Chapter 12: Loveless
The cold of the infirmary had seeped into her bones. It was a different cold from the winter outside; this was a marrow-deep chill no fire could touch. For three days, Eleanor let it settle. She ate when food was brought, drank the bitter tonics, stared at the patch of grey sky through the high window. She did not ask about the child. The nursemaids, after that first rebuff, became silent, efficient ghosts, tending to her body with averted eyes.
On the fourth morning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was frigid stone beneath her bare feet. The world tilted, a dizzying lurch that had her gripping the bedpost until her knuckles whitened. Her body felt unfamiliar, a hollowed-out vessel both weak and sore.
"Where are His Majesty's chambers?" Her voice was steady, a command that belied her trembling legs.
The head nursemaid, Mistress Lora, looked alarmed. "My lady, you are not strong enough—"
"I am strong enough to walk to my husband's rooms," Eleanor interrupted. "Or I will collapse in the corridor. The choice is yours, but I am leaving this room."
They brought a wheeled chair, a humiliating contraption she detested on sight. She used it as a crutch, leaning on its high back as she took one shuffling step, then another. The journey through the cathedral’s private passages was a blur of arched stone and flickering sconce-light. Every whisper from a passing cleric felt like a judgment. The queen who would not see her son.
Alistair was in his council chamber, the low rumble of his voice audible through the door. Her arrival, a pale wraith in a woolen dressing robe, silenced the room. Three of his advisors stood around a map-strewn table, their expressions shifting from curiosity to acute discomfort.
Alistair’s eyes found her instantly. He didn’t speak. He simply pushed back his chair, the legs scraping loudly on the flagstones, and crossed the room. He dismissed the men with a curt nod. They fled.
He looked at the attendant hovering behind her. "Leave us."
When the door shut, he didn’t touch her. He assessed her, his gaze clinical, tracing the pallor of her skin, the dark smudges under her eyes, the way she clutched the chair for support.
"You should be abed," he said, his tone neutral.
"I cannot breathe in that room." She meant the infirmary, but the statement felt larger. "I will continue my recovery elsewhere."
"Where?"Our rooms."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "The nursery is adjacent."
"I am aware." She turned, her progress back into the hallway a slow, painful shuffle.
He didn’t offer to carry her. He understood, perhaps, that such an offer would be a kind of violence. Instead, he walked beside her, his pace unnaturally slow to match hers, a silent, imposing escort. His presence parted the sea of servants and guards like a warship cutting through calm waters.
Their private apartments felt like a museum of a past life. Her books were stacked neatly on a side table, a half-finished embroidery lay discarded on a settee, a fine layer of dust coated the surface of her writing desk. The familiar scent of beeswax, leather, and the faint, clean smell of Alistair’s soap should have been comforting. It felt like a reproach.
He watched her sink onto the edge of the large bed, a sigh escaping her as her body weight left her legs."Eleanor."
"I do not wish to discuss it."
"There is nothing to discuss," he said, moving to the hearth to stir the fire. "But there are things that must be done. He needs a name. The baptism is scheduled for the week's end. The court… whispers."
"Let them whisper." She lay back, closing her eyes against the canopy overhead. "He is your heir. Name him what you will. Alistair the Second. Something suitably thundering. I have no opinion."
The silence that followed was thick, charged. She heard the iron poker being replaced in its stand with a deliberate clink.
"He is also your son."
The words landed like stones in still water. She kept her eyes shut. "He is a living creature that required my body to exist. That transaction is now complete." She heard the cruelty in her own words, and it felt good. It felt like drawing a blade, finally, after months of being the scabbard.
She expected anger. A cold retort. The slam of a door.
Instead, she heard the soft tread of his boots on the rug, then the dip of the mattress as he sat on the edge of the bed, far from her. When she opened her eyes, he was staring into the fire, his profile etched in the orange glow.
"I held him," Alistair said, his voice oddly quiet. "Yesterday. He is… very small. His fingers are like bits of twig. He has a cry that could flay the hide off a bear." A pause. "He has your hair."
Something twisted, sharp and hot, beneath her ribs. She ignored it. "A coincidence of birth."
"Perhaps." He stood abruptly, the moment of vulnerability shuttered away."Rest. The physician will attend you here. I will inform the staff."
He left, and the vast room felt both empty and stifling.
The days bled into one another, marked by the slow return of strength to her limbs. She began to walk the length of the apartments, then the sunlit gallery. She ordered a bath, scrubbing her skin until it was pink, washing the phantom scents of blood and incense from her hair. She looked at herself in the polished silver mirror. The green eyes that stared back were familiar, but the woman behind them was a stranger, pared down to something essential and brittle.
One afternoon, when the weak sun was highest, she ventured further. To the library.
It was her sanctuary, or had been. The cavernous room with its vaulted ceiling and miles of parchment smelled of dust, knowledge, and peace. Her footsteps echoed. She went directly to the large oak table where months ago she had been compiling reports on the northern timber yields, arguing with Alistair over taxation percentages.
The stack of documents was still there, a layer of fine dust settled over them. She brushed it off with her sleeve and sat. The familiar action of untying a bundle, smoothing a vellum sheet, tracing a column of figures with her finger, was a balm. This was a language she understood. This was control. This was her.
She lost track of time. The sun had moved, painting long blue shadows across the stone floor, when a shadow of a different kind fell across her page.
"Finding errors in my stewardship already?" Alistair’s voice was close. He’d entered silently.
"I’ve been away for months. I’m certain there are many." She didn’t look up, making a note in the margin with a charcoal stick.
He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat. He watched her work for a long minute. "You look better here than in your bed."
"I feel better here."
A servant entered timidly, placing a tray with two goblets and a pitcher of wine between them, then scurrying out. Alistair poured, sliding one goblet toward her. She took it, the wine a dark, rich red. It tasted of summer and soil, a shocking vividness on her tongue.
"The physician says you are healing well."
"It would appear so."
Another silence, but this one was different. Less charged, more ponderous. He swirled the wine in his cup. "The baptism is in three days."She said nothing.
"We cannot present the crown prince to the realm without a name, Eleanor."
She finally looked at him. "Why does it matter what I think? You have the final say. You always do."
"Because," he said, setting his goblet down with precision, "he is not a fortification to be named for a conquered territory. He is not a ship to be christened for a favorable wind." He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers. "You endured the strategy. You survived the battle. The least you can do is name the prize."
The analogy was brutally, typically him. Yet, within it, she heard the concession. This was not a command from a king. It was a challenge from a general to an equal—a bitter, backhanded acknowledgement of her ordeal.
She looked down at the ledger before her.The numbers blurred. She thought not of the red, squalling thing in the nursery, but of the feeling in the cathedral. The endless pain. The giving out. The grey light on the wall. And his voice, pulling her back.
"Lucian," she said, the word leaving her lips before she had consciously formed it.
Alistair was very still. "Lucian."
"It means light." She took a sharp sip of wine. "Born on the darkest day."
A long, slow breath escaped him. He gave a single, faint nod. "Lucian." He tested the sound of it. Then, almost casually, he added, "You should see him. He’s stopped being quite so red. He looks less like a wrinkled barnacle and more like a person."
"I will consider it," she said, turning back to her ledger, her heart pounding a strange, arrhythmic beat against her ribs.
He did not press. He simply rose, lifted the pitcher, and refilled her goblet before leaving her alone with the dust, the numbers, and the new, faint echo of a name in the quiet of the library.