So anyway, that’s about all now… looking forward to writing again in a week or so.

Cheers
Verity

And today we are heading off to Iceland!!!! Iceland! Hurrah! I am super excited but it does mean I am pretty sure I won’t be connected for the whole 10 days. I am happy because that means leaving my PhD behind for a while but sad because it also means leaving Mhalwae behind. But I think I am going to get really inspired because Iceland is sort of like Mhalwae, in a way though a bit colder I think (it is summer there now but it is still 12degs today ).

And then what happens. Well, I am back for one night and then off to Budapest with two friends from Australia. And that is for four days. But I am still not really back then because I have one day and then I am heading to a conference in America (New Hampshire) followed by a few days of holiday to Niagara falls on the Canadian side with a friend.

So what this basically means is a summer hiatus from Mhalwae :(. I hope you guys will still want to read when I come back to it, which will be around the middle of August. I am going to miss you guys! I hope you all have a lovely summer too (if you are on the side of the world where there is actually summer right now).

Byee!

She was lying on the thick, woven carpet with the Crown Prince who was happily batting at his knees stopping occasionally to catch at the long tail of hair that draped down his mother’s shoulder.

Despite the dark storm clouds blotting out the sun, the afternoon was particularly hot and unpleasant. Nyawe’s skin was clammy and prickling with irritation, her dress sticking to the damp skin of her back. Her dark curls were plastered to her sweaty neck to top it all off baby simply wouldn’t be still. She lowered herself heavily onto the bench with a flustered sigh.

“Not well, but I can’t say I expected anything to happen”, she lied not willing to admit that she had been so hopeful. It had seemed for long moments there that Garald had been responding to her attentions and then he had murmured some hurried excuse and run off. She had lay awake for as long as she could, clutching to the tentative hope that he would come back but had finally, unable to keep her eyes open any longer, succumbed to sleep.

“Oof”, the baby stuck its foot into her side so that her breath came out in a rush.

She rubbed at her belly in irritation, but that only made things worse, the small creature inside her womb squirming at her heavy touch.

“Oh, but I wish he’d stop running around in there. I really can’t bear it. I want him out. I’ve had enough of this”, she whined.

Nyawe had reached the point where she was no longer afraid of the pain she knew would come with her child’s birth. She wanted it out. She was sick of dragging around this ungainly belly, of having to walk around the baby’s head now that it had begun to drop in her pelvis. She wanted to be able to sleep again at night without a tiny foot jabbing her bladder, so she was forced to waddle out of bed every few hours. She was tired of her husband reserving his hands only for the belly that swayed before her. It was enough now and she wanted it out.

“Oh I know exactly how you feel dearest. Those last few weeks when I could barely move I didn’t care how they got the damn thing out just as long as it wasn’t inside me anymore”, Madlenka gave her kindly smile then turned to her son who was staring at her with wide, curious eyes.

“They’re much more fun when they’re out here anyway”, she gave Kendrick a big slurping kiss as he giggled, squirming like a fish, “why look at you, you dear, fat baby”.

She kissed him again and he squealed in delight clapping his tiny hands together, as though applauding a particularly fine masque.

“I really thought the nightgown would work. Eallair could barely keep his hands off me when I wore it, even when I was huge”.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me”, Nyawe sighed sadly, “I’m disgusting. No man would want me like this”.

She was so desperate for any small affection she had almost sought out Sir Hwratar again. Their last meeting had been such a disaster though it seemed the Baroness had not told her husband. She felt sick even thinking about what she had almost done, but then her thoughts strayed to Alexis’ warm lips against hers, his leg between her thighs tipping her so far back she felt dizzy. A wave of nausea rolled over her and the baby inside her shuddered and kicked out with its tiny feet so that she nearly lost her breakfast. She had not even dared to meet his eyes, no doubt he looked upon her swollen body with the same disgust her husband did anyway. But it had felt good to be wanted even if his attention was brief and had strayed so quickly to the nearest kitchen maid.

“You are certainly not disgusting”, the Queen objected haughtily, “this is not your fault. If anything there is something wrong with your husband”.

“But look at this huge belly drooping at my waist. I look hideous. I feel hideous. And tired. And so goddamn uncomfortable”.

“And my skin is so stretched”, she reported, “it is like I am coming apart at the very seams”.

“Maddy dearest, can’t you just make it come out somehow”, she complained.

Madlenka was gazing at her, her face troubled, “I don’t understand it sweet. I have heard that some men do not find pregnant women attractive though I find it difficult to believe when you look so delicious. I can’t believe any man would have refused you the way you looked in that nightgown, wrapped up like a big lace present with a golden bow”.

“But it must be something horrid about me. He stopped lying with me as soon as I told him, when my belly had scarcely begun to swell. Even then he did not want to touch me”.

She bit her full lip between her teeth, chewing at the soft skin there as she often did when she was upset or concerned. She had to bite hard, nipping the flesh because if she did not tears would surely spill forth from her dark eyes. Madlenka often cried, raging tempests of tears pouring forth from her until she was completely drained. Afterwards was always better, the worries washed away in the flood, her face clean and bright as the glistening flowers upturned to the sun emerging from behind the dark clouds.

But Nyawe would not cry before her Queen, though she was the best friend she had ever had, though it built inside her like a burgeoning storm. Perhaps later she would lock herself in her room, wrapping her arms around her swollen waist, pulling her legs up and sob quietly. But she would not cry now.

But Madlenka saw her distress through the prideful facade she had carefully hung about her. She gracefully stood and came to sit beside Nyawe. She wrapped one warm arm around carefully her friend’s shoulders.

“There’s nothing wrong with you my dear, sweet Nyawe”, she said with a smile, squeezing her friend’s shoulder, “Do you not remember that we are two of the most beautiful girls in the world and our husbands are surely most lucky to have us”.

Nyawe smiled, remembering their childhood games. But Madlenka had truly married the prince of her dreams, though he had not galloped to their towered prison on a unicorn and climbed up to rescue her.

Nyawe had married a shy, bookish man with carefully tied back hair whose smiles were as rare as his conversation. She loved him for reasons she didn’t understand. In those first months she had begun to believe he loved her too, that she wasn’t just an amicable and convenient match, the King’s steward paired with the Queen’s maid.

She had not minded his fumbling caresses though more skilled hands had run over the rounded curves of her body. His kisses had been furtive, small and tender, darting from behind the curtain of thick, brown hair that tickled her face. She had liked the way his beard scratched against her neck when he dared to linger for a moment there. She could have taught him how to pleasure her and she believed he was teaching her how to love. She thought they would learn together though the start might have been awkward. But then it had all stopped as abruptly as her baby’s umbilical cord would be severed from its body as it took its first breath.

