Title: Hiraeth

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Aber, North Wales; Winter 1215

Keywords: Story, historical au, msr 

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.

Archive: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html
 
Spoilers: um, how?

Author's notes: Many nods to "Katherine of Ireland" by fanfic
author Jenna Tooms for the inspiration & Sharon Kay Penman for
doing such extensive research for her published novel.  

If the names & events have faded since European History class and
you'd like a refresher, a summary of Ms. Penman's novel "Here be
Dragons" featuring the same time period & locations is at:
http://www.sharonkaypenman.com/herebedragons.htm

There is a small historical inaccuracy, in case you decide to use 
this story as Cliff Notes for medieval Wales.  Joanna (Joan), 
wife of Llewelyn, was unfaithful, but not until 1228.  Llewelyn 
Fawr (Llewelyn the Great) forgave Joanna and took her back 
after exiling her to one of his castles for several months.  
They were happily married until her death in 1237.     

                     *~*~*~*
Hiraeth
by prufrock's love

Aber, North Wales
Winter, 1215

"I do not understand why everyone suddenly decided I had need of 
a wife."

Once, when Leuan was visiting London as a young man to pay
homage to King John, then Prince John Lackland, the fledgling
Templar priest had been indulged in a tour of The Tower.  The 
Old King, long dead now and dying then, had kept a collection of
rare animals to amuse himself after he walled away his faithless
Eleanor.  There had been a giant black cat there, he remembered,
pacing back and forth behind the bars, and watching eternally for
someone he had once loved and lost.  Leuan, in his idealistic 
youth, had decided it must have been Queen Eleanor that the 
animal had felt such hiraeth for - only a legendary woman could 
hold the gaze of such a powerful creature.

A panther, the keeper had called it.

Watching his lord prowl, that memory floated back after thirty
years.  A tense, dark animal pacing back and forth in the 
confines of The Tower, stopping to watch the snowy blur.  

"If you do not know why a man might have need of a wife, then
you have been alone much too long, Gwilym."

The man paused his restless gait to make a face at the priest,
indicating his last statement was stupid in the extreme and did 
not even justify the words necessary to rebuke it.

Leuan, having been engaged as his lord's tutor when Gwilym was
six and grown almost immune to his former student's dark moods,
merely shrugged. "I know you had only a wayward priest to teach
you these things, but really, I thought I did at least a fair 
job."

That got no response at all; there was no distracting him into a 
fight tonight.

"Maybe they lost their way, Leuan.  Maybe I should ride down to
meet them," Gwilym said, leaning out the small window into the
cold night, ignoring the servant's pleas to put the oiled linen 
screen in place to block out the icy winds.  He glanced over his 
shoulder at the priest for reassurance, hazel eyes looking less 
like Lord Gwilym and more like the boy Llwynog he remembered from 
decades ago.

"Merfyn is with them and sent word that all is well.  It is 
proper for you to wait here."

Waiting was not his nature and that was not the counsel his best 
friend had wanted.  The pacing resumed, punctuated by occasional 
pauses to stare out into white nothingness, searching for any 
answers that might float down with the heavy snowflakes.

"Tell me about her, Leuan."

"I have told you everything I know; some things twice.  Try to 
relax - Llwynog.  It is just a woman."

"Do not call me that!  Even my father called me Gwilym.  And you
only say I should relax because it is not your woman, Leuan."  

The panther had switched from circling the room to merely wearing 
a path through the rushes from the window to the hearth, so 
restless it made a man tired to watch.  "I do not like this 
Norman custom.  A man should not trust his priest to choose a 
wife the way one would choose a mare.  Check her teeth - make 
sure they do not lie about her age.  Her temperament should be 
docile, easily led.  Her gait should be smooth as silk - one 
wants a nice ride.  Oh, and be sure she will breed."

"The proxy marriage is done - it is too late for second
thoughts.  I will bless you tonight and that will be that."

"Yes, as you say. . ." the man tossed himself into a chair like a
sulking child  ". . . that will be that."  

"It does not have to be tonight, Llwynog.  It is a queer custom -
bedding a wife you have barely met, and King John is not going to
brave the heights of Wales to tour your bedchamber, much as he 
may envy you."

Leuan earned himself another withering look.  Not only had he 
used a three-decades-old nickname and the much bandied title of 
'Lord', he had said exactly what both men were thinking, but 
neither was supposed to say.

"Calm your mind - she -is- lovely, Gwilym.  Not like Diana, but
very fair.  I saw her at Court and she will make a good lady for 
your castle.  It has been too long since there was a woman's hand 
here and it could use a little gentling."

Looking at the seven fat dogs lounging around the room, who were
hoping for a crumb or a loving pat, the stacks of rare, and
therefore cherished books, and the bare walls which Gwilym never
seemed to notice, Leuan decided it had been more than ten years 
too long.  

"Does the King favor her because she is like his wife?"

That question had many levels, but Leuan purposely answered only
the obvious. "Queen Isabelle, when I have seen her, is 
fashionably beautiful and she revels in it - draws men to her 
like flies.  No, King John did not notice this woman because of 
that.  She is not so lush, not so showy as Isabelle, but I 
promise you will not be disappointed."

"Not what she looks like, Leuan - what is –she- like?"
 
"Isabelle?  Grown into a lovely woman, and -" 

Gwilym interrupted him, nervously picking at a string on his
breeches as he spoke:  "Queen Isabelle was a fool when the King
wedded and bedded her at twelve and I doubt she has grown any
interesting thoughts in fifteen years."

"But what a beauty," came an illicit thought supposedly arrested 
by priestly robes.  Even men sworn to the Church could not miss 
Queen Isabelle.

"Beautiful is only useful for the first few minutes, Leuan.  At 
some point a man must speak to his wife - tell her to get off his 
arm so he can leave, if nothing else.  If I have to spend a 
lifetime listening to this woman's mindless droning, King John 
can have her back.  Mwyaf trwst llestri gweigion."

Empty vessels make the most noise.  

"No, she is not like that, Gwilym.  Prince Llewelyn and I know
you well.  She was attentive to her husband, Llewelyn said.  Very 
quiet, but most women know to be quiet in the presence of Queen
Isabelle.  It is not wise to draw attention away from the Queen,
especially when one is this woman.  I never saw her be cross, so
her temperament is probably quite good."  

The priest had earned another 'you are describing a mare,' look.  

"Eyes?"

"Blue.  Skin is very fair, so she must be blonde or maybe a
redhead."  He mumbled the last words - red hair was the sure sign
of a witch, and his lord had no need of another witch. 

"You do not know?"  The man was back to leaning out into the
night, now fiddling nervously with his tunic and his new haircut. 
Leuan fought the urge to tell his old charge first, to be still, 
and second, to not lean so far out the window for fear of 
falling.  He bit his tongue - Lord Gwilym was no longer in need 
of a nursemaid, but he could use a good wife, for once.

"At Court, all women wear veils and wimples.  I heard King John
say she was Irish, taken from the Scully clan while Dover castle 
was being built, so perhaps her hair is red."  The priest pushed 
the tall man gently to the side with a familiarity born only 
between old comrades and stared out into the night with him, 
keeping watch.  "Prince Llewelyn wants this, Llwynog, and the 
King will look favorably upon any lord willing to keep this woman 
happy and out of his sight until his conscience heals. If the 
Magna Carta fails, the Welsh will need friends."

The two men propped their chins on their fists like little boys
watching for their fathers to return from the hunt or the 
Crusades, hoping for trinkets, trophies, and war stories.  "Is 
she so fair, John?" The Lord asked, switching from Welsh to 
broken French so the hovering servants could not 
'accidentally' overhear their conversation.

"She is fair enough to draw the King's eye from his legendary
Isabelle and wise enough at four and twenty to avoid his bed.  
After her husband's head was accidentally separated from his 
shoulders by King John's executioner, she still refused, so he 
decided she should remarry quickly.  Prince Llewelyn and I saw
her at Court and thought of you, but there were many other 
offers of marriage.  So, yes, William - I would say she is 
truly fair."

"And sold to the highest bidder like a mare at Auction."  Back to
Welsh, which Gwilym found much easier than the stilted French.

"Your conscience pricks you more than any man I know.  Would you
rather she warmed the King's bed until he tired of her and turned 
her out?"

The restless man ignored that. "Four and twenty? I have a son
almost as old."

"You have a boy who looks to be the direct descendant of the 
Devil and who could use a mother when he returns.  Our future 
King John was in Wales in the months before his birth; perhaps 
he was sired by a Plantagenet prince with a few moments and 
coins to spare."

The panther recoiled, a boy's friend forgotten and an old priest
taking his place.  No matter what any man might say at his own
hearth, it was unwise to insult the memory of Gwilym's precious
Diana in front of him.  Leuan hurried to amend for his misstep – 
having not realized his jab would be taken so seriously. 

"Prince Llewelyn was a friend of her late husband's and has said
several times that she reminds him of his gentle Joanna at the
dinner table.  That was what gave him the idea to have you marry
her."

Joanna.  Another Saeson.  An English foreigner.  Joanna had
sinned against her husband in their own bed and it was the mark 
of either a great love or a great fool that Llewelyn took her 
back.  And Gwilym did not take his friend, and prince, for a fool.

The man's face relaxed a bit, lines and cheekbones softening.  
Leuan had finally said the correct words to ease the weeks of 
tension. 

"I have met Joanna several times and I like her.  Quiet, but 
there is more there than first meets the eye.  Is this woman 
really so similar?"  

The priest nodded reassuringly, fairly sure both his worldly and
heavenly Lord would quickly forgive so small a lie.  Gwilym had
only seen Joanna in public, so his perception of 'similar' was 
very narrow.  Leuan had heard her confession, and, yes, there was 
more than met the eye.  So perhaps it was only a lie of omission.

"I had thought I loved Diana until I saw the way Llewelyn
watched his Joanna."  Gwilym was a romantic at heart, as though
the entire kingdom did not know that secret.  "I did think I 
loved her, you know.  I was young, but I was not just bewitched, 
like they said.  And if I was, I do not want to know it."  

The priest rubbed a worn hand across the man's back.  Gwilym had
been returning from battle many years ago when he had found
Diana's little house smoldering outside the castle grounds, only 
a small boy holding a screaming baby and hiding in the woods.  

The villagers said Diana was a witch - that she had brought a 
plague on their crops - and she had to die before the harvest.  
More likely, a certain village trollop with an eye toward being 
the young Lord's mistress had set fire to the rumors until Diana 
had died in their flames.  That village girl was the only female 
Lord Gwilym had ever ordered executed in all his warring.  Leuan 
still remembered her odd name: Phoebe.

The young man, barely more than twenty, had blamed himself, 
saying he should have defied his father and brought her to live 
inside the castle walls.  Married her in the Church instead of 
what the Welsh referred to as hearth marriages - meaning a man 
and a woman shared the warmth of a fire and a bed, but either 
could later remarry.  Neither was possible, of course.  The 
villagers would have simply burned the castle in their panic, and 
lords married for political gain, not love or lust.

The boy, Dafydd, and the little girl came to live in the castle 
and Gwilym acknowledged them as his own, although many men,
including the Old Lord, had questioned the wisdom of that.  
Hearth marriages were valid as long as the man accepted the 
children, so Dafydd stood to inherit his lord's kingdom, despite 
his mother's sins.  Whatever his thoughts on the boy who was 
almost certainly not his son, after all these years, none knew 
but Gwilym.

"I see them!  I see the torches."  At his cries, servants,
unaccustomed to the late hour, scurried over each other to set 
lit candles in windows and bring fresh wine from the kitchen.  
They added wood to the fires and chased out the dogs as the 
parade of horses and small flames made their way up the mountain.

Leuan said a quiet prayer, knowing God had bigger concerns than
one minor Welsh lord, like the infidels in the Holy Land, or
freedom for Wales, or the lack of a suitable prince for the 
British Empire.  But, Lord, if you could just lend me your ear 
for one moment - this is a good man.  A little odd, maybe, with 
his books and his philosophy and his solitude, but good to his 
people, children, and Church.  If you could just see your way to 
send a little happiness up this mountain. . . 

"What else, Leuan?  What have I forgotten?"

"Perhaps to breathe?"

With obedience learned in childhood, hazel eyes closed for a
moment and his chest rose and fell.  "I just want her to be 
happy.  It must be awful to have no say over your future."

Leuan smiled indulgently at the deep current of worry God
permitted to run through men over such a simple a matter as a
woman.  Some nights the old priest thought he had long forgotten
what the corners of his mouth were intended for, but watching a
glimpse of his favorite student surface in his friend reminded 
him.  "Maybe a bath?  She's been riding for weeks.  And if you're 
not planning on her sharing your bed tonight, then she will need 
chambers of her own."

There was another flurry of yelling and scurrying as sleepy 
servants flew for hot water and curtains and a down mattress - 
not straw, they were cautioned - for a bed.  Alone in the din, as 
his custom was, Gwilym pulled a chair to the window and watched 
the torches snake up the mountain, now only minutes away.  "What 
do I say to her, Leuan?"

"Gwil, I love you as if you were my own son, but this is 
getting ridiculous.  Having dragged you drunk from a whorehouse 
on your fifteenth birthday, I can personally vouch that you know 
your way around a few women.  This one is no different."

"She is a lady, Leuan, accustom to the King's Court, and I am 
just…"
 
"You are your father's son, Gwilym.  He acknowledged you as his
own and no man will question you.  You are the lord of this 
castle and she could do much worse."  

The King had sent a large escort to ensure she arrived safely -
would not want to have her raped by a mere commoner -  but the
men waited safely outside the castle gates while only two horses
entered, riding abreast.  King John had finally relented and 
signed the Magna Carta, but most Normans still viewed the only 
good Welshman to be a dead Welshman and the sentiment was 
returned.  Gwilym's sentries quietly readied bows and checked 
swords, should there be one false move; most men of Aber had lost 
a son or a father or a limb or an unfortunate woman to soldiers 
like these and no gentle words from a priest would stop the 
bloodshed if there was one imagined slight.   

"When you were a boy, Gwilym, we called you 'Llwynog' because
you were clever and adept at getting yourself out of tight spots 
like the wild fox.  This woman is not like that.  Clever - yes, 
handsome - certainly, but always a captive.  This fox has been 
kept and hunted to amuse great men, and she will think you are no 
different."

A priest was not entirely ignorant of the ways of the world.

Gwilym's hand rubbed his freshly shaven face as he watched his
new wife enter the bailey, trying to glean some clue about her 
from his high window as he nervously eyed the King's men.  He had
attempted the Norman custom of a beard for her, but given up the
idea after a few days of itching, although Leuan's ginger-brown 
and gray beard was coming along nicely.  The old cook, who had 
been his father's mistress, but that was not spoken of, had cut 
his hair this morning and shaved him, as she claimed, 'close 
enough to kiss.'        
    
"What are they doing, Leuan?  Are they just leaving her?"  

A big man with flaming red hair rode into the bailey beside a
woman swaddled on a fine-boned mare.  Merfyn trailed behind, 
stargazing, most likely.  The man patted her hand and turned 
to leave, the King's escort not even bothering to dismount.  
She looked back at the Irishman as Merfyn was helping her down, 
saying something Gwilym could not hear, and he circled his horse 
once, nodding to her, then hurried to catch up with the guards.  
Gwilym saw in the dim light that she was barely as tall as his 
sergeant, which was not saying much, and that she stumbled when 
her feet touched the snow.

The priest looked out, squinting old eyes into the frigid night.  
"It would appear so, my lord.  She has been delivered; the deal 
is done.  There is nothing more to speak about."

"The King promised her brother could travel with her.  Does he 
not want to meet me?"

"No - since there is no choice, probably he does not want to 
meet you.  If she was my sister, I would rather not know."
 
The King's escort and the red-haired man were already pinpoints 
in the distance and the extra castle guards were trailing across 
the bailey, headed home to their families for the night.  Perhaps 
Wales and England could find peace, providing they met at the 
border, traded goods, and left without speaking.

The poor dogs, now exiled to the great hall, raised a racket as 
their master hurried through, disappointed he did not stop 
his long strides for their usual pats and treats.

"Get her inside, Merfyn," he ordered, holding open the door.  
Lost under her hood and furs, the woman stepped over the 
threshold and into the great hall without raising her eyes.  
After she passed, Gwilym looked out the door, waiting for her 
maids, then remembered that he had not seen any.  Only a very 
cold mare and Merfyn's gelding were in the bailey, being led away 
by one of the stable boys.  "Merfyn - did her ladies get 
separated? Are they waiting in the valley until morning?"  The 
trek up the mountain could take a man's breath, so it was 
probable that her maids, having no fear of being returned to 
London if they displeased him by being late, were waiting in a 
warm tavern until morning.

The little man pulled off his layers of wool and leaned back into
the blazing hearth, probably singeing himself in unmentionable
areas.  "Just her, Gwil.  Her ladies would not cross the 
border for fear of being raped by the Welsh devils."

"Merfyn!"   

"She does not speak Welsh, Gwilym.  I have not heard a word out 
of her that I understood since we left London.  Her brother did 
most of the talking and I am glad to be rid of him."  The old 
soldier was a little too proud of himself for accomplishing his 
assigned task - bringing a woman back safely over the mountains 
in the Welsh winter before the King changed his mind - and did 
not notice his friend's mouth was hanging open.  "Well, you 
have your bride, but I also have mine waiting for me.  Let me 
know how it goes.  I get the feeling she could set fire to a 
mattress, this one."  

It was probably a blessing that Gwilym was not wearing his sword,
but Merfyn got a cuff to his ear that caused him to hear bells 
for the next few days.  

Then it was just the little woman shivering by the fire, the old
priest examining the floor rushes for lack of anything proper to 
look at, and Gwilym lurking in the doorway.

"What does she understand, Leuan?  I speak very little Gaelic. 
French from Court?  Or maybe English?  The only thing I know
how to ask for in English is a whore," came a terse whisper.

For the second time that night, the old priest smiled, probably
remembering a teenaged boy, a newly-titled sergeant,  and a 
foolish, errant priest who had snuck out many nights and 
had plenty to atone for besides their hangovers the next morning.

"French, Llwynog.  I'm going to go roust the cook. Since she 
did not bring any maids, Gwenllian will probably be best to 
attend her tonight.  And I will see about some supper for 
her."

How cruel could the English be - to barter a woman because she
refused to share a king's bed, then abandon her alone in a 
strange land, not even able to speak the language?  Another 
reason that Wales would never lay down on her back for King John 
- not as long as Prince Llewelyn Fawr liiived.  That was not the 
way to treat a Welsh woman.  And this was now a Welsh woman.  By 
marriage.

"I am Lord Llwynog ap Gwilym, my lady, but most call me
Gwilym.  I am glad you have arrived safely," he said slowly,
knowing he was butchering the proper French he had not spoken in
years.

She turned, her hood falling back from her face, revealing blue
eyes that snapped like lightning across the tops of the mountains
and made his heart leap, and his stomach pitch.  Perhaps the 
docile Joanna had not been a good comparison.  Perhaps a cornered 
fox was much more appropriate.
 
"You are Duana?"

Fool - of course she is Duana.  It is not like there could be some
mistake.  He and Leuan had practiced her name so they could say 
it clearly, but she flinched, indicating he was still not saying 
it with the correct inflection.

"Gwilym," she said slowly, more to herself than him, trying to 
wrap her tongue around the bizarre syllables as she warmed her 
frozen hands.

"Try 'William' - that's the English - Fox, son of William."  He 
stood near, but not so close as to frighten her, taking her 
measure.  Of course, if this woman faced down a king notorious 
for his wenching, she probably would not give a second thought to 
a reclusive, awkward Welshman.

"William.  My lord."  She sank into the appropriate curtsy, a 
little unsteady on her feet, then stood waiting.

He pointed to his favorite chair beside the fire, not willing to 
risk the "ch" sound to say the right word for it, and she sat 
down, trying not to show how tired she was.  Her hands trembled 
slightly as she accepted the cup of wine, and he hoped it was 
just because she was cold and exhausted.   

No, she was afraid.  Angry and alone and afraid, like a hunted
animal.

In her silly wimple and veil, he could only see her face from
eyebrows to chin, but she was indeed lovely.  Hopefully not 
lovely enough that King John would change his mind and steal
her back to London, but he said a silent prayer of thanks 
for a foolish king's conscience that caused her to end up on 
his mountain.

She just sat and stared at the fire while he cursed himself for
spending his youth avoiding Leuan's lessons instead of learning
something that would be useful at this moment.  Like the correct
way to explain he did not have horns, as the Normans thought all
the Welsh did.  That there was a hot bath and a soft bed waiting 
for her upstairs and he had no expectations of sharing either. 

Tonight.  Thinking of her hands shaking again - maybe not for many
nights.

Chaud.  'Hot' was chaud.  Show.  Maybe he could demonstrate
scrubbing - that should impress her.  Bed - what was bed?  

"My lady. . ." 

His lady was sound asleep, dwarfed in the big chair, looking much
younger than four and twenty when one could not see her eyes.  

He was surprised at how heavy she was when he went to lift her,
but then he realized she was wearing layers and layers of soaking
wet wool and fur.  He peaked carefully under each garment before
he pulled it off, not sure exactly what underclothes the ladies 
of the Court wore and not wanting to shuck off one too many 
chemises or capes and find skin underneath just yet.  Gwilym made 
it as far as a blue silk gown that seemed dry enough and stopped, 
heaps of clothes steaming in front of the hearth for the servants 
to gossip about the next morning.

Gwenllian appeared from the kitchen, smiling as she waddled in.
"Is this the bride, Llwynog?"

No, Gwen, it is my newest hunting dog.  Sometimes he could only
wonder at his father's taste in women.

"The sleepy bride."  

"Bring her upstairs, then, and I will get her bathed.  She looks
like a sweet little thing."

He scooped her up, easily this time, and followed Gwen's wide
hips up the stairs.  "Hard to tell, Gwenllian – I have only heard 
four words so far."

"You are probably the only man in the Empire that would complain 
about a woman not chattering your ear off with her ideas."  She
gestured to the freshly made bed, then pulled the curtains back 
so he could set her down.  "You want me to bring her to you when
she is ready?"

"No, let her sleep, Gwen."

He ignored her shocked look as he pulled the heavy door closed
behind him and went to find Leuan for more enunciation lessons. 
By morning, he was going to be able to say her name and
something besides 'I would like to buy some cheese' clearly in
French.

                     *~*~*~*

The last time Leuan had drilled these phrases, the answering 
voice had been changing awkwardly and its owner had been much 
more interested in warring and whoring.  That was almost 
twenty-five years, countless border skirmishes, a sullen son, 
a daughter who had vanished, a fallen father, and a faithless 
hearth wife ago. Who could have know his lord would have more 
than his fill of death and empty women in such a short span of 
time?

"Je suis.  Tu es.  Il est-"  

"Nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont - I remember this part, Leuan. 
Move on."

"Je m'appelle William.  Comment vous-"

"We already know each other's names, Leuan. Teach me to say
something useful, like how to say 'you have eyes like a placid 
blue lake as lightning strikes the water,' and 'no king is ever 
going to force you again'."

The priest had about this much success twenty-five years ago.  

"Try her name again.  Say it as if it were two words, then put 
them together."

Running long fingers through his hair, which was now going in
several directions at once, Gwilym tried again, knowing he was 
not even close.  It did not help that the closest translation of 
her name in Welsh combined with those blue eyes made his mind 
wander.

"It is a hopeless quest, my lord.  You either learn a second 
tongue in youth or you will always speak it roughly," his 
unwilling tutor sighed, smothering a yawn and glancing tiredly at 
the mark on the candle to gauge the hour.  Perhaps nine o'clock - 
far past his normal bedtime.  Except for Gwilym, the castle slept 
and arose with the chickens.

Gwilym flopped undignified onto the mattress, becoming half-
eaten up by the high tick.  "I had not thought I was so close to
Death's fingers that I could not say her name properly.  I can 
read and write it - why can I not speak it?  If I could just see 
it, Leuan.  If I could see how to say it, I could remember, but 
these silly drills just make my head hurt."

"Perhaps you should sleep, and see if you are more motivated to 
learn when you see her in the morning."

His words were wasted. Another of King John's unwilling subjects
had finally surrendered to the night.  Gwilym was either sound asleep
or he was ignoring Leuan by pretending to be.

There was the sound of soft snores from deep in the down and fur
coverlets, and the dogs hurried to claim the best spots in the 
big bed with their master.  His face looked so young in sleep, 
like the mysteries of life and death paused for him to rest a 
moment.  A big dog circled, matting down a place beside Gwilym to 
spend the night, and his hand moved in response to the motion of 
the bed.  Finding only soft, floppy ears, and a cold nose, his 
old student rubbed out of habit and shifted still deeper into the 
furs without opening his eyes or pulling off his tall boots.  

Leuan would feel much better when that hand reached out and
found a woman again - preferably the fiery one asleep across the
hall, but he probably could not arrange that tonight.  Taking one
candle and snuffing the rest, he made his way out quietly through
the adjoining study, careful not to disturb the man's rare 
moments of rest.

For all his tiptoeing and faith, Leuan was still a mortal man, 
and mortal men scream bloody murder when they see a ghost sitting
behind their lord's desk in the moonlight.  His screams rousted
Gwilym from sleep in time to see a newly acquired book hit the
floor with leaves flying, pale legs fleeing quickly under a huge 
white chemise, and red hair flowing like blood as their "ghost" 
ran for her chamber.

"What did you say to her?" Gwilym demanded, hurriedly rubbing a
few moments of sleep from his eyes.

"I did not say a thing.  She knows she should not be playing 
with your books."

A door slammed across the hallway as Leuan gathered up the
priceless pages, each a work of art, and cursed a woman's
foolishness.  

"Give me the book, Leuan.  If she wants to look at it, she can."

"But Llwynog," the priest gaped, switching back to a boyhood
nickname out of shock, "she was married ten years with no
children - she should not be looking at books."

Gwilym took the text and wrinkled his nose at the cup of warm
wine he had been considering.  "As you say, Leuan, I know my way
around a few women, and books do not have much to do with
begetting sons.  Not unless the illustrations are very well done.  
Go to bed, old man."

Rebuked into silence, the priest shuffled off to his own quarters
above the kitchens, leaving his student to his books and woman
and oddness.

He knocked once, and the door came ajar.  Looking down at the
floor, he saw the bolt laying in the rushes; the servants had 
taken the lock off her door so it could not be barred.  Certainly 
a kind gesture - sure to make a woman feel safe.

"Duana," he called softly, trying not to wake the whole castle at 
this hour.  "Duana, I have the… shit!"  What was the damn thing
called?  Llyfir - how was that said?  Not lives.  Not livers.  
Curse all Normans and their damn tongue-tying language.  The 
world would be much happier if all men were Welsh.  Livre!  
"Book.  I have the book."

