The baby’s cries woke her up, echoing the thunder outside, as though they both were feeling angry and overlooked. She went over to the crib and picked him up, trying to calm him down before he tired himself out. A scrunched, red, angry face stared back at her in contempt, cheeks streaked with tears, lips wet with effort. It was remarkable how a rosy infant, a thing of beauty when at peace, could turn into a cacophonous crimson creature, when it wasn’t. She rocked him in her arms slowly, hoping that the mellow consistent movements would put him at ease. It only managed to lessen the intensity of his wails, nothing more. She put him over her shoulder and began to gently pace the room. The bright streaks of lightning, each one faster than the other; as though in a race to see who could light the ground on fire first, echoed outside; creating a painting with their reflections on the window pane.

The rain hadn’t begun yet but it was only a matter of time. And by the looks of it, it was to be a heavy, determined one. This town however was desperately in need of such a downpour. The crops were riding out the dry spell best as they could but even the hardest of soldiers tend to need a reprieve. The baby began to finally quiet down. She could hear his heartbeat next to hers, muted little beats of life, echoing alongside hers. She pressed her lips faintly to his forehead, knowing full well she wasn’t allowed too. She held him tighter and let her warmth engulf him, hoping that a feminine body, one that wasn’t his mother’s would still mimic the physical comfort it was supposed to offer.

This little boy would be deprived of what little affection noble families seldom showed. She sighed as she thought of her lady, his mother, and what would become of this family if she were to go. Of this little boy and the childhood he would be deprived of. A display of emotions was frowned upon, and so this was a lesson taught early on. She had seen the result of this. Noble men bound by their blue bloods to uphold what was right, even if it meant the loss of a love, or sometimes even life. She dismissed those memories harshly and began to lower him down to the crib. His eyes were hooded, still a few minutes away from falling asleep. She began to rock the crib very slowly, as though the faintest of winds were pushing it.
“Baby is drowsing, cosy and fair
Mother sits near in her rocking chair
Forward and back, the cradle she swings
Though the baby sleeps, he hears what she sings”
She began to sing in a subdued voice. Yes I am not your mother, dearest, but I can well make sure you’re being sung to like one, she thought wryly, as she went through the lyrics.
She heard footsteps outside, and it was probably the Lord, judging by the heavy sounds.
The door opened with a creak, and soft, yellow light poured in. Without missing a beat she asked in the same voice, “Couldn’t sleep, my Lord?” taking care to pull the words in the same tone as the song.

There was no reply and she continued rocking and gradually stopped. The baby’s soft snores filled the room. She covered him up with the blanket. She finally looked over and saw the Lord, standing next to the door, hair dishevelled, shirt undone. He was a fine looking man, and also one with integrity too. He was a kind benefactor of this little town, and so became one of the most looked upon people. And it wasn’t without hard work that he had earned his respect here.

“Did he wake you, my lord?” she asked again.
He shook his head and smiled, “No, I came to simply check on him. And found you already there, cooing him back to sleep. Truly we are grateful and lucky to have you.”
She smiled back and gazed at him, her heart sighing because had life been fair he would’ve been hers.

“Come back to bed wont you. The little thing has gone back to sleep hasn’t he?” a voice called from the doorway.
Her Lady stood in the corridor, with a small lantern of her own. She looked at her husband and her maid, standing next to each other, speaking in hushed tones. She tried to damp down the jealousy that surged. She was not this person, this paranoid woman who was constantly skeptical and doubtful of everyone around her. She made herself believe that she hadn’t changed, that the only change in this house was the snore coming from the nursery, not her.

She went back to the bedroom with her husband. As she covered the sheets over herself, she listened to the rain beat outside and tried to calm the voices in her head, each one screaming something more violent than the other.
‘The maid, look at her, so pretty. And you, an old crone.’
‘Your own son will never recognize you with all the time she spends with him.’
‘Doesn’t the baby look like her; don’t they have the same eyes?’
They never stopped. She drank the sleeping draft the physician had prescribed her, and as the voices began to fade, she fell asleep.
The maid woke up to a chilly morning. The rain had done well....