She leaned against Madlenka’s shoulder, enjoying the simple human contact, given freely without Nyawe having to all but beg for it, “At least you still think I’m beautiful Mads”.

“You always will be my Lady Nyawe of the raven-hair”, Madlenka murmured as she laid her head against Nyawe’s.

“Oh oh oh oh!”, Kendrick broke in, waving his arms frantically in the air, “Oh!”.

They laughed, shuffling apart and staring down at the distressed child.

“He doesn’t like mummy to go near anyone else”, Madlenka chuckled, “even Daddy!”

Now that her attention was returned to him, Kendrick sighed happily and tried to shove his entire fist into his mouth.

“And there you have him, in all his glory, Crown Prince Kendrick of Mhalwae”, Nyawe drawled.

“He’s doing a rather good job of it isn’t he. All he really needs now is a fanfare and some fancy title”, Madlenka giggled, looking at Nyawe expectantly.

“How does Prince Kendrick of the over-sized mouth sound to you?”

“I think I prefer Prince Kendrick of the soggy hand”.

“Or Prince Kendrick of the wrinkled fingers”.

“Ah”, Kendrick replied sagely, removing his hand and carefully wiped it on his velvet robe.

Harndall shivered drawing his arms around his body as the bitter wind tore at the heavy material of his robe. The crumbling remains of the old church clung to the mountainside behind him, like some rearing arachnid, the broken stained glass of its many eyes fixed on Harndall as it shifted its buttressed legs.

“It must be somewhere around here”, Lochan cried eagerly, his eyes scanning the hillside.

Harndall’s gaze roved amongst the mist too, following the undulating hills as they climbed upwards. The sickly green of the dying earth was met with dark shadows as the rocks clambered their way towards the menacing sky. They stood just outside the churchyard, the low ill-made, moldering wall beside them was hindrance enough to bar the souls that lay beneath their feet from heaven forever.

A large raindrop trickled down the back of Harndall’s robe, forming an icy trail as it dribbled down between his shoulder blades.

“I suppose one spot is as good as another”, Lochan pondered, looking around in consternation, “we can dig up the whole hillside if need be”.

Kelgar loped up to stand beside Harndall, a wolfish grin on his scarred face, “Well it depends Your Lordship what sort of dead body yew were looking for. If yew weren’t too picky I’m sure these hills are probably riddled with ‘em”.

Harndall felt an unprecedented surge of irritation and turned to Lochan muttering, “Don’t you think that these poor souls are tormented enough as it is. We should not do them the disservice of disturbing their unsettled sleep more than is strictly necessary”.

He had spent too many days locked away with this man, listening to his every snort of annoyance, trying to ignore the sound of his impatient tapping feet. When the Duke was thinking he jiggled his leg, when he was bored he scuffed the floor with his boots and when he was waiting he rapped his fingers unconsciously on the heavy, wooden table. Harndall was even sick of hearing the Duke breathe. Who would have known that another person’s breathing could become such a source aggravation but there it was. He knew it wasn’t very patient or priestly of him but he couldn’t help it, the slight whistle in Lochan’s nose when he exhaled was slowly driving him mad. He thought God would understand, perhaps he had even given Lochan a head-cold just to test Harndall. Well it had worked, he had failed but if he had given his Lord something to chuckle about then he was glad of it.

“Yes I suppose you are right Father. I wasn’t being very kind”, Lochan’s replied with a small sniffle.

“Me too”, Kelgar said mournfully, “Sorry Father”.

Kelgar was one of those incongruous men that Harndall had sometimes heard the confession of. While he faced life with a devil-may care attitude it seemed Kelgar had a deep respect for the church and for Harndall himself. Harndall could never quite equate the jovial lists of indiscretions with the man who prayed so fervently at mass. Perhaps Kelgar felt he had a lot to make up for.

Osras trudged up through the churchyard, throwing the shovels on the ground before them.

“Well”, he demanded, “are we going to actually dig up this thing or are we going to stand about gossiping like a bunch of women. I for one am cold and soggy and would like to get this done as quickly as possible. There is a warm spot waiting for me at the kitchen bench with a steady supply of ale. The rest of you too if you want”.

“And is there warm attentions from your kitchen maid wife for all of us too oh brother of mine. No. A pity”, Kelgar replied with a smirk, “Well then, if yew would be so kind as to point out exactly where we should be digging then we would be most happy to oblige yew”.

Osras stared back at them, an incredulous scowl plastered across his dripping face. Behind him stretched the churchyard, a scattering of crumbling tombstones pinned to the spongey hillside like insects tangled in a web. Harndall found his eyes drawn to the mournful figure of a women, her back hunched as rain drops trickled over her eroded, grey curves.

“Are you being serious?”, he asked, with a sigh, “Doesn’t it seem like the marked grave would be a good place to start?”

They followed his gaze to a small stone cross almost hidden from sight at the very corner of the dilapidated wall. Harndall felt nauseous, the sharp angular lines of the cross sickening him rather than offering the comfort they usually bestowed. He was suddenly reminded of its true purpose, the sharp nails piercing tender flesh, forcing apart bones. Christ had hung from such a structure, his skin slowly ripping as the weight of his mortal body pulled him down. His blood had flowed down over those harsh lines, soaking into the splintering wood, pooling at the base to fester in the midday sun.

Harndall was suddenly deeply afraid of what lay beneath those fine layers of soil. Somewhere below them something was stirring, he could hear it now, a very faint rustling, a scratching. A chill crept up his spine, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck all standing on end.

He rubbed his tired eyes with his hand, running it through the short strands of his hair. He was exhausted, too many nights pondering the mysteries of the journal. Now he was hearing things. It was only the hushed thud of raindrops hitting the waterlogged earth at his feet.

“First one to the coffin wins a kiss from Polina”, Kelgar jeered at his brother, picking up a shovel.

He lifted it high and Harndall flinched involuntarily as it arced through the air coming to rest deep in the hide of the hillside. Harndall let out his breath in a quiet hiss when nothing happened. He realised he had been expecting a scream. The soggy ground subsided a little beneath Kelgar’s feet so that he stumbled and fell to his knees. He righted himself, gripping the shovel again in determined hands.

“Have some respect for the dead brother”, Osras snarled burying his own shovel deep into the loamy earth and carving out a great chunk of it, “and I certainly wouldn’t wager a kiss from my wife”.

“Fine then”, Kelgar pouted, “but you really are no fun my dear old brother”.

