her, fat, silent tears running down her soft cheeks as she sat ignored in her crib.

He had taken to having her with him during the day when he could. When he was working she would sit with her back warm against his booted calf playing quietly with her dolls. If he went riding out to the farms she was tucked cosily into his tunic, lying still against his chest her wide eyes gazing in wonder as the fields sped by. But of course he couldn’t take her everywhere so there were days she spent with her sickly mother. Lochan had asked Maeve to keep an eye on her when she had Yvaine but Maeve couldn’t be everywhere at once.

“You had better get sleepy fast little miss. Because it is most certainly after your bedtime.”

He glanced at Eallair and was unnerved to see him staring at Yvaine. He didn’t like the predatory look his cousin was giving her, like a fox that had crept into the chicken coop and was gazing down into a nest of downy, yellow chicks.

He carefully deposited her into the crib. She smiled up at him and he thought his heart would stop from the sheer, overwhelming force of his love for the tiny girl. He bent down to kiss her forehead and searched around for her doll.

“Go to sleep now princess,” he murmured as he pulled the blankets over her. She lay silently, her dark, dark eyes unblinking, “Go to sleep.”

He strode across the room, uneasy with Eallair’s presence. He still hadn’t mentioned why he had come to visit at this time of night. He began to put away some books that were lying messily on his desk. Eallair followed, so that Lochan was cornered between his desk and the bookcase.

“Can I do something for you Your Majesty?”

Eallair did not correct him as he usually would when he called him majesty. Lochan swallowed, trying to clear the lump that was fast forming in his throat.

“Yes, Lochan. There is something you can do for me. Not just for me. For the Kingdom,” Eallair was gazing at him mournfully. He looked older than Lochan had ever seen him, his face had somehow hardened and set like drying plaster so that Lochan almost expected to see cracks forming.

“I almost died Lochan,” Eallair murmured.

Lochan felt his heart stutter. It was the thought that woke him sweating and panting in the night, the nightmare that stalked his dreams. The ultimate failure, the death of his young cousin, his failure as the older and wiser to take care of his friend, of his Kingdom. He sucked in a long shuddering breath but Eallair was not finished.

“A man gave his life for me Lochan. He died… for me,” for a moment Eallair looked helpless and frightened, the mask he had worn more and more often the last year, “ and all I could think about was my son, my tiny son handed my Kingdom at the age of a year. My baby son.”

Lochan thought he knew where this conversation was headed and he was suddenly desperate to forestall the conclusion, “ It would have been alright Eallair. Garrick and I, we would have taken care of him, helped. And Madlenka, she’s tough woman and she knows how to rule. If something happened, God forbid, we know what to do.”

It wasn’t true. If Eallair died the people on Mhalwae’s spirit that had already sunk to such low depths might have been irretrievably crushed, like a tiny chick’s body under the boot of a farmer as he rushed into the coop to find the fox’s carnage.

“But Lochan, I almost died and left him with nothing. No plan. Nothing to help him. Nothing. What did Sigurd leave for his son? Did he leave him with some plan to manage the lands he would inherit? Did he plan a wife for his son? What did he leave him?”

And there it was, Eallair had said it. Lochan knew what would soon follow.

And yet when his cousin said the words it still felt as though he had been slapped in the face, “What I wanted to ask you Lochan, my cousin, my friend is if you would do me the honour of granting your daughter’s hand to my son, Kendrick, Crown Prince of Branwhuld and the island of Mhalwae.”

The fox glanced up, its muzzle stained with blood and tiny yellow feather plastered to its fur. Lochan saw that its eyes were grey and sad.

He tried to speak calmly but found he could not, “But Eallair, she’s only a baby!”

He saw his daughter, her tiny body grown, breasts budding from the top of a corset, flowers in her long, brown hair, he saw roving grey eyes following her every sway as he walked her down the aisle. He saw her maids stripping the gown from her pale body, those wide eyes peeping frightened from above the blankets as a man with grey eyes pulled them from her clutched fingers. He saw the man, pushing his daughter, his little Yvaine down on the bed as tears of pain ran down her pink cheeks.

“She’s only a baby Eallair,” he whispered.

“So is Kendrick. He’s only a baby. But he deserves to have a father who has planned for him and so does Yvaine. There isn’t a better match for my son, nor one I desire more. I know that Yvaine will grow into a beautiful, gracious woman and I sincerely hope that my son will be a good man, a good ruler though perhaps it is too much to ask for with a father like me. Please Lochan. Won’t you please do me and my son this honour?”

Eallair’s face was hopeful and questioning in the candlelight, the closest thing to a smile that Lochan had seen in a month tentatively flickering at the corners of his mouth.

How could he refuse? He would have done anything for this man. Anything. He would have thrown down his life to protect him. He could not refuse him his daughter.

“Yes,” he choked, fighting back hot tears, “The answer is yes okay.”