He repeated that to himself silently, trying to make sure he'd 
said the right thing and not some obscure insult.  When he 
knocked again, the door swung open, and books were long 
forgotten.

Whatever the quick words were in Gaelic, they did not sound like 
a gentle invitation to her bed, but he was impressed that she 
did not cower.  Her borrowed chemise, probably Gwen's, fell 
in puddles at her feet, and that hair could be the Devil's 
breath wrapping around her.  He had the urge to touch her 
to make sure she was real and not one of the visions that 
creeps into a man's bed when he sleeps alone for too many nights.
 
"I did not mean to drop the book.  He frightened me."  Her French
was heavily accented, but quite good; far better than his, had he
been capable of intelligent speech.  "I will not bother your 
books again."  

Bother the damn books.  Rip out the pages and roll in them, just
do not run away.  

Her hair must be down because she was expecting him.  Otherwise
it would be braided for the night.  That thought made him swallow
dryly.

"I am fine."  No, that was not the right phrase.  Stupid, stupid!  
"The book is fine."  No better.  Tell her how the sheep, the 
horses and the cheese are all fine.

He held up one finger, indicating he wanted her to wait, and laid
the book on the floor inside her door as though he was trying to
entice a frightened animal.  It took exactly ten long steps to 
his own chamber and ten back to hers, and she was still standing 
right where he left her, except now she was holding the heavy 
book against her chest and her glare had softened a bit.
     
He held up his bed robe for her, wondering if she would actually 
come, even if she was shivering.  "Do you want to see the pages?  
I can read the words for you," he offered, slipping the heavy 
robe on her.  She picked up the book again like a shield, but 
could not manage to carry it and hold up her too long clothes to 
walk without tripping, although she spent several moments trying.  
He expected temper or tears, but saw only a quick smile at 
herself as she finally relinquished the book and gathered up 
Gwen's huge chemise and his bed robe in folds to find her bare 
feet.

"Feet," he told her, taking and settling the text on his hip, and
showing off his few French words.  "Toes."

"Cold," she responded, and he hurried back to the hearth in his
study, adding a few logs to the dying fire before he joined her 
on the sofa.  

"This is the Book of Deer.  Do you know of it?"  

He tilted the cover so she could see the distinctive
illustrations, trying to focus his attention on the book and not 
that she smelled like soap and clean linens.

"I have heard of it.  This must be very expensive; I am sorry I
dropped it."

He could see her as a young child, watching over her bothers'
shoulders as they read, wondered what they were learning that she
was not.

"The Gospels are in Latin, but this  - this is Gaelic, the monk 
that copied the book."  She followed his finger as he read: "This
 says, 'May it be on the conscience of everyone with whom this 
splendid little book shall be, that he should give his blessing 
on the soul of the poor monk who had written it,'" he translated 
slowly, mentally rewriting the words from Gaelic to Latin, and then to 
bad French.

"Wench.  That word is 'wench,' not 'monk."  She pointed, her 
little finger close to his, indicating the correct line.

His brain had not rested in weeks, years maybe, so her words took 
a few seconds to flow from French to Welsh and make their meaning
into his head.  She was quiet beside him, waiting for his 
reaction to her having corrected him and given away her secret.  
 
"You read?"  No response, just big blue eyes, almost daring him. 
"It is good that you read, it is just a rare skill in a woman and 
I am surprised.  Who taught you?"

Some fathers had their son's tutors spare a few minutes on the
daughters, but not usually unless the girls were high born and
expected to make political marriages.  If not for her face and 
eyes and that hair cascading down her back, this woman would 
probably have been left in peace to her Ireland.

"My husband."

Gwilym was intrigued - what husband would take the time to teach
such a skill to a young wife?  She had obviously been a spoil of
war, so why teach a bed mate to spend hours with her nose in
books?

And when she spoke of 'her husband', she did not mean Gwilym.

He waited, listening to the fire crackle and the wolves howl in 
the distance, but she did not offer.  Her silence seemed to be as 
heavy as his own.  Another soul with burdens no priest could 
absolve.

"The book is yours as long as you are here."  He handed it to
her and she took it like a child with a new present, then tensed.  
He had clumsily said the wrong thing again.

"Are you going to send me back to London, my Lord?  I do not
want to go back.  My husband could tell you; I am a good wife."

She brought a quick tear which he blinked away before Leuan
could hear of it and tease him mercilessly for crying over a 
woman. 

"That is why you are awake - you thought I…" he stopped to
search for the right French words, "that I would come to you
tonight?"

She nodded 'yes,' smoothing the cover of the book with hands that
no longer shook and casting down her eyes.    

"I am not going back, my lord - not to him.  I will not become 
yet another rich man's trinket once I agree to King John for an 
hour.  Or less."  

Her bluntness made him smile, forgetting how pitiful he had found
her a few seconds before.  He liked the look in her eyes when she
glanced up, poorly practiced flirtation often forgotten and 
replaced by keen intelligence.  "Then you have found a good 
husband.  We have only snow and sheep, and no one calls me 'Lord' 
except Leuan and Merfyn - John and Melvin, and then because they 
know I dislike it.  And, should he tax himself with the trek 
through these mountains, King John will find little love in 
Aber."

"I can stay?"

"As you like.  Under Welsh law, you can stay or leave as you 
like, Duana.  We are not Normans; you are not chattel."  He hoped 
he said the right word - the one meaning property and not cows.

"My name is not Donna, William.  It is Duana."

"My apologies - that does not translate well into Welsh.   It 
might be wise to chose another before you become 'Lady Dana' to 
the servants."

She considered a moment, her forehead wrinkling.  "Is there a
Welsh for 'Duana?'"

" 'Dan' is 'tan', and 'danas' are deer.  There is no word for a
woman's name."

"What does Dana translate to?"

He blushed for the first time in recent memory, hoping she 
could not see him clearly in the candlelight, and did not answer.  
"What did your late husband call you?"

"Countess."  

He couldn't tell if she was jesting or not, but Gwilym could not 
see himself calling her 'Lady' in bed.  'Duana' – 'Dana' would 
hopefully be much more appropriate, but not in public. 

"Catherine?  Is there a Catherine? That was my mother's name."

"Catrin."  The word did sound like a dog trying to clear a bone 
from its throat.  She raised an eyebrow at him - obviously not 
suitable.  "What about 'Scully?'  That is your father's name, 
yes?  There is no word like that in Welsh and there would be no 
confusion."
 
"My brothers are the O'Scullys - the sons of Scully.  There is no
word for a daughter."  It was his turn to wait in silence.  "You
expect me to come when you call for 'Scully'?"

"I would be delighted if you came at all, whatever I called you."

She folded slim arms across her chest, considering.

"I can write, too."

Gwilym had not realized they were playing 'confessional', but he 
had never see a woman write and he desperately needed a 
distraction from those blue eyes.  It spoke to years of struggle 
on Leuan's part that Gwilym himself did not need a scribe.  He 
handed her a quill and found the ink after a few tries, then took 
his turn, since they were telling secrets.  

"I have a son- no, there is a boy, Dafydd, who is fourteen and 
knows all and is probably not speaking to me this year.  He is at 
Court, so he will not trouble you until he can recover from the 
madness of youth.  And I had a daughter who disappeared.  The 
villagers say her mother was a witch that came from the dead to 
take her back to Hell, but regardless, she is gone.  I know you 
have no children - why you were not married to a man with more 
wealth or power instead of me - but I do not expect any more.  I 
could not stand to lose another."

He said it all in one breath, before he lost his courage.  

She was concentrating on her careful strokes - she had not 
learned to write as a child - and stopped to respond.  "My 
husband's stepson brought me back to London and gave me to his 
stepfather when he tired of me.  Men do not tire as quickly as 
youths, and we were married happily for almost ten years until 
the King unfortunately discovered a new itch and misplaced my 
husband's head."

Dear Lord, how should he respond to that?  She dropped her eyes
again, one hand pulling back her long hair to keep it from 
dragging in the ink as though she just accepted her lot in life, 
so long as it was not King John.

No, she was no more accepting than he - just too tired to fight
after so many battles.  Or perhaps she chose to fight only the
battles she could possibly win with the weapons she had at
hand.

"My father brought me back from King Richard's coronation for
our cook, Gwen, who had no children by him.  He said I was his
son by a hearth wife, but that is probably untrue.  The London
ghettos were burned and the Jews massacred when Lionheart
was crowned, so it is likely he just found me wandering in the
ruins and, having no children, claimed me as his own.  That is one
theory, anyway."

He had never told that to another soul, but she did not even look 
up.  "Your father was a kind man to love your Gwen and to find a
child for her to love.  It is very empty to have no children of 
one's own." 

Perhaps she did not understand.  Had his father ever known
his mother at all, she was most likely one of the Jews or a 
prostitute.  Leuan knew, and many men suspected, but Gwilym had 
earned his father's name with his sword, and none questioned.

"I may have no more Welsh blood than you, my lady.  I have 
only learned to become one of the Welsh - y Cymry; the lost people."

She finished her sentence and blotted the ink to dry it. "Then 
we are both in need of an anchor, William, not Fox.  Perhaps it 
is in Wales."  She wisely gathered up her robes before she tried 
to stand, and made her way to the door, looking back to see if he 
was following.  

"Is that is an invitation, Duana of the Scully's?"  

"I would never be so bold," she said, eyes promising, indicating
every word was a lie.  "I only was considering how best to learn
a few useful words in Welsh."

And to ensure you can stay in Wales, he thought.  An 
unconsummated marriage by proxy was still easily annulled.  Not 
that he had any qualm about claiming her as his wife.  Not that a 
man would not exchange his kingdom and soul. . .  

"What did you say earlier - when I knocked on your door?  What
did you say in Gaelic?"

She dropped her eyes, her bold posturing vanishing.  "I said 
that I had been beaten by a king and so I was not afraid of you."

He leaned his hands on either side of his doorway as she faced 
him outside her bedchamber. "Maybe after your long journey, you 
could sleep alone, just until you find it lonely, and then we 
can see about a few lessons." 

He finally earned the smile that must have melted the hearts of
kings and commoners alike, and her door closed.

                     *~*~*~*

Gwilym hoped with all his heart and soul that she had gotten 
lonely.  Gotten lonely in her chamber and come back to pursue her 
studies of Welsh and Welshmen.

She had been to bed - her hair had been plaited so it would not
tangle and she yawned as she shuffled in wearing his bed robe,
holding the hem high enough for him to see knees in the flicker
from the candle she carried.  When she noticed him draped over 
the sofa, staring out the open window at nothing, she dropped the
heavy material, looking puzzled.  

"Do you not sleep, William?"

As though she was not roaming the castle in the witching hour.  
He stood, stretching, and went to the desk, gesturing for her to 
sit where he had been laying.

"No.  Not anymore.  Do you not sleep?" he replied. 

She folded her bare legs modestly under her on the sofa, pushing
the plain cushions to the other end and wrapping the yards of 
fabric around her against the cold.  Gwilym had let the fire die, 
not noticing just for his own sake.  

"I have dreams," she said quietly.

He leaned back in his chair, glad to have a willing partner to
discuss the creatures that can walk in dreams.  "I dream often of 
my daughter.  I watch for her to come home some nights."

"Was she taken by soldiers?"  She arranged herself comfortably, 
as though they had spent many hours like this - she among the
cushions of the sofa and he at his desk.  "My brothers found me,
although I was content to stay after so long, but perhaps you 
could find your daughter and bring her back."

"No, she was only nine.  I hope the soldiers would not bother 
her.  Two summers ago, she was just gone.  Perhaps she wandered 
too far and got lost.  Perhaps wolves or gypsies.  Or perhaps 
witches, as the villagers say." 

"So you do not sleep while you watch for her?  While you watch
for her to come home?"  He nodded his head, knowing he would
stumble if he tried to explain.  "I watch for King John or his 
soldiers to come again.  Or my husband's stepson.  I still remember 
him."

Restless, nervous at the images her words brought, Gwilym went to
the window.  

"From this window, you can see the pass through the valley - that 
is the only road to this mountain.  To our backs is the sea, so 
anyone who enters or leaves my lands on foot can be seen from 
this corner of the castle."  He heard movement and felt her 
behind him, so he moved to the side to let her look out.  "No one 
is going to hurt you here.  All those fires you see - those are 
families; people ignorant of kings and books and charters.  
People who marry for love and lust and close their eyes at night, 
trusting that I will keep them safe.  They know there are things 
in this world that they do not know, and they trust me to face 
those words and men and monsters in their place."  He braved a 
hand on the small of her back and she did not move away as he 
caressed the heavy fabric of his robe.  "I worry that I will fail 
- that they expect more than I can give,,, but now I have another 
reason to keep watch.  You can sleep, my lady.  Alone or in my 
bed - no one is going to hurt you."

He felt his mouth over hers, very careful, just for an instant 
before she pulled back.  "My God, you are a lovely woman.  Do not 
be afraid.  Or do you want to wait until the priest blesses us?" 
he asked, thinking he would rouse Leuan right this moment if
necessary.  

"William, I do not understand.  You have to speak French," she
whispered, as though another soul was awake to hear.

He floundered for a moment, then grinned to himself, stepping
back.  "How long have I been speaking Welsh?"

"Since King John and my husband's stepson.  It was beautiful, though. 
What did you say?"

His battlefield courage failed him.  "I told you it was a cold 
night."  

She crossed her arms, peering at him in the light from the single
candle on the desk.  "That is not what it sounded like."

"What do you think I said?"

"I think you kissed me."  That was not the question.  "I am your
wife, William.  And I want to be your wife.  You can kiss me." 

And he would thank God, fasting and on bended knee, for that.  

First thing in the morning.

"I lied.  I can sleep.  I just cannot sleep alone in my bed 
without bad dreams. Perhaps if I were not alone. . . "  

"French, please, William."

Shit!  He'd never be able to bring himself to say that again.

"I am teasing.  You said that in French."

"Which part?" he asked, leaning back on the edge of his desk,
watching the moon framing her head through the window.

"Which do you think?" She pushed her long braid back over her
shoulder and casually tucked a few stray strands behind her ear 
as though they were discussing the likelihood of rain.

King John was a fool for two reasons - for not appreciating this
woman as something other than a trinket, and for not moving
Heaven and Hell to keep her.  Stop stealing and beating and 
raping her for a few moments and a man could find something even
more interesting just under that pretty surface.  Just as he 
suspected her late husband had.

"I think I have met my match."  There was that smile again.  The
one that probably made men ride their horses into low branches as
they watched her.  "I never thought I would find my match in my 
own study, wearing my robe and little else at midnight, but I can 
not imagine where else I had hoped to find her.  Perhaps you are 
right, perhaps this 'anchor' you speak of is in Wales."

She took the hand he offered, and followed him when he picked up
the candle, but did not respond.  "Do not dare say that was in 
Welsh, because I know it was not."

"No, I believe that was Spanish."   

"Now I know you are teasing me - I do not speak Spanish."  He
stopped at the door to his chamber, still holding her hand,
hesitating.  "Are there certain words you want to learn in Welsh? 
Like how to say yes - 'do' or no - 'na'?"

"Perhaps you should first teach me to say 'I only came to get my
book,' and we can see what else becomes necessary."  

He laughed, tension vanishing.  "Llyfr is book."  

The dogs perked up their ears at the sound of his voice, ready to 
sound the alarm if anything was amiss.  No, for the first time in 
years, nothing was amiss.  "I should teach you to say 'get out of 
my bed' - that will be necessary."  

He pushed open the door to his chamber, holding it open as she 
walked through and indicating he wanted her to sleep there.  She 
waited while he retrieved her book, then they stood facing each 
other beside the high bed.  Duana had been smiling before, but her 
face was a bit paler now.  Again, his words had not translated 
well.  "The dogs.  They like to sleep in the bed, since it is 
often empty.  Do not allow them to sleep with you unless you get 
cold and want them.  Say 'oddi gwely'."

She didn't move away as he kissed her again, still tentative, 
still careful, still keeping the book between them like a shield.  

"That is a good lesson in Welsh.  To say 'yes' and 'no', to ask 
for my book, and to say who is welcome in my bed should I wake up 
cold and alone and want him. In time, I want to learn more."  Her 
lips were even with his ear, and he heard another soft whisper: 
"What does my name mean in Welsh?  Why do you not say it?"

His breath, already quickened, caught in his throat.  "Under.  
'Dana' means 'under' or 'beneath' something or someone.  I will 
gladly say it as often as possible."

He had pushed too far - Gwilym felt the change in her body.  Too
soon.  She would do this if he insisted, but it would not be what 
he wanted.  Better to let her ask when she wanted to learn more.  
One last caress of her cheek and he stepped back, composing 
himself.

Afraid he would also lose the magic that blew in through the open
window, or, more likely, just make a fool of himself, Gwilym just
pointed to the sofa in the next room, indicating that was where 
he would be if she woke up cold and alone again.  

"You will keep watch while I sleep?"  He nodded, lighting the
candle bedside the bed for her with his.   

She disappeared behind the bed curtains, several spoiled hunting 
dogs bounding in after her, unaware that she was the fox they 
were bred to chase.  He left the door open as he went out, and 
the dogs were not told to leave.

Gwilym settled himself deep in the sofa cushions and resumed
staring out the window at the snow, on guard to intercept any bad
dreams that might try to make their way up his mountain.  The
candle sat burning on the desk near his head, flickering in the 
cold breeze.  The notch indicated one o'clock and then two and 
three came; the witching hour had long passed as he kept watch 
and listened to the soft breathing from the next room.  

It seemed he had been bewitched again, but he did not mind. 
Everyone knew women with red hair were witches who could
change into animals and haunt a man's dreams.  Familiars, they
were called, masquerading as a man's wife.  As he drifted into 
the watchful, light sleep of a soldier, there was the rustling of 
little feet against the floor and a flash of red hair as his eyes 
closed.  A fox was haunting his dreams; he was bewitched, after 
all. 

                    *~*~*~*
The snow had stopped and the sun was considering rising from its
nightly bed when Leuan found his friend already at his desk, 
going over ledgers before morning Mass.  

"What is 'anchor,' Leuan?"  Gwilym asked as the priest settled
himself in his usual place, old bones protesting at the early 
hour.

"Anchor?  Angor - what keeps a ship from drifting, you land-
loving fool.  You locate where you want to be and drop anchor -
angori -  and that is where you will stay."  Leuan pulled his 
chair closer to the big desk, hoping for some wedding night 
gossip.  "So how did you find the bride?  Just between old 
friends, Llwynog - and remember - I live vicariously now and let 
you have that blonde in the tavern that you wanted two summer's 
past."

"Yes, and you let me have Phoebe, and both were mistakes," came
the reply, eyes not looking up from the household accounts and
correspondence, indicating that manly boasting was not
forthcoming.  

No matter - Merfyn's observations of any woman could heat a
man's blood.  Hopefully the sergeant would have enough sense 
to observe the new wife outside of her husband's hearing.

"What is this, Gwilym?  Why are you wasting parchment scribbling
Gaelic?  Would you be trying to impress that pretty little thing
still asleep in your bed?"

Eyes raised, but the face was blank.  "Can you read it, Leuan?"

"Of course - ciunas gan vaigneas.  Your writing is getting
dreadful, but it says 'quietness without loneliness'."

"Yes, it does, Leuan."

                     *~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth – part I 
Title: Hiraeth II: Cariad

Author: prufrock's love

Keywords: historical au, msr, bit o'angst, good dose of ship

Rating: PG-13 edging into R territory

Summary: Sequel to Hiraeth; Aber, North Wales, winter 
1215

Distribution: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: 
http://www.geocities.com/purfrocks_love/prupage.html

Feedback: no

Spoilers: none blatant

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue

Dedication: for J & L and their endless patience with my 
compulsiveness.   

Checks: Jennifer check: safe - ends in msr & no cd, Skinner 
head check: depends on your perspective, Angst-o-meter: 4.7 
out of 10, Spooning: yes   


*~*~*~*
Hiraeth II: Cariad
by prufrock's love

With a dramatic groan, Merfyn settled his bulk into the 
creaky oak chair and let his stocky legs sprawl apart - 'airing' 
himself, as he called it.  The old cook had threatened to call 
this particular pose 'target practice' for her sturdy leather 
shoes if he assumed it at supper again, so the little man 
restricted the rather undignified posture - and the scratching 
which often accompanied it - to exclusively male company.  

"So where is the Lady Dana?" he asked, filling his cup to the 
brim and preparing for an evening of poking gentle fun at 
Gwilym's awkwardness around his new bride.  

Hazel eyes ignored him, staring intently at a piece of 
parchment, probably another of the endless accounts 
involved with running a large estate, Merfyn imagined.  His 
jest had not achieved the desired effect, but the sergeant was 
like a boy with a stick and a bee's nest when it came to 
baiting - relentless - and he generally knew where Gwilym's 
tender areas lay.  He tried again: "I thought she was soon to 
be in charge of tallying the chickens and barrels of port?  It is 
said she can read and write, after all."

It was a sticking point for Merfyn that a mere slip of a girl 
was better educated than he - more so because Gwilym had 
been deferring to her shamelessly for almost a fortnight.  
There was enjoying a new wife and then there was acting 
like a fool, and the lord of this castle was dangerously close 
to the latter, in Merfyn's always humble opinion.

"Probably still at church," the younger man finally 
responded, not looking up from whatever he found so 
fascinating.  "Leuan is with her - they will be back soon."

Almost on cue, Leuan appeared in the doorway, rubbing the 
last of the ice out of his graying beard and stomping his 
frozen feet to announce his misery at being forced to tromp 
through the snow in the name of God.  

Passing a cup of wine across the desk to the priest, Gwilym 
continued, "This is not the ledger, anyway.  Prince Llewelyn 
is summoning us south to the Tywi Valley to lay siege to 
Carmarthen castle.  You and your men may get to try out 
the new bows before spring comes, Merfyn."

Gwilym read several passages of the letter aloud, but only 
the slim priest was attentive, intelligent brown eyes 
watching his old student over his cup as he sipped.  

Merfyn, after spending most of his life following either 
Gwilym or his late father into battle, was not particular 
about who he aimed his sword at, so long as he was 
eventually able to go home to his latest wife and hearth.  
Gwilym was Merfyn's liege lord, Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, 
was Lord Gwilym's, and King John commanded them all, so 
service was always mandatory to someone.  It did not much 
matter what the learned men or the Church claimed was the 
cause; his was hand that caused the blood to be shed.  

"If you can have your men and supplies ready, we can leave 
at dawn and be home for Christmas, perhaps."  Gwilym 
pushed the letter aside, leaning back in his chair and rotating 
his neck so it snapped and cracked like dry twigs.  "The 
castle should fall quickly, but there is still nothing worse 
than sitting in a tent in the middle of winter waiting to 
starve out some pampered Duke."   

"Not that you will be doing anything here that you cannot 
do in your tent as easily."  

Gwilym again ignored Merfyn's carefully designed jab; his 
old friend had made his opinion of everyone's sleeping 
arrangements - or his assumptions of such - clear on several 
occasions.  

Duana's quiet intelligence seemed to unnerve the soldier, and 
Merfyn's solution was that she needed to be taken down a 
few notches and reminded of a wife's primary function.  In a 
land where wives could leave unhappy marriages, such 
smug marital wisdom had Merfyn on his fifth bride, unless 
Elan had already left him and Gwilym had not yet heard of 
it.  Merfyn's mouthing in this case probably also had 
something to do with downcast blue eyes and an occasional 
glimpse of white ankle from under Duana's graceful long 
skirts.  For all his boasting, Gwilym had seen him melt into a 
somewhat scruffy puddle whenever Duana was in the 
room - Merfyn was as much in awe of her as the rest of the 
castle.     

Thoughts of those bottomless eyes interfered with Gwilym's 
concentration as well as Merfyn's, so he left the letter out for 
Duana to practice reading in the morning and sank into the 
sofa beside Leuan, refilling everyone's glass once more 
before sending the bottle and the sleepy servant back to the 
kitchen for the night.  

"Is she well, Leuan?"  The priest was the only other person in 
the castle that could understand Duana's French; everyone 
else spoke only Welsh.  Duana was not a woman to moan and 
groan, but he thought she seemed less content than she had 
been when she arrived a fortnight ago.  Perhaps she would 
talk to a priest if she was not ready to trust him with her 
secret, although he had already guessed and made his peace 
with what it probably was.

Leuan shrugged; disinterested.  Gwilym's wife was 
Gwilym's business now - he had discovered a striking 
German widow at evening mass yesterday and was busy 
spinning dreams of what a future with her might hold if he 
was not a priest.  Suzanne, she had said her name was.  He 
had difficulty wrapping his mouth around such an exotic, 
mysterious word - Suzanne.  Merfyn had already caught him 
mooning over her and begun his observations of the tall 
blonde woman, much to Leuan's dismay.  If Merfyn knew, 
the entire village knew - including any details Merfyn might 
add to the tale on a whim.

Unlike Merfyn, who liked to speculate loudly and endlessly,
Leuan did not think it likely that the marriage was still 
unconsummated, although their protégé was not 
forthcoming with information either way.  Gwilym was at 
his desk when the priest left in the evening and when he 
returned in the morning.  What transpired between dusk 
and dawn was being kept between husband and wife unless 
they woke the servants.  

"I just brave the elements to hear her confession.  Thus far, 
she has had nothing interesting to confess, but I hope that 
will change or I shall freeze myself waiting."

"You are a wanton embarrassment to the Pope, Leuan," 
Gwilym said good-naturedly, yawning and running his 
fingers through his hair.  "And you, Merfyn, are just an 
embarrassment."  

Obviously, the men had passed more than three decades 
together - the priest and the soldier already grown men 
when Gwilym was a boy, so the barbs were easily traded 
and without malice.  It was a routine, a way to pass the 
evening until beds and wives, or in Leuan's case, dreams of 
forbidden wives' beds, called.  

"Wise words from the butcher's dog, my lord, but that is 
your own fault.  We taught you much better, if you recall," 
Merfyn shot back, grinning, tossing the last of his wine more 
or less into the fire and then standing quickly as Duana 
entered.  

"Nos da," he mumbled to her, losing all bluster about 
youthful conquests and suddenly finding the floor highly 
captivating.  Good night.
 
"Nos da, Melvin, John," she replied politely, taking his seat 
on the couch.  Gwilym offered her his cup, but she shook her 
head.  Leuan and Merfyn exchanged looks she was not 
supposed to notice and found plausible excuses to make 
themselves scarce. 