Harndall understood Kelgar was only trying to ease his fear by bantering with his brother but he wished the other man would stop. It seemed wrong to speak so loudly in such a place, his loud jeers echoing off the surrounding cliffs and reverberating around them. It was as though even the slightest noise would be like frantically tugging at the silken thread and awaiting the creeping horror.

He wondered if Kelgar felt it too aching in his scars, a deep rot from her touch that ran through his very veins. He felt her teeth again, piercing the translucent skin of his neck, sinking into him, violating him. He shivered in terror as the pile of dirt beside them grew bigger and the cavernous hole ever deeper.

“Whoops”, Kelgar cried, tapping Osras’ shovel hard so that he dropped the large load of dirt perilously balanced on the mouth of the shovel that he had been trying to carefully maneuver out of the hole.

“I’ve had enough of your stupidity Kelgar”, Osras barked, “You can finish the bloody hole on your own”.

He threw the shovel over the side of the hole, grunting as he pulled himself over the edge. He stomped over to the nearest dead tree, sitting heavily at its base, leaning his sweaty back against its hollow trunk.

Harndall gazed at the tree, its rotten branches stretching upwards like the arms of a cross. Harndall could almost see the globby, putrid blood oozing from the cankered knots and dripping down the bark to pool where Osras was sitting. He swallowed back the bile that was rising in his throat and turned back to the yawning cavity where Kelgar still dug.

His nostrils were filled with a rancid rising scent that made him retch. He gagged, spitting the taste from his mouth but it was no use. It filled him, prising open his mouth and seeping inside, pouring down his throat to turn his stomach, clawing its way into his sensitive nose.

“It don’t smell pretty does it Father”, Kelgar gasped, “I’ve reached the coffin though. What do you want me to do?”

“Smash it open then Kelgar”, Lochan commanded, sliding his sword from its sheath, “we’re with you”.

Osras lumbered over, his rusty sword in hand. Lochan gave a nod and Harndall braced himself for what was to follow wishing he too had a sword. He reached inside the neck of his robe, his trembling fingers fumbling for the comfort of the small silver cross that hung warm against his chest. He pulled his hand back in dismay, a small rivulet of blood running from his thumb which had caught the edge of the cross and ripped in his haste.

“Ah well, good to know if I unearth some nasty beasty I’ve got you louts with your swords to wade in and save me”.

Kelgar raised the shovel high bringing it down hard on the brittle coffin lid. It cracked apart, the sodden wood breaking easily under the force.

The scratching was close now, so close, as though the very ground beneath Harndall’s feet was stirring, twitching as it awoke.

“It’s empty”, Kelgar’s surprised voice came up from the ditch.

The scratching abruptly ceased.

“No… wait”, Kelgar disappeared again below the rim.

“I found something”, his head popped up again, “it’s a ring”.

He peered at the dirt-encrusted object, “With some sort of strange carving on it. I think it’s a bird of some sort”.

“A bird?” Lochan asked, “come up here and let us have a look. You’re sure there’s nothing else down there?”

But Kelgar was gazing fixedly at Harndall with that look of unwavering trust he faced with a quaking heart so many times a day, “Does this make any sense to you Father? What did you think would be down here?”

He felt dizzy, teetering on the edge of the gash in the hillside they had ripped open. Perhaps if he fell it would swallow him, sucking him down into the belly of the mountain.

“I don’t know Kelgar”, he murmured staring at the ragged cliffs that rose sharply all around them, ascending into the midst of the roiling black storm clouds.

“I don’t know”, he sighed.

“Hello husband”, she purred from her reclined position.

“Good evening Nyawe”, he replied, his throat contracting in panic.

His eyes flickered to the bedside counter, where a half-empty carafe of wine stood, its curved body softly glowing in the light cast by the tallow candles. He felt a brief surge of irritation, noting that once again his wife was burning two candles not one. One sputtering flame was enough to light the room and it seemed the height of wanton, frivolity to squander two. Resources were scant on Mhalwae, and they were trying to make do with what little they had from the tiny harvest of last year. Autumn was spreading her cloak of yellow and gold over the fields and soon there would be another harvest, but until then they needed to ration the provisions they had. Why could he not make his wife understand this.

Scattered beside her on the bed were half-finished embroideries, spilling forth from the sewing basket, which perched in the corner like an unwanted child. Nyawe had started many delicate items for their child, sewing busily for a day and then growing bored, discarding and beginning a new project. She flitted from task to task like a butterfly, happy to land for long moments on the outstretched petals of a blossom but soon growing tired of the nectar and turning her glowing face elsewhere.

Now she was heavily rising to her feet. He had hoped she would be asleep when he came to bed, he was exhausted after the nasty business of the day and did not have the strength to fend her off. It had been easier these last months as her body swelled. She was often so tired she slept as soon as she lay down in the evening. Then he only had to crawl quietly in beside her and give her a quick kiss on the forehead.

He briefly closed his eyes, steeling himself for the ordeal that was to follow.

“Is the baby keeping you awake”, he murmured as she stood before him, her enlarged breasts held high, peeping enticingly from the low neck of her nightdress. Her night gown was cinched in tight underneath her breasts, falling away softly over her bulging belly and the child he had put there.

“Yes, he’s downright feisty tonight, just like his mama”, she winked saucily at him, her catlike eyes glowing hungrily in the candlelight, “would you like to feel him move”.

He could not refuse and he had to admit that his hands were longing to stroke her firm belly, to feel the tactile knots of lace that hung so invitingly. It seemed she had plenty of time for sewing new nightgowns, he thought ruefully, as his hands moved over her waist. He had not seen this one before, an appealing construction of intricate lacework that was pulled tightly, with ribbons in all the right places.

He felt a slight stirring beneath his hand, his eyes widening in surprise. It did not matter how many times he felt his child moving within her, he never got over the initial shock. It seemed so strange that a little creature, part Garald, part Nyawe was dwelling right now in the warm safety of her womb, biding his time till he was ready to greet the world.

“He sure is running about in there tonight. Little bastard thinks its funny to kick me in the bladder every half an hour or so. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. And sleeping is the last thing on my mind now”, she was smiling at him in the half-darkness, her round lips curving at the edges into delicious dimples.

He was stroking her belly rhythmically, unconsciously as he listened to her throaty voice. He was shocked into awareness as her body began rubbing against his hand and he realised it had climbed past her waist and almost to the supple curve of her breast.

He drew back with a gasp of dismay as Nyawe began to advance on him.

“You should lie back down again dear”, he stuttered, “I will join you in a moment”.

He began to undress, carefully folding his tunic and neatly tucking it away into the drawer followed by his hose. All the while he felt his wife’s eyes raking across his body with the intensity of a cat watching her prey. He waited dizzily for her to pounce, not knowing when the moment would come that his trembling body would be pinned squirming beneath a heavy paw.

