22 May, 1368. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten
Celia sat cross legged on the floor of her presence chamber, stitching the tapestry on her lap. Around her sat her three ladies-in-waiting. They all worked in stilted silence.
Celia tried to stitch at least, though it wasn't easy with only one capable hand. At least the gash on her palm was gradually healing and starting to scab over. The skin now itched uncomfortably. Still, it was an improvement from the first few days, when it had oozed blood and watery humours.
Her hand no longer burned with pain, but her resentment did. The memory of being whipped like an animal by the man who had recited vows to cherish and protect her, made her seethe.
After striking her hand with the riding crop, Tobin had calmly called in her maids that evening and ordered them to lace her into an elaborate dress. The maids had worked in frightened silence, none of the daring to ask about the angry, bleeding welt on her palm.
He'd then led her out to dinner. Celia had deliberately remained still and expressionless during the entire evening, though her hand throbbed in agony and the queen had smiled down on her in triumph.
And once they'd retuned to their bedchamber, Tobin had ordered her to strip naked, then driven into her body over and over again as if he wanted to cause her true pain.
"You brought this all upon yourself, you wilful girl. " he'd panted over her.
That chain of events had twisted her previous dislike of her husband, into actual loathing.
Celia glanced at her ladies as they sat around her. The day after he'd struck her with the crop, Tobin had suddenly announced she was free to have them in her company again, as if he were doing her some grand favour.
Tobin had appointed the trio of nobly born girls to attend to her, immediately after their wedding. This was despite Celia having arrived in Havietten with two ladies-in-waiting of her own, as was her right.
She'd smiled politely when she'd been presented to the young Haviettenese women, assuming they'd simply be added to her household and she'd have five ladies attending her.
That had never been her husband's intention. He'd declared her Islian ladies were to return home two days after the wedding celebrations ended.
Celia had cried and begged for Rachael and Anne to be allowed to stay with her, but Tobin wouldn't hear of it. He'd insisted she'd assimilate into her new kingdom faster if she was surrounded with only local women.
Celia had felt like her heart was breaking when she'd been forced to wave her friends goodbye and see the last links to her home be severed.
And despite her eyes being almost swollen shut from crying that day, Tobin had ordered her to smile charmingly before the court and then later open her legs to him.
That's when she should've first realised she'd married a man who didn't care about her and would never care about her.
Why was she crying, he'd asked her back then? She was the most fortunate of women, after all.
- - -
Sabine was the only one of her three ladies she could really confide in. She'd taken one look at Celia's hand and immediately rushed to one of the castle healers for a bottle of plant sap known to soothe open wounds.
Sabine had carefully poured a pungent herbal liquid onto Celia's hand. The other two ladies had simply looked at her injury with revulsion.
Sabine had then passed the healer's instructions on to Celia, to apply the sap to her hand three times a day.
The medicinal scent always made Celia think of Tession, the most elderly of the royal healers that lived in her grandfather's court. King Edward of Islia swore by Tession's concoctions for almost every ailment.
Remembering Tession had then triggered the start of an idea in her mind, something she'd continued mulling over as the days passed, weighing up the risks.
Celia knew there was often an uneasy tension between traditional healers and those men who'd studied in the universities to become physicians. Healers were often regarded with suspicion in most countries - some even thought they dabbled in witchcraft and possessed knowledge forbidden by the church.
Islia was one of the few kingdoms where traditional healers enjoyed high status, due to Tession's great influence.
Celia had never stopped to wonder if Tession really did know witchcraft or not. What did it matter, when his remedies were so effective? He seemed to be so much more skilled than the court physicians.
Now though? Now Celia figured that at the very least, the kindly old man must've had banned medical knowledge, if not actual witchcraft abilities.
And if Tession did, it was likely the Haviettenese healers did too.
Which meant there was a chance one of them might be able to give her a secret potion or herbs to help her fall pregnant.
It was a risk to take, of course. If she were to be caught seeking dark magic to help her conceive an heir, the consequences would be devastating.
At best, Tobin would have her beaten and shut away in a convent while he searched for another wife to replace her.
At worst, she could even be burned at the stake as a heretic and a witch.
Celia made up her mind - she had to take the risk.
She couldn't continue as she was, living in sick anxiety month after month, enduring a husband who treated her with more and more disdain. He'd already whipped her her once. Would he get into the habit of whipping her every month she failed him?
She didn't actually want a son - or any child of Tobin's. The creature would merely be a means to an end, a way to improve her circumstances. Besides, how could she ever feel affection for a creature who was half monster?
She'd hand the child over to Tobin as soon as it was born without hesitation. He'd be forced to honour her then, as mother of a future king. Maybe he'd even stop seeing the need to share her bed anymore.
Yes, she'd take the risk.