"Did you confess for me as well?" Gwilym asked in French, 
raising his hand to Leuan as he followed Merfyn out of the 
Keep and down the spiraling stone staircase.  "There is no 
need - Leuan was there to sanction most of my sins, or to 
join in, as they happened, so do not let those weigh on your 
mind."  It was his attempt at a joke, but it did not sound as 
funny out loud as it had in his own head.  "I mean that he 
was often part of the mischief."  No, that sounded no better.  
"Leuan found his trouble and I found mine - similar trouble, 
but not together."  

He wisely abandoned all hope of saving face and closed his 
mouth, focusing on the fire as though it contained the 
answers to all things.        

She said something, but he only understood a few words, 
basically that she was fine - je suis bien - which is what she 
always said.  Actually, she was learning Welsh much faster 
than his rusty French was improving.  It was no surprise that 
another tongue came easier to her - he had discovered she 
read and wrote in Latin as well as French and Gaelic and 
had enjoyed managing her first husband's accounts, so he 
had allowed her to begin imposing some system to his own 
cluttered chaos.   

He was still at a loss as to why anyone had taken such 
pains to teach her, but her ability to learn did not bother him 
the way it bothered Leuan and Merfyn – although it took 
some adjusting to.  Unlike Diana, Duana did not merely 
parrot what she heard him say, but thought it through for 
herself and sometimes came to conclusions that were as 
shocking as some of his ideas.  

He liked talking with her, hearing her views late at night 
when she was wrapped in his oversized robe and they were 
the only two people awake on his mountain.  They had 
discussed everything from his library of books that she was 
rapidly consuming to his confession of his radical belief - 
after one too many cups of wine last night - that the world 
was round rather than flat.  

Gwilym had wandered from Duana's native Ireland to the last 
crusade in the Holy Land and had yet to see any place where
one could fall off the edge of this Earth.  He was surprised 
when she agreed, slightly tipsy herself, saying that the 
shadow of the Earth during an eclipse was round, meaning that
it was neither flat nor the center of the universe.  His was 
a belief in his heart; hers was proof in the sky, but it was 
a shared place to begin.

Once the door was closed and the last footfalls faded, 
leaving them alone in the study that adjoined the 
bedchamber they, in theory, now shared, she took off her 
damp veil, unpinned her long braid from around her head, 
and pulled her wet feet under her skirts on the sofa, 
suddenly aware of how his eyes followed her movements.  
She was a woman accustom to being watched - whether she 
was overseeing the cook or undressing for bed - but 
attention had never brought her anything but pain and she 
disliked it.  

He watched regardless - the line of her neck, the swell of 
small breasts under her modest dress and the narrow waist - 
watched her the way a man gazed at a purebred horse or the 
statues he had seen in Greece: simply because it was so 
perfect in its grace and rarity that it begged to be 
appreciated.  She was lovely, and probably at least tolerant, 
but he had unlaced her chemise last night, wine dulling both 
their nerves, pushed the soft fabric back from her shoulders, 
and found old, yellow bruises, finger marks, that made his 
stomach turn.  

Merfyn would never have touched her or allowed her to be 
touched once they left Court, so it must have been before 
then.  Possibly the King had claimed the right of primae 
noctis – to spend the first night with the bride after the proxy 
marriage – and she had objected.  Those marks hurt his 
pride, but sobered his mind, reminding him that while he 
could not make the memories go away, he could at least wait 
until the bruises faded.  He had spent most of a lifetime 
alone; a few more nights would not make a difference.        

"Cold?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say and 
hoping he could manage a single word without a blunder.  
"Froid?"

She nodded, and he offered his hands to rub her frozen little 
feet, stripping off her ruined shoes and stockings as he 
would have a child's.  He had considered forbidding her 
from walking the half-mile to the church until the storm 
broke, but Duana had been very pious for the last few days.  
Leuan usually said Mass in the castle chapel - one of the 
privileges of having a priest in residence, but Duana had 
wanted to go to the church after supper.  To think, she had 
said.  It had not seemed worth the trouble to try to talk her 
out of it; she was as headstrong as a mule when she set her 
mind to something.  

A woman with the face of an angel and the mind of a man; 
King John was a fool of the worst kind to ever harm her or 
let her go.  Of course, no one had mentioned before the 
marriage that she was also inclined to dig her cold little heels 
in, cross her arms, and look at him like he was the fool when 
she did not get her way.          

"What is the butcher's dog, William?" she asked, watching 
his hands as he massaged her feet, still not accustomed to his 
touch and probably wanting to pull away.  "Why does 
Melvin call you that?"

Her Welsh was indeed improving quickly.  "It is just a joke.  
Merfyn is terrified of his wife's temper and his mouth moves 
without consulting his head, more often than not," he 
deflected in French, running his thumbs along the length of 
her sole causing her to squirm and her toes to curl under.

"But what does it mean?"  

Not intending to answer, the next best option was to distract 
her, so Gwilym pushed her feet down and pivoted her 
around on the sofa, pulling her slight weight onto his lap.  
"My cariad, my sweet girl - you ask so many questions.  Kiss 
me and perhaps I will forgive you."

Surprised at himself, he silently recounted exactly how 
many cups of wine he had drunk since supper.  Only two, 
by his memory, so the Christian God must be lending him 
the courage instead of the pagan Bacchus tonight.  She 
quietly submitted when he wanted an embrace or a caress - 
as was part of her wedding vows - but except for reaching 
out for his hand or clinging to him when he woke her from a 
nightmare, she had never offered, not even when he had 
begun to undress her last night.           

"Tell me what a butcher's dog is and I will kiss you twice," 
she responded flippantly, earning an almost adolescent grin 
from the usually expressionless, world-weary face.  To think 
he had worried that she might be a dullard.  

"Once as a down payment, first.  A show of good faith."

She was a little unsure of herself as the aggressor, pressing 
her mouth softly, tentatively against his.  Liking what she 
found, she stayed, parting her lips and letting him tangle his 
fingers in her hair as he gently lowered her to the sofa 
underneath him.  
 
"Do you want this, cariad?"  He spoke in Welsh, but his 
meaning was clear as his hands roamed over her hips and 
explored high breasts through her dress.  Feeling her 
respond, Gwilym started to push up her skirt and she pulled 
back.   "Relax, cariad.  You will have all the time you need.  I 
am not a boy."  Making his way from her mouth to her neck, 
he paused and looked up to see frightened blue eyes 
watching him in the firelight.

Not yet.  He wanted a willing bedmate, not merely a 
compliant one.  

He pulled her back to sitting and against his chest, petting 
her, telling her it was all right while his heart pounded.  If he 
truly intended to let her go to bed alone, he needed to put 
some air between them, and quickly, too.  Having her 
draped across him, hair now coming unbraided and curling 
around her face, was not decreasing his sense of urgency.

"I am sorry," she apologized.  "You have been too tolerant of 
my silliness - that is what Melvin thinks."

"How did you know that?"  Merfyn spoke no French beyond 
what was necessary when ordering whatever was available 
in a tavern, meaning he knew the words for mead, bread, 
stew, and woman.

"The butcher's dog - a creature expected to lay right beside 
the meat and never touch it.  Always looking, hungry, but 
never getting what it wants unless it takes it without 
permission.  Is that right?  Is that what he means?"

It was exactly what Merfyn had meant, but Gwilym was not 
telling her that.  His bed and who he shared it with, or 
waited to share it with, was his prerogative; Merfyn be 
damned.   

When he did not answer, her face flushed, ashamed, 
knowing she had guessed correctly and Merfyn was worse 
than any woman when it came to spreading gossip.  "I am 
not a child.  I am not a virgin.   I know something of what is 
expected between men and women."

Before he could recover from her bluntness, she sank to her 
knees in front of him, pushing up his tunic, deftly untying 
the string on his breeches and then on his linen braies 
underneath.  He opened his mouth to ask what she was 
doing when it became quickly, incredibly obvious.

"Duana?" he managed.  He had heard of such things, but had 
never experienced them.  Women had been limited to Diana, 
Phoebe, and the usual peasant girls and tavern or 
camp whores, and none of them had ever offered this.  

"Sweet Jesus!" Her hands pushed gently against his hips, 
wanting him to keep still. "This is a sin and I am damned."
At that moment, it seemed well worth the trade.

Duana paused, raising her eyes to look at his already 
reddened face, curious as to what he had said, and then 
deciding it probably was not vital at the moment.  "If you 
can talk so much, I must not recall how to do this correctly."
 
Her campaign to stop his chatter was successful, reducing 
him to an occasional moaning of "Sweet Christ" and "Cariad" 
while he watched in amazement, resting a careful hand on 
the back of her head.  Not sure what was expected of him, he 
started to push her away at the last minute, but she did not 
let him.

Later, had Gwilym had anyone to tell about this experience, 
he would have sworn lightening split the Heavens and then 
jolted through his body, leaving him staring at her 
wordlessly from the sofa, his brain still recovering from the 
shock, as Duana bid him "Nos da," and went into their 
bedchamber to sleep alone.

*~*~*~*

It was an old debate - the usual conflict between the 
obedient, well-trained mind and the weak, willful flesh - this 
time compounded several fold by the priest being his best 
friend.  Confess this... well, this encounter, watch Leuan's 
jaw drop, do his penance, and be absolved, or preserve some 
dignity and expect God to understand.  

Migrating from one end of the sofa to the other in search of a 
more comfortable position, propping up his feet and folding 
his hands behind his head, Gwilym decided, first, that he 
could forgo confessing this latest sin.  Second, he questioned 
the Church's motives for forbidding such an act and wished 
he could figure a way to hear Leuan's justification without 
giving himself away.  How this could be deemed equal to 
laying with a man or an animal was ludicrous.   

By his calculation, there was no pleasure for a woman, 
therefore no way to conceive child.  For couples that were 
tired of constantly breeding, there could be a mass exodus 
from what the Pope Innocent III considered acceptable 
behavior between men and women and therefore far less 
new parishioners born to swell the pews.  

Although children, especially sons, were vital and nice for 
boasting, he, as well as many other men, quietly frowned in 
worry when a young woman's belly swelled year after year.  
Too many wives died young and there was a limit, despite 
what Leuan and the Gospels said, to how many children a 
man should need.  Unfortunately, babies seemed to follow 
the desire for a woman as constantly as prostitutes followed 
the King's troops.

How, in six and thirty years, had he never encountered such 
a thing before, and how, in the name of God, could he 
encounter it again?

She was certainly a puzzle, this bartered bride of his.  The 
pleasant haze of sleep had come immediately, but left him 
hours before dawn, so here he lay, unsure of what to say to 
her in the morning and considering the cowardly possibility 
of simply leaving for the siege before she awoke.  He could 
claim the manly art of war caused his absence and not the 
fear of his tendency to stutter out absurdly stupid things in 
her presence.  

He must have made an unfamiliar noise - possibly a sigh of 
contentment - because the pack of dogs hurried from the 
bedchamber to investigate.  Seven cold, wet noses sniffed 
him curiously, as though he had not raised each from a pup, 
decided he posed no threat to their mistress, and abandoned 
him to his sofa and thoughts.  

As he pulled back the bed curtains and watched her in the light 
from the single candle, she looked like a contented child, 
safely asleep in her parents' bed.   

She should not be here; she belonged on the arm of some 
prince at Court, on display to turn heads instead of in the 
north of Wales, hidden away from the world in this harsh 
land of endless snow and war.  Regardless, as Leuan had 
said, what was done was done.  They had stood in the 
doorway of the church ten days ago – four weeks after the 
banns had been posted in accordance with the law - and 
repeated the priest's words once more so there would never 
be a question as to the validity of the marriage: "to have and 
to hold, for fairer or for fouler, to love and to cherish 
according to God's holy ordinance, I plight thee my troth."

She was his, so long as she was content to stay.      

A nightmare was bothering her - she pushed her arms out, 
attempting to escape some faceless monster and succeeding 
only in sending a few dogs and a pillow to the floor.  

"Hush, hush, cariad," he whispered low into her ear, setting
the candle in the alcove of the headboard and stroking her
hair as he sat on the edge of  the bed, letting the curtains fall 
back, creating a private place only for them.  "Only a dream.  
You are safe."
  
Her eyes opened, focused on his face, and then closed again 
as he held her, driving away the demons.  "Only a dream, 
sweet girl."

"Not a girl," she sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks 
and trying to smooth down her chemise to cover her bare 
legs.  "If you will not say my name, at least do not call me a 
girl."

He was unaccustomed to women speaking to him like that, 
but she was upset and barely awake.  It did not seem worth 
correcting her, just as it was not worth telling her not to
walk to the church to pray in a snowstorm.  She was almost 
silent when others were present, especially uncomfortable 
in the presence of many men, but in private she spoke as if 
they were equal and it was shocking, even by his usually 
casual standards of conduct, although he was guilty of 
encouraging her.

"What was this dream about?"

"Men," she said into his shoulder.  "Always men.  Alex, this 
time."

"That was your husband's son, yes?"

"You are my husband, and your son's name is David," she 
murmured, retrieving her pillow and indicating she did not 
want to continue this discussion.   

"Dafydd, I claim as my son, yes."
 
She lay down, pulling at his sleeve for him to lay with her 
and tugging the fox coverlet over her legs.  This was not the 
first time they had shared a bed; she often wanted him to 
stay until she fell asleep and he was guilty also of lingering, 
watching her, touching her as she slept to make sure she was 
real. 

Gwilym sat up long enough to tug off his boots and tunic so 
he did not soil the sheets, then curled up behind her, 
enjoying the warmth and the curves of her.  

"I need to confess something to you, William.  It is your right 
to know," she said after several minutes of silence.  She 
shifted, pushing closer against him and nudging him back, 
hoping to be granted more space on the pillow, he assumed. 
"When you said you wanted no more children, did you 
mean that?  Is that why you wanted me as your wife?"

He considered, resting a tentative hand in the small of her 
waist, then running it over her flat abdomen.  "I meant that I 
do not judge myself by the size of my wife's belly, that is all.  
I am content for Dafydd to inherit as my son - I cared for his 
mother very much and he is a good boy.  A man, almost.  
Why do you ask?"

"My husband – he – he was much older than I, so no one 
questioned that he did not go to war or Court.  He passed 
his days in our home, receiving guests there instead of going 
out.  He had been injured badly in the wars in my homeland:
that was part of the reason his stepson brought me to 
London: to care for his wounds.  I tried; he was a 
kind man, but there are some hurts I cannot heal."

He did not understand, so he waited, letting her work up 
her courage.

"His legs and back never healed properly, William. He was a 
proud man and wanted no one to know, so he kept it a 
secret, like he did many hurts.  We were never together; not 
the way the Church says is proper.  That is why there were 
no children."

He pushed up on his elbow, staring at her.  "Christ on the 
cross!  Why did you not tell someone that?  You would 
never have been married to me if the King had known you 
had no children because - because-"

"Because my husband could not," she calmly finished for 
him.   "It was a private matter.  I am a merchant's daughter - 
no one compared to you or him - and he was good to me.  
He taught me many things, and he asked me for very little.  I 
was young and I was afraid and I was content with that.  He 
even said, when I first came, that if I was with child by his 
stepson, he would claim the baby was his, but I was not."

Such things were not unheard of - he had known who the 
father of Diana's child was and claimed the boy rather than 
have her be shamed by the whole village.  In time, a 
daughter with his dark hair and eyes had followed, but now 
all were gone: Diana to fire, Dafydd to the King's Court as a 
royal hostage, and his little girl to God's grace.  

He swallowed hard, pushing those awful images from his 
mind and bringing his hand up to her breast so his meaning 
was clear.  "Do you want to have a child, Duana?  Not all men 
are fools or intent on only taking from you."         

She hesitated, and he thought he had misspoken again.  
Then she rolled to face him, tangling her long chemise 
around her legs and laying her head on his outstretched 
arm.  "You will not hurt me?"

"I will not hurt you."  He would swear his life on it.        
 
*~*~*~*  

The men were drilling on the frozen cobblestones before 
dawn, Merfyn barking orders left and right and enjoying 
himself immensely, as always.  

Gwilym stretched like a big cat and pulled the small, 
sleeping form to him for the few minutes he allowed himself 
to linger, scanning her face to make sure no tears had come 
while he slept.  Those men playing at war outside would 
laugh themselves silly if they knew how many times in the 
night their fearless lord had asked her permission, delaying 
as long as possible without embarrassing himself for fear of 
hurting or frightening her.   

She had finally convinced him she was willing by teasing 
him, whispering that his nose was as cold as a dog's and if 
he insisted in putting it in such places, that he warm it up 
first.  He had stopped, pretending to glare at the dogs, who 
were whimpering about being exiled to the floor, and asked 
exactly what she had been doing with his hunting hounds 
while he slept.  He had thought giving them chicken bones 
and letting them sleep in the bed was spoiling them.  

Duana had smiled, a true, gentle smile that spread until she 
began to laugh softly, relaxing.  He had hushed her, 
covering her mouth with his on the pretense of not wanting 
to send the servants' tongues wagging even more, and she 
had not pulled away.  

The almost forgotten familiarity of private jokes in the night 
brought a full feeling to his chest as he watched her sleeping, 
unaware of the impact she was having on his lonely world.  
He had only hoped for a companion - a woman Leuan had 
described as fair and bright and gentle and good.  He had 
been blessed with so much more.

Pushing her hair back from her face, he wondered what she 
had wanted, what she had hoped for as she rode into the 
bailey for the first time.  Although the King had laid claim to 
her share of her husband's estate and she had no dowry, 
there had been offers of marriage from many others: land 
barons, nobles and wealthy London merchants - older 
widowers, friends of her husband who would expect little 
from her except to hang on their arms and swell their pride.  
Yet she chose a minor Welsh lord she had never met, 
assuring herself of a life of waiting for him to return from 
battles, wondering if he even still lived.        

The light slowly crept in through the bed curtains like an 
unwanted visitor to his sanctuary and he could see the 
marks on her shoulders and wrists clearly.  He had seen and 
received enough blows over the years to be able to retell 
what had happened to her as though he were reading a 
story.  

There were several sets of grip marks; she had not just been 
held down, she had fought, causing whoever did this to 
readjust his grip, and making it even worse for herself.  Why 
had she struggled?  It was not like there was the possibility 
of escape.  Gwilym traced the bruises with his fingers, 
thinking he would have fought too, and waking her, lazy 
eyes opening like a contented, well-fed kitten's.

"Who?" he asked gently.  Then, seeing her go pale, he had 
guessed her secret: "It was not your fault, but if it is within 
my power, you can watch him hang."

"You will not send me away?"  He shook his head no, and 
saw some color return to her face.  "My time - it has not 
come."

Still slightly drunk with the night's events, that female 
euphemism took some seconds to translate in his head; her 
flux had not come.  That was what was on her mind the last 
few days.  She already suspected she was with child and had 
not told him.  

He bristled, teeth clenching, eyes narrowing, and then 
softened, realizing she had made love to him only because 
she wanted to, not to become pregnant.  

"Who?"

"The King.  He said he would send you a wedding gift, and 
it seems he has.  He said it was his right."           

That was what he had suspected, although he had not 
expected her to be with child.  Leuan had said she had no 
children, so Gwilym had assumed that once the memories of 
whatever the King would do to her faded, there would be no 
consequences.  

Awkward, not sure of what to say to her until he had time to 
think, Gwilym dressed hurriedly, washing his face and 
rinsing his mouth while she watched from the bed, her 
knees pulled up to her chest, bare ivory skin forming 
gooseflesh in the cold air.  It was as though she thought she 
was not allowed to dress or leave the bed until he gave her 
permission.  Or perhaps this soft mattress was the one safe 
place she had found and she was unwilling to leave it - who 
could guess this woman's mind?

He stopped in the doorway, turning toward her and bracing 
his hands on either side for strength, eyes fixed on the floor, 
trying to form a plan.  He could send her to the abbey at 
either Aberconwy or Bangor to have the child in secret and 
leave it - or even say the babe came early and was his.  Or he 
could send for a midwife to brew mandrake tea and give it 
to her, killing the child before it even formed.  That was 
dangerous, though; a woman in the village had bled to death 
trying to rid herself of a child.  Given that choice, King John 
could take the child, if he ever found out, but Gwilym was 
not endangering her.

"Where are you going, William?" she asked, still not looking 
at him.

In truth, nowhere pressing.  The soldiers would not be ready 
to ride for another hour at the earliest, he had finished his 
correspondence and read over the accounts last night, and 
Merfyn was very capable of preparing for a siege.  Morning 
mass had come and gone while he lay abed, so Leuan would 
be along soon for an explanation of his absence - and more 
barely sheathed hints about Duana unless the priest had 
found another woman to sigh over.  

"You are angry.  I am sorry," she mumbled, hair falling like a 
bloody veil over the sides of her face.  "I will go - leave.  You 
do not need to trouble yourself with me."

There were already footsteps coming up the stairs; the one 
morning he wanted a little peace, Heaven forbid his lands 
and serfs function past six in the morning without his 
presence to decide who owned a cow or how best to replace 
a bridge.  Throwing the bolt on the door, he walked the 
length of the bedchamber and sat on the edge of the 
rumpled bed, reaching for her hand, forcing a smile he did 
not yet feel.  

"Duana - I said your name with my breeches on, so take note - 
I know of King John.  He would never let a woman go 
whether she wanted him or not.  He is too proud.  Anyone 
who has met him knew what would happen before he 
would let you leave the Court.  I sent Merfyn to get you and 
leave as fast as he could - but obviously he was not fast 
enough, and I am sorry.  I want you; I did not know how 
much until I met you, but I want you and anything that 
comes with you.  You have taken me as I am and I 
intend to do the same.  You are that anchor - I have found 
where I want to be and I intend to stay.  No more roaming.  
By harvest, you and I will have a child, and I dare any man 
to say otherwise.    

Picking up his sword and fastening it to his waist with 
practiced fingers - needing something to busy his hands - he 
looked at her again, trying to gauge if he had said the correct 
thing for once and if she had understood him.  She did not 
reply, so he pulled the covers around her against the cold 
and turned to leave, still uncertain.

"I have never had a choice before.  Thank you," came the 
calm, strong voice from behind him.

"What will you choose?" he asked, stomach knotting, having 
no idea what they were discussing and afraid to turn to face 
her.   "Or have you already chosen?"

"The next time you ask? I cannot promise.  I have not had 
many opportunities to decide for myself."

"Then you will need some time to think."

"Yes," she replied casually, pulling on her chemise, standing 
and wrapping herself in his bed-robe, which he suspected he 
had lost for good.  "You are going to war?"  He nodded, 
telling her the name of the castle he would be sitting outside 
of for the next few weeks, at the least.  "Ask me when you 
return."  

"It could be months before I return.  Will you be here?"  She 
said yes, and he filled his lungs with air again.  Abandoning 
all pretense, he finally turned and asked, "Will I know the 
question by then?"

There was that mysterious smile again, her eyes lighting up 
with mischief.  Christ, if this woman could still smile, there 
was hope for all God's sinners.  She seemed not unlike the 
Greek statues - lovely, fair, and silk-smooth, but, in truth, 
deceptively carved of the hardest rock.  She looked gossamer 
light and his fingertips remembered flowing over her as 
though she were wet, polished stone, amazed that a mortal 
was allowed to touch this form.  It was not until some well-
born ruffian tried to damage her, to chip away at her, that 
the fine marble showed its true strength.  Kings and 
kingdoms could be falling, but men would still stop to stand 
in awe, shaking their heads at how such beauty could 
endure.
 
*~*~*~*
   
She had read of many things she had never seen - foreign 
lands, dragons, Heaven and Hell and all that lay between.  
There were supposed to be dragons in Wales and men with 
hair as black as night that had horns and tails, although she 
had found no evidence of either.  Men whose tempers flared 
like kindling and fought brother against brother – those 
there seem to be aplenty, but William was not one of them.   

Geraldus Cambrensis had written "The Description of 
Wales," one of the books her late husband had given her to 
read.  Cambrensis told of a hardy people who loved their 
beautiful land and music and poetry; men who did not hit 
their wives or force women without repercussion.  He wrote 
that this was a land of fairies, war and mists and only a 
foolish Englishman would cross the border.  The historian had 
written the truth; once she crossed into Wales, only 
memories of Englishmen had followed, but that was to be 
expected. 

They had discussed it for hours - she and her husband, 
sipping tea, laughing, and deciding that Welsh dragons 
must breathe ice instead of fire.  Then her husband would 
ring for a servant to carry him to bed, leaving her to her 
books and dreams.   

He was an old man; there was no need for the King to have 
him executed.  He had grown too old and sick even to ask 
her to perform the things he had taught her when they first 
married.

It was a choice, one of the first she was allowed in her life: 
when her brother had found her - to return home and be 
married to whichever Irish farmer would have a woman 
used by English soldiers or stay with her husband and use 
his wealth to feed hungry children and doctor anyone who 
appeared at her doorstep.  

Later, there had been another choice - submit to King John 
and dishonor herself and her marriage, such as it was, or 
refuse and pay the price.  

Her choices had led to this: a feeling not unlike snow 
suddenly giving way and sliding off a steep slope.  

Wrapped in her new husband's bed-robe, she watched him 
in the snowy bailey below, supervising Melvin as he put the 
elite soldiers, dressed in their red tunics, through their paces 
with bows, swords, long spears, and maces.  Duana had seen 
wars - the battles in Ireland when she was a child, even the 
sieges of London where she had lived for a decade - and 
these men were well-armed and well-trained.  They could 
not compare to the hordes of King John's mercenaries, 
though; men that scurried over the mountains like ticks, 
looking to fatten themselves on the blood of the land.  
And if the King learned of this child, the soldiers would 
come; all the King's bastards lived at Court, usually with 
their mothers.

He was a good man, this William - far kinder and gentler 
than he wanted men to know, but not unlike an avalanche 
gathering force.  If she did not run now, she would be 
caught up in it and unable to escape.  There were no 
physical bonds or boundaries this time – no ropes or moats 
or even gilded social bars; all she had to do was say and he 
would send her under safe passage to wherever she wanted 
to go.

Where did she want to go?

She had seen his son David at Court; seen the intellect and 
soft heart under the restless cover of what William called 
'the madness of youth.'  She had hoped the father would be 
like the son.  

The priest, John, and Prince Llewelyn had done something 
unheard of: before they offered marriage to William to the 
King, they had asked her, telling her of him and asking if she 
would like to be his wife.  They also spoke the truth, so that 
must be a trait among Welshmen, saying that he was quick 
and well-read, but reclusive and inclined to melancholy 
when left to his own devices.  Lonely, they said, since his 
wife had died in a fire years ago.  He did not trust easily, nor 
suffer fools, and he had some ideas that bordered on 
blasphemy, John had added, crossing himself.   

