‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, running his hand over the impossibly full curve of my belly, stooping to kiss the taught skin, following the now-distorted lines of the drawings on my flesh with his mouth.

‘I am not, though I know you would feed me six times a day like a farrowing sow if you had your way.’

He smiles at this. ‘The sow is sensible. She knows she cannot grow her young without sufficient fodder.’

I laugh. ‘One look at the bulbous thing I am become will tell you I have allowed neither myself nor my unborn to go without.’

‘Young princes grow large in the womb. It is often said.’

‘And young witches too. Though this is not often spoken of.’

He tilts his head. ‘Will our child be a boy prince or a girl witch?’ he asks. ‘Tell me, Prophet, what do you see?’

‘I see that my baby likes to keep secrets. Though one thing is certain, I will give you no prince.’

His face clouds, but I speak only the truth. Whilst he has been as good as his word and made our love known to all, he remains married to Wenna. I am not his wife. Our child will be a bastard, and never a legitimate heir to his realm. And my vision remains true: the princess continues to be childless. How she must despise me now. Where I might have been tolerated as an amusement for her husband, now I am a threat to her position, her marriage, everything. There have been no further attempts on my life. It was many weeks before Hywel was freed from being my protector, and only then because the prince had issued a declaration condemning my attackers, swearing vengeance should anything more happen to me, and letting it be known that I would always be guarded. I have found it irksome, these past months, to forever have a shadow, however they tried to keep a respectful distance. I begged Brynach to take away whichever trusted soldier he sent, but he would not hear of it. If he feared for my safety before, he has become even more determined to have me protected every minute of every night and day since I told him that I am carrying his child.

I attempt to sit up, my movements clumsy and awkward. Brynach offers me his arm but I wave him away, turning onto my knees to right myself with much puffing and little dignity. ‘I can manage,’ I tell him sternly. ‘Though I shall be glad of the day when I no longer lumber and lurch. I cannot so much as gather wild garlic or pick mushrooms in this condition.’

‘How can you tolerate such restrictions?’

‘Do not mock me, my prince. They may seem trifles to you,’ I say, pulling my kirtle over my head, dusting myself down and slipping my swollen feet into my deerskin boots, ‘but I am unaccustomed to being so…’