LITMIR.BIZ

      Edith slid away from the warmth of her still-sleeping husband, threw a fur-lined mantle around her shoulders and crept into the room next door. It was not yet dawn; the sky outside was black. But by the firelight she could see the nurse, rocking the baby’s cradle and singing softly. The woman jumped up as Edith entered.

      ‘Your Highness. Did I wake you?’

      ‘No. Is he asleep?’

      ‘Just settled again, my lady.’

      Edith leant over the cradle and gazed down at her son. Jack already seemed to have changed so much from the tiny baby she had held in her arms only six weeks ago. Edith loved to watch him while he slept, his mouth open in a tiny ‘o’, as if he were surprised, his little fingers clenching and unclenching as he dreamt. She had been so afraid throughout her pregnancy, so terrified that Gwydion would appear at any moment and do something to harm the baby. But Jack had arrived in the world unscathed and perfect. Edith’s happiness would have been complete, if only her father were still alive.

      Jack stirred, and the nurse went to pick him up.

      ‘No,’ Edith waved her away. ‘I’ll take him.’ She wrapped a fold of her mantle around the baby and carried him back into her chamber. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. She settled herself and Jack on one of the wide windowsills, opened the shutter a little, and waited for the sun to rise.

      A while later, after the darkness of the eastern sky had faded to grey, Edith felt Aidan’s hands on her shoulders. He wrapped another fur around her. ‘You’re going to catch cold.’

      ‘No, I won’t.’ Edith glanced up at her husband. She could see the concern in his dark-grey eyes: he always looked at her as though she was somehow ethereal, something fragile and precious that might be snatched away from him at any moment. Sometimes Edith found it suffocating. But it was also one of the reasons she loved him. She put her hand on top of his and looked back out of the window. The land outside was swathed in mist. Helmswick felt shut in, sitting on its hill above the woodland and farmland of the Weald like an island cut off from the wider world.

      ‘I don’t like this weather.’ She hugged Jack tighter.

      ‘Sea mist, that’s all. It will burn off soon enough.’ Aidan dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I must speak with the steward before our guests arrive. Don’t forget to eat something.’ He paused. ‘And do not sit there worrying. Today will be a good day, I’m sure of it.’

      Edith nodded. But she could not escape the sensation that something was waiting for her, out there in the mist. As she watched from her window she could see the torches being lit on her father’s burial mound, pale smudges of light flaring through the fog. And then she heard the summoning bell, muffled, calling all to the ceremony. Her servants came in to help her dress. It was time.

      Hours later, the great hall was filled with noise and light, heat and colour. The rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms, as well as all the nobles of the land, had gathered to celebrate the naming of the Prince of the South Saxons. All were dressed in their finest costumes, vying to outdo one another in splendour. All except one woman, simply clothed yet sitting in a place of honour, three small children clustered around her. Mistress Anwen was a witch, and had been a devoted friend of Edith’s mother. Until five years ago Anwen had lived at Helmswick, watching over Edith, guiding her as she grew. Aidan – whose people had embraced the new faith of the Christians – had not wanted to invite her. Edith had listened to all his arguments against witchcraft, and then invited her anyway.

      Now, Edith caught the older woman’s eye and smiled, but it was an effort; she felt herself flagging. The woollen overdress she wore was beautiful: elaborately embroidered with intricate designs in gold thread. But it was heavy, and her tightly-pinned hair was giving her a headache. She could not wait for the day to be over. Still, the christening ceremony had passed successfully. Jack had hardly cried at all, and now there was only the gift-giving to endure. As a new mother, she had decided she could leave presiding over the feast to Aidan. She glanced up at him and found he was watching her.

      ‘You’re pale, Edith,’ he murmured. ‘Do you feel unwell?’

      ‘No. Only a little tired.’

      He squeezed her hand. The steward continued with the presentation of gifts; already a table to one side was almost engulfed in a pile of gold jewellery, silver cups and bowls, fine cloths and barrels of Frankish wine.

      ‘From the King of Northumbria: a gold torc in a casket of silver. From the Kingdom of Gwynedd: two drinking horns with silver rims.’ And on, and on. Until, just when Edith thought she could not stand for another moment, the list ended. Aidan stepped forwards.

      ‘We

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