With a sudden and brilliant grin Eallair threw his arms around his cousin pressing him close against his chest.

“Thank you Lochan. Thank you.”

“And what does a horse say Riandur?” Alexis grinned at his son whose soft brow was furrowed with concentration.

Riandur had a pudgy, doughy face with round eyes that narrowed when he was cross or tired. His body was strong, with fat little hands and wrists that looked as though someone had tied a piece of string very tightly so they bulged on either side. He had fat little legs, strong legs which could kick, legs which he could totter around on for long moments before he had to cling to his father’s hand. He was a big boy for his age, a strong boy. It sometimes seemed that he had robbed his brother of that strength, that in the womb somehow Riandur had taken more than his fair share of nourishment

Where Riandur was strong and fat and healthy, Colthan was pale and small and wan.

“Ney!” Riandur shouted in glee at the top of his longs causing his mother to start.

Alexis glanced over at his wife who was staring down at her hands as though amazed by how swollen they had grown. Along with her growing belly her fingers and feet had ballooned, so the skin stretched taut, uncomfortable and shiny. Her face had swollen too, the dark pouches under her eyes distended above her flushed cheeks.

It had been a long, long time since he had lain with his wife. He had barely touched her for weeks since she could not bear the pressure of his hand, the heat of skin. They lay, on separate sides of the bed, Alexis on his back like a corpse afraid to accidently brush against her.

There had been other women of course, but it was a long time since he had managed any kind of satisfaction. Even as they lay beneath him squirming and moaning all he could think about was his wife’s swollen features and her dull eyes staring up at him.

“And what’s the horses name?” Alexis asked.

Riandur looked put out at having to answer such a ridiculous question.

“’orse,” he whinged.

“’Orse? You mean h-orse. Isn’t that a rather boring name for a horse. Wouldn’t you rather call it something moe heroic like Gallant or Whitewithers?”

Riandur scowled at him and Alexis felt the impending tantrum. Riandur was a funny boy, and was prone to suddenly changes from grins and giggles to full blown shrieking rages.

He grinned at Morven. They always though it rather a joke to watch their dark-haired son stamp his tiny feet and screw up his face into an ugly red ball.

Morven was not looking at him or their child. She stared straight ahead, her eyes glazed, her mouth slightly open. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the flush from her cheeks spreading down her neck. It was as though she was gazing inward, listening to some sound deep inside her body. Alexis hoped it was the baby she heard.

He had begged Hepsie for some cure to her pain, some assurance that his wife would be fine and healthy once more. But good-hearted, little Hepzebah couldn’t give him any. She had given Morven some medicines to take but that was all she could do. It would be difficult for his wife, she had told him. The baby was causing a strain on her system and the only thing that could help her was the birth of their child. It was still months away and Alexis carried with him a silent dread that it would be too late. He almost hated the unborn child for slowly sucking the life and vitality from his mother.

“No!” Riandur squeaked, “no, no, no. ‘Orse! ‘Orse! No witewivvers! No!”

His son clenched his tiny fists and stamped his fat little feet. Alexis couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Alright fine. No witewivvers then. ‘Orse it is.”

Riandur’s face slowly lightened from purple to its usual shiny, scrubbed pink. He stood up as though challenging his father. He pointed to the horse.

“Fine you little monster. Whatever you want. It’s your horse after all,” Alexis leant over to tousle his son’s thick hair.

Riandur lost his balance tumbling with a thump onto his solid behind. He opened his mouth to scream but then his eyes went wide and he pointed at his brother.

Alexis followed his gaze and saw that Colthan had shakely pulled himself to his feet. It had been many months since Riandur first stood, his brother sitting silently, watching with a pale, intense look as his brother trundled round the room with father in tow. Alexis had tried many times to coax the boy to his feet, but every time the small child had hung limp from his arms, his weak legs refusing to hold him.

And now he stood.

Alexis smiled with relief at his wife, “Morven love, look! Colthan is standing! The little mite is finally on his feet.”

“Mama,” Colthan murmured, staring up at his mother, swaying in place as though waiting for her answer. His tiny head was inclined towards her, and Alexis knew he was staring up at her with his watery, blue eyes.

He took a tentative step forward, “Mama.”

He clutched frantically, his hands too far from her skirts.

“Morven, he wants you!” Alexis cried, tearing his eyes from his son to gaze at his wife.

Her baggy eyes were pressed tightly shut so that only the tips of her lashes protruded from between the bulging sacks of her eyelids.

It was as though she didn’t even hear him. Or if she did, she no longer cared.

Alexis swept his shaking son into his arms, staring into the tiny boys face with the wet tears that were running silently down his cheeks.

“Well done little man. Well done. You are quite the stander is seems,” he murmured, planting a kiss on the boys forehead.

Without a word Morven rose ponderously to her feet, her body swaying drunkenly as she lurched towards the door. So it was these days. When Morven retired to lie down in the dark she did not even see fit to tell her husband. He let her go.

