21 August, 1370. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
Celia sat on her bed, watching the hive of activity around her and feeling like she was the very eye of the storm. She'd set Gabriel up at her side and the little boy was sitting up and chewing on a soft teething ring that one of his nurses had stitched for him. His eyes were wide with interest as he watched the maids hurrying through the apartments.
Celia wasn't as thrilled. In fact, she was downright grumpy.
The next morning, she and her husband were leaving St Ivan's to go on pilgrimage to the shrine of St Clotilde. The patron saint of babies. Or fertility.
Celia didn't really care what the saint was supposedly responsible for. Even St Clotilde would be no match for Thea's tonic under her tongue every day.
