and heir, but instead of pronouncing himself pleased, he demanded another.
“Life is full of uncertainty,” he informed his lady wife, even as he took the boy from her breast. “You will grant another son unto me with all haste.”
The lady cried out when her son was taken away from her, but the brigand decreed that the babe would have a wet nurse—so that his wife would be able to conceive more quickly again. She was not to see the child at all until she was pregnant again.
The lady thought she could not have despised her husband more but on that dark morning, she learned she had additional capacity for hate. Again she prayed and again she strove to do his will, and again—in three moons’ time—she conceived a child. Just as before, the brigand vowed she would remain locked in the royal chamber alone until the child was born and hale.
He lied about allowing her to see her oldest son, for he did not bring the boy or let any other bring him. The lady’s heart began to harden yet more.
Once again, the lady endured her solitude. Once again, her hatred of her husband grew. Once again, on midwinter eve, the lady delivered of a healthy son. If anything, he was stronger and larger than the first boy. She was certain she would have a reprieve and had just put the babe to her breast, thinking of what she would do first when she left the confines of her chamber, when her husband arrived. As before, he took the child from her. As before, he demanded another son. As before, the lady was left locked within the chamber, her son was given to a wet nurse, and she was compelled to endure the attentions of her cruel husband each night until she conceived.
And so the tale repeated nine more times. Each midwinter night, the lady delivered of a healthy son and her sentence was renewed again. Her hope steadily dwindled until it died. Her husband never noticed that the spark died in her eyes, that her hair lost its luster, that she no longer had any ability to smile.
When the lady was round with her twelfth child, her hatred of her husband had grown to the point that she no longer cared about her survival. It was no life, to her thinking, to be confined to one room. She had no one to love, for her sons were lost to her and her husband was a man she could never love.
It was in that year that her husband began to train his sons in the courtyard beneath the queen’s window. If he meant to impress her with their prowess, his choice did the very opposite: the lady despaired to see that her sons mirrored their father in every way. She hated that she had been the means of eleven more brigands coming into the world to pillage and slaughter. She sickened then, that autumn, and did not care whether she lost the child. So ill was she that even her husband noticed, and he tried to rouse her by complaining that her illness might affect the child in her womb. The lady did not respond.
On midwinter night, she delivered of a boy once more. This boy was smaller and more slender, but his kick and cry were just as robust as those of his brothers. If anything, she loved him more because of his size, and she tenderly put him to her breast, wishing she could nurse him for more than a moment. The brigand came to see his son and was less pleased than before. He thought the boy weak and unworthy. He decided his wife’s womb had exhausted its bounty.
“I want a daughter,” his wife said, rebellion in her eyes, and he recognized that she was prepared to fight him. The brigand didn’t care what his wife desired. He had younger and more beautiful women to bed, and he had twelve sons.
“Nurse this one then,” he said with scorn. “Make your daughter out of him. I make sons out of the other eleven.”
“I will leave this chamber,” she said when he had turned away.
“So another can bed you? I think not, lady wife. Here you have been for thirteen years, and here you will remain until your dying day.” With that, he left and locked the door against them both.
“Asshole,” Balthasar said when Alasdair stopped for breath. He considered the pizza, then took another slice, leaving three for