He unwound the strap of leather that held back the straight, brown strands of hair. After methodically tying it into a half-knot to keep it from getting tangled he placed it on the top of the dresser. He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the dark longing in his eyes, the shaking of his hands as he slowly ran his fingers through his hair. Painstakingly he unravelled the small snarls that had formed during the day as his hair had brushed and knotted against the sweaty collar of his tunic.

He moved around to the side of the bed, pulling back the covers and folding them precisely over his body.

Nyawe raised herself on one elbow so she was poised above him, staring down at his naked chest and the slight bulge not entirely hidden by the blankets resting above him. Her pupils were wide, dilated so it was almost all he could see of her eyes peeping out from behind the soft curls of her hair cascading down her breast. Her mouth was half open in a silent pant as she stared intently at him.

He resisted the urge to pull the covers up to his chin and cower beneath them. As a child, lying awake at night in terror of the noises in the dark it had always seemed that even the thinnest layer of fabric would provide some kind of shield against evil. But no sheet, not even a shield could protect him now because the evil lay festering inside his own heart. He shivered in dismay. For all he had tried to be good he was still rank with sin. In confirmation he felt a throbbing between his thighs as Nyawe smiled at him, shuffling towards him, one hand reaching out towards his body.

He stared in dismay at her hand, her beautiful hand with its silky skin, her long, slender, fleshy fingers that could do such wonderful things. It rose in an achingly slow arch, plummeting unstopping towards his body. Where it would fall he did not know. Perhaps it would land on his chest, her fingernails scratching the sensitive skin that in anticipation was already spotted with goose bumps. Maybe it would fall on his leg nuzzling the inside of his thigh like a cat twining around his legs. Or perhaps she would place her hand were he wanted it most, her quick fingers rubbing and teasing. He fought back a groan that was forming in the back of his throat.

Her hand fell, it grasped his own in hers, pulling it up to her lips. She began to kiss his own rough fingers, her breath tickling his skin as her lips moved along the back of his hand.

She opened her mouth and slowly slid his thumb inside. He fought back a moan as it touched her soft, wet tongue, moving against it, sucking at it.

He was panting and trembling and shivering in desire and distress, his eyes wide and panicked, his teeth gritted in a grimace. Before his widened eyes floated the face of his mother, her sour mouth turned down at the corners as she cracked the wooden stick across his hand. He screamed out in pain as she brought it down again, whistling through the air to rip apart the flesh on his wrist.

“Sinful, evil boy”, she spat hitting him again and again as he wept uncontrollably, tears and snot running down his face and into his open, panting mouth, “God doesn’t want sinning, filthy little boys with their hands down their pants. You’ll never get to heaven the sinner that you are”.

He was bad, sinful, rotten to the core. Before it had been his duty as a husband, to procreate, to provide them with children. Was it so terrible if he had enjoyed it. No one had ever said that doing one’s duty could not be pleasurable as well. But here he was, still filled with throbbing, festering desire even while his wife was distended with his own seed. He choked back a sob of despair that was bubbling at the back of his throat.

He carefully pulled his thumb from her warm mouth, a brief chill prickling the skin as it met with the cool air.

“Goodnight wife”, he muttered, leaning over to give her a quick goodnight kiss.

He was met with open, wet lips, her hand catching in the hair at the back of his head and pulling him towards her. Her tongue forced its way into his mouth as it opened for her, unresisting. Her mouth was hot and tantalising, the taste of spiced wine drawing him in. He was teetering on the very edge of his resolve and she was dragging him over.

His stomach turned in shame and as he pulled away from her clinging grasp. It was no good, he was not strong enough to resist her.

“Oh, oh dear”, he said lamely, “There’s something I’ve forgotten to do”.

She sighed in frustration, turning away from him as he launched himself from the bed.

“I shouldn’t be too long love, but it can’t wait till the morning. How stupid of me!”, he cried in what he hoped was believable consternation, “and now I’ve gone and hassled you for nothing. I hope you’ll forgive me”.

She said nothing, staring fixedly at the wall, her cheeks flushed with anger and desire. She was beautiful, even more so in her indignation. He longed, to press his body against hers and pin her down to the bed so that she squirmed beneath his heavy weight. He wished she understood. She didn’t realise that he was protecting them both from sin, from the devil’s clawing hands that were forever waiting below. God was watching, always watching and he would know. He would know.

He shrugged on his tunic and hose not even bothering to tie his hair back.

“Goodnight Nyawe”, he whispered.

She did not look at him as he fled from the room.

“You bastard!”, Sigurd was snarling, his teeth bared, “You dare touch her!”.

He grunted in pain, doubling over, wrapping his arms around his body to protect it from the onslaught. He could have balled up a fist and retaliated, Sigurd would have been on the floor begging for mercy in mere seconds. But he did not raise a hand, only tried to protect himself from the angry fists as he had done so many times. He knew exactly which parts would hurt the most and he covered those, waiting for it to end.

He deserved this. He could not imagine what he would do to the man who had lain with Valeriya and so he understood Sigurd’s need to drive his fist into the harsh features of his face. If their positions had been switched Radomir would not have been satisfied with his fist. It would have been his sword sliding into the smaller man’s belly, ripping open his guts his staring eyes startled. Even that would not have been enough.

“Sigurd!”, the Duke barked wrapping his arms around the howling man.

He struggled like a drowning cat in a bag, his fists flying ineffectually towards Radomir’s waiting body.

“That’s enough Sigurd”, Lochan muttered to him as his thrashing subsided. The duke may have been a smaller man but he was by far the stronger of the two.

Sigurd only stared at him, his eery green eyes flickering with barely controlled rage. He stood very straight, very tall, Lochan’s arms still wrapped around him. Radomir was doubled over in pain, his arm clutching at his chest where bruises were already beginning to form.

“I’m sorry Sigurd”, Radomir managed to whisper, as he licked the blood from his swollen lip.

“You should leave now Sigurd. We will send word to you when we hear of how your wife is faring”, the King commanded evenly.

Sigurd gave a hiss of displeasure and stalked from the room, slamming the door shut behind him with an echoing thud.

Radomir stood up slowly, wiping his nose against the sleeve of his tunic leaving a bloodied mess. His wife and the Baroness were seated before the King. Valeriya’s hair had been pulled up into an elegant bun. She wore a high necked gown so that all he could see of her smooth white neck was a small strip of alabaster huddling between hair and robe. She had not even turned to watch the argument between he and Sigurd. He could see that she was swaying slightly in her chair and a sudden cascade of anger flooded his senses. She was ill, how dare they take her from her bed to testify before the King.