Her husband, only a few weeks dead, had whispered to her, 
teasing her about the wounded kittens and pups she was 
forever taking in to mend, and telling her that this was 
perhaps another soul in need of healing and reminding her 
of their long talks of Wales.  She had agreed to the marriage 
and within hours stood in front of John and beside Llewelyn 
to be married by proxy to a man she had never met.  

When John had recited the vows again last week, she had 
reached for William's hand and found it as trembling and as 
moist as hers.  After kneeling with her to be blessed, William 
had led her home to the bed, placed her, still dressed and 
trembling, under the coverlet and himself above it, pulled 
her close as though he was afraid of losing her, and simply 
slept.                          

There was no need to run; nowhere she needed to go.

The soldiers were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder with their 
backs to her window, offering their weapons for Melvin to 
inspect.  William, astride a huge black horse, looked up, saw her 
watching from the window, and gestured for her to get back 
before someone saw her in her nightclothes.  Melvin was 
chastising some poor man for a faulty arrow and not paying 
attention, so she pulled the neck of her chemise slightly to 
the side, exposing her shoulder and seeing the color and 
surprise rise in William's face.   

She had seen that expression three times now - once by firelight, 
once by a single candle in bed, and once this dawn, and she 
was learning she enjoyed causing it.  He watched over the heads 
of his men, transfixed, as she untied the laces, baring both 
shoulders and turning in a little circle so he could admire, 
before she leaned out the window, grinning mischievously at him.
This feeling, this novel sense of power, this avalanche 
gathering force; it was as intoxicating as wine.  

"Witch," he mouthed, trying to maintain his stern expression.  
"Wanton."  He jerked his chin up, silently ordering her to get 
away from the window and dress. 

She finally pulled his robe closed against the icy morning air, 
but continued to watch him as he pretended the role of 
nobleman preparing for war, glancing up occasionally at her 
to see that he was doing it correctly.  

A maid entered carrying warm water and left her to wash 
herself, removing traces of the events of the night.  
There was still no blood on the towel as she dried, but 
she had not really expected there to be.  William 
was right - she, or she and he, were going to have a child.  

The maid, Merfyn's wife, returned to help her dress, commenting 
again on her beautiful hair as it was braided and pinned in a red 
crown around her head.  

"You are a fortunate woman, my lady," the girl said slowly, 
enunciating carefully so Duana could understand, since the 
maid spoke no French.

Contemplating herself in the polished metal mirror, she 
realized that for the first time in ten years she was someone's 
cariad.  She had been her parents' beloved until the soldiers 
had found her, but no one's beloved since.  A trinket, a friend, a 
trophy perhaps, but never wanted for nothing but herself.

"A woman takes fortune where she finds it," she answered, 
but the flighty girl was full of dreams of knights and mists and 
courtly love and did not understand.   

Cariad - beloved; Wales would be a good place to begin 
again.  

*~*~*~*   

End: Hiraeth II: Cariad 
Title: Hiraeth III: Saeson

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: PG-13

Keywords: story, historical au, msr, two moments of 
serious angst and several of wuv – twue wuv

Spoilers: I don't see how

Summary: Third in the Hiraeth series; Aber, North 
Wales: late winter, 1216

Silver spoon checks: Angst-o-meter: 7.1 out of 10; 
Jennifer: safe – ends in happy msr & no cd; Spooning: 
yes; Skinner head check: um, depends on who you think 
he is. 

Archive: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: 
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Author's notes:
 
Henry II (Henry Plantagenet) and Queen Eleanor had
a passionate, tempestuous marriage; each scheming, 
taking lovers, and occasionally declaring war on their 
spouse.  They had numerous daughters, but four sons: 
Young Prince Henry (who died young), Geoffrey (also died),
Richard the Lionhearted (King Richard I), and John Lackland 
(King John).   

When you see 'Knights Templar,' (or Cistercian or 
Hospitaller) think 'monastic horsemen backed by the 
all-powerful medieval Catholic Church', not 
'Camelot'.  These were disillusioned secular 
knights who became monks with swords, and, from their 
viewpoint, a holy cause – no jousting for ladies' 
hankies.  Their unsuccessful campaign to capture 
the Holy Land began in 1099 and lasted centuries.  

The long version of the history lesson and how the 
fictional characters interweave with the factual 
follows the story.  It doesn't spoil it, so feel free 
to read it first if you're interested. 

Saeson
by prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

"She still stands, my lord."

Even after fifty years, or perhaps, because of fifty 
years, his sergeant's eyes were sharp – able to spot 
an enemy scout or a free tankard of mead at a hundred 
yards, so it was almost certainly the truth.  The 
dark-haired man leading the motley soldiers squinted, 
rubbed some sleep from his barely rested eyes, and 
squinted again, trying to see if he was finally 
gaining ground on home.

The morning sun had not had time to burn away the 
mists from the tops of the mountains, so white clouds 
obscured the peaks like women's veils and smoke from 
hearth fires stoked to burn until morning stayed low 
to the ground.  As the sliver moon sank, giving way 
to full daylight, Gwilym could just make out the 
stone walls of Aber Castle rising imposing and lordly 
over the sleeping valley. 
 
His sanctuary, beautiful in her simplicity and grace, 
awesome in her subtle strength, was still there – 
waiting with all her secrets.

"She still stands, Merfyn," he agreed.

Goliath must have recognized they were five miles 
from home - the horse snorted a huge lung-full of 
frosty air and tossed his head, jerking the reins 
painfully against Gwilym's injured shoulder. 
Massive hooves clopped impatiently in place in 
response to his rider's legs unconsciously tightening 
against his sides – Goliath was not the only one 
anxious to reach the castle.

Gwilym rubbed the animal's thick neck, thawing his 
fingers and promising carrots and a warm stall 
tonight.  They had seen all of Wales several times 
over, as well as most of Europe, and even a glimpse 
of the Holy Land together in their many journeys.  
Goliath was still eager to go whenever his owner 
appeared in his mesh armor and red or white tunic, 
but the miles had become longer, mundane for both of 
them.  If it was on this Earth to be challenged, 
marveled at, indulged in, or explored, Gwilym had 
done so twice over in his six and thirty years, and 
Goliath had taken him for the last ten, one long 
stride at a time.  

If he was still in God's favor, that castle contained 
a slight, red-haired, headstrong woman who spoke fair 
French and awful Welsh and tended to question him 
more than any female had a right to.  The last of 
King John's land barons had just fled Wales and 
Prince Llewelyn now ruled undisputed; it was time to 
go home – and to stay home.  Both Gwilym and Goliath 
were getting too old for such nonsense as wars and 
sieges.  

It was as though the rest of the world was an old 
shirt now, threadbare, colors bleached by the sun 
into muted hues, and very little still shone 
brilliantly.   Having heard little but Merfyn's 
cynicism and paranoia for months, he had thought it 
might be his own memory that had grown faulty, 
remembering home as more pleasant than it was, the 
same way one remembers favorite foods from childhood.  
Marzipan was not nearly as nice now that he could 
have it whenever he liked – sticky treats stolen as a 
boy had been much more sweet.

Merfyn would say this Lady Duana was much the same: 
that the having would not be so good as the wanting.  
Inhaling the icy March air to revive himself, Gwilym 
decided that perhaps Merfyn was much better with a 
blade than with women, having been married five times 
but only twice seriously wounded in battle.  He, on 
the other hand, had been mistaken for a deer and shot 
through with an arrow by his own squire while taking 
a piss one morning, although that was not the story 
Gwilym planned to tell his wife to gain sympathy for 
his shoulder.

An anchor, Duana called it – he was in need of an 
anchor and he had found it barefooted and wearing his 
borrowed bed-robe one cold night in Wales.  After 
looking the world over for many years, searching, 
finding shallow brooks instead of deep waters, he 
discovered himself drowning in a lake of blue eyes, 
glancing behind him to see who she might be looking 
at.  The surface is so calm – reflecting, deflecting 
like glass – but in the depths is the hand that holds 
Arthur's sword.  
 
A man finds where he wants to be, drops anchor, and 
there he will stay.  

Please let the wars and the raids end so he could 
stay – or, at least, let his cause finally be his own 
and let him always find his way back home again.  It 
was a simple prayer, but probably as heartfelt as any 
he had ever sent upward. 

Gauging that the horses still had a few more miles 
left in them, he tightened his reins and his calves, 
letting Goliath settle in to the slow rock of a 
ground-covering canter.  

"In a hurry, Gwilym?" Merfyn shouted from behind, 
grinning and pushing his tired gelding to catch up.

There was no response, but Gwilym let his horse bound 
down the slope at a frightening pace, splashing 
recklessly into the stream and then over a rock 
fence, taking a shortcut through Llewelyn's woods 
instead of staying on the road.  Laughing wildly at 
their own folly, his sergeant and four dozen men 
followed, scattering chickens, pigs, and dogs as they 
thundered into the village square of Aber.

*~*~*~* 

There was a blonde man in the next valley that liked 
to spend his time trying to turn lead into gold when 
he was not producing love potions for wives that 
wanted to conceive and charms for those that did not.  
Gwilym had once passed several days with the young 
alchemist, trying to form an opinion of this new 
science, should he ever be asked or find someone 
willing to listen.  He did not disbelieve Llangly's 
claims, but he did not see any gold in the cluttered 
hut, either.  

Perhaps Llangly was correct, but pursuing the wrong 
elements, for, in his own bailey, someone had managed 
to cross a woman with a chicken and marry the result 
to poor Merfyn.  

Although Gwilym could not fathom why, Elan did this 
every time they had been away, whether for a day or a 
year; waiting at Merfyn's stirrup as though she was 
about to convulse until he dismounted and then 
clucking over him like a headless hen.  The sergeant 
received a welcoming kiss that made a few men squirm 
in their saddles, was deemed only slightly filthier 
than when he left, and, winking at Gwilym, 
disappeared into his house beyond the stables with 
his wife before anyone else could even dismount.  

Merfyn was always Merfyn.  Fight the wars and marry 
the – 

Well, never mind.  Merfyn was Merfyn.
 
Most of the uchelwrs – the elite cavalry – lived in 
the village of Aber rather than the castle, so only a 
dozen or so had ridden up the steep hill.  Sliding 
gently down from Goliath and giving the big 
courser a final pat on the rump as the stable boy led 
him away, Gwilym looked for Duana in the commotion of 
families and servants greeting returning husbands.  
There was Leuan, pious robes flowing, clutching 
his cross and walking toward him with great intent, 
but he did not see his wife.  Glancing up, he noted 
the window of his- her- their bedchamber was 
shuttered, so perhaps she was still asleep.  It was 
past seven in the morning, but her baby would be 
coming in a few more months – he did not begrudge her 
the extra sleep, although it would be nice to have a 
warmer welcome, especially in front of his men.  

For pity's sake, not even the dogs troubled 
themselves to come out to greet him this morning.  
All hail the conquering hero.

"We must speak, Gwilym," Leuan said urgently, guiding 
him into the great hall and away from other ears.  
"We must speak of your wife."

He swallowed, the back of his tongue thickening as 
worry began to pool and drip down to a little puddle 
in his belly.  In truth, he barely knew Duana, but 
she did not seem one to casually shrug off the 
propriety of publicly greeting her husband as the 
lady of his castle.

He had sent her several notes in the months while he 
was away, and she had replied to each in her careful 
handwriting, saying that all was well and he was to 
take good care of himself.  One could never predict 
who might intercept letters during wartime, so he 
could not ask about the child, but the messenger who 
brought her last response had said she did look – he 
had heard it said - to be breeding.  It was not 
proper, even if asked, for the servant to have 
noticed Duana's belly or for Gwilym to quiz the man 
for details, so that was all the information he 
possessed: Duana was pregnant enough for it to be 
casually noticed two weeks ago.          

Seeing his panicked face, such as it was, Leuan 
hurried: "She is well.  I told her to remain in her 
bedchamber until I could speak to you."

Gwilym relaxed, raising his eyebrows slightly as a 
servant took his sword and helped slide his cloak off 
his wounded shoulder. "You –told- her to remain?  How 
did you manage the stones for that?"  Duana did not 
take kindly to being ordered around and Leuan tended 
to be even more awkward than he around women.

Leuan followed after Gwilym as he raised his heavy 
feet to mount the stairs, feeling every one of the 
slate steps jar into his bones and waving off Gwen's 
offer of wine and breakfast.  They had passed just 
enough time to eat supper and be polite at Llewelyn's 
Court at Dolwyddelan Castle before Gwilym had ordered 
the horses re-saddled at four this morning.  Four was 
morning, he had informed his bleary-eyed troop – 
somewhere there must be a deluded cock crowing.  He 
was planning an apology: four was clearly only 
morning when a man was twenty.  After that, four was 
the time to make a trip to the privy, peer briefly 
out at the night sky, and crawl back into a soft, 
warm bed.

Bed.  Duana was already abed.  What foresight.  What 
a brilliant woman.  

What was Leuan pestering him about?

"Well, perhaps she was up most of the night caring 
for a sick maid and then fell back to sleep and I 
told the servants not to wake her at six as she had 
requested," Leuan corrected.  "Perhaps she does not 
listen so well when I tell her the things she should 
do."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied, concealing a grin under a 
yawn.  

They were now standing outside the bedchamber, and he 
noted that the scent finding its way from under the 
door had changed, matured.  The crispness of clean 
linens and the richness of worn leather boots now 
blended with the softer note of feminine skin – his 
private rooms did not smell empty anymore.  

The priest folded his arms, barring his entrance as 
though Gwilym would not pick him up and move him 
after not seeing Duana nor slept in his own bed for 
too many nights to count.

"Leuan – what?"  

"Gwil – she - "

Whatever the old man wanted to say, he disintegrated 
into embarrassed sputters.

"What?  If she is here and she is well, then I am 
content."  Gwilym was exhausted and pained and not a 
patient man.  "I have gotten all your letters 
screaming to Heaven because she looks over the 
ledgers, as though we did not decide she could before 
I left.  That Duana has been setting far too many 
eggs to hatch, in your opinion, so we are all in 
danger of being overrun by poultry.  That she bought 
cloth for three – count them – three new dresses  - 
one blue, one green, and one russet - so she is not 
walking around in what she wore from London.  And the 
last urgent message said the entire castle is 
sinfully having bread with every meal."

"Violet.  One dress is clearly more violet than 
russet."

"WHAT is it?  Spit it out before I throttle you!"

Leuan opened his mouth and let the words fall out: 
"She looks to be breeding."   

He patted the priest's shoulder comfortingly, too 
tired to laugh.  Leuan was worse than any wet nurse 
when it came to protecting him.  "Yes.  Duana told 
me."   

"Gwilym -" Leuan warned.

"She told me," he repeated slowly so his meaning was 
clear.  If she looked pregnant enough for Leuan to 
have noticed and be concerned, King John rather than 
he was the father of her child.  She had said that 
was the case, but he had still allowed a tiny candle 
of hope to burn.  

Regardless, as Prince Llewelyn was fond of saying 
when they were boys: 'possession is the majority of 
the law.'  They had settled those disputes over toy 
swords and pet hawks easily – one of them either 
running to his tutor to 'tell' or beating the other 
senseless.  Now, three decades later, Llewelyn had 
his troops in all the Norman castles of Wales – that 
made the castles his.  Duana was Gwilym's legal wife 
– his property, according to the King's own law; that 
made her child his.  It was roughly the same 
principle.

"Think this through, Gwilym.  I know you are fond of 
her, but put your head before your heart, for once.  
What if the Court hears of this?"

"Hears that my new wife is already with child?"  He 
lowered his voice and switched to French, closing his 
heavy eyelids as he rested the back of his head 
against a stone pillar.  "Duana is slight; if the 
child is large, she could appear more pregnant than 
she is.  Perhaps the baby could even come early – 
first babies do that sometimes."  

"That is not the truth and we both know it, Llwynog."  
The priest wanted so desperately to make this right 
for his old charge.  "Open your eyes, look at me and 
tell me you think that child is actually yours.  I am 
not saying Lady Duana would ever sin against you by 
choice, Llwynog -"

"Do not call me that!"  Gwilym pulled himself up to 
his full height, tall for a Welshman, and much taller 
than any boy nicknamed 'Llwynog.'  "If I do not 
question my wife, then it is certainly not your 
place, John."

The priest took a deep breath, not at peace with this 
decision, but understanding that Gwilym was not being 
made a fool of.  "I am sorry I brought this on you.  
I knew there was little chance of her leaving Court 
without being accosted, but so did you.  I did 
not dream that this would be the result.  I would 
rather you have remained alone than risk King John's 
wrath."

"I would not," he replied, switching back to Welsh.  
"Congratulate me, Leuan – Duana and I are going to 
have a child by fall."

"Congratulations, Gwilym."  

As the wooden door squeaked open on the hinges, 
Leuan's footsteps echoed heavily down the staircase 
in accompaniment.  He would light a candle for this 
child and for them all when the King discovered it 
existed.  Gwilym was not, despite his claims, 
thinking this decision through.  Wives were much more 
easily replaced than sons.

*~*~*~*   

Now, there was just no way to maintain his lordly 
dignity in this posture: sprawled across the floor, 
flat on his back, a woman he could normally toss 
around like a child, straddling his chest with a 
knife to his throat.  Sweet Christ, Leuan would be 
beside himself if he knew any lady could curse like 
that.  Four languages, no less – she had threatened 
his manhood in Welsh, French, Gaelic, and in English, 
just for good measure – having no idea who was 
intruding into her bed in the dim light.

"It is William – Gwilym!  Duana!  Put down the 
knife," he told her, struggling to keep the dagger 
away with his left arm.

"William?"  She peered at him, trying to recognize 
her new husband under the beard and dirt, and not 
moving the blade until she was certain.  

"Yes!  I suppose this means you are not happy to see 
me?"

"William?"

"Yes.  Let me up, please, before someone hears of 
this."

She stood, helping him to his feet and offering 
apologies, mostly to his pride.  

"Croeso, Gwilym," she offered, as he stared at her 
already swollen stomach.  

Welcome, William.  

*~*~*~*                  

Whatever was in the foul tea Duana brewed for him 
when she stripped off his shirt and discovered the 
arrow wound through his shoulder, Gwilym slept most 
of the day and awoke feeling – and smelling – like 
the inside of a drunkard's mouth – as the sun set.  
As compared to Merfyn and the horses, Gwilym thought 
he smelled fairly good, but Duana handed him a bar of 
strong soap, indicating she disagreed and was far 
choosier that Merfyn's wife.   

Although it was warmer to bathe in the kitchen, 
supper was being prepared and the maids tended to 
give him sidelong glances and note things they should 
not, so the bedchamber it was.  Barbered, bathed, 
shaved – by Gwen instead of his blade-happy bride – 
and wearing one of the new shirts he had somehow 
acquired during his absence, Gwilym's belly growled 
in anticipation of the sizzling lamb upstairs, and he 
was a contented man.

Slipping away from the festivity following supper to 
the quiet of the stables, Gwilym found that Goliath, 
too, was a great deal cleaner by nightfall.  The 
horse blinked placidly in his stall as he leaned a 
massive head down for the carrots Gwilym offered.  
Crunching happily, he accepted scratches behind his 
ears and under his slobbery muzzle with great 
majesty, as though it was his due – which it probably 
was.  

There were footsteps in the hay behind him, and 
Gwilym turned to find Duana making her way through 
the otherwise silent stables in search of him, his 
ever loyal dogs following her.  

"You have stolen my hounds' hearts while I was away 
fighting.  Stay away from my horse, you wanton witch,"
he teased, cutting up the last of the carrots awkwardly
with his dagger and left hand, then offering the slobbery 
hand to her.  

"No thank you," she replied.  "I had carrots at 
supper."

He should get Llangly the alchemist to design some 
sort of device so he could gauge when she was and was 
not teasing him.  

"Do you want to feed Goliath?  He is gentle."

That was silly, of course: she was not some princess 
whose feet seldom touched grass and thought of ponies 
and sheep as pets.  His tongue still did not work 
properly when she was near and his brain could not 
think of anything more interesting to say, anyway.  
Duana probably found it amusing that he was avoiding 
bed – and her - to feed treats to an old warhorse.   

She nodded, holding out an apple she had brought.  
Goliath perked his ears forward, sniffed, then turned 
up his nose at her offering, flaring his nostrils in 
disgust.  

"He will not eat it whole.  I have to cut it up."

"Does he spoil you, Goliath?  Would you care to come 
sleep in our bed and beg scraps from under the 
table?" she asked, rubbing the velvet-soft face.

"He does not speak French – he does not understand 
you.  And he snores too – you would not want both of 
us in our bed."  He liked that it had become "our 
bed" to her, as though there were no question.   They 
should not, of course, while she was with child, 
but it was nice to know that the option to sin was 
available.  Of course, if men did not whenever the 
Church said they should not, by his estimate, that 
left Thursdays – providing it was not Lent or Advent, 
or the woman was breeding or bleeding or nursing.  
And she must be married and married to that 
particular man – it must be after dark, mostly 
dressed, eyes closed, man-on-top, and no one 
had better enjoy it.  Leuan probably gave himself 
hand-cramps trying to mark down all the sins of the 
men of Aber.

That image made him smile – of the priest going from 
house to house, peeking in, and making notes in his 
ledger - and for some inexplicable reason, Duana 
smiled back.  

Gwilym watched her feed the slices one at a time 
while the stallion waited patiently, licking her palm 
carefully clean between servings for good measure.   

"He was a yearling and Dafydd was very small when 
they first came to live with me.  Dafydd named him 
Goliath after the Church story and I thought that was 
quite brilliant for a little boy.  Dafydd and Goliath 
– I used to lead him around the bailey with Dafydd 
riding barebacked and clinging to his mane for dear 
life.  Then, once the Crusades and the endless wars 
began, Dafydd and his sister would always run to meet 
me each time I returned, climbing up and requesting 
we ride off in search of dragons or Normans or 
Infidels or whoever was the enemy of the year.  It 
does not seem that a decade has passed."
 
She turned her attention from the horse to the 
master, resting a hand on the slight swell of her 
belly, and trying to understand all the nuances of 
his words.

"I tried to be a good father – to meet all their 
needs, but I could not give their mother back.  
Perhaps I was too busy saving the world to take care 
of my family.  I will not see that happen again."

Well, his tongue and brain worked after all; that was 
almost eloquent, for words inspired by a horse.

Gwilym though he had remembered her: the borderland 
at the base of her throat, the strands of fire that 
stubbornly crept out from under her veil, tormenting 
her with imperfection.  His memory must be growing 
old along with his eyesight because there were 
new curves to be explored, different things behind 
her eyes to be pondered.  He had not been able to 
watch her amidst his high-spirited men at supper - to 
pause, clear his mind, and drink this woman in until 
he was full of her.  In that way, he was still a 
hungry man.        

Goliath nudged her gently with his nose, expressing 
his displeasure at having eaten the last of the 
apple.   

"He is greedy.  He will take all that you will give."  
As would his owner.

He waited for a response, but there was only a squall 
from a cat in the hayloft as it pounced on a hapless 
mouse that had thought it found a safe haven for the 
night.

"It is late – time for bed," he hedged, not sure 
whether to use his seducing or commanding voice, as 
though one might be more successful than the other.  

"Yes."

"I am wounded.  I should not be alone."

"You took a dozen castles, led your men twice the 
length of Wales, and, as I hear it, the bunch of you 
still had the energy to terrorize Prince Llewelyn's 
woods this morning, screaming at the top of your 
lungs like wild boys, and now you cannot manage your 
boots and breeches alone?"  
 
He shrugged, immediately regretting it as pain shot 
through his shoulder.  "Those were very manly 
screams."  

Pushing up the sleeves of her dress, which, in truth, 
was much more violet that russet, above her elbows, 
Duana crossed her arms and fixed those blue eyes on 
him.  
 
"You are to blame for this – I am half out of my mind 
with all the poppy you put in that witches' brew you 
poured into me this morning.  I was wounded in battle 
while you sewed shirts and," he gestured to her new 
roundness, "grew a child, and when I return, you drug 
me and glare at me.  Perhaps I was better off in my 
tent with only Merfyn to give me the evil eye."

Gwilym was proud of himself for making it through his 
mock lecture without cracking a smile.  

"You have no need of a sword or a bow – you could 
talk the English to death, William."  She picked up 
her skirts to avoid the stable muck and made her way 
out, leaving him to follow, not sure she understood 
that he was jesting.  

"Christ, woman, can you not take a joke?  Do not walk 
away from me," he said as he caught up, tripping over 
a pail in his haste and uttering a few words that 
would make his sergeant proud.

"I am not walking away from you, my lord.  I am 
walking to bed and you are just slow.  Hurry up, 
please, or there will be no room for you with all the 
dogs."      

*~*~*~*

She scooted higher on the down tick, readjusting her 
head on his good shoulder, and tracing a warm finger 
across his chest so it made his stomach shiver again, 
although Duana was probably too naive to know that.  
Praise God, she had bought his story about his latest 
act of pissing valor and resulting wound and was 
fussing over him in a very satisfying manner.

"And this?"    
  
"An Irish spear with a very angry, although very 
inaccurate, Irishmen behind it.  King John sent the 
Welsh archers with his troops to take Dover and the 
inhabitants of the city objected strongly.  That was 
the year I came home to find my father dying of his 
wounds and Diana dead.  And probably the year you 
were taken from Ireland."

"And here?" she asked, tracing the old, raised scar 
on his thigh, obviously not wanting to comment on the 
events surrounding her being "taken."

"That one is not so good for bragging - I got it the 
first summer I was allowed to travel with my father 
on Crusade.  My uncle was Commander of the City of 
Jerusalem in the Knights Templar and I was so excited 
to meet him I fell off my horse and onto a pike.  
The wound did not heal well, so Father and Leuan 
stayed with me in Jerusalem – at the Hospital of St. 
John - instead of riding with my uncle as they had 
intended.  Near the Sea of Galilee, Uncle Rhonald led 
the Knights into what was supposed to be a minor 
skirmish with the Saracens – the Infidels in the Holy 
Land who had been accosting the pilgrims.  It was 
called the Battle of the Horns of Hattin – July 4, 
1187; the Knights Templar died to the last man, all 
captured and beheaded, my uncle among them.  I was 
eight years old."       

By candlelight, Gwilym could see her intelligent eyes 
watching him, listening.   

"You have the hurts of your life written on your 
body," she commented, "as though an artist with a red 
brush painted the worst moments into your flesh."

"I will lay here, willing and complacent, and let you 
take pity on me again, if you like, and if you will 
wait a few minutes."  He pulled her even closer to 
him, wanting to talk of more pleasant things.

"If I take pity on you twice in one night, on a 
Sunday, fully undressed so you can see all of me, and 
while I am with child, there will be a loud 'thud' 
the next time I confess because Father John – your 
warrior Father Leuan - will faint."

