‘Svend!’ She jolted upright in panic. ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’
Cille raised a finger to her lips, gesturing towards a chair by the fireplace. ‘He tore his wound open, but he wouldn’t let anyone touch him until you were safely in bed. We had a hard enough time getting him into that chair.’
Aediva gazed at his sleeping face, her heart swelling with love. ‘He saved me.’
‘He loves you.’
‘I love him too. I was afraid I’d never get the chance to tell him. Even when Edmund was trying to kill me that was all I could think about.’
‘Edmund...’ Cille’s expression hardened. ‘I never liked him.’
‘Father did.’
‘He liked Leofric too. He wasn’t right about everything.’
Aediva blinked, taken aback by the sudden bitterness in her sister’s voice. ‘Judith said you weren’t happy with Leofric. Was he cruel to you?’
Cille hesitated. ‘It’s in the past now. It’s probably best to leave it there.’
‘What about de Quincey? Do you love him?’
For a moment Cille seemed on the verge of saying something, and then she appeared to change her mind. ‘It’s complicated. He loves our son. That’s what matters.’
Aediva took a sharp intake of breath. Until that moment she hadn’t fully believed that the rumours were true. ‘So he’s really the father?’
‘Yes.’ Cille looked down at her knotted fingers. ‘I know I should have told you before. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.’
Aediva shook her head in amazement, so many questions crowding her mind she hardly knew where to start. ‘But you ran away from him!’
Cille’s gaze slid to one side evasively. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. When I found out I was expecting a child he’d already left for Normandy. It was only a few months after Leofric’s death and I was afraid of what everyone would think. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
‘How could I? After what happened to Father you were so angry. So was I—but I couldn’t hate all Normans the way you did. I thought if I told you you’d hate me too.’
Aediva bit her lip guiltily. She knew how that felt—not feeling able to tell someone the truth. ‘I’m sorry, Cille. I let you down.’
‘No! You didn’t fail anyone—least of all me. You did everything you could to protect me. Just promise that the next time you pretend to be me we’ll talk first.’
‘I promise.’ Aediva smiled sheepishly. ‘At least we’re talking now. We haven’t done that in a while.’
‘I know.’ Cille’s face clouded over again. ‘There were things I couldn’t talk about. I wasn’t myself for a long time.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I feel like I’m waking up again.’
‘Because of de Quincey?’
Cille nodded and Aediva squeezed her hand. ‘So you want to go to Normandy?’
‘Yes. It’ll be a fresh start for us and—’ Cille bit her tongue, her face suddenly crumpling with laughter.
‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘We’ve changed our son’s name. Leofric didn’t seem appropriate any more.’
‘Oh? So what’s my nephew called now?’