“You also Ladies, we are done questioning you”, he spoke kindly and Cindra rose hastily to her feet, all but dragging Valeriya from her chair.

She slid a steadying arm around his wife’s swollen waist and began to march her from the room. Radomir could see that Valeriya was having difficulty, her eyes fixed on the floor as she stumbled over the hem of her gown. She did not look up at him once and his heart sagged inside the prison of his chest. Then she was gone, the scuffing of their fine shoes receding down the corridor.

“The Earl of Moraghdu”, the King’s steward droned as if none of the events of the last five minutes had taken place.

“You may sit down Radomir”, the King’s voice rang out clear as a blacksmith’s hammer striking the anvil.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir all but whispered, carefully seating himself on the wooden chair facing the man he owed his allegiance to.

The chair was warm beneath him, the warmth of his wife’s trembling buttocks as she had sat before her King. Perhaps her cheeks had burned red with shame when he asked her with whom she had lain. Perhaps she had only stared back defiantly, her hot open thighs imparting their sinful heat, scorching the wood that now lay beneath him. A trickle of blood began to dribble down from his nose, tickling the skin just above his lips. He did not wipe it away, this was only the beginning of his punishment.

“I am extremely displeased with your behaviour Radomir. It is bad enough that you seem to be incapable of treating your wife with respect due to her, but now you have decided to expand this to include all women. How dare you stike Lady Inbar. How dare you lay a finger on her”, he paused for a moment, struggling to control his anger.

“You may do as you please with your God given wife and I cannot stop you though it sickens me. But you have made a big mistake in believing you can do the same to Sigurd’s”, the King’s voice was thick with displeasure as he waited for Radomir’s response.

“I understand Your Majesty and I submit to the punishment you choose for me”.

“First of all you are ordered to hand over two hides of the land you have been allotted in recompense to Sir Inbar for handling his wife. The remainder of your punishment remains to be decided depending on the outcome of Lady Inbar’s pregnancy. You do understand that if you have caused lasting damage to the woman your punishment will be severe”.

“Yes Your Majesty”, Radomir mumbled, a drop of blood dripping into his lap.

He understood. If she died he was a murderer twice over and he would pay for this with his life. A shudder of terror rippled up through his body. He clung to the sides of the wooden chair trying to steady himself.

“If Lady Inbar and her child survive this you will never lay a finger on them again, nor any other woman on this island. I will not stand for this brutality. Should I find out this has happened again my wrath will be swift and crushing. I would not recommend testing it if I were you”.

“Now, we have spoken to your wife and it seems she does not know who the father of the child is. I am inclined to believe her. She is still ill and I do not think she is lying”.

Radomir stared at him, uncomprehending. He turned to each of the nobles sitting before him trying to read their faces. Finally his eyes fell on the Queen who was gazing at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“I don’t understand”, he murmured.

The Queen’s brows wrinkled upwards so that the crown sitting on her brow was almost dislodged.

“Radomir you stupid fool”, she began, “We believe that your wife has been raped during the time she was lying unconscious and that is why she does not know who the father is. She was extremely distressed when she realised she didn’t know who it was and that it wasn’t you”.

Radomir recoiled as though her tiny jewelled hand had struck him full across the face, the angular edges of her rings leaving ragged imprints.

“No”, he gasped, his insides freezing in looping coils as he hugged his arms around his waist trying to remember the comfort it had given him before when those arms belonged to a strange, young girl and the scent of hay was all around.

“Radomir, I beg you. Do not go after the man or try and find out who did this. We will do our very best to discover the identity of the rapist among us but I cannot have you going around thumping every man you suspect. I need you and I need the other men. Do not fail me. We will find out who did this and they will be justly punished. But you cannot take the law into your own hands. I will not hear of it”, Eallair’s voice was earnest and remarkably gentle after the ringing steel of moments before.

Radomir shut his eyes tightly, the rage inside him was gone, nothing but a hollow wind blowing over dead coals. He was sickened at the thought of a man stealing into his wife’s chamber, pulling back the covers as she moaned in the throes of fever. Sliding at dirty hand up beneath her nightgown and then pulling it up around her waist. Hurting her while she cried out in her sleep at the pain, running his hands over her slack body, kissing her open panting mouth, twisting his hand in her long golden hair and pulling her sleeping face up to rub against him. Had it been only once, or many times when their heads were turned. It was his fault, he had not protected her well enough.

“Radomir. I am also forbidding you to see your wife. I will not allow you near her until she has given birth and we have sorted this mess out and removed the predator from our midst. You cannot be trusted with her and so you may not see her. I am sorry. I know it will be difficult but I pray that you use this time to repent, perhaps speak with Father Harndall and confess your sins. When the child is born we will have a better idea of who the father is and until then you can rest assured we are searching for this criminal”.

“But who will protect her”, his voice was so quiet it was barely a breathy sigh. There was a polite knock at the door behind him.

“Enter”, the steward called out at a small nod from the King.

The door swung open and Radomir recognised the soft thudding of Hepsie’s determined limp. It was the thumping step of the executioner lumbering up the stairs of the scaffold, wrapping his thick hands around the axe.

“Goodwife Cade Your Majesty”, Garald announced.

Radomir half-turned to look at her face and then his courage faltered, knowing his doom might be written there.

“How is Lady Inbar Goodwife?”, the King asked in subdued tones.

Radomir waited like a condemned man with his head on the block, throwing his arms wide at the last minute. He waited for the whistle of the axe and the brief flare of pain followed by unending darkness.

“She’s bein’ fine Yer Grace, though her nose is bein’ a bit of a mess. I’m thinkin’ it will be healin’ alright though as I set it real careful”, Radomir could hear the anger ringing through her voice and he knew that it was directed at him.

“And the baby?” the Queen asked fretfully.

“Fer the time beins’ the baby is fine. We managed to be savin’ it but I can’t be promisin’ yew it’ll last till the end. It’s got a long way to be goin’ till it see the light of day an’ Lady Inbar’s goin’ to have to be bedridden the whole time which she won’t be likin’. But there’s still bein’ some hope”:

The air whistled from Radomir’s lungs in a soft sigh of relief. The trotting of hooves the moment before the axe fell. The messengers halting the proceedings, the Royal pardon at the last of moments. The pardoned man’s hands falling to clutch at the wooden block, clinging to it for long moments and then leaning heavily on it as he rises trembling to his feet.

“Please have a seat ladies”, she heard a scraping to her left as the King’s steward dragged over a chair for her. She sank into it in relief, clinging to firm wooden structure even as the room bucked around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting back a wave of nausea. A drop of sweat trickled down her flushing face and into the high neck of her gown. She did not want to let go of the chair to wipe it away for fear she would lose her grasp and tumble to the floor.

