When he emerged from the first mass of Easter the sun was brilliant in the sky above him. It shone on the blood in the streets, and on the armour of the Occitan men-at-arms who were making camp beyond Southgate. Occitans and Galles had little to say to each other at the best of times. By noon there was a rumour that there had been a fight in the streets behind Southgate.

Suddenly, the streets were full of Galles and Royal Guardsmen. As on Good Friday, every square was occupied, and every tower manned.

The same sun shone like a torch through the high window of the Queen’s cell. It was the first direct sunlight, clear and golden, to touch her skin in four days. It was like a lover’s kiss—like a moment of salvation.

Her hair hung like the mane of a wild horse. She hadn’t changed her garments in three days, afraid that she might be attacked while changing—afraid that any complex physical activity would distract her from the fight in her head.

She had not eaten in two days, and the child within her protested by kicking and kicking. Her sides hurt—her back burned like fire. The new milk in her full breasts soaked against her shift and smelled. Her swollen breasts hurt her—too sensitive, too full. The weight of her belly was like that of a sinner’s chains in hell.

But the sun—the sun’s touch—was pure. And the guardsmen had preserved her hope, even if she did not understand why. And then on Saturday night, in the utter dark, Blanche had come—a girl she’d seldom noticed. Blanche had combed out her hair, and prayed with her.

Guardsmen had let her in, and then let her out.

On Easter morning, the oldest guard put a tray of bread and cheese on the floor and made a point of eating a nibble of each.

“No need to starve yourself, your grace,” he said. “Your brother’s on his way. And we won’t let anything happen to you.”

He seemed disappointed when she didn’t respond, but the pressure did not become less with the advent of the day. If Easter had any magic, it was only in her heart. She dared not pause to eat.

She could only drink in the golden light like a newborn suckling at the breast. Food, her brother, her failure of a husband…

That was all for another world.

In the darkness of last night, she had worked out what it wanted.

It wanted her baby.

She could feel it now, looking to enter into her, and through her, her son.

She drank the golden light. Her world was reduced, in four straight days, to this—resistance.

Working swiftly, she embroidered the new rays of ops into refined potentia and built the resulting material into her wall.