Trying Your Best

30 August, 1360. Westerhaven Palace, Islia.

Camilla was sitting in an armchair not far from her bed, Malcolm on her lap and his tiny fingers wrapped around hers. Now that the pink, blotchy colouring of a newly born baby had faded, she could see his skin was the same peach toned hue as William's.

Good lord, she mused with wry amusement. Would she ever see any of herself in their child?

Malcolm started to suck on his own fist, a sign Camilla had quickly grown to recognise to mean he was hungry. Even the wet nurse had commented he was a hungry little babe, always greedy for milk.

William strode through the bedchamber doors, Bonnie at his heels and carrying a tray of breakfast foods. His eyes went round when he saw Camilla in the armchair as opposed to the bed.

"How the hell did you end up there?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"They're called legs, husband."