“I trust you are feeling better my lady”, the King asked kindly, his mouth curving to the side in a pleasant smile.

She nodded carefully not wanting to renew the pounding in her head. Even small movements like this caused her pain, to sneeze would be the ultimate agony.

“I suppose you know why I have summoned you here”, he continued politely, his eyebrows tilting upwards and sliding sideways in concern.

She blinked trying to focus on his face. She would have simply asked him to stop rocking from side to side but it would not have been polite. She stared blankly at him unable to understand his meaning.

“She is still quite ill Your Majesty”, Cindra murmured apologetically, “I don’t think she understands why you have brought her here”.

Cindra turned to her, speaking slowly and softly, “Valeriya dear. The King and the court have asked you to come to visit them in the throne room to speak with you about your baby”.

She paused uncomprehending for a moment, trying to unravel these strange concepts.

Then she smiled in excitement, the baby! Of course they wanted to ask her about the dear little baby. Her heart swelled with pride and she smiled in modest joy.

“Yes, yes. I will have a baby”, she nodded to add further weight, not caring whether her head hurt. Her dear friends wanted to hear about her sweet baby.

She felt a tiny shuffle inside her belly as the baby changed positions. She rubbed carefully with one hand, keeping a firm hold of the chair with the other. The baby stopped moving around at her gentle stroking and quietly settled.

“But Valeriya dear”, the Queen’s voice was congenial too as her face wavered into view, “Your husband, Radomir. Is he the father?”

She thought for a moment and then answered carefully, finding it difficult to form the ideas she wanted to speak with her misbehaving mouth.

“No. He is not a father of it”.

“Valeriya”, Lochan cut in impatiently, “Who is the father of your baby then?”

Valeriya opened her mouth to answer, thinking carefully what to say and then she froze.

“Oh…”, her breath rushed out in surprise. She didn’t know.

She turned to Cindra in dismay, hot tears welling up in her eyes, her pulse pounding at her temple.

“Oh… Cindra…”, she was full of grief, her heart was crying too, “Cindra. I do not know. Who is a father of it?”

Perhaps Cindra could tell her. She thought it was something she ought to know and by the cross looks on everyone’s face she could see she had made a terrible mistake.

“Don’t worry honey. You have done nothing wrong”, Cindra murmured, patting her soothingly on the arm as she gripped the chair beneath her more tightly.

“Well done Lochan”, Cindra hissed, Now you’ve upset her. You bring her in here to brand her an adulteress when perhaps the blame lies entirely with one of you men. Perhaps there is something much worse than adultery lurking in our midst. Had you considered that?”

Valeriya wished that Cindra would not talk so loudly. Her voice was echoing in her aching ears and reverberating inside her skull. She longed to rest her head in her hands, covering her ears and pretend she was somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and cool.

If she closed her eyes then everything stopped, the nearby voices became nothing but whispers, drowned out by the rushing wind in her ears. When her eyes were closed there was darkness, not the stabbing pain of light and the constant rocking to and fro of the ground beneath her very feet. Everything was still. She longed to lay her head on the soft pillow once more and return to the darkness. In the darkness there was no pain, and the tainted creatures that lurked on the edges, just outside the circle of dimmed light she dwelled in never came to close.

“My Lady, Valeriya”, the King was addressing her and so she reluctantly opened her eyes as one must do when the King speaks their name.

His face was twisted and mournful, his eyes dark with sorrow as he gazed at her. In his penitent brow, his noble curved nose she saw the face of a saint, woven into the tapestry that hung in the small chapel of her childhood home. Into his arms and feet sharp nails had been plunged, pinning him to the cross like a fragile piece of lace secured on her pincushion. His face had been pitiful, racked with pain as his eyes were cast heavenward begging for release. Valeriya had always thought it was no way to go into the arms of God, to be sacrificed and weep for it. If it had been her choice his face would have been beautiful, eyes upturned sparkling with tears of joy as he waited for the loving arms of God to carry him to eternal peace.

“I am truly sorry if we doubted you. I for one am humbled by the words of my cousin. We will do everything in a power to find out who did this to you”.

She did not know why he should be so sorry, but she smiled softly at his twisted face, longing to sooth his worried brow.

Behind her there was a heavy knock at the door and it swung open. She turned carefully to see the hulking body of her husband weaving through the door, swaying like a cobra with its cruel eyes fixed on a mouse.

He did not want to meet the eyes of the nobles arrayed before him, did not want to see the sympathy, nor the anger that lay there. If he did then surely the tears that were threatening to spill would flood down his cheeks, staining them with shame and humiliation. Either that or he would crumple to the floor like the weaker horse in a fight, futilely kicking with broken legs and screaming in rage.

“How is your wife Sigurd?” the Queen asked in hush tones that thrummed soothingly in his ears.

He felt rude but he could no more meet her soft, concerned gaze than he could go and bury his face in her long red hair and sob until he was spent.

“I do not know Your Majesty, Goodwife Cade is with her now”, he managed through gritted teeth, tracing the gouge marks with blurring eyes. They were scored deep into the rotten, waterlogged floorboards like claw marks scratched into the soft flesh of an unprotected belly. How easy it was to damage them, despite the careful workmanship, the many months and years of careful planning that had gone into the laying of those planks, the building of this ship. So many months, destroyed in the single scrape of a heavy chair.

“Well Garald, what have you found?”, the King asked his steward.

“Your Majesty, there is a precedent for this in Branwhuldian law. The text states that should any man strike or injure the wife of another he must forfeit 2 hides of land to that man. Such is the penalty for damage of property”, his voice was clear, his words blunt.

Sigurd’s eyes moved upwards, passing over the hazy faces of the King and Queen to rest on the proud, golden griffin embroidered into the tapestry behind His Majesty’s head. The creature’s powerful claws were outstretched even in repose as though it only waited till the unsuspecting enemy drew close. Then the claws would slash out, tearing across tender skin, ripping it open and exposing the raw meat beneath. That cruel, gaping beak would surely plunge into the ragged wounds, shredding sinew, rendering muscle from the bone.

He shivered at the thought of the gouge marks at his feet, a momentary terror of the beast stepping down from the tapestry, the woven golden threads becoming corporeal as its curved talons carved their mark into the floor. The Griffin’s cold, knotted eye stared down at him from the red, velvety folds of its prison.

“But what of the baby?” the Queen’s voice rang out, hollow as the low cry of a grotesque, winged silhouette wheeling high above the ground.

His heart contracted painfully as he was reminded of the child, another son or daughter he might never hold in his empty arms.