"I will come along and fan Leuan when you must 
finally confess that you enjoyed it."  

Gwilym said it lightly, getting sleepy, but hoped she 
would answer.  Perhaps she was embarrassed by the 
changes to her body the baby was causing, or still 
feeling King John touching her instead of him after 
all these months, but he was not fully at ease with 
her reaction to their lovemaking.  She was not so 
timid as she had been when they first married, but 
some things were still not as pleasant for her as 
they could be.

"Since you lack patience, William, try to have faith.  
I do not act against my will, if that puts your mind 
at rest."

"I have heard that said about the Lady of Aber, but 
never experienced it myself.  She is the most 
obedient and meek and -" he pulled the furs up over 
their bare skin, grinning, "modest of wives to me."

His chin on the top of her head and his good arm 
rapidly going to sleep before the rest of him 
underneath her face, Gwilym hoped she was too content 
to bother to retort.  Then a thigh stirred, pressing 
gently between his legs so his breath caught.

"What is the Welsh word for this, William?  I could 
not very well ask Father John."

"Leuan would have something to pray about for weeks 
if you did," he managed, congratulating himself that 
his voice stayed steady.  "Bonllost' is a polite 
term.  Do you want to know the words for anything 
else?  This -" he ran his hand over her breast 
lightly, tickling, "is mynwes, and when I pull you 
close to me, you are at my 'asgre;' at my bosom."

"You have 'bonllost' and I have 'mynwes'?" she asked 
into his neck, her hair tickling his nose as it fell 
in red chaos over them both.

"And I thank God for that, cariad.  Stop tempting me 
and go to sleep.   Let me rest and heal, wanton, and 
we can practice your Welsh again in the morning."

Deciding that the activity under the furs had stopped 
for the night and it was safe to return, the dogs 
found their usual places, nosing Gwilym suspiciously, 
as though wondering what he was doing off the sofa.      

"William – are you asleep?" Duana asked some minutes 
later.

"Um-hum," he responded, not opening his mouth or his 
eyes.

"I am enjoying my Welsh lessons.  It is just new to 
me and I learned very different before.  You are a 
good teacher."

"Umm."          

Blending himself into her as thoroughly as if an 
alchemist had stirred them together, Gwilym cut the 
rope holding him to consciousness, and, not minding 
the lack of blood flow from his liver to his left arm 
in the slightest, slept.  

*~*~*~*

He had never told Duana of the dream he had the first 
night she came: that she had changed into a red fox 
and was scurrying through his rooms, bewitching him, 
but that was still how Gwilym thought of the sound – 
as fox feet coming to keep him company.

"Go back to bed, cariad.  You are sleeping for others 
now and it is not really morning yet."  Even as he 
said it, he knew it would do no good, and was glad of 
it.   

"Yes – I slept for you and me both, and now we are 
rested and would like to see something besides the 
inside of this castle."

After stretching, she set the candle she had brought 
on his desk and maneuvered herself down on the sofa, 
trying to find a comfortable position.

"How much longer now?"  

Diana had been taller, wider through the hips, but 
she had still complained twice as much as Duana, and 
probably had half the trouble.  The midwives 
infuriatingly refused to tell men any details, but 
there had been some blood on the sheets last week, 
and he and Leuan had passed the morning in prayer 
until the midwives appeared and said all was well.  
All was not well, obviously, but as long as the 
danger was to the baby and not to Duana, his prayers 
were still effective, if highly heretical.   

"About two months by my count, fourteen weeks by your 
math."

"Well, you are much better with numbers than I.  
Raise your feet," he ordered, bringing the letter 
with him as he joined her on the sofa, letting her 
legs rest across his lap and adjusting his - her robe 
to keep her warm.  

"You have hemmed my bed-robe!"  He turned up the 
edges of the heavy fabric, examining the neat 
stitches where she had shortened his robe a good foot 
so it would not drag when she wore it.  It would not 
reach past his calves now, should he be able to peel 
it off her back ever again.

"Is that David's letter you are studying?  What 
fourteen-year old troubles has he gotten himself into 
now?" she deflected, wiggling her toes to have them 
rubbed.

"You have hemmed my bed-robe!  You witch!  There is 
borrowing and then there is thieving!  Did you take 
up the sleeves, too?"  Of course she had taken up the 
sleeves – probably embroidering little swans and 
unicorns along the edges with her nimble needle.  

"I am making you another.  Or we can share this one – 
you will look quite dignified with your knees and 
elbows hanging out.  Tell me of David."

It would be pleasant to continue this argument, but 
he would undoubtedly lose, and therefore lose his 
audience for bragging about the news from London.

"Dafydd has decided this week that he will abandon 
his pursuit of the King's serving girls and join the 
Knights Templar once he is allowed to leave Court in 
a few more years."
   
She looked puzzled, so he explained: "To be a full 
knight with the Templar Monks, a man must be both 
chaste and unmarried.  I was a secular knight, but 
the rule still applied for the length of my service.  
It is a wonderful boyhood vision of chivalry and 
courtly love, until one arrives at a certain age and 
discovers, as Leuan says it, 'why a man might have 
need of a wife." 

"To sew bed-robes?"

Now experienced enough to be certain she was joking, 
Gwilym ran a hand over the apex of her belly and 
rested it in the warmth between her legs.  "Yes, to 
sew bed-robes.  Dafydd has had this notion every six 
months or so since he was small – Gwen even made him 
a tunic like mine for his eleventh birthday so he 
could dress up as a Templar and attack the Infidel 
sheep in the bailey.  It is still in a chest around 
here somewhere.  He was much too adult at thirteen to 
take it to Court with him."  

Not 'somewhere,' actually – in the corner coffer, 
folded carefully with his own red and white tunic, a 
battered doll that had been his daughter's, and a 
heavy signet ring Diana had accepted in exchange 
for going off with Dafydd's true father.  Gwilym 
would unlock the chest one day when he was feeling 
brave and tell Duana the stories that went with each 
object, but not this morning.  
  
"How long did you ride as a Templar?"  It was a part 
of his life she knew nothing about – although it was 
not nearly as heroic as she probably imagined.  More 
like a quest to slay a dragon he never found because 
it was waiting for him at home the whole time, 
growing more angry and vengeful every year he mounted 
Goliath and rode away.

"After my father and Diana died, I thought I needed 
to take up the holy cause: to help reclaim the Holy 
Land from the Infidels, as my uncle and father had, 
until I rode home one afternoon to find my daughter 
had vanished and Dafydd was being raised at Court 
as one of King John's hostages to ensure Welsh loyalty.  
I will still fight for any cause that threatens me or mine, 
but not for other men's ideals.  I will shed blood 
for peace, but I found no peace in killing men 
because they prayed to a God that was not mine, or to 
fatten the Pope's or the Knights' coffers."

She was silent, absorbing his words for so long that 
it made him uncomfortable.

"Did you know, dear wife," he said as she blinked 
sleepily, trying to stay awake, "there are Infidels 
who believe men live again and again, each time being 
reborn in a different time until they do what they 
are destined to do?"

"I have read of such things.  Do you suppose we have 
known each other before this life?  Or that we will 
meet again after this one?"

Rubbing her calf thoughtfully, he replied, "Perhaps – 
who is to say Heaven is as the Church says it is.  
Maybe it is merely an eternity of us together until 
we find our fate."  

Seeing she had fallen asleep to his thrilling life 
story and speculation – Duana was not a morning 
person – Gwilym started to carry her back to bed, 
only to have her wake and insist she was too heavy 
now and to put her down.

"Too heavy?" he asked, lowering her feet to the 
floor.  "I should take you to Prince Llewelyn's Court 
and let you look at yourself in his wife's new 
looking glass.  It reflects as clear as the surface 
of a lake, and you would be able to see just how 
'heavy' you are."   

"To me, it seems enormous, but I would appreciate 
being taken anywhere - immediately after you take me 
to bed for a few more hours."  She took his hand and 
shuffled into the next room, making sleepy grumbling 
noises as she laid back into the soft bed.  "Stay 
with me now, William.  And promise to take me to the 
village with you later before I go mad from sitting 
around waiting to hatch."

"You are only trying to get your way, wanton.  And I 
think you are succeeding."   

"There is an empty sofa in the next room if you do 
not like my terms."  

"Witch," he grumbled into her ear, very content with 
her terms.      

"Would you say that is a Heaven or a Hell – having to 
share all our lives?"

"It would depend," Gwilym replied, obediently untying 
the laces at the neck of her chemise.  "In this next 
life, would I have my own bed-robe, Duana?"

*~*~*~*

"Word has it your wife appears to be breeding."

Llewelyn was never one to waste breaths with idle 
chatter, even when they were children; he and Duana 
would get along nicely in that way.  The Prince of 
Wales had simply appeared beside him and begun mid-
conversation, riding directly up to the front of Aber 
Castle for all to see and ruining Gwilym's plan to 
leave Goliath at the gate and sneak in through the 
stables unseen.    

"The midwives count that we will have been married 
nine months by harvest."

"I have heard from the King's Court that perhaps the 
baby will come early," Llewelyn said pointedly, 
coming close alongside Gwilym as they rode into the 
bailey.  "I think of you as a brother, Gwilym, and I 
picked this woman for you as carefully as I would 
for myself, so I have dreaded bringing you so much 
bad news."  The prince looked tired, his eyes 
reddened and shoulders hunched forward.  "A messenger 
just brought word that King John's troops are already 
approaching the border of Wales to take the child."

Gwilym picked up his pace so Goliath remained 
alongside Llewelyn's young courser.  "He does not 
want the baby – he must have dozens scattered across 
his kingdom.  He wants Duana, and he may not have 
her."

"Gwil -" the prince said reproachfully.

"Again.  Fine – do you want to hear me say it?  
Again!  I know who fathered the child.  King John may 
not have her again."

"This is greater than you, Gwilym.  There are two 
choices now: either have the marriage annulled – 
saying it was never consummated – and send Duana back 
to John -"   

"No."

"I had thought you would say that.  If you claim the 
child as yours, then you must keep it from John for 
as long as it lives.  Say it died and send it 
wherever you like, but I will not allow you to bring 
down King John's wrath on Wales.  You may be my 
friend, but you are still my subject, Gwilym."   
 
"I do not understand.  Why would the king have such 
an interest in this one baby if I will not give up 
Duana with it?"    

"Gwil, this child, male or female, will inherit or 
could be dowered with your estate.  For a king 
struggling with Celtic rebellion, the Isle of Mon and 
the northern coast of Wales - lands giving him both a 
foothold in Wales and a host of ports on the Irish 
Sea - makes this baby very much of interest to him.  
A marriage between this child and a child of 
Alexander II of Ireland would give John control over 
both Wales and Ireland, and I cannot allow that.  The 
king would never waste one of his children by the 
queen on such a minor match, but a child claimed by a 
Welsh lord with both Plantagenet and Irish blood – 
that he would be glad to offer.  All it would cost 
him is your head.  John will have Duana back and 
her child to use as his pawn.  It was not chance that 
Duana was given to you: King John knew he would have 
her before she left, and knew you would never refuse 
her as your wife.   He schemed a child with his blood 
and your estates, and I cannot let him have both.  
Either return Duana or make the child vanish."

Llewelyn dismounted, leaning his head tiredly into 
his horse's flank.  "I am so sorry, Gwil.  I had no 
idea it would come to this.  I had thought that she 
could have no children and that you would always be 
able to claim Dafydd as your heir."

"I do claim Dafydd as my heir, Llewelyn.  What are 
you talking about?  Dafydd will still inherit what is 
mine.  Let us finalize the marriage of my son to one 
of your daughters – we have spoken of it before.  
Dafydd will return home when he is twenty-one; that 
unites all of north Wales, and -"             

Llewelyn was shaking his head slowly from side to 
side, eyes filling with tears.  He had delivered this 
news to twenty-nine Welsh noblemen previously and 
could not bring himself to form the words this last 
time to his childhood playmate.

*~*~*~*

Letting her temper get the best of her, Duana 
muttered the Welsh curses gleaned from her husband 
and sucked the drop of blood forming at the tip of 
her finger.  Her sewing needles were especially 
fierce today as she redid yet another seam to let out 
her dresses for her growing bulk, and her 
pronunciation must be improving, because her 
maid paled and crossed herself.   

He had gone off and left her, the cowardly thing!  
Arrogant, cowardly, deceitful – he was going to hear 
of this when he returned.   He could slink around the 
wine cellar and the stables, hiding like a kicked 
hound, or bring her all the silly trinkets he liked 
as peace offerings, but she had her temper honed 
razor-sharp and ready for her husband's homecoming.

William had finally relented late this morning, 
saying she could ride down to Aber with him if she 
was ready in time, and then was gone before she could 
even find her cloak.  He would be full of 
justifications, of course, when he returned: that the 
horse could stumble and throw her, or that she slowed 
him down, or, his favorite: that it was unseemly for 
her to be walking through the markets with her great 
belly like a commoner's wife.  It did her no good to 
argue that the titles were his – by blood, she was 
equal to any peasant and was thrilled at the prospect 
of waddling through the vendors to haggle over 
cabbages and turnips.  Lord William of Aber would 
look at her with those deep eyes as though he were 
contemplating her very soul, and then do whatever he 
pleased, leaving her to sit and fume.

Pricking herself again, she discovered she had run 
out of Welsh words, and switched to French, which did 
not upset the maid so much.  

"How are the babies?" the woman asked, seeing her 
belly jump as a tiny elbow or foot shoved upward.

"Awake," Duana replied noncommittally, not wanting to 
discuss William's latest wild theory with her maid, 
although he obviously had.  Twins – that was why she 
was so big already: because they were to have twins, 
as though she had been with two different men in one 
night to conceive two babies.  He had persisted with 
this insulting idea last night and this morning, 
listening to her belly and trying to count the 
heartbeats while she explained what everyone knew: 
that a woman must be with two men to have two 
children.  She had presented her evidence: a wife who 
is only with her husband had one child at a time, but 
an unfaithful wife might have more.  William had 
listened each time she had explained it, nodded 
wisely, and then continued to suggest two names 
instead of one.  
       
"What about Gwilym and Gwendolyn for a boy and a 
girl?  Or Donn and Dafydd?" her maid Elan suggested.  
"My husband says it is good for twins to be named 
alike."

Duana's eyes narrowed, thinking William was correct 
about one thing: Melvin's wife was indeed a cross 
between a female and a chicken, having inherited the 
hen's brains, but breasts enough for two women.  
Somewhere, there was a village being deprived of 
their idiot.  She was contemplating some errand to 
send Elan on to give herself a few minutes peace when 
the clatter of big hooves rose up from the bailey.  

"You are eager to see your husband, my lady?"  Elan 
called after her as Duana hurried as fast as possible 
down the staircase that spiraled around the outside 
of the Keep.  

'Eager' was such a small, misleading word.  Perhaps 
William could tell her a Welsh term that meant 'so 
looking forward to your return that I could stick you 
with pins, dear husband.'  Alternately, 'you will 
need your new robe to warm you on the sofa – which is 
where you will be sleeping until this child reaches 
majority because you left me to listen to that fool 
Elan while you rode off on big adventures.'  

*~*~*~*

Something was very wrong.  Duana thought at first 
that William was drunk, although she had seldom seen 
him even tipsy in a culture where mead and wine were 
poured instead of water.  He was pale under his tan 
with an unhealthy tint of green, and stumbled when he 
dismounted.  Ill perhaps.  She would get her herbs 
and yell at him when he felt better.

The man who had ridden in with him was the Prince of 
Wales – Duana had met him last summer at the King's 
Court.  Llewelyn reached out a hand to steady William 
and was greeted with a fist that sent him sprawling 
into the mud and a barrage of curses.

"Mary, mother of God!"  Friends or no, William had 
just struck his liege lord.  Men had hanged for less.   

Llewelyn, although still conscious, stayed seated in 
the mud, staring down while William ranted at him in 
Welsh.  Guards and servants were streaming into the 
bailey at his raised voice, and amid the hysterical 
dogs, Melvin succeeding in getting between William 
and the Prince. 

Gwen appeared from the kitchens, and her broad face 
crumbled, tears cutting through the dusting of flour 
across her cheeks at whatever they were saying.  
Father John crossed himself, lips moving in silent 
prayer as he tried to get William to back away from 
Llewelyn – finally holding one arm with Melvin on the 
other as her husband struggled weakly, his wrath 
giving way to pain.

"I trusted you.  You swore he would come to no harm 
when you said he must go," Duana thought he said, but 
could not make out the rest of his words and sobs.  
David – his David; something had happened to David.  
Christ, why could these people speak not a normal 
language so she could understand?

Llewelyn stayed down, watching as the priest and 
sergeant half-dragged William inside.

"Did they hang Gruffyd?  Did King John hang your 
son?" William asked quite clearly in French.

From his seat in the muck, Llewelyn shook his head 
'no', then rested his face in his shaking hands, not 
looking up again.  No, according to the messenger, 
King John had hung all the boys from Welsh noble 
families, but Llewelyn's oldest son – who had been 
sent along as proof that the children would be 
properly treated and educated at Court – had been the 
only one spared. 

*~*~*~*

He was going to vomit – that was the only thing 
Gwilym could think.  This was a nightmare so awful 
that he was going to be sick before he could awaken.  
Either vomit or suffocate – or do both at once.

Duana was there, cradling his head gently against her 
belly as he curled up on the floor of their 
bedchamber like a child, unseeing.  Leuan and Gwen 
were trying to comfort him, but only succeeding in 
making it worse until Duana finally screamed at them 
to "get the hell out!"

"John hung them – all the boys he demanded as 
hostages last spring.  They were boys, Duana, none 
more than fifteen, and some as young as six or seven.  
As revenge for Llewelyn reclaiming the castles that 
were his by law – by that damn Magna Carta we fought 
for, the King said we had violated the charter and he 
hung our children like common criminals," he sobbed 
into the bosom of her dress.  "Royal hostages are 
never executed – Dafydd lived at Court the same way 
he lived here – and got into just as much trouble.  
He had begun his training as a squire, and wrote that 
his tutor had punished him for sneaking out at night 
just like I did at his age, and that he had seen you 
when you were at Court, and…"

She petted his hair, tears streaming down her face 
and meeting to fall from her chin as she listened.  
Occasionally, her lips moved silently, but no prayer 
could exorcise this demon.  It sat like a heavy stone 
on his chest, crushing him, keeping him from drawing 
a deep breath.  

The sun was setting and Duana's mare were being led 
into the bailey when the demon finally returned to 
Hell, leaving Gwilym empty, as though he had been 
bled or purged to death.  Llewelyn was going to order 
Merfyn to come get Duana and take her from Wales if 
Gwilym did not go downstairs soon and concede that he 
would do it himself.    
 
Still seated among the floor rushes beside the bed, 
still sniffing, Duana watched him unlock the coffer, 
pushing old shirts aside as he searched for the pouch 
containing the ring.  Fingers faintly cooperating, he 
untied the drawstring and shook out the gold man's 
ring into his hand.  It was covered in soot, as he 
had found it after the fire that killed Diana – too 
filthy to make out the royal lions of a newly crowned 
King John, but Gwilym knew they were there.  She was 
always too quick to trust the wrong men, Diana was; 
too quick to look for material gain and believe empty 
promises from whomever had her ear.  

If he were passing through a village at twenty, like 
the King, Gwilym would have quickly noticed Diana's 
tightly cut dresses and loose hair flowing down her 
back, falsely advertising virginity.  He would have 
ridden by Duana in her modest veils without really 
seeing her.  At almost forty, though, he again agreed 
with King John: Diana was good for a night, Duana for 
a lifetime – this one or the next – and any bloodshed 
to keep her was merely a scratch.

The ring, now warmed back to life by the heat from 
his hand, was returned to the pouch and the pouch 
slipped into the side of his boot.  Finally able to 
draw a deep breath, he found the old white tunic, the 
red cross on the front assuring him safe passage as a 
monk to wherever he wanted to ride, and then, 
fighting against the urge to press his face into the 
fabric and cry, pulled out the one that had been 
Dafydd's.  Every king had a right to know when he 
hanged his own bastard son, no matter whether he 
remembered the mother or not.  

*~*~*~*

There had never been any doubt that, should the boy 
Llwynog live to become the man Gwilym, he would be 
worthy of his father's name and as formidable as 
Charlemagne or Henry Plantagenet – if either had been 
blessed with being Welsh.  The only question had been 
whether Llwynog would manage to survive boyhood.  

It was his tendency to question anything and 
everything, trusting no one, which caused all the 
trouble.  Birds could fly, so why could he not, he 
had asked the August of his fifth year, having just 
jumped from the top of the stable, and mercifully 
landed in soft hay.  Leuan had explained that the 
trick to flying was to aim for the ground and miss, 
and that Llwynog seldom missed anything except his 
lessons.  That was an omen of how the next three 
decades would pass: a never-ending battle to keep his 
student alive and focused on tasks worthy of a 
nobleman instead of strange notions which could only 
get his neck stretched.   

The priest could probably blame the frequent pain in 
his knees on hours spent in prayer, seeking guidance 
on how best to direct a recklessly youthful 'Gwilym,' 
as he insisted on being called from the age of nine 
on.  The Old Lord had joined his brother Rhonald's 
cause in the Holy Land, leaving Leuan to oversee his 
son's education, so the priest was either to be 
blamed or congratulated for his tutelage.  

He had certainly overseen.  There was the time Gwilym 
bloodied Llewelyn's nose in a squabble over a 
borrowed and lost ball at the age of eleven, and it 
was good that the Prince of Wales did not seem to 
hold grudges.  Then there came the discovery of 
childhood girlfriends suddenly seen in a new light – 
among them, a pregnant peasant wench named 'Diana' 
that the priest had never heard of his Gwilym being 
with.  He had overseen the passage from boy to squire 
to knight with great pride, christening both of 
Gwilym's children himself and saying the funeral mass 
for their mother.  Then, he had heard a final 
confession and performed the last rites as Sir Gwilym 
became Lord Gwilym of Aber at his father's death.  

Leuan's first thought when he entered and saw Gwilym 
in the alchemist's hut wearing his Templar tunic was 
that the Old Lord had come back to life.  There might 
be some question about who his mother was, but 
certainly not his father.  The set of the jaw was 
the same, the frightening intensity of the gaze – 
Gwilym was his father's son.  

With the exception of instructing Leuan to find his 
own Templar cloak instead of the brown one he usually 
wore, to saddle his horse, and to meet them in the 
next valley, no one had shared any news except that 
the Young Lord was dead and the English soldiers were 
coming for Lady Duana.  Gauging the look in Gwilym's 
eyes and the power behind the white Knights Templar 
tunic, the priest felt that old fear for his student 
in his chest – someone was about to lose and he hoped 
it was not Gwilym.       

She was fully covered in breeches and a shirt when 
she emerged from behind the screen, but Leuan dropped 
his eyes to the dirt floor, not accustom to seeing a 
woman in clothing that showed the shape of her legs 
or with her hair unbound – especially not a woman 
with legs nor hair like that.  Gathering a ponytail 
at the base of her neck, Gwilym hesitated with the 
scissors, giving them instead to Duana and letting 
her lop off her waist-length hair.  

Llangly, an odd man who seemed to be created out of 
triangles instead of ovals, put some mixture into her 
cropped hair that dyed it a dark reddish brown.  
Leuan sat on a rickety stool, watching Gwilym trail 
his fingers through the pile of shorn hair on the 
scarred table, not seeming to understand he could not 
save it and reattach it later.  The hair should be 
burned before some witch used it to put a hex on Lady 
Duana, but Leuan could not bring himself to take it 
from Gwilym and throw it into the hearth.  

The alchemist cleared his throat, indicating he had 
finished with Duana, and turned his attention to 
measuring, pounding, and mixing ingredients from the 
cobwebbed jars that lined the shelves above their 
heads.  By lantern light in the hovel, Gwilym helped 
her put on Dafydd's old Templar cloak and tunic, 
slitting the sides to accommodate her belly, and the 
transformation was complete.  Lady Duana and Lord 
Gwilym had vanished and two Knights Templar had 
emerged – one tall and slim with bloodshot eyes, and 
one younger with reddish-brown hair and a decided 
thickening through the middle.         
 
He knew Duana did not like to be touched, even to be 
lifted onto her mare, by anyone except Gwilym, so 
Leuan led the horse to a tree stump for her to mount 
while Gwilym was inside with the alchemist.  His own 
horse was less cooperative, not accustom to being 
ridden, and he danced in circles, one foot in his 
stirrup and one on the ground for several seconds.  
Finally in the saddle, his ancient green Templar 
robes announcing he had passed his life as a 
priest of the sacred order and was never to be 
challenged, he was ready to ride to wherever it was 
that they were going.

Without speaking, Gwilym fastened a small package to 
his saddle, mounted, and nudged Goliath alongside 
Duana's mare, pulling her onto the saddle in front of 
him.  When she asked, Gwilym replied that he had 
traded her horse to Llangly for the alchemist's help 
and silence, although Leuan could not fathom why he 
had bought so much silence – the entire hovel, 
Llangly included, was not worth half of that mare.

Giving her the reins, as though any woman could ever 
manage a horse like that, Gwilym wrapped his arms 
around her waist, resting his forehead for a moment 
on Duana's shoulder before saying, "West; St. Mary's 
Abbey is West from here in Aberconwy.  Goliath knows 
the way, even in the dark." 

St. Mary's was a Cistercian Abby – and a major port 
for the Templar Knights' fleet.  That was Gwilym's 
plan; to hide his wife among the monks until the baby 
could come and then send it far beyond anywhere the 
British King could ever find it.  When the soldiers 
reached Aber Castle, they would find servants who 
only knew that their Lord and Lady had gone to the 
Church with their priest to grieve the loss of Dafydd 
and never returned.  Should the soldiers think to 
search the abbey, they would find monks who regarded 
King John as slightly lower than a leper – and could 
honestly say only that three Templars had stayed in 
their abbey: a knight, a squire, and the old priest 
of Aber.  

She clucked twice to the big horse, gave him a 
determined kick, and was rewarded with a hesitant 
trot.  Leuan followed, thinking if the trot got any 
slower, it would be a walk.  They would reach St. 
Mary's by winter instead of within a few hours unless 
Gwilym instructed his horse to act properly.  Gwilym 
did not look up, one hand still around Duana's middle 
and one playing with her hair in the moonlight.

There was a smart slap as the leather reins met with 
the horse's neck, indicating she meant business, a 
final snort as the horse acquiesced into a canter, 
and two hours later they had reached the abbey.
 
