Candle.

Her footsteps were loud against the stone floor, clicking heels making a mockery of the silence that surrounded her. She received a few looks, but none of them betrayed the annoyance she suspected they must really be feeling at her intrusion. They didn’t like her – she knew that quite well – but they’d never dare to openly defy or undermine her. It made her want to beg them to hate her aloud; the paradox being, of course, that they hated her purely because they simply weren’t permitted to decide for themselves. They blamed and feared her for it, but in reality she’d rather hear them catcall than see them stare at her like they did – blankly. Wordlessly.


Their church here was made of wood, save the floor. She was used to stone, but supposed that commoners couldn’t afford it; stone was expensive, but wood they could chop with their own hands at their lordship’s command, and with it they could build their own churches. The chapel in the manor was beautiful, with stunning glass windows and an organ with a sound so clear and loud you could hear it right throughout the building and into the grounds. The pews were carved dark wood, the likes of which you’d never find in any forest in the country – but it was all rather oppressive, and the chance of him bestowing the place with his presence quite overruled any feeling you might have had of His holy presence. It was a godless place. Here in the local church, the walls were plain; the pews were more like flat, long stools, and the altar at the front was merely a block of wood, more or less. She could feel freedom and heaven filling the unspoiled space with its glory, and felt she could breathe.

There were no services due at this time of night, but she drew down her hood and took a seat at the front of the church anyhow, staring calmly into the flickering candlelight before her. Edward would see to it that she was disciplined if it was discovered that she had left, she was sure – it was quite possible that she’d be found out, of course, but there was simply no way for her to reach this settlement on foot. If someone checked the stables and found a horse missing as well as the foreign mistress, then so be it. She simply couldn’t stand the smothering atmosphere in there any longer.

Being a virtuous woman herself – of course – she had met only very few men in her time, but Edward was a devil of a man. He had been perfectly charming when he had needed to be to ensnare the hard-won promise of her hand, but since then there had merely been a very transactional consummation of their marriage and very few words passed between them. She was grateful that he had so many unfortunate serving girls to entertain himself with if the fancy took him – this feeling didn’t come without a heavy serving of guilt, but she felt that any woman in her position would feel the same. She had fast discovered that once, with Edward, was quite enough.

It suddenly occurred to her that it was perhaps a little lacking in sense to light candles in a wooden church, but then again perhaps it was a comfort to know that thus far, the holy spirit had endeavoured to preserve the building and its visitors despite the natural hazard. It was not tempting fate so much as demonstrating that they were all eternally protected. It was inspiring – especially as the candles had not fallen and burned the church to ash as soon as she had stepped inside. They hated her, certainly, but God seemed to be on her side; or not on the opposite side, at least. She was alive, against all the odds – she was alive, and she carried life within her too. For the first time since she’d arrived in this foreign country, she felt at home – felt clarity, even.

She stood from the pew and trailed her finger quickly through the tip of the flame. It didn’t burn; a real mystery of science. Perhaps. Sliding her hood back up, she turned and walked back down the aisle of the church, looking bravely into the eyes of any man or woman who turned their eyes to her until she stepped back into the blanket of blackness outside. Her horse was still waiting patiently, and she called him over, thanking him quietly in a tongue unknown to this world as she mounted the saddle. The harsh sounds felt comforting in her mouth – she hadn’t spoken a foreign word for months, and using them again at last was something like coming home.

The ride back from the village was a long one, but seemed to fly past in the space of mere seconds. Her heart thudded along with the horse’s heavy footsteps, mind working quickly as she wondered after the climate of the house at the moment. It all depended upon whether her disappearance had been discovered – if it had not, business would be going on as usual, but if for some reason Edward had wished to see her and found that they were unable to find her, tension would be creeping over the walls like ivy. As she led her horse into his stable and bade him goodnight, she cast a quick, quiet glance into the servant’s corridor. Nobody was rushing about; in fact, she could hear laughter from a distance away. She had not been found missing by anyone that mattered, then.

She lit the candles on the small tables either side of her bed immediately upon reaching her room, and changed carefully from her outdoor robes and day-dress into her nightgown. In this state of moderate undress, before she slipped on her night-robe, she looked down at her child and smiled thinly. She had not yet begun to swell even after five months, but she knew that their son grew within her anyhow. Tying the gown fondly around her stomach, she rang the small bell beside her bed to call a serving girl to her. It was not her place to call Edward to attend to her, but she hoped he would do so any way, even if only out of outrage at this disregard of the conventions of the hierarchy. Certainly enough, mere minutes after she’d set the serving girl to her task, Edward knocked at her door and entered.

“You… called for me? Are you well?”

“I am,” she answered evenly. Any moment, he would unleash something malicious and biting at her. This was all merely a pretence. “Will you join me?” She extended a slim hand towards him and he approached the bed, a low frown on his features. He was not a handsome man, her husband, but he was agreeable enough. Sometimes when she saw him about the home and heard him speak in that low, curious voice of his she understood what she had once been taken with, but quickly reminded herself of what he truly was. A monster.

He looked up at her mutely as he perched on the edge of her bed, his expression an infuriatingly patient one. Where was the outrage; the anger? It unnerved her not to hear that which she knew he must surely feel. He was an awful man; a despicable creature. He ought not to hide it. “Yes?”

“Edward,” she said coolly, “I am carrying your child.”

“No,” he said tiredly, wiping his brow with a hand and turning away. “No, you are not.”

“I am,” she asserted, suddenly indignant. “I am carrying your child, and He will be our lord Jesus Christ reborn.”

“I think you ought to rest.”

“I can feel Him growing in me.”

“You cannot possibly be carrying my child, let alone the son of God.” He stood, ringing the bell to summon a servant. “Have you been spending time in the village church again?”

Here it came; the thunder. “I have every right to go.”

“Yes; yes.” He wiped his forehead again, ringing the bell again with a mark of irritation on his face, though it had been mere moments since he had first done so. “You have the right, but it upsets you in this way every time you go.”

The implication hit her like a slap in the face; so much so that she almost felt as though he had really done it for a second. “Are you trying to suggest I’m unsound?”
“Bertha…”
She reached for the candle on her bedside table and threw it at him, snarling furiously; he dodged it quickly and stamped it out on the floor, raising his arm to defend himself from the other she threw. “How dare you? How dare you?”

He ducked out of the door to escape her screeching, but she felt at no greater peace alone; tearing at the bed-linen, she tore at the plate of candles on the other bedside and tipped them onto herself. With a piercing cry she acknowledged the pain of burning, and her delusions fell in on themselves and collapsed as a small group of servants swept in to restrain her and quench the fire with a bucket of water. She spluttered into the cold, weeping and suddenly aware, and prayed to God to let her child survive the madness – for she was mad. Quite mad; and very much capable of being burned to ash.