“Your highness”, Garald began slowly, his mouth twisting into a sad half smile, “until a child enters the world it is not truly a person at all and thus the law holds no sway in the matter”.

Sigurd felt bile rising in his throat as his stomach clenched in uncontrolled anger. It surged upwards, burning in the back of his mouth as he struggled to contain the bitter remarks that were blistering on the tip of his tongue. He was quite unprepared for such a strength of feeling, his hands curling into trembling claws, his mouth a gaping grimace.

“My child”, he managed to hiss from the boiling, turmoil that was his body, “no person at all”.

The anger was so great and terrible now that he could feel it frying and spitting inside him, droplets of fire spattering upwards and threatening to burst from his mouth in a torrent of fury.

“I’m terrible sorry for what has happened Sigurd”, Eallair said soothingly, “You can be assured that The Earl will be punished justly”.

It was too much and the words exploded forth in a screech of rage, “Justly! Justice… what is your stinking justice worth? Two hides of land… is that what losing a child is worth. Two hides of worthless land on this hellish island! Tell me Your Highness… what is that worth?!”

Some part of Sigurd was curled up inside him, drawing his knees to his chin and sobbing, begging him to be quiet, to stop yelling. Pitifully pleading, please let’s stop insulting the King and just find somewhere to hide and weep. But the Sigurd whose slitted eyes glared at the King, flicking occasionally to the impassive, beady eye of the griffin above was not listening.

“And what if she dies? My wife, Varda. What if she dies because of this? What will be the justice then. Three hides, four?” he held up his fingers mockingly as he all but shrieked through grating teeth.

The King’s voice burst from his lungs in an angry roar, “You can be sure that if she dies he will suffer a far, far worse punishment and I shall be the one to meter it out”.

Faced with the power of Eallair’s anger, Sigurd’s defiance winked out like a flame in a strong gust of wind.

He hung his head in shame, unable to look his King in the eye, “I am sorry Your Highness”, he murmured, “I did not mean to be so disrespectful. I am much shaken and upset by these events and in terrible fear for the fate of my wife and unborn child”.

“Understandable Sigurd”, Eallair’s voice was kind and gentle again, “You are forgiven. Do not fear for Lady Inbar. She is in the most able care of Goodwife Cade and you can surely trust in her skills as she has proved time and again”.

He took a deep breath and continued, “You must trust me Sigurd. Should you seek vengeance and take matters into your own hands you will be betraying your King and shall also face my wrath. I need the competent men in my Kingdom and that includes both you and the Earl. I will not stand for fighting amongst my subjects”.

Sigurd nodded, unable to speak for fear of the growing lump in his throat turning to tears.

There was a load rap at the doors and then they swung slowly open.

“The Baroness of Tadghar and the Countess of Moraghdu”, Garald droned, rising from his chair.

Sael nickered softly as she saw Lyiss, straining her head towards the gaps in the bars through which Lyiss could stroke her face. Lyiss raised her hand to oblige, but was distracted by a muffled sobbing coming from the darkest corner of the room.

She followed the sound and was stunned to see the Earl, perched on a bale of hay, quietly weeping into his open hands.

She stood for a long moment staring at him in disbelief. This was the strong, tall man who had frightened her so, looming above her in the corridor and issuing commands. Now he sat before her, his bulky arms curling around himself, sobbing with abandon. She had not realised that men cried too, her brother certainly never had in her presence.

He had not noticed her yet, she could quietly turn on her heel and sneak out to avoid an awkward conversation. And yet, he seemed so pitiful, his hair that was usually tied back so neatly had come undone and hung in a messy trail down one shoulder. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, spaced to mirror his shoulders like a warrior preparing for battle, but his thighs were trembling. Perhaps he needed help and just because she was shy she would run off and leave him in his predicament. No, she would not.

“Er… Your Lordship”, she squeaked, her voice wavering as she spoke, “are you needing some assistance? Is something wrong?”

His head snapped up and she could see the tear stains running down his cheeks, like rivers in the continents of his weathered face. He gaped at her in shock and then began to hastily wipe his face with the back of a meaty hand. His mouth was open, as he sucked in breath, trying to gain control of his emotions.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his throat rough form sobbing, “have they sent you here to find me?”

He looked up at her now and she grew awkward beneath his steady gaze.

“I’m sorry My Lord, I do not understand what you mean”, she stared down at her slender fingers to avoid his eyes.

She had noticed them before, they were an intense grey, like the colour of the King’s prize stallion, a wild beast that calmed only to His Majesty’s touch.

“Ah well. You will know soon enough. My wife is pregnant with another man’s child”, he choked, brushing back a thick strand of hair with his shaking hand.

She stared at him in amazement, compassion welling in her thudding heart. The poor man, what a terrible betrayal.

“I’m so very sorry”, she murmured, venturing a few steps towards him.

He gave a rasping laugh that caught in his throat and almost turned into a ratcheting sob, “Oh but that’s not all Mistress Elmvarn”.

“I struck Lady Inbar, and by the crunching sound I’d wager I broke her nose. Now I find out she was with child, although probably no longer”.

His thick, black eyebrows creased in dismay as he gazed at his hand, Lyiss imagined the very one that had collided with Lady Inbar’s fine features.

She suppressed a gasp of horror imagining the flare of blood, the wet grinding noise as the cartilage shattered. She had heard it before, as a child, a fight between two cousins ending with a broken nose and a black eye. But she could never conceive of such a thing being done to a lady.

And then she remembered the Countess’ battered face, the rumours and the gossip that had circulated through the winding hallways of the ship. She had not believed it possible, had not wanted to. How very naive she had been.

“Oh”, was all she replied.

“That is not all either”, Radomir continued hoarsely, “last year, I beat my wife as I have often done when she angered or disobeyed me. I did not know she was with child at the time, else I hope I never would have done such a thing. But who knows. When I am angry I am no longer myself”.

He paused for a moment to draw a deep, shuddering breath.

“She… she lost the baby… and I think she was glad because it was mine”, his voice caught in his throat as a single tear rolled down the side of his humped nose and dripped onto the dry sheaves of hay.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered breathlessly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know”, he gasped, “I don’t have anyone else to tell. And you asked… you asked”.

He began to sob again, his body slowly rocking back and forth, the hay rustling beneath the weight. His shoulders shook, his hair falling over one side of his face and curtaining it from her searching eyes. He rested his head in his big hands, the occasional tears sliding free of the confines and trickling down between his fingers.

Lyiss stared at him, trying to hate him for what he had done but she could not. She only felt pity for the poor creature weeping before her. He had indeed done dreadful things, but it seemed he had also been used in such a way. And she understood how it felt to never be asked, what it was like to have nobody to tell.