*~*~*~*    

It was too much of a risk to take her inside the 
priory house.  She would pass for a teenaged boy at a 
glance or on a horse, but not at closer inspection.  
And even with him, she would not like being among so 
many men in the close sleeping quarters of the abbey.  
Had Gwilym been able, he would have made a few 
comments about Mary and Joseph and a manger, but 
instead, he just gave Leuan the money to make a deal 
with the Abbot and focused on unsaddling and grooming 
Goliath so he would not be expected to converse. 

Leuan brought several of the monks' unbleached wool 
blankets out to them in the stables, and, choosing 
the loft instead of an empty stall, Duana spread them 
over loose straw in a semblance of a bed. 
 
When she began to undress, the numbness he had needed 
and welcomed since this afternoon finally left his 
brain.  There was something he wanted to feel tonight 
- release.  His wife, acceptance, and reelease.  He 
wanted to be able to die inside her and feel the 
glory of his death mingling with the new life she 
carried.  And he wanted to forget – both the future 
and the past – just for a moment.

No pretenses, no sweet words or silly jokes – he 
could not manage the gentleness or the rhythm of 
them.  Ducking his head to avoid the crossbeams of 
the roof, he had simply gone to her in the corner, 
stripped off her clothing, and pulled her down into 
the straw with him.  Gwilym had always been so 
careful of her, so careful to make it at least nice 
for her, but this time he only managed a 'please.'  
Duana closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around his 
neck, and, exhaling, let him quickly empty his mind 
into her body.  Before she had fallen asleep, she had 
kissed him gently, assuring him he was loved and that 
morning would eventually come.  

He had never done anything so good in his life that 
justified God giving him this woman.  Fortunately, 
for Gwilym, neither had any other mortal man.  

Now he was letting his thoughts float in the musty 
air, bouncing gently off the stone walls, and did not 
hear the fox feet approaching until Duana draped his 
cloak over his shoulders against the coolness of the 
abbey chapel.

"Go back to the stable and sleep, cariad.  The monks 
will want to sail after morning Mass and it will be 
dawn soon."

"Come with me."  When he did not move from his knees, 
she held her torch up to the stone effigy so she 
could read the name and said, "This is your father?"

"And his father and his before that.  Now Dafydd's 
body will lie here, as will mine one day."

"It is not your time to die.  It only feels like it 
tonight.  I have felt it and it passes."  

Emptying his lungs, he stood and took her hand, 
letting her lead him out into the late summer night.  
The moon was huge, close, watching them impersonally 
as it came to rest beyond the Irish Sea.  

"You are not getting on the boat with Father John and me, 
are you, William?"

"I will come for you, but I want a few words with the 
King first.  If that man rules by God's will, then 
God is off governing other worlds."     

Gwilym could feel her mentally crossing her arms and 
fixing those eyes on him, trying to think of some way 
to beg, bribe, threaten, or drag him onto the Templar 
ship.  To hush her lecture, he kissed her brow, then 
rested his forehead tiredly against hers in the doorway
of the stable.  "I have found where I want to be and 
I intend to stay, cariad.  I told you I dared any man 
to say otherwise."

He helped her climb the short ladder to the loft and 
lay down on their makeshift straw bed, undressing her 
again slowly as the bells called the monks to morning 
mass.  Only a few minutes – just once more and then 
he would leave.  This must be a bit of Heaven: 
watching her moving above him as her chest suddenly 
flushed crimson in the purple dawn.  Too tired to 
wait, he followed her, and then pulled her down 
against him, still telling himself that he would 
leave in one more minute.   

One more minute.  He could count it out in his own 
heartbeats.

"I have always heard that angels sing, but I have 
never imagined monks at Mass," she whispered into his 
neck, her breathing slowing.  "Please do not do this, 
William – if you want the King dead, just send me 
back to him.  I know the proper plants to give 
him.  No one would ever suspect me, and no one would 
want me once he is dead."

"I just want him to know Dafydd was his son.  My 
child, but his blood.  Knowing he watched his own son 
hang – and living knowing that – I think that is 
worse than death."

"You will tell him he was the father of Diana's child 
and then join me in Ireland?"

"Yes."  He did not meet her eyes as he dressed.  "I 
have sworn my allegiance to John as my king – I will 
not raise my sword against him."

She pulled the rough blankets around her, picking the 
pieces of straw from her hair, and watched from the 
loft as he resaddled Goliath below.  "You are lying."

*~*~*~*

Christ, he had not foreseen this when he sent Duana 
into hiding with Leuan – that the Knights Templar 
would hide her so well that Gwilym could not find 
her.  His reasoning had been that if he was caught 
and tortured in England, if he did not know her or 
the child's location, he could not give it away.  
Leuan had Gwilym's signet ring, and enough gold and 
Templar credit to take Duana wherever he thought was 
safe, and he certainly had.

The monks of St. Mary's could only tell him that 
Father Leuan and a Templar squire called 'Scully' had 
boarded a ship for Dublin three months past.  She - 
or 'he', rather, was not with nor had he been with 
the Cistercians or the Templars or in any of the 
nunneries or other monasteries in Dublin.  He was 
considering riding to Dover to find what remained of 
the Scully Clan when a barkeeper mentioned the 
Knights of Saint John had built a new Hospital 
nearby.

"A young man named 'Scully'?  Perhaps.  King John has 
not been kind to Ireland; we have many people in need 
of care because of him," the abbot hedged, pushing 
his black cowl back so he could see Gwilym clearly 
through the gates.  "We do not care for the Saeson, 
for the Saxon outsiders here. Who is it that asks for 
'Scully'?"

The two knights flanking the abbot stepped closer, 
hands on their swords.  Obviously the King's men had 
been thorough in their search for Duana.  

"Gwilym.  I am Lord William of Aber."  

Please, please, please.  If she was not here, then 
the Knights and Leuan had decided the danger was so 
great that they had sent her further into hiding – to 
France or the Holy Land and it might take him years 
to find her.  

"I do not see a lord; I see a monk of the Knights 
Templar.  Tell me of this 'Scully' – perhaps I have 
seen him."

"Small, with red-brown hair cut to the chin.  Fair 
skin and blue eyes.  He was ill about -" he had to 
pause to count, "one month past.  Very ill.  He is my 
squire and the man with her is an old Templar priest 
named 'John'." 

The abbot caught that Gwilym had slipped, saying 
'her' instead of him.

"Perhaps 'Scully' is using another name.  We often 
give sanctuary to souls fleeing the cruelty of the 
Crown.  Sometimes I hear their confessions myself."

He took the gamble, rolling his proverbial dice: 
"Duana.  Lady Duana of Aber.  She was with child." 
The Abbot shook his head – he did not recognize that 
name.  "Duana of the Scully Clan.  Countess Duana?" 
He did not know her late husband's name.  "Countess 
Duana of, uh, London."  No – there was no Earl of 
London.  What lands had her husband owned?

"We do not worry so much about lands and titles here.  
Perhaps there is a name only those close to 'Scully' 
know."

Breathing a little easier, fairly confident he only 
had to guess the password to be allowed into the 
monastery hospital, he offered the obvious: "Cariad' 
– I call my wife 'cariad."

"That is very sweet, my lord, but many Welshmen call 
their wives 'beloved.'  Perhaps another name?"

It was no sooner out of Gwilym's mouth than the Abbot 
and the two monastic knights with him became much 
more cooperative: "Witch.  I call her my wanton 
witch."

"Scully has his own quarters below St. Michan's 
Church, just north of the River Liffey.  The birth 
was difficult, but he is well now.  The child is with 
him, and your priest left for Wales to find you when 
we heard - we were afraid of what might happen when 
we heard the rumor that the Old King had died, so as 
soon as the danger of more bleeding has passed, we 
moved your Scully in case the Saeson soldiers 
returned."

Gwilym paused long enough to pour money into the 
man's outstretched hand, then remounted.   

"I had to carefully choose which of my knights I sent 
to St. Michan's to guard your squire.  He is an 
amazing youth, my lord – there was quite a commotion 
among my monks.  If a face like that belonged to a 
woman, kings would pursue her the ends of the Earth, 
even if she were content as another's wife."

That earned no comment from Gwilym, but it held his 
attention.

"You said you have just come from Britain, my lord?  
It is the Templars here that say King John has died – 
it that true?"  Gwilym nodded, and the abbot 
continued, "It is said that his death was quite 
painful – poisoned by a monk, in fact."

"I hear the same, Father, but I'm sure it is just a 
rumor – about the monk.  King John died of dysentery 
in his bed, abandoned by his family and friends, and 
crying like a cowardly child.  I am sure he confessed 
his sins before he passed – all of them.  Long live 
King Henry III."

"Long live the boy-king, Lord William," said the old 
abbot, stepping back from the monastery gates.  "May 
it take him many years to grow up enough to trouble 
the Celts."

"Wait."  He fished in the side of his boot, pulling 
out the pouch and then the ring, now polished so the 
King's lions could be easily seen, even by a dying 
man.  He kneed Goliath close to the bars, handing the 
heavy gold ring through.  "Smelt this and put it to 
better use, Father."
*~*~*~*

He was making an utter fool of himself – pulling 
Duana hard against him, then almost dropping her when 
he realized she had just had a baby.  He finally 
settled for kissing her thoroughly enough to upset 
the monks who had shown him to her chambers secreted 
below the church.  

He was complete.

"Fontevraund Abbey, William," she informed him, 
gathering her things to leave. When he looked 
perplexed, she added: "The Abbey where Eleanor of 
Aquitaine is buried in France.  I have read of it 
and the monks here say the nuns are taught to read 
and write and play music from childhood.  You told me 
I could decide where my child is sent.  I want her to 
go to Fontevraund."

"Cariad -"  

"Can you wait a moment, William?  I want to feed her 
once more before we go.  The monks say they know of a 
wet nurse, but I do not want her to be hungry."

"Duana -"

"Only a minute.  You do not have to see her.  She is 
just in the next room."

"Duana!"  

"Just one damned minute!  I only want one more minute 
with her and then I will go!  The midwife does not 
think I can have another, so Christ forbid you wait 
one Goddamned minute before I have to leave my 
daughter!"

He finally succeeded in getting her attention by 
grabbing her wrist, jerking her back to him.  She 
flinched, expecting to be struck, and he felt like 
the rags tied to a beggar's feet.

"Is there anyone besides you that knows King John 
ever forced you? The entire Court knew you refused, 
so is there anyone who can say King John did not just 
change his mind and want you back, rather than that 
he fathered your child instead of me?"

She considered, and he could see her obediently, 
methodically listing names in her mind, not 
understanding why he was asking.  "No – I have told 
you and confessed my sin to the abbot at the Hospital 
when she was born, but there is no one else but you 
and King John."

"Well, King John is dead.  He died last month; word 
is only now filtering this far north.  If you can 
ride, go get your daughter and we can go home."

Having been married to him for almost nine months 
now, Duana could have an entire castle packed and 
ready in ten minutes, so collecting a tiny baby and 
Dafydd's cloak presented no problem.  By the time she 
stopped sniffing – denying that she was even crying, 
he was giving more coins to the monks and whistling 
for Goliath.     

"What is this child's name, cariad?"

"Eimile.  Here – give her to me before you drop her."

"No.  I have held little girls before."   

He actually did have to hand the bundle to her long 
enough to mount, and she stubbornly refused to give 
the baby back, saying he could either hold the reins 
or the baby, but not both.  Obviously, motherhood had 
not made her more docile.

"How did the King die, William?  I have not heard of 
any battles."

"There is something carved in the church, cariad.  
Can you read that to me?  My eyes are getting old."  
He paused to let her decipher the Latin on the 
cornerstone of St. Michan's Church, knowing full and 
well what it said.
 
She was better with French or Gaelic than Latin, so 
his plan succeeded – she had to stop questioning him 
to translate: "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, 
women the strongest, but truth conquers all."

"That is how the Old King died, cariad.  It is time 
to go home.  I have a son to bury and a daughter to 
acquaint myself with."  Picking up the reins, and 
turning the horse toward the coast, he asked,  "What 
we spoke of that last night in Aber – about being 
fated to certain paths – do you believe that?"

"Why do you ask, William?"   

"Because I have just changed ours for this lifetime.  
We shall have to see how it goes."  One of her arms 
wrapped around his waist, the other holding the baby 
securely against her as he pressed his heels lightly 
into Goliath's sides and clicked his tongue against 
his back teeth.  "One more time old boy – and I hope 
it will be the last. Take us home."

*~*~*~*    

End – Hiraeth III: Saeson


Author's notes: long history lesson & links:
Don't go looking for Aber Castle – there isn't one in 
Snowdonia, although Prince Llewelyn did have a Court 
at Dolwyddelan, and Aber Castle is modeled on his 
other castle, Dolbadarn, built in 1230.  Both are 
still standing and pictured at:
www.castleswales.com/home.html

The Welsh sieges capturing Carmarthen and many other 
castles did happen December 1215 through January 
1216; however, King John was busy losing his father's 
empire to France and almost didn't notice.  John did 
retaliate against the Welch nobles several years 
prior for an uprising as described, but it was not 
the 1215-1216 campaign, nor for a violation of the 
Magna Carta.  This account is lifted from "Here be 
Dragons" by Sharon Kay Penman rather than actual 
original research.  Suffice it to say, King John 
was a nasty, heartless man, and Prince Llewelyn did 
deliver the news personally.
 
The Knights Templar, Cistercian, and Hospitaller were 
overlapping orders of monastic warriors which 
attempted to assist pilgrims, and to capture and hold 
the areas around Jerusalem during the Crusades, much 
to the dismay of the Muslims, who found the Holy Land 
no less 'holy' than the Christians and happened to be 
living there.  Not much has changed between 1096 and 
Y2K.  In Europe, the Templars also served as 'the 
bank' during the Middle Ages – the only place besides 
the Jews where one could borrow large sums of money 
(noblemen who became full monks gave all their wealth 
and lands to the order and secular Knights like 
Gwilym often made large donations as well.)  Because 
the Pope endorsed the order (he tended to endorse 
anyone willing to go on Crusade) and the monarchs 
were always deeply indebted to them, the Knights 
Templar were extremely powerful and almost 
untouchable.  For more than anyone ever needed to 
know about the Knightly orders and the Crusades:
www.merlin-deux.legend.org.uk/~lhudson/
 
The 'truth' quote comes from Rosslyn Chapel in 
Scotland, built in 1440 and purported to be one of 
the places the Knights Templar fled to with their 
treasure and holy relics after Philip IV of France 
arrested them as heretics on Friday the 13th of 
October, 1307.  For the historical account of Rosslyn 
Chapel:
www.rosslynchapel.org.uk/
or for the much more interesting and, um, imaginative 
version:
www.mids.org/sinclair/templar/index.html

One of King John's early escapades when he was still 
Prince John Lackland was as Governor of Ireland – and 
he treated the Irish very badly, allowing his 
soldiers to pillage and rape as they pleased, just as 
they did in Wales.  As a result, both the Irish and 
the Welsh (this is a quote from a historian who 
helped me research) "from the lowest rag picker to 
King Rory" (of Ireland) tended to do everything they 
could to spite King John.  St. Michan's Church still 
stands, with a vault below it containing several 
well-preserved bodies that are said to be Knights 
Templar.  
www.trantex.fe/staff/heikkin/knights/portcull.htm

St. Mary's abbey, built in 1186 in Aberconwy, was 
moved in 1283, and then destroyed when Conway Castle 
was built by Edward I – the son of King Henry III, 
grandson of King John.  Buried there are Llewelyn 
Fawr, the great Prince of Wales who died in 1240, 
and his oldest son Gruffydd.  William Mulder, Sr., is 
not – don't think I didn't check.
www.members.tripod.com/~caryl_williams/conwy-7.html

*~*~*~*

End: Saeson
Title: Hiraeth IV: Credu

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

Keywords: story, historical au, msr, bit o'angst

Spoilers: I can't see how

Summary: Fourth in the Hiraeth Series – Aber, North Wales, early 
winter, 1216

Distribution: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html
 
Silver spoons: Skinner head check – depends on whom you think he 
is, Jen – safe (ends in msr & no cd).  Spooning: yes, Angst-o-meter 
– 5 out of 10.

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

*~*~*~*
Hiraeth IV: Credu
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

"I think, dear husband," she said, stumbling backward into their 
bedchamber and giggling stupidly, "that you have gotten me very 
drunk and are planning on taking advantage of me tonight."

Pulling her dress over her head and tossing it carelessly on the 
floor, Gwilym replied, "No – not at all.  You are so suspicious of 
me.  Damn it!  Untie this, please.  I have made a knot of the 
laces."

Duana fumbled with the ribbons fastening the neck of her chemise 
with clumsy fingers while Gwilym got in the way by kissing the 
hollow of her throat.  She kept trying to bat him aside so she could 
undress properly, but the laces were tied tight and now wet from his 
mouth.  "Just leave it on.  I am still too fat, anyway."

"I would like to see where you keep this fat," he answered, and 
there was a slight tug at her neck as he cut the uncooperative laces 
with his dagger.  "Every male in Aber seems to be keeping track of 
my wife, and none of us can find anything to object to, although 
there is much speculation.  So let me see, cariad – is it – hum – 
here?"  He kissed the slope of her shoulder as her chemise joined 
her dress in the rushes.  "No, no – not there.  Perhaps here?"  
Breast.  "No, I still cannot find it.  Lie back – I will look further.  
Merfyn wants a full report, but I doubt he will get it."

"I also think, William, that you are a little tipsy yourself," she 
replied seriously before falling back into the furs of their bed with 
a little 'ooph' sound and sending the dogs scampering to the floor.  
"Would it be that I am not the only one nervous about this?"

"Of course I am not nervous, witch," came a stern voice from 
somewhere above her in the darkness as he quickly undressed.  
"How dare you suggest such a thing?  Me – nervous about a 
woman."  

The down mattress shifted as Gwilym joined her, gently nuzzling 
his nose into her ear.  "I do not know how to make this any easier 
for you, cariad," he said, his words much softer, "The wine will 
help us both relax and I will go slowly, but the monks say you had 
a great deal of trouble having Eimile.  If it is too bad, tell me and I 
will stop.  You have some other talents I like almost as well."  

"No."  Duana paused to hiccough, then like a very sincere, 
thoughtful child, said:  "Father John says you must have another son.  I 
do not know that it will happen – the midwives say no – but it is 
long past time to begin trying."

Gwilym would have to speak to Leuan about his counsel to his 
wife.  He had wondered why she had suddenly seemed so willing 
this evening after barely noticing him since they returned from 
Ireland.

"He also still pales when anyone mentions women giving birth.  If 
Leuan was in your place, he would be holding me at bay with his 
sword, so I do not think he is fit to advise you to ignore things he 
will never feel."  

From what Gwilym could gather, the Hospitiller monks had asked 
Leuan to come in and bless Duana and the baby while she was in 
labor, thinking one or both of them were going to die.  When asked 
what he had seen, the old priest just crossed himself and mumbled, 
therefore Gwilym had decided he probably did not really want to know.   

"You do not enjoy hurting me.  I trust you.  It is not the hurt – it is 
the intent that lasts long afterward."

She must be very drunk or Duana would never have said such a 
thing; any of his questions about other men were studiously 
ignored, as were his hints about wanting some female attention, 
preferably from her.  

"There is no intent," he whispered to her.  "I wish there was no 
hurt."    

He ran his hands over her, trying to get her to relax and 
reciprocate, but she stayed still, as though she just wanted him to 
do this and have it done.  His mind was panicking – this was going 
to be even worse if she was afraid, but his body, having slept alone 
since before Eimile came, was thankfully reacting anyway.   

Feeling him ready against her, Duana parted her legs, wrapping her 
arms around his neck and pressing her face into his shoulder, 
seeking safety.  Then she waited, breathing shallowly, but 
otherwise being completely still and compliant.

"Do not to that, cariad – Duana.  This is about two people, not just 
one."

"I am sorry."  She still did not move.    

"Do not be sorry.  You still have not had much time to learn any 
different.  Open those pretty eyes and look at me."  They opened, 
trying to focus on his face as he settled on the pillow beside her.   
Gwilym had the strong suspicion that she was seeing at least three 
of him.   "Just tell me what you want, cariad, and I will do it."
 
"I want it to have been you," she mumbled unintelligently as he 
touched between her legs, feeling her flinch, then relax against his 
hand.   

"Nice?"

"Um, nice," she replied, slurring her words a bit.  Duana draped 
her top leg over his hips in response, inhaling quickly when his 
fingers moved inside her, but relaxing a little as he kissed her again.  "Do 
you love me, William?" she asked a few minutes later as he rolled 
her carefully to her back.  "You really had no more choice in our 
marriage than I did, and you never say it."

"I poisoned a king to keep you, cariad, and there has been no other 
woman since I first saw you – not in all these months.  Do you still 
need the pretty words?"   

Her mouth and body opened under his - stiffening as he slowly 
penetrated, but not pulling away.

"Oh, Christ, that is sweet.  So sweet," he managed to say, pausing to 
regain control and let her adjust.  "Cariad – talk to me.  Tell me 
what you want."  She wrapped her legs around his waist, but her 
face stayed buried in his chest as he pressed the rest of the way into 
her.  Gasping now, Gwilym asked her again, "Are you all right?  
Look up at me so I can see you."  The urge to move was 
overwhelming, and she raised her hips to his, indicating she 
wanted that as well.  

"Of course, I love you, Duana.  Jesus, how can you doubt it?  I am 
only mortal."

It was awkward to kiss her lips, but he could feel her breath quick 
and hot against his shoulder, her hands on the small of his back 
now.  "Almost," he assured her, trying to hurry, knowing she was 
uncomfortable.  The last few thrusts were too deep, and he vaguely 
perceived her crying out, but instincts outweighed intentions for a 
few seconds.     

"Oh, God.  God, I have missed you."  Gwilym exhaled, his heart 
beginning to slow as the feeling of total peace overtook him.  
"Cariad, are you all right?  Give me a minute to recover and we 
will see about you," he promised.

She did not look up at him, so he grasped her chin and turned her 
face so he could see it in the moonlight.  Tears; his stomach sank.  
"Oh no – why did you not tell me?  I did not think it was that bad 
for you."

"It was not bad.  I am fine."  Of course – as though she would ever 
admit otherwise.  "I just want it to have been you.  You asked me 
what I want, and that is it.  I do not think even you can do that for 
me, William."

"I succeeded this evening – we are both very drunk, cariad."  He 
rolled to his back, letting her leave her face against his chest, and 
wrapping his arms around her protectively.  "You want who to 
have been me?"

"When I was a virgin; I wish it had been you that found me 
instead," she replied, sounding sleepy.

Completely caught off guard, he answered, "Oh Duana, I wish it 
had been me too.  That would have saved both of us so much hurt."   

*~*~*~*    
              
She was in her nightgown and brushing out what remained of her 
hair before bed – one hundred strokes even, the same as every 
other night, when Gwilym tiptoed in.  Gwen had left a tray of food 
for him on the table, but any hope of getting hot water for a bath 
had passed hours ago unless he wanted to heat it himself or get 
Duana to do it.  

"How is the baby?" he asked, closing the door quietly and leaving 
a trail of his cloak, money purse, dagger, belt, boots, and tunic on 
the floor as he crossed their bedchamber.  Stripping off his linen 
shirt, Gwilym took a breath, braced himself, and plunged his face 
into the basin of icy water.  Duana would not appreciate him 
coming to bed smelling like a tavern.  "Christ, that's cold!" he 
exclaimed, giving everything from the waist up a quick scrub and 
then shaking his head like a dog so that water flew everywhere. 

"Sorry I am so late – I met Llewelyn in the village and we had 
several things to talk about.  It was not as awkward as I had 
thought it would be; seeing him again.  He says his oldest son 
Gruffyd still lives, but only barely.  The Crown is keeping him in 
the Tower for now, but will probably execute him soon.  It must be 
awful to know your son is dying one day at a time; perhaps I 
should be grateful.  And we spoke of betrothing Eimile to his 
younger son – the one by his hearth wife, um, his mistress, before 
Joanna.  I think that would be a good match: unite our lands and 
ensure Eimile's future if I would die in battle.  He will have a 
contract drawn up for me to look over."      

Reaching for the towel, he continued, "Llewelyn wants us to come 
to Christmas Court at Dolwyddelan Castle – he is worried about 
his wife since her father died and I thought you and she might get 
on well.  Joanna speaks only French, so it would give you someone 
to talk to instead of just Leuan and me.  Maybe that would cheer 
both of you up.  Is the baby's cough better?"

"Have you been drinking, William?"  

"Not so much; just enough to loosen my tongue a little.  I think I 
learned my lesson last night – or this morning, rather.  How has 
Eimile been today?"  Deciding it was not worth redressing before 
bed, he draped the damp towel on a hook and came up behind his 
wife, toying with her cropped hair and the smoothness of the back 
of her neck and anticipating.   

Duana shrugged away.  "Eimile is still fevered.  I thought I would 
sleep with her tonight – if that is all right?"  She stood, placing her 
brush on the wooden chest, and focusing on the polished metal 
mirror.  "Do you want anything from me before I go?"  

Her meaning was clear: it was a sin for wives to deny their 
husbands, but there was no vow that said they had to enjoy it.  
Making love to her tonight would be about as nice as embracing an 
icicle – Duana could freeze people with only a look when she 
wanted to.  

The pleasant numbness from the alcohol vanished as Gwilym 
stepped away from her, surprised.  "I suppose not.  Cariad, is 
something wrong?  Last night…"

She shook her head 'no,' still staring past her own reflection.

"Bring the baby to sleep with us."  His eyes scoured her posture for 
clues and he decided not to mention that Eimile had a perfectly 
competent wet nurse to look after her – Duana was just looking for 
an excuse to avoid him.  As always, he had checked the baby 
before he came to their bedchamber and Eimile was fine.  And she 
was not fevered.  "Or do you want to sleep in the nursery?"

"Do you not want me?"

"Of course I want you," Gwilym replied, not understanding this 
female game.  "I think it is more the other way around."

He waited for an answer, but did not get one.  "Fine – go."  He 
turned away from her and jerked at the laces of his breeches, 
stripping for bed.  God forbid he come between her and her 
precious baby – that was all she seemed to care about these days.

Feeling a little warm hand in the small of his back, Gwilym 
stopped, his thumbs still looped in the waist of his breeches.  After 
a few seconds, Duana rested her forehead against his shoulder 
blade, and her breath made his skin shiver as she spoke: "I do not 
know what is wrong with me.  I feel-  I feel…" She tried several 
times, but apparently could not put it into words.

"I am not going to force you – not this night or any other.  And…" 
he swallowed nervously, "…I thought I did what you wanted last 
night.  If I did not – or if all you want is another child, then we can 
wait and see if you have conceived."

Her hands slid around his waist, toying enticingly with the line of 
dark hair that ran down from his navel.  "Another child that you 
can marry off as you please?"

