I'll not have a bastard.

After a moment has passed, you seem to have come to a decision. "I'll not have a bastard", you tell her, and her eyes widen. She steps aback, and its clear something is wrong. You fear she's misunderstood. "I'm to be cast out? What shall I do?" She looks as though her eyes might well, and you're caught between trying to reassure her and trying not to laugh.

"No, my dear Clare!" You almost chuckle, and she looks relieved, albeit confused "But there are other ways to yet rid a child from forming in that marvelous body of yours!" You soften your words with honey, and she seems all the better for it as her cheeks redden. Such vanity on her, you love it.

"I'm a learned man, girly. I know of a solution. They're are such medicines in the world that can safely stop a babe in your womb." She seems more than surprised. She sats down upon the bed beside you, and you attempt to gather a robe so you can walk about sans-nakedness. She ponders the thought for a short silence.

"You're sure it could work, milord?" She turns to you.

"Aye." You're...fairly sure. You're not a botanist. Though she appears to believe you. She nods her head in silent contentment. "Right then" she mumbles "I'll do it."

You smile, before a plant a well-received affection on Clare's pale cheek. "It will all be well", you reassure her "as if the seed in you never quickened". She repeated it "as if it never quickened" and it looked as though a calm washed over Clare. "On the morrow" you told her "I'll call on an herbalist and speak of such a solution".

"On the morrow?", she doesn't look at you beside her, only furrowing her little brow as she adjusts the milk-stained dress. Its a splendid sight, her curves in the little thing she calls clothing. Your index finger lightly turns her chin to face you, and a wolfish grin forms across your face as you disrobe.

"I feel as though I'll be busy today!"

She squeals happily as she bursts for the door, bounding down the halls of the royal apartments from her "attacker". You round the corner to give chase, not a cloth on you, and see a chamber maid frozen at the sight of you. A brunette little thing, Angelika, you remembered the name. Panting, you attempt to say something clever. "Gawk like that", you smile "and you might be next". Her chest becomes flush red.