She went over to perch beside him on a hay bale. She did not say anything, did not know what to say. She merely sat next to the shivering man, watching the tears roll down his face, her hands resting awkwardly on her thighs.

Suddenly for reasons she did not quite understand she was overwhelmed with a wave of desperate pity. She launched herself at him, wrapping her scrawny arms tightly around his grief-wracked body.

He stiffened for a moment, his arms rigid at his sides and then they clumsily found their way around her body and awkwardly clasped her back.

Lyiss had never been so close to a man, and she felt her heart beating more rapidly as his warm hands pressed her to him. His scent was overpowering, not unpleasant, but a heady mix of sweat and hay, as well as the faint metallic undertones of blood. She felt dizzy and a little sick as she pressed her face against his warm shoulder.

He clung to her like a drowning man, his fingers curling round her back. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast. She fought the urge to sob at the feeling, the simple warmth of another human’s body that she had so craved as a child growing in a family where love was not spoken of and showing affection all but forbidden. Her fingers too, were clutching desperately at his tunic, grasping at his knotted hair.

Suddenly he broke away from her, looking for a moment into her eyes, and then closing his own.

“Thank you”, was all he said, carefully removing his arms from around her waist, and untangling her own from his hair.

He rose to his feet, gazing down at her. She stared up at him, her cheeks flaring red with embarrassment at her sudden, brazen behaviour. Suddenly he was the tall, frightening man again, towering above her and she nothing more than an insignificant piece of smut lying amidst the hay.

He looked down at her for a moment, his eyebrows knitted above dark grey eyes that swirled with confusion and then turned from her and strode through the door.

Lyiss closed her eyes and tried to cool her blazing cheeks and calm her thundering heart. Her hands were pressed so hard against her thighs, her knuckles turned white.

It did not however distract her from the growing pain in her belly, the faint niggling, ache that was flowing from her spine and contracting her lower body.

A massive spasming cramp hit, her body doubling over in pain as she fought the urge to scream. She gritted her teeth together as her breath hissed out between her lips. She clamped her legs shut feeling a gentle trickle of blood winding its way down her leg.

Her hands flew to her belly, “Please, little one… please don’t leave me”, she whispered, her fingers slowly stroking down the slight curve of her aching abdomen.

It had only been days before that she had felt the first tiny shudder of movement, tickling inside her, the tiny pawings of her baby. Her fingers carefully moved over the bumps and knots of embroidery, searching for that feeling, willing it to return.

“Please…”, she clamped her teeth together again as her body shook with another wave of pain shuddering up from her pelvis.

Her vision blurred with unshed tears, the sounds in her ears muffled as though she wore a heavy cloak. It was so very chill in this room, the sweat that was pouring off her ailing body grew frigid and clammy as it met with the air. She thought heard the faint sounds of pattering feet against the wooden floorboards above the ringing in her ears.

“Don’t leave me”, she murmured entreatingly to the small creature whose life hung tenuously, buried deep within her useless womb.

The door swung open and Hepsie rapidly limped in, “Lord sakes woman! Yew should be lyin’ down. Get yerself on that bed now. I’ve seen to the Countess and someone is lookin’ over her so yew don’t need to be worryin’ yerself about that”.

She hurried over to Varda, her hands gently resting on the other woman’s straining belly.

“I’m losing it Hepsie”, Varda managed to choke between chattering teeth.

“Not if I be havin’ a say yew aren’t, an’ I damn well are”, she wrapped her arms around Varda’s trembling waist, herding her towards the bed.

“Are yew feelin’ the cramps? And bleedin’?”, she asked bluntly.

“Both”, Varda managed to reply.

“There now”, she aid helping Varda to lie down, stroking her hair gently, “Lord sakes, yer poor nose must be hurtin’ to bust. I’m goin’ to have to be settin’ it but let’s be worryin’ about that later when we’ve settled the littl’ un”.

She spoke with such calm authority that Varda was reasssured. Certainly she had lost the other babies, but Hepsie had never been there before it was too late. Perhaps she could make a difference.

“I’m just goin’ to have a feel now”, she leant over and gently palpated Varda’s belly, “has the baby quickened yet?”.

“Yes”, Varda managed to whisper, “just these last days I felt it move”.

“But it’s not movin’ now?” she asked a frown of concentration creasing her pretty brow.

“No”, the word rang hollow in Varda’s ears and she had to fight the urge to curl up and just let nature take its course. Perhaps God did not wish it that she was blessed with a child.

“Alright Me lady, I need to be examin’ yew in the more personal places. Is that bein’ alright with yew”.

Varda nodded, biting one lip between her teeth.

Hepsie carefully lifted them hem of her dress and pulled back the soft folds of her shift.

Varda lay very still as Hepsie’s sure fingers moved beneath her dress, her mouth pursed with concentration her eyes distant as though she listened for a very faint sound that Varda could not hear.

Varda grimaced in pain as Hepsie worked.

“Sorry Yer Ladyship, I know it ain’t comfortable but I’m almost done… there now”, she rose, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Will I lose it?”, Varda asked, her voice so quiet she did not know if Hepsie had even heard.

Hepsie looked down at her, her face full of compassion, “I’m not sure yet Yer Ladyship. There’s a good chance yew will but it don’t mean there ain’t still hope fer the littl’un. And I’m goin’ to do everything in my earthly power to keep it here so one day it be seein’ it’s mother’s face this side of the pearly gates”.

“Now yew just lie back and be very still. I’m just off to get Juzzine an’ some clean linen and warm water. Don’t yew be worrying yerself. Yer husband won’t be lettin’ that dreadful man be gettin’ away with this, an’ neither will the King”.

She turned away, hurrying from the room leaving Varda with her own thoughts and the dull clenching pain between her thighs. She was not surprised Radomir had been angry if such a thing were true. And Varda could not help but be glad that she had stood between his rage and Valeriya. The poor girl was damaged enough, scarcely all there since the accident. She couldn’t have let him hurt her.

But was the sacrifice her own child? And how could it be that Valeriya was pregnant if it were not Radomir’s? There had been someone with her nearly all the time. Varda’s mind flitted guiltily back to the one time she knew Valeriya had been visited. She herself had snuck the Father in to pray by her bedside. But she never would have thought…

No, she could not believe the Father was capable of such a thing. Perhaps it was best to inform the King. He was good man, he would know what to do.

Her nose began to bleed again, a small trickle running down her upper lip and into her mouth. She licked her lips but she did not move. Lying still, her hands resting gently on her belly she waited for Hepsie to return.