"Llewelyn is a good man and I trust his son will be as well, but a 
woman cannot be married until she is twelve – this is little more 
than a tentative bargain.  If it does not seem like a good match 
when Eimile is older, either to Llewelyn or to me, there will be no 
hard feelings.  Only peasants marry for love, but I will not see her 
miserable."  

Thinking he had figured out what was bothering her, Gwilym 
turned so they were facing each other, her arms still resting on his 
hips.  "I am not trying to send her away.  She will live with us until 
she is at least twelve – probably fourteen.  Llewelyn's Joanna was 
fourteen when they married and I know he thought she was too 
young; I still think you are too young some nights.  I am not eager 
to give Eimile to a man, especially a young man, as soon as she is 
of age.  And once she is married, she will just be as few hours ride 
away."

"But she can decide?   If she does not want to marry Llewelyn's 
son, she does not have to?"

"If she objects, I will not insist.  No, she does not have to."  He 
rested his chin on top of her head, closing his eyes, finally 
understanding.  "And neither do you.  You do not owe me another 
child, nor will I make you leave Eimile here.  You both have 
always been free to go as you please…   Maybe it would be better 
for you to return to the world you know instead of…" Gwilym had 
to stop speaking before his voice broke.

Duana balled her hands into fists against his chest, as though she 
wanted very badly to hit someone.  "No, I do not want to leave.  
And, yes, I want to give you another child.  When I woke up with 
you this morning – I had forgotten how much I liked that: not 
feeling alone.  You are so good to me – I should be on my knees 
thanking God that you care for me and Eimile."

"Then what is wrong?  Help me understand."  He put a hand under 
her chin and tilted her face up, stroking her soft cheek with the 
other.  "You are so lovely.  I know you do not think so – you can 
list your imagined flaws the way other women list their attributes - 
but I want you or no one.  You are not going to find another 
woman in my bed just because you are not ready yet."   

Gwilym took two steps back so he could sit on the high mattress, 
pulling a reluctant Duana to come with him.  He wracked his brain, 
still guessing.  "This son of Llewelyn's is no relation to King John 
and there is no stigma in Wales that he is a bastard.  His mother 
Tangwystl died giving birth to him.  Llewelyn has always 
acknowledged all his children just as I did Dafydd and my 
daughter.  Do you not like that Llewelyn's wife is John's daughter?  
Or do you not want Eimile married to a Welshman?  I just 
thought… I do not like how Normans treat their wives; I do not 
want my daughter married to a stranger who can beat her as he 
pleases."

It was a typical Gwilym tactic when talking to women: just keep 
moving and eventually he would stumble onto the correct thing; 
there was often very little strategy involved.  Duana finally exhaled 
and lay down, so he must have said something right – now he just 
had to figure out what it was.  He curled up behind her, draped an 
arm over her shoulders, and pondered it, pursing his lips with the 
effort. 

"When I first came here, I wanted nothing more than to close my 
eyes, lay in your arms, and let you fight my battles for me.  And 
you did – I cannot even think how to begin repaying you."

He opened his mouth to tell her he expected nothing in return 
except to be allowed to care for her, but wisely decided to stay 
silent and let her talk.    

"You are so good at it – leading people, fighting the good fight, 
making the hard decisions – and I know you only want the best for 
me and Eimile.  I feel like…  If Llewelyn or another man you 
trusted was lonely one night, you would feel free to offer me to 
him the same as you would offer your horse if his was lame.  And 
you would be surprised if I objected to anything you wanted, 
provided you even noticed I was objecting in the first place."

Gwilym raised himself upon his elbow, eyes wide.  "Are you insane?"  
She must think he was a barbarian.

"I must be." 
    
*~*~*~*
 
"She thinks I would offer her to another man."

"No, I do not think that is exactly what you first said Duana said, 
Gwilym."  Llewelyn waved away the tavern owner, wanting some 
privacy as opposed to more wine or a prostitute tonight.  "And 
even if it is, women seldom say what they mean, anyway.  I do not 
think she really expects to be sent to sleep with me the next time 
Joanna and I fight."

"I certainly hope not." Gwilym replied, pausing to empty his cup, 
but relieved to finally talk to someone about this.  He and his sofa, 
after a brief separation, were on good terms once again.  Merfyn 
and Leuan, of course, would always listen, but listening and 
understanding were two different things – and Merfyn would tell 
the entire castle. "There are some things that should not be shared, 
even between friends: wives, blood, tooth aches, bad luck…"

"The French pox, lice, and hangovers," Prince Llewelyn added 
helpfully, nodding.

"Many women are in bad humor after having a child," Leuan 
chimed in, eager to change the topic before Gwilym and Llewelyn 
started reminiscing about a few women they had shared in their 
wilder youth.  "It has to do with having too much black bile, but it 
will pass as soon as she conceives again."

The other two men were too kind – and sober - to comment on the 
priest's naiveté – there was an obvious step between a wife being 
sad and cranky all the time and becoming pregnant again that 
Leuan was not taking into consideration.  

"Have faith - marriages will survive many things with time and 
patience," Llewelyn counseled, speaking from experience.  His 
wife was still grieving her father's death – a father who bartered 
her as a political pawn the same as he had Duana – while the rest 
of Wales rejoiced in his death and openly hoped the late King John 
was burning in Hell.   

If Llewelyn said a marriage could survive, Gwilym took that to 
heart.  He understood, as few others did, how much it had hurt 
Llewelyn to find his pretty wife in their bed with a younger man a 
few years ago.  Llewelyn had ordered her lover hanged, taken 
Joanna back, and sworn he loved her just the same, and, to the 
casual eye, he did.  Even Joanna probably thought their marriage 
was the same, but there was a watchfulness to Llewelyn now – his 
sense of himself as a man had been shaken.  He could unite and 
lead Wales, but not please his wife – or not please her well enough.      

The age difference between Llewelyn and Joanna was about the 
same as between Gwilym and Duana – fine, even preferable when 
the man was still in his prime, but worrisome when he begins 
seeing the autumn of his life.  Gwilym was looking forty years of age 
square in its smug, gray face and aware he was married to one of the
most beautiful women alive, more than a decade his junior.

Although Duana said she wanted Gwilym in her bed, she had only 
acted on that once since the baby had come, and that was out of 
duty.  It had been months now – weeks since that one night, and 
his pride was suffering severely.  True, Duana had been very 
pregnant by the time he had returned from the last campaign, so 
lovemaking had been a little limited, but she had at least been 
interested.

Very interested in her Welsh lessons, in Gwilym's view.  Perhaps 
now that the threat of being sent back to King John had passed, so 
had her interest.

"You think she just needs time?  I do not want to push her, but I 
honestly do not think she knows what she wants."

"That," Llewelyn speculated, dividing the last of the wine between 
the three cups, "could be the problem."

*~*~*~*  

"Hush, Duana, hush," he murmured, rocking her gently against 
him.  The nightmare was not stopping – she continued to struggle, 
so Gwilym let go of her so she would not think she was being held 
down.  He stayed with her, rubbing her back and shoulders and 
pushing her hair off her sweaty face until her thrashing stopped.  
"It is just me, cariad.  You are safe; no one is going to hurt you.

Once she awoke, terrified and sobbing blindly in the darkness, she 
curled into a little ball on his lap until the shudders and demons 
retreated to the corners.  

"You were watching me," she finally said, her voice muffled 
against his chest.

"I was watching you," he admitted softly, pulling the coverlets 
around her.  One of his own nightmares was of her being so very 
cold and him not being able to help her – having fallen through the 
ice of a frozen lake, perhaps.  He often awoke to visions of her 
blue eyes open under the ice, red hair swirling in the frigid water, 
silently pleading with him to save her.  That dream came more and 
more often now as he felt her pulling away from him, the bond 
they had once shared dying a little each day. 

"I did not know you still did that – watching at night."  Duana 
sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Gwilym raised his eyebrows, although she could not see his 
surprised expression.  His daughter was still out there somewhere, 
trying to find her way home, and now his Dafydd lay in the vault 
in Aberconwy beside Gwilym's father and grandfather.  His Duana 
slept alone in their bed, tormented by dreams she did not want to 
discuss with him, and the Old King's bastard daughter slept in the 
nursery, her entire young life a tangled lie.  He had no male heir 
and his wife tended to look through him these days, as though he 
were made of mist.  

Gwilym had every reason to be sleeping like a baby, safe in the 
arms of the angels.  

"You know I would kill them if I could, cariad.  If these demons 
that come to you at night were flesh, I could kill them with my 
bare hands and the dreams would stop."

"Sometimes demons are flesh, William," she replied, pressing even 
closer to him.  "Sometimes they are handsome young men with 
fine horses and armor and mysterious, foreign languages – quite 
dazzling to a peddler's daughter."

"Tell me about these demons so I will recognize them if they enter 
my dreams."  Aside from knowing she had been treated badly by a 
young English knight, and then left in London, Gwilym had no 
idea how she had come to leave Ireland.  

She did not seem inclined to answer, so he tried a different tactic: 
"You know, I passed through Dover that year, and I am a fool for 
girls with big, blue eyes.  Perhaps I should have thrown you across 
my saddle and taken you home with me.  I have never been with a 
virgin, so then it would have been me, as you said."

She sniffed again, her breathing slowing.  "I have heard Gwen's 
stories of you – you would have ridden past me and never 
stopped."

Although that was probably true, that was not the direction he 
wanted this conversation to take.  "Try me and see."   

Duana looked up at him, trying to decide if she was going to 
tolerate this silliness.  Exhaling, she replied, "If you are the soldier 
that has been following me, you are wasting your breath and 
charm.  I do not understand a word you Normans say.  My brothers 
speak French – go find one of them to bother." 

Relaxing with her, he lay down, settling her on the bed in front of 
him and hoping he would not be told to leave.  "Do not insult me – 
I am a Welshman.  King John sent the Welsh archers to Dover with 
his soldiers.  We do not want to be here any more than you want us 
here."

"Welsh, Norman – all you soldiers look alike, jabbering in your 
foreign tongues and taking whatever appeals to you.  I cannot tell 
the difference."

"You can tell us apart by our swords: the Welsh are larger and 
much more skilled," he quipped, then immediately regretted it, 
thinking he might upset her.  Luckily, Duana did not seem to get 
his joke, or else she ignored it if she did.  

"Fine, you and your sword are Welsh.  Good day and ride on, Sir 
Welshman."   

"Oh, but I am wounded.  A very angry, although also very 
inaccurate Irishman, remember?"  For the first time in months, he 
heard her chuckle.  "Could you see to my wound before I fall out 
of my saddle with fever?"

She considered for a moment.  "Well, I suppose I can.  If you are 
really so ill, you are probably harmless.  Why are you riding across 
Ireland with a wound?  Are you in such a hurry to get home?"

"I will tell you a secret, little girl." He raised his lips close to her 
ear and whispered: "I have what Normans call a mistress – a hearth 
wife – and she and I are expecting a child any day.  There is an 
older boy, but this baby is mine, I think.  I hope.  My first child."

Duana adjusted her head on the pillow, tickling his face with her 
hair.  "You are teasing me.  You are much too young to be 
married."

"No, not married – it is slightly different: a pagan rather than a 
Christian marriage.  And I am…" Gwilym paused to count.  
"…five and twenty or so.  If you are fourteen, then I am five or
six and twenty and living with Diana, much to my father's 
annoyance.  Dafydd is small and my daughter is about to be born."

She rolled to face him, resting her open palms against his bare 
chest.  "Diana will be dead when you return."

He nodded.  He had not planned for this discussion to be about 
him, but Duana somehow dammed conversations so they flowed 
around her life rather than through it.

"You loved her."

"I thought I did," he admitted.  "She was so lovely – not like you, 
but tall, with black, black hair and soft brown eyes.  I would have 
given anything if she had loved me back.  She loved everyone else, 
but seldom me."

Gwilym fidgeted, uneasy.  He had never said that aloud to another 
soul.

"Then she was a fool, William."   

He looked away, embarrassed.  "She had good reason not to.  I 
loved a few others besides her as well.  One of those women was 
the reason Diana died."

Her hand came up, gently exploring the angles of his face in the 
moonlight.  

"My demons are my own, just as yours are.  These are the last – 
the hardest to slay – but they are mine to face."  She grasped his 
chin and turned his face to hers, just as he often did to her.  "Do 
you understand?  This is not about you any more than Diana was 
about me."

He nodded, vaguely comprehending.

"I think I have banished them for a little while, and we have not 
yet made another child."

"No?"  Gwilym had obviously been away often in the last weeks.  
The entire castle tended to cower in the few days before her time 
came, but he had not been home to notice.  

"No.  Would you like to stay and try again?"

He opened his mouth, inhaling her scent, his lips brushing hers as 
he answered: "No – but can I stay and make love to my wife?  That 
is what I would like."

*~*~*~*

The lessons had come so easily as a youth: parry, thrust, deflect, 
sidestep, crosscut, turn.  Fit the arrow, draw the bow; raise the 
shield, twist the knife.  After more than twenty years, Gwilym's 
muscles had learned the moves repeated thousands upon thousands 
of times in practice and in war so well he would have sworn his 
body would keep fighting for a full ten minutes if he were ever to 
lose his head.

Welsh soldiers were taught to fight man against man; swords, 
maces, spears, and arrows suited the harsh terrain better than 
heavily armored knights.  He had always thought it was a little 
taste of Hell: to watch Death move across the battlefield dragging 
his bloody cloak behind him, taking the enemy one by one.  It was 
a different thing to kill a man while looking into his eyes – there 
was very little glory in it.  
 
That ability to blend strategy with skill and to travel quickly and 
lightly was old-fashioned – barbaric, according to the English.  The 
world had moved on and Wales had not moved with it.  Ambushes, 
raids, stealth, battle-hardened men who fought for their own land 
and lives instead of honor: the English said it lacked chivalry and 
grace.  It probably did.  But Gwilym and his countrymen still 
preferred to be laughed at as free heathens than revered as the 
noble, gallant dead.  
 
Dead enemies only laughed so loudly, anyway.

Gwilym remembered watching, amused in the way only a sixteen-
year old boy could be, when he saw his first tournament during a 
trip to London.  Knights in armor so heavy and cumbersome they 
had to be lifted onto horses had taken great pride in unseating each 
other with lances.  

'Who taught these men how to fight?' Gwilym had asked Merfyn, 
who was still nursing a hangover from their exploits at the brothels 
the previous night and had preferred to avoid bright lights and loud 
noises.  "Why bother to ride out to joust with him?  Wait until he 
has to piss in that armor: he will get down."

Merfyn had shushed him then, probably saving him from being 
hanged by a mob of insulted Englishmen, but it was the truth: the 
Norman ways of war were laughable in Wales.  In seven and thirty 
years now, no one had ever offered Gwilym a lady's hanky for 
knocking another man off a horse, but he had always returned from 
battle only a little worse for wear.

Until last summer.  The arrow that had passed through his shoulder 
had done damage not obvious to the eye.  Gwilym had ignored it 
for months, thinking it would heal.  His shoulder had mended 
quickly, thanks to Duana, but his grip-

"Gwil!" Merfyn said sharply, bringing his lord back to the present 
as they spared in the bailey.  "How is the arm?"

"Tiring," he replied, still deflecting the sergeant's blows easily 
with the wooden practice sword, but of course, Merfyn was not 
really trying to kill him.  "Take pity on me."

"I will be sure to tell that to the next enemy you encounter.  Lord 
Gwilym's right hand may fall asleep, so move slowly when you try 
to run him through.  I am sure your opponent will listen.  Perhaps 
Lady Dana can write a note and pin it to your shirt: 'please-"

Snorting, Gwilym swung his sword hard and felt numbness 
suddenly shooting up from his fingertips as he made contact with 
Merfyn's shield.  He managed to keep his grip on the hilt and 
backed away a few steps, buying himself some time.

"Back further," Merfyn ordered, and Gwilym quickly skipped 
backward a few more feet.  "If you are going to drop your sword, 
get out of the reach of mine.  And do not look down at your hand.  
You know where it is, even if you cannot feel it.  Do not give 
yourself away.  Shield up – think about defending yourself until 
you can attack again."

He tried to focus, to do as Merfyn instructed, and compensate for a 
right arm that was almost useless at the moment.

"Do NOT drop your shield," the sergeant ordered, seeing his 
student wanting to discard it and grab his sword with both hands to 
steady it.  "Shield up – forget about your right hand until you can 
use it again.  Close your stance!  You know your opponent will 
overcut, so expect it.  Use your wits.  Just keep a hold on your 
sword; the feeling will return.  Do not strike-"

Gwilym spun around, using the momentum to strike, and Merfyn 
knocked Gwilym's sword out of his hand effortlessly.  

"-until you can feel your hand again," Merfyn finished, pointing 
the blunted tip of his practice sword at Gwilym's throat.  "Now 
you are dead."

"Shit," he spat out, gritting his teeth and exhaling sharply.  "Damn 
it!"  He picked up the wooden sword from the icy cobblestones, 
knowing it was far lighter than the one he wore in battle, still 
struggling to keep his fingers tight around it.   "Again."

"Enough for today," Merfyn replied, turning away, seeing no point 
in embarrassing his student further.  Gwilym was many years younger, 
much taller, and his reach was longer, not to mention he knew 
every trick Merfyn could teach him.  The sergeant had not beaten 
Gwilym in a fair fight since his lord was a squire and should not 
have beaten him now.  

"Again," Gwilym insisted, his blood still pounding hot in his ears.  

"Enough!"

Well into the winter of his life himself, Merfyn recognized the look 
in the other man's eyes: fear.  The fear that his body was beginning 
to fail him and the rest of the world would move on, leaving him 
behind.  

"The strength and speed are there now, and the numbness comes 
less and less often.  In time, you may heal," the older man assured 
him.  "I have seen such injuries before.  Have patience and try not 
to get killed until then.  Your temper is your biggest weakness, not 
your hand."

Defeated, Gwilym followed Merfyn into the castle, settling beside 
the hearth in the great room to sulk for a bit.  A hound ambled over 
and rested a grayed muzzle on his knee, looking up at his master 
with sympathetic brown eyes.            

"We will practice again tomorrow," he informed Merfyn, as Duana 
quietly appeared with two cups of hot tea in her hands and the rest 
of his dogs at her heels.  "Early – before we leave for Christmas 
Court."  

Merfyn nodded in agreement.  "If it does not snow.  I am too old to 
be sparring in a blizzard, even for you."  Understanding Gwilym's 
restlessness, he continued, "You are better than many men you are 
likely to meet in battle now, even if the feeling does not return."

Gwilym focused on the blazing fire, wishing with all his heart that 
Merfyn would shut his mouth in Duana's hearing.  He had not told 
her to what extent the wound in his shoulder had affected his hand; 
there was no need for her to know of his weakness.  It did not 
matter that they were speaking Welsh; Duana would only have to 
catch a few words to understand.   

"Perhaps it is my fault, perhaps I made a poor choice, but I never 
tried to make a warrior of you, Llwynog.  You are one of the best 
soldiers I have ever trained, but I did not teach you to love the kill.  
I saw more in you, even as a boy – a spark, perhaps – and I did not 
have the heart to snuff it out and have you glory in bloodshed.  
Instead, I taught you to fight with your mind as well as your sword, 
how to lead armies and command respect rather than to follow 
blindly.  I have been proud to fight beside you and I have always 
known you killed only because you had to." 

Merfyn was trying to comfort his student and not succeeding, 
although he did not understand why.  Duana lingered in the 
shadows as he prattled on, obviously wanting something, but not 
willing to interrupt.    

"You fight with your head and your heart; your body is only 
secondary.  For you, that is as it should be.  Yes, your season as a 
soldier will pass.  This wound will heal, but even you cannot 
outwit time.  It is a passage, just like your first battle or woman.  
Do not fear it, because your fear will eat at you." 

Gwilym looked at his long fingers, watching the miraculous way 
the tendons flowed over the joints as the feeling began to return to 
his right hand.  

"Llwynog-"

"Stop that!  Do not call me that," Gwilym snapped.  "I am not a 
boy; do not speak to me as if I was."  

Realizing he had raised his voice and Duana probably could not 
follow such a quick conversation, Gwilym reached his tingling 
hand out for her, letting her know she was not the focus of his 
anger.  Duana took it, letting him pull her close and put his arm 
around her waist as she stood beside him.

Merfyn was surprised at the gesture: to see such an open display of 
affection between them.  It was Gwilym's right to touch his wife 
whenever and wherever he wanted, but he had always been very 
private, even for others before Duana.  Gwilym had never been one 
to have a girl squirming and giggling on his lap for all to see; to 
taunt other men with what he could have and they could not.   

It was no secret that Gwilym adored his wife much more than was 
proper, and although Merfyn had learned not to say it in his lord's 
presence, there was much to adore.  Perhaps Duana was not the 
willowy golden-haired doe that was the fashion at Court, but 
fashion was for men who needed to have beauty pointed out to them.    
Although he was content with his own wife and much too old to be 
pining over some girl, Merfyn was not dead.    

He watched as Gwilym brushed his fingers lightly over her flat 
stomach, toying with the fabric of her gown.  "Votre temps? Vous 
n'etes pas avec l'enfant?  Non?" he asked, raising his face to look 
up at her.  

"Non," Duana answered in French, her eyes very sad and almost 
frightened.  "Je regret."

Gwilym murmured something that sounded comforting in the 
jumble of French and Welsh that was unique to the two of them, 
but which Merfyn did not understand.  To the old man's open-
mouthed surprise, Duana sat down on Gwilym's lap and leaned her 
head against his chest.  

"Leave us," Gwilym ordered Merfyn, putting his arms around his 
wife's shoulders and focusing his gaze again on the fire.    

*~*~*~*
 
"Does he always do this?" Joanna whispered to her husband as she 
watched Lord William watch Lady Duana of Aber across the noisy 
banquet hall.  Even amid the minstrels and jesters and guests 
reveling in the chaotic Welsh Christmas Court, William's eyes 
seldom left his wife for more than a few seconds. "The way he 
looks at her is unsettling."  

"Gwilym - William?"  Llewelyn responded idly, bored with the 
festivities.  "Yes, he probably always does."

"I do not like it."  Joanna had encountered William only a few 
times before and, although he was unquestionably handsome, the 
intensity and intelligence smoldering in his dark eyes had always 
unnerved her.  And, just as he had been doing since he and his wife 
arrived, William always spoke of the oddest things – Joanna could 
not imagine what it must be like to live with him. 

"Then it is a good thing you are my wife instead of his," the Prince 
of Wales replied tersely.  "Hush – William speaks French fairly 
well and he has sharp ears."

"I am content to be your wife," she mumbled, not wanting to pick 
yet another fight with her husband in front of all their guests.  It 
seemed they could not exchange more that three words without 
quarreling these days.

Still watching the revelers, particularly Lord William's wife, 
Llewelyn leaned his face close to hers and whispered, "Are you?"

Joanna answered immediately, "Of course," then added with 
uncharacteristic boldness, "But if you shush me again as if I were 
still fourteen instead of Princess of Wales for the last decade, I will 
pay you back while you sleep tonight."

"Please do," the prince replied, giving her thigh a promising 
squeeze underneath the table, "but wake me first.  Call Lady 
Duana over if you are so curious – I promise you will like 
her… and she speaks French.  I asked William to bring her so you 
could meet."

Joanna watched the petite woman, who seemed to be trying to 
blend into the walls instead of watching the acrobats.  She was still 
attracting a great deal of unwanted male attention, although it was 
now much more discreet.  Lord William was known as quite a 
soldier, and it did not seem wise to flirt with his wife in his 
presence.  Most Welshmen knew that, but a stranger had been sent 
sprawling into the rushes for something William deemed insulting.  
The wine had been flowing and the cultures clashing for hours, so 
Lord William and the foreigner had been the seventeenth of nine 
and twenty fights so far, by Joanna's count, and, lacking swords or 
daggers, certainly had not been the most exciting.                
 
"She was my father's mistress, yes?"

"No," Llewelyn replied, a little too quickly.  He preferred not to lie 
to his wife, but Joanna had left London too young to understand 
how cruel her father could be.  She would never repeat the secret, 
but still, there was no need to burden her with the specifics.  

"As I understand it, Duana was brought to London as an Irish spoil 
of war, probably unwillingly, probably very young.  Instead of 
ending up in the brothels once the soldiers tired of her, she married 
an earl – a count, for you Normans.  It is said to have caused quite 
a scandal – he and his stepson were both in love with her and never 
spoke again after that.  I met the Earl only a few years ago when he 
was already very ill, but still he adored her.  Countess Duana – she 
was very memorable because she reminded me of you, in many 
ways.  After he died, I saw her at Court and thought she would be a 
good match for our William - it seems she is."  

"My goodness, what a romantic story.  She is Gaelic royalty, 
then?"

Joanna had an interesting notion of romance.  "No, she is a 
merchant's daughter – a peddler, William says."  Llewelyn wanted 
to tell her at least something truthful.

"No!"  Joanna almost dropped their wine cup.  "A count and then a 
lord both – without a dowry," she sputtered.  "Why, she is a 
peasant!"  Having spent her youth expecting to marry for a 
political alliance, Joanna could not fathom two powerful men 
marrying for no gain except a woman.  

In a rare moment of romantic idealism, slightly bolstered by wine, 
he blurted out, "I would have married you if you were a peasant 
instead of a King's daughter.  Even now."

Even now: even knowing their daughter had almost cost Joanna 
her life and there would be no more; even as her half-brother the 
king held his son Gruffyd's life in his childish hands; even 
when both had brought others into their marriage bed.  Even as 
Llewelyn watched his friend Gwilym and Duana struggle to 
rebuild their lives, having had their innocence shattered by the 
whims of the late King John – Joanna's father.  Even as he and 
Gwilym finalized the marriage contract: King John's bastard 
daughter Eimile, with Gwilym's name and lands, would one day 
wed his son by Tangwystl, uniting North Wales.         

Even now.

Embarrassed at having said something so silly, even to his wife, 
Llewelyn looked for an excuse to crawl underneath the long 
banquet table and hide.

"Now, you know that is not true," she replied softly.  Their 
marriage had been arranged sight unseen when she was thirteen years
of age for her dowry and as a shaky truce between the English king
and a fledgling Welsh warrior-prince.  Falling in love – and then 
forgiving and trying to rebuild after Joanna had been with another 
man - had been only an aside.  

"Well, I like to think I would have," he said sheepishly, forgetting 
he was Llewelyn Fawr – Llewelyn the Great - instead of a teenage 
boy.

Joanna let him squirm for a bit in repayment for shushing her 
earlier, and then replied, "Then that is enough."   