Colthan clung timidly to his father’s neck, his tiny pawing hands curling around the draw strings of Alexi’s silken shirt.

“Don’t worry little man, Mama will be alright. We’ll all be alright.”

Alexis only wished he believed it himself.

Anyway, check it out if you’re interested. I know that I like to peruse some of the other characters living in Lothere. I have made a lot of the people living on Mhalwae but still have quite a lot to go. I’ll put up more pictures when I have taken nice ones of some of the other families hanging around. Btw… I know there are a lot of girl babies! I was a bit worried for a minute that my births were skewed for some reason but then I did a quick count and there have actually only been three more female than male births in the kingdom. I guess we are just going to have a lot of farmer’s daughters hanging around. Thaell and Derrin aren’t going to have too much trouble finding an eligible wife.

Eallair’s head snapped up as the steward announced in a low voice, “The Earl of Moraghdu.”

He carefully shut the door behind Radomir’s back.

Radomir hesitated at the doorway. Eallair sat stiff backed in his chair, his eyes which had briefly passed over Radomir now fixedly staring into nothingness. The room was murky, lit by a single candle that hissed and spat as though fighting to light the cavernous space.

Radomir tiptoed forward, a superstitious fear settling on him. He had never seen an Eallair who did not turn nervously to the door, awkwardly push himself from his chair to greet a visitor. Radomir had always wondered if it wasn’t a trick to appear more confident. He had met many a faltering ruler who insisted on standing tall above his subjects, or perched high above them on a dais. It was the ones who could project that kind of power while seated that were truly confident.

Eallair sighed and slumped back in his chair.

“Well Radomir. What can I do for you?”

“Your Majesty, I have come to ask that I be allowed to take my wife back now. It has been many months in which I have been denied her company and I wish it to end. I would like her to move into my chambers in the castle.”

Eallair stared at him unblinkingly.

“I suppose the baby can be given to one of the peasant families to take care of. I do not wish it harm, but I will not have it my rooms.”

He heard his voice shaking as he mentioned the accursed child. He coughed to clear the lump in his throat and growled, “I simply won’t have it.”

Eallair leaned forward resting his weight on the front of his chair. There was a coiled tension in the set of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw and Radomir was oddly reminded of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

“I don’t think it’s a very good idea Radomir,” Eallair murmured, his eyes not meeting the Earl’s.

Shifty bastard, it was just like him to look away as he handed down a man’s sentence.

Radomir felt the anger surging and roiling in his stomach. Who was this snivelling wretch to deny him his rights as a husband? He had been patient for months and months, through Valeriya’s long illness, through atrocities and infidelity, punishment and seeing his wife with another man’s baby lying in her pale arms. He had been through it all.

And yet he still loved her.

He still loved her achingly and horribly, a twisting knife in his gut so painful it kept him awake at night as he bit down on his pillow to stop the tears from coming.

“She’s my wife! I have the right to see her!” he heard himself suddenly shouting as Eallair stared at him.

Well, he would see how this Majesty did without his beloved Duke to tell him what to do.

“You cannot deny me my rights as a husband. It is against the law. If I desire my wife to return to me then so it should be,” he scowled.

It was his right. His Godgiven right as a husband to see his wife. They could not keep her from him. His wife, the filthy priest couldn’t take that from him though he may have taken so many other things. The joy of seeing the first child lying in his wife’s arms as his own. The sanctity of their marriage. Her body. Perhaps even her mind.

“My rights,” he hissed, “my wife.”

They had kept him away from the priest. They had threatened him with all kinds of punishment lest he lay a hand on the dirty beast. None of them meant anything. Not a thing, but the worst threat of all. That he never be allowed to see his wife again. So he had been patient. He had waited. But he had waited long enough.

He was startled from his internal rant by the jarring sound of the King’s voice.

“Your rights? Your rights Radomir? What rights would those be? The right to beat your wife into a bloody pulp at every chance you get?”

Radomir stared in shock at the King. His face, normally so docile and forgiving was twisted into an angry sneer. His eyes usually soft and understanding were hard as glassy marbles.

“Your rights? I decide what your rights are do you understand. Don’t you dare come in here and tell what you are entitled to and what you are not. I decide.”

He took a deep breath and continued, “Now. I do understand your predicament. And you have behaved as I requested. She is your wife, but I have a few conditions.”

Radomir nodded, defeated, swallowing the tears that were embarrassingly threatening to work their way up his throat.

“I do not give permission for you to live with your wife now, but I will grant you visiting rights. You may see her a number of times a week. She is still ill and the restoration of your marriage will not be easy on either of you. Later it may be that you live together once more but for now this is the concession I am granting you.”

The King scowled, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“But so help me God, Radomir, if you lay a hand on her you will have me to answer to.”

“That is all. You may go,” The King dismissed him with a disgruntled wave of his hand.

Radomir bowed deeply, “Thank you Your Majesty, I am in your debt.”