*~*~*~*   

Trying not to lose her way in the unfamiliar twists and turns of 
Dolwyddelan Castle, Duana tiptoed past the sounds of passion and 
rhythmic snores, carefully stepping over the guests in the hallway 
who had not quite made it to their pallets.  It was not uncommon to 
find men and women hastily seeking privacy wherever they could 
find it, especially during Christmas Court when every alcove was 
filled with Llewelyn's guests.  Visitors, even nobility, either 
bedded down where they could find space, or simply were left 
where they passed out.  Couples moved by wine or lust had all the 
seclusion shadows or a hastily hung curtain could offer and were 
politely ignored by anyone who might overhear.  

William must be accustom to living like this during war – Duana 
supposed soldiers could either bring a woman into a tent for all to 
hear, or have her in the middle of the field for all to see.  At 
London Court, privacy had been even more unheard of: servants 
slept on pallets on the floor of the bedchamber, baths were weekly 
communal affairs in the river, and anything short of giving birth 
was done in public view.   

At his own castle, William was very private, which the servants 
found quite eccentric, but tolerable.  The dogs were allowed in the 
bedchamber with her at night, but no one else – except William, of 
course.  And William bathed first and bolted the door.  And asked; 
she was always still surprised that he asked.   
 
William had told her he planned to sleep near the hearth with the 
other men and catch up on the latest gossip and boasting, but she 
was having a difficult time identifying her particular male among 
the huddled, drunken masses.  So far, Duana had interrupted seven 
couples, including a very flustered Father John and a tall blonde 
woman, but she had not found William.

As far as she could tell, he was not among the men asleep on 
pallets in the great room.  She should go back to Joanna's 
bedchamber where she was supposed to be and just ignore the 
sounds coming from behind the closed bed curtains.  William 
would have sent for her if he wanted her company tonight, flux or 
no flux.

If William was not here, he clearly did not wish to be found, 
especially by her.

He had always done it: she would awake in the morning and he 
would be gone.  There would be a note saying he had to settle a 
dispute between his serfs or gone hunting or that a girl who might 
be his daughter had been found.  Lately, William had been away so 
often he had given her his signet ring: she could handle all his 
correspondence and accounts, signing his name as she saw fit.   
His estate was large, she told herself.  Wherever he went, it was 
more than a day's ride.  That was the reason he did not come back 
some nights.  And perhaps deer were scarce this winter – although 
Melvin found plenty of venison – that was why William came 
home from 'hunting' empty-handed.   

Even William would not go out in the blizzard that was raging, 
though.  There was no pretty excuse she could make herself 
believe tonight.             

Of course it was to be expected: fidelity was her vow, not 
William's.  Would she rather he brought a mistress into his castle 
for everyone to see and then present her with a few bastard 
children to raise?  He had told her she would not find another 
woman in their bed; he had always kept his promises to her.  That 
was William – very noble, even in adultery.  

Duana told herself it was better this way – some servant or peasant 
girl whose name she would never know – as her face burned with 
shame.  

This was because of her: he had said he wanted no woman except 
her, and William did not tell his secrets lightly.  Duana knew she 
had hurt him after Eimile came, hurt his pride rather than his body 
by her hesitance.  After the first few nights, William had not even 
bothered to come to bed, choosing to sleep on the sofa as he did 
before they married.  

She had left him without really leaving him, and now she did not 
know how to make it right.  

She would build a wall around this man, if she could, and dare 
anyone else to try to harm him or take from him again.  She would 
cut her hand and have it bleed feeling back into his, although she 
was not supposed to know about that, of course.  She would take 
his sword and stand at the border of Aber and challenge anyone 
who even thought of crossing into their lives again.  To only say 
she 'loved' him was like trying to use words to describe a sunrise: 
hopelessly inadequate.

How could he not resent her, not want to find comfort with 
another?  No matter what William might say, King John would 
have never thought to execute his David unless John had suspected 
she was carrying Eimile.  William's heir had died because of her, 
and now she could not even give him another child.  And why 
execute only one child when there were thirty Welsh boys at the 
English Court?  Wales had been in rebellion – hang them all and 
make an example of what happens to vassals who disobey the 
English Crown.      

Thirty little boys - when all Duana had to do was consent to King 
John until he became bored with her and found another trinket.

"Duana?" came a surprised whisper from behind her.  She turned, 
making out William standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the 
dim torch on the wall behind him.  "Duana! Come out of there 
right now!"

Relieved, she made her way through the sprawling, snoring men on 
the floor, trying not to tread on anyone.

As soon as he could reach her, William took her by her shoulder 
and steered her into the hallway, being so rough she winced.
"What do you think you are doing?  You cannot just go for a midnight 
stroll among strange men!  There are Normans in there - Marcher 
Lords – actors - did you not see them watching you this evening?  I 
could shake you!  How could you be so foolish?"

"Prince Llewelyn-" she started to explain, but he continued 
angrily:

"You think I am a barbarian? These are barbarians!  You do not 
even have your veil on.  You cannot go prancing around like some 
wanton and expect me to protect you from every man in the 
castle!"

Duana ran her hands over her hair self-consciously, suddenly angry 
at herself.  Although she had managed to wash the dye out, it did 
not even reach her shoulders now.  It did not seem worthwhile to 
braid it for bed, but she had not thought of the signal that would 
send to any man who might see her.

"I am sorry – I did not mean to embarrass you.  Prince Llewelyn-"  

William had never hit her, but this was as angry as she had ever 
seen him.  Frightened, she pressed back against the cold stone wall 
as he leaned down so they were eye to eye.  "You will not find 
Llewelyn here," he said icily.  "If you want him, go to his 
bedchamber, but do not make a laughingstock of me in front of all 
these men."

*~*~*~*

To Gwilym's absolute horror, Duana slid down the wall, wrapped 
her arms around her knees, pulling herself into an impossibly tiny 
ball, and began to sob silently.

He stood frozen over her, shocked as much at himself for making 
such an unfounded accusation as her uncharacteristic reaction. 

She had been miserable since they arrived: too many men, too 
many strangers.  Probably the very idea of Christmas Court has 
been what was making her nauseated last week.  Gwilym had 
considered making excuses and taking her home – it was only a 
few hours ride – but then the snowstorm had started.  The best he 
could do was to have Duana sleep with the other noblewomen in 
Joanna's bedchamber rather than in the communal great room with 
him.  Besides Gwilym and Leuan, who was fawning over some 
Norse woman again, Prince Llewelyn was the only person she 
knew.  Of course if something was wrong and she could not find 
Gwilym, she would look for Llewelyn.   

A guard passed through, pausing to appraise the situation.  "My 
Lord – is there anything…"

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' and the sentry averted his eyes and 
continued walking.  There was a fine for beating a woman, but it 
was the wife's family's place to object to her treatment, not a 
guard's.   

Now feeling like a complete fool, not to mention a brute, Gwilym 
squatted down, facing her, trying to catch her eye.  "Duana, get up, 
for pity's sake," he whispered.  "I did not mean that.  I did not 
really think…  I am not going to hurt you.  I was just upset – afraid 
for you.  For God's sake, at least look at me."

Her face stayed buried in her skirt as her shoulders shook.  

"I do not understand, cariad.  I have seen you make men's knees 
quiver just by looking at them, including me.  I am just being a 
jealous ass.  Raise your eyebrow, cross your arms, laugh at me, and 
tell me to go to Hell.  Christ, Merfyn has even stopped picking his 
teeth with his knife at the table out of fear of your temper."  He 
lowered his volume still more.  "What happened?  Why were you 
looking for me?  Did you have a bad dream?  Did one of the men 
bother you?"

She still did not move, and the people passed out in the hallway 
were beginning to stir, so Gwilym pulled her to her feet and guided 
her into the vast, empty kitchens.  As soon as he let her go, Duana 
slumped into a chair beside the hearth, covering her face again.

Gwilym found a cup that did not look too dirty and brought her a 
drink, which she ignored as though he was not even there.

"What is wrong, cariad?  Please do not do this.  Just yell at me 
and feel better.  Please?  You have been so much happier in the last 
few weeks.  Is this because your – your flux came?  Duana, I do 
not want you to have another baby just yet.  It is too soon.  I know 
you do, but…"  

He took her hands, and she moved as obediently as a sleepy child 
as he looked for marks.  No, no bruises on her wrists or face.  Her 
dress, from what he could see, was not torn.  Llewelyn had quietly 
increased the number of sentries patrolling during Christmas 
Court, and touching another's wife would cost a man his head: it 
could still happen, though.  Gwilym had not dreamed she would 
leave Joanna's bedchamber without an escort, although he should 
have known.  Satan himself had better not stand in Duana's way 
when she wanted something.

There were no marks on her, she would not talk, and she would 
not listen to him.  After stoking the kitchen fire so she would not 
freeze, he sat down on the floor beside her chair and waited, not 
knowing what else to do.

"I am so sorry, William.  I – I will stop."  She took a few shuddery 
breaths, trying to regain control.  "What is wrong with me?  I think 
I am fine one minute, and the next-" Duana raised her hands 
helplessly.  "I feel so weak."

"I know that feeling," he replied cupping her cheek into the palm 
of his right hand.  

"Prince Llewelyn is with Joanna – I did not want to stay…"

"Ah."  Gwilym understood.  Llewelyn and his wife must have 
reconciled.  Closed bed curtains were more privacy than many 
couples were afforded, but Duana would have been embarrassed.  
"So you came to find me…"

"And you were not there . . . I was only looking for you, I swear it."

"I know you were, cariad.  I do not doubt you.  I could not sleep, 
so I got up to see if I could find someone to talk to in the witching 
hour.  I should have thought to go bother my favorite witch."

"You can always come bother me," she said, still shaking.            

He unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, kissing 
her damp cheek before he sat back.  "Always? Always is a long 
time and I can be quite bothersome.  Be careful how you issue that 
invitation."

He had said it lightly, trying to tease her into talking to him, but 
she replied, "Always," very seriously.   
 
*~*~*~*  

"Are you sure you are not lost?" Duana asked through chattering 
teeth for the eighth time, trying to pull her cloak closer around her 
against the cold.  "When are you going to tell me where we are 
going?  William, what will the other vassals think when they find 
we are not at Prince Llewelyn's Court?  It is Christmas day!"
 
"Cariad, have you ever heard that there are wives who do not 
second-guess their husbands?  Go see if you can find me one."

She nudged her mare up so they were riding side-by-side and 
leaned toward him.  "William?"

"Hmm?"

"Go to Hell."

He smiled – that sounded more like his Duana.  "Witch, I have 
been to Hell, I think, and lived to tell about it.  And so have you."

Duana was quiet after that, probably too cold and frustrated to 
argue.  He had told her that her New Year's gift was just over the 
hill from Llewelyn's castle – to bundle up and they would ride out 
and see it.  That had been two frigid hours ago.

Gwilym stopped Goliath, reaching out to grab her mare's bridle.  
"If you are not frozen solid, get down.  We are here."

"Where is here?" she asked, pushing back her hood and appraising 
the white landscape.  

"Saint Mary's Abby in Aberconwy.  Slide down."

The abbot hurried out to greet them, embracing his favorite 
'Master Scully.'  Duana must have made quite an impression on 
the monks.  "Everything is ready, my lord."

Duana looked from the abbot to Gwilym and back, trying to find 
some clue as to what the surprise was.  Neither man gave any sign 
as they guided her into the chapel, the abbot waiting inside the 
door as Gwilym and Duana made their way to the far left corner 
behind the altar.

"This is your family vault," she observed.  They had been here that 
awful night before he sent her into hiding in Ireland.

"You are a very quick woman," he said casually, but his posture 
was tense, nervous, as he reached out for her hand.  "Dafydd," 
Gwilym told her quietly, inclining his head toward the fourth stone 
tomb.  The sculptor had modeled the effigy on Gwilym, assuming 
Dafydd had looked like him, so the marble figure atop it had 
Gwilym's dark, angular face and long limbs.

"I come here often – sometimes for the afternoon, sometimes for 
the night.  I pray, I talk to Dafydd: tell him I am sorry.  I tell him I 
am still looking for his sister, but I hope she is safe with him and 
their mother.  The monks do not bother me.  Even when others 
come: Llewelyn, Leuan, they respect my tears.  This is my Dafydd 
– the boy I raised as my son: I am allowed to cry."

Gwilym paused, making an effort to keep his voice steady and 
trying not to stutter.  "I tell him other things: about my fears for 
you and Eimile.  About what could happen if someone thinks to 
count closely the time between you leaving the London Court and 
Eimile being born.  Or questions where I was when the Old King 
died.  Or, if Wales ever falls under English rule, how it will 
suddenly be very important that my parents were not married and 
that I do not know whom my mother was.  Dafydd knows that 
somewhere in the world is an English soldier who still gives my 
wife nightmares because of what he did ten years ago and I would 
not know that man to see him.  That, for the first time, when spring 
comes, I will have to send my soldiers into battle while I watch 
like a Caesar from the hilltop because I cannot keep a grip on my 
sword.  I have even told him that you desperately want another 
child, but I am so afraid I will lose you to bleeding or milk 
fever or any of the other thousand things that could go wrong."     

She leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around him and 
trying to offer some comfort.

"As you say, cariad, 'I am fine.'  Dafydd has heard me for several 
months now.  I tell him the silliest things, things he cannot possibly 
care about.  He knows you are still nursing Eimile – which you do 
not think I know – even though the baby has a wet nurse, and that I 
cannot bear to try and make you stop.  Dafydd had discovered the 
London brothels, so I had even told him of my close acquaintance 
with my sofa.  He was probably very disappointed to learn how 
little I knew about making love to a woman I care about, given 
how many women there have been that I cared nothing for.  
Sometimes, my conscience gets the better of me, and I tell Dafydd 
how I leave notes for my wife saying I am off to do manly things 
while I am actually usually sitting right on this bench."

Gwilym rested his chin on top of her head for a minute, hugged, 
and then released her.  Duana looked up at him with teary blue 
eyes, her bottom lip trembling.  "This is why you brought me 
here?"

"Oh, no – your present."  He pointed to the last stone box in the 
vault.  The others were marked: Gwilym's father, grandfather, 
great-grandfather, and Dafydd, but the last was smooth and there 
was no effigy.

"You got me a tomb?"  

He nodded 'yes.'

She wiped her eyes, sounding perplexed and perhaps a little 
amused.  "You got me a tomb for New Year's.  William, you are 
the romantic."  

"It is empty."

"That is good.  I would be truly worried if you gave me a corpse as 
well."  She brushed the last of the tears away, trying not to laugh at 
him.  "A tomb.  Am I supposed to hunt for my real gift?  Is it 
hidden somewhere?"

"Duana, this is your gift."

"Tell me you did not drag me out in the snow just to play a joke on 
me."

Gwilym saw a forehead crease and those arms crossed as she 
scrutinized him.  He could hear the lecture about to begin, so he 
hurried:

"You need a tomb.  It does not need to have a body or a name – 
just a tomb.  As long as you have a tomb, no one cares why you 
really cry or what you say to it," he told her.  "You have so much 
sorrow, but no bodies.  It would be self-indulgent to be angry or to 
cry without a tomb and I would not approve of that.  I thought, 
maybe – perhaps," he mumbled, starting to feel foolish, "if you had 
your own, when I come to Dafydd's tomb, you could come with 
me to talk to yours." 

She was still looking at him with those bottomless eyes and his 
stomach tightened.  

"I do not have a tomb for my daughter, so, inside my head, I put 
her in Dafydd's.  You can put anyone in your tomb that you like."  
He swallowed nervously, running his fingers through his hair and 
starting to fidget.  He had thought Duana would understand, but 
she did not seem to.  "Anyone you want – King John, that soldier 
who hurt you, maybe me, I do not know.  Just like that chest in our 
bedchamber.  I put any frivolous thing I like in there and I lock it.  
Those things are my memories, and no one else cares to see them.  
If-"

"Hush."

"There is a very pretty sapphire ring Gwen helped choose," he 
blurted, hanging his head and nervously tapping his toe against the 
corner of Dafydd's tomb.  "That is your gift.  It is in the desk in 
Aber - I forgot to bring it," Gwilym lied, miserable and furious at 
himself.

"Hush," she hissed.  "There is no ring."

The seconds seemed to stretch painfully into hours before she 
spoke: "I like my tomb just fine." 

He glanced up, thinking there might be some hope.

"It is a big tomb – that is good," she added.

Gwilym nodded eagerly.

"I would prefer to visit my tomb alone, just as you do."

"Merfyn can escort you."  He would have promised just about 
anything at that moment.  "Anytime you want to come."

"I wanted to tell you we were going to have a child for your New 
Year's gift.  I was so certain, I did not even think to get you 
anything else."

"Next year," he assured her.  "Next year you can tell me you are 
with child, if God blesses us, and I will really have that sapphire 
ring for you instead of a tomb."

"Next year," Duana replied. "If God blesses us, I will not need a 
tomb."  She turned to face him, pulling her hood up and fastening 
her cloak, indicating she was ready to leave.  "William," Duana 
asked as she followed him out of the chapel, "Did no one think it 
odd that you had a tomb built without a body?  What in the world 
did you tell the monks you were going to put in it?"  

"Credu," he answered.  "It does not matter – the monks and the 
sculptor think I am half-insane anyway.  They blame it on grief, 
and I let them."

"Credu?"  Mass was said in Latin, regardless of the 
country.  Duana was not certain of the Welsh word.

"Faith."
 
*~*~*~*
 
End: Hiraeth IV: Credu
Title: Hiraeth V: Bachgen

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

Spoilers: I can't see how.  

Keywords: short story, msr, historical au, angst

Summary: Fifth in the Hiraeth Series - Aber, North Wales, Spring, 
1217

Distribution: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: 
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Silver spoons: Jen – good (no cd, ends msr), Skinner head – 
depends, Spooning – and then some, Angst-o-meter – 6.2 out of 10

*~*~*~*

Bachgen
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

"Of course, I have never caught an amber fish, but I think that is 
more believable – that amber comes from a fish rather than sea 
foam," Gwilym rambled, stroking Eimile's cheek as she dozed and 
sharing his latest theory with Duana while he waited.  

"Um hum," she replied.

"I have also heard it said that amber comes from a tree, but I think 
I would have come across an amber tree by now.  A tree would not 
move, but a fish could swim away."

"Um," came a disinterested sound from his wife as she peered at 
herself in the mirror, trying to decide if her hair looked best over or 
tucked behind her ears.

"A peddler sold me a drawing of an amber fish a few days past – I 
will show it to you tomorrow.  They are most plentiful in summer, 
so I thought I would go try to catch a few next week.  Would you 
prefer an amber ring or a necklace?  Well, you can only have a 
necklace if I catch more than one, although I do not know how 
much amber each fish might have."

"Oh," she mumbled, deciding her hair should be behind her ears.

"And then I thought I would take off my shirt and breeches, paint 
myself blue all over like the Highlanders when they go to battle, 
and run through Aber at midday, just to see if anyone noticed."

"Well, be careful," Duana said, now fiddling with her embroidered 
gold belt and obviously not listening.

Gwilym sighed, exasperated.  "My serfs and I may wait for you, 
but summer and the fairies will not.  Hurry up," he ordered Duana 
as she inspected herself and her white costume in the mirror a 
fourth time.  Gwilym and Eimile were sprawled lazily across the 
bed as they watched her dress for the festival, and she seemed no 
closer to being ready than she had been an hour ago.

"Do not let that baby roll off the bed," she said curtly, picking up 
her brush again, but otherwise still ignoring him.

Gwilym's eyes narrowed.  As though he would ever let Eimile roll 
off the bed – he had three children to her one, after all.

"Your dress is lovely, your hair is lovely, you are lovely.  Put on 
your crown so we can go."  He had been bathed and dressed in his 
dark green tunic for May Day and Beltane Eve since early 
morning, but Duana was making the entire castle, and therefore all 
of Aber, wait.

"Come," he called in response to a sharp knock on the door of their 
bedchamber.  Merfyn entered, wearing his best cloak and a 
disgruntled look.  "I know – we are late.  Tell the May Queen she 
looks fine so we can go."

"You look fine, Lady Duana," the soldier informed her seriously.  
"You make a beautiful white lady: skin as fair as fresh cream and 
hair of spun copper and gold.  The face of an angel, eyes of 
sapphire gems, hips of soft ocean waves, and breasts-"

"Thank you, Merfyn," Gwilym stopped him.  "It is always good to 
know you keep close watch on my wife's breasts."

The sergeant grinned at him, totally unashamed, before he stepped 
back into the hallway again.  The celebration of summer had even 
Merfyn's old blood running hot, although Duana did not seem to 
pay any attention to him, either. 
   
Bringing a sleeping Eimile with him as he got up from the 
mattress, Gwilym picked up the golden crown Duana was 
supposed to wear to lead the Beltane festivities.  Any young 
woman could be the May Queen, the white lady, but the villagers 
had nominated Duana, much to her embarrassment.  "You will do 
fine.  Just announce the games and award the prizes; that is all the 
peasants expect."

"My hair-"

"Is beautiful." The white lady always wore her hair loose and 
uncovered as a symbol of the fertility of summer, and Duana's red 
mane, now just past her shoulders, was going to cause men to 
forget to breathe.  She, however, insisted she looked like a shorn 
sheep.   

"I feel foolish. No," she decided, "I am not doing this.  They can 
choose someone else."

"Oh, for God's sake!"  Enough was enough.  Gwilym laid Eimile 
in her cradle, looped Duana's crown of gold leaves over his wrist, 
and, throwing an arm around her hips, heaved his wife over his 
shoulder.  

"You put me down!  William, you would not dare do this!" She 
yelled as he carried her down the hallway, trying to sound furious 
as she laughed and pounded her fists lightly against his back.  
"Barbarian!  You big oaf!"  

"As the green man, it is my duty to deliver the white lady," he told 
her, not at all opposed to having her hips squirming inches from 
his face.  "We just choose the most beautiful woman we can find – 
we cannot help that it happens to be you, witch."

Catching sight of them as soon they stepped into the bailey, the 
peasants began to cheer.  In the fields around the castle, the May 
pole stood ready to be decorated and the bonfires to be lit to ensure 
a good harvest.  The more pagan festivities would come once the 
moon rose, but Duana would not be expected to participate in 
those, nor would he ever allow her to.

"Your white lady!" he announced to the boisterous crowd, 
although all they could see was Duana draped over his right 
shoulder, her little feet kicking harmlessly.

He jumped as Duana delivered a sharp, stinging slap to his 
backside, and hurried to set her down.  As Duana put on her crown, 
signaling the festivities to begin, Gwilym retreated to rub his 
stinging ass, still grinning.

*~*~*~*

Thus far, spring had passed without Prince Llewelyn or the English 
boy-king ordering Gwilym to war, but it would be rare to escape 
service for an entire year.  Before harvest, he would almost 
certainly have to leave Aber and Duana and Eimile to fight 
whoever was deemed the latest enemy.  And there was always the 
danger that he would not return, especially now.

This was one of the memories he wanted to carry with him as he 
rode into battle, to conjure up on those lonely nights: Watching 
Duana laughing as she danced among the bonfires, her hair 
glistening like a living thing in the firelight and her eyes shining 
with innocent mischief.  

Although he still knew very little about her 'demons,' they seemed 
to have melted with the winter snow.  No, thawed – the sadness 
that had cloaked her after Eimile was born was gone, but she still 
had her scars, just as he did.  No one could survive what they had 
and not carry the scars.  They were healing slowly, each day 
bringing less tears and a few more of her quiet smiles.  

"On guard for bees, dear husband?" Duana asked, sitting down in 
the grass on the hillside beside him to catch her breath and share 
his ale.  She picked up the crown of green myrtle leaves he was 
supposed to be wearing and placed it on his head, and Gwilym 
promptly pulled it off again.  

"Witch," he muttered, handing over the cup.  So he had 
overreacted a bit when a bee had stung her earlier.  He had drunk 
more than his share of ale and people did die of bee stings – there 
was no need to tease him about it.  "See if I come to your rescue if 
you are stung again." 

She bounced her shoulder lightly against his as they sat side-by-
side, then laid her head against him as he put an arm around her, 
watching the moon rise behind the drunken dancers.  The games 
and feasting had ended hours ago, but the revelry would continue 
unabated until the goblins and elves drove people to the safety of 
their hearths.  Beltane Eve – when the veil between this world and 
the next was thinnest, and no sane man would be out in the 
witching hour.

"You were very gallant.  You looked very heroic stomping on an 
already-dying insect to save me."

"He could have attacked again," he tossed back at her, still feeling 
sheepish. "That was a fierce bee." 

"Monstrous.  The bards will sing about it for generations."  

Hand in hand, her head on his shoulder, they watched the last of 
the May Day festivities – the peasants driving cattle among the 
bonfires to ensure a good harvest and a few brave souls, including, 
as usual, Merfyn, jumping through the flames for extra luck.  

Thankfully, the villagers had decided to keep their clothing on as 
they bounded over the fires; Merfyn had singed himself something 
awful a few years past, although he had been proud to show his 
injuries to anyone he encountered for months afterward.  It had 
been Christmas 1214 and the burns long healed before Gwen had 
finally convinced the sergeant to stop lowering his breeches during 
supper.

"Gwen told him to put that away during meals – that he was 
making her lose her appetite and frightening the dogs," Gwilym 
whispered to Duana, adding a few details of his own to the story to 
make her laugh.

Eventually, the dancers returned to their homes in the village, 
leaving the distant forest clearing empty as the moon reached its 
apex.

When the drums began to beat and the men and women began to 
emerge from the trees, joining hands around the biggest bonfire, 
Gwilym told her it was time to return to the castle.  

"What are they doing?" she asked, as the robed figures began to 
chant.

"It is late - time for the old ways. Go inside.  I will be in soon."  

He had no intention of coupling with some strange woman in the 
forest, but these ceremonies had always intrigued him.  He was 
toying with the idea of stepping into the sacred circle, just this 
once.  One part of his mind was promising he might be privy to the 
ancient mysteries – whatever those might be, while another part 
reminded him he was a grown man and a Christian and he had had a 
bit too much ale: he should go to bed and leave the ancient 
mysteries- whatever those might be - to the Ancient Ones.

Even though she knew herb-craft and laughed when he called her 
his 'witch', he was not sure how Duana would react to knowing he 
allowed this on his lands.  To the peasants, it was just an extension 
of May Day, but the Church would not see it that way.   

"They are druids?" she asked, eyes wide.  "Pagans?"

"They are the last.  Each year, there are fewer.  The Church drives 
them further into hiding or hangs them as witches, but this is not 
witchcraft.  There is no evil, only respect for the Old Ones.  You 
are seeing a dying custom.  By the time Eimile is a woman, their 
words and ways will have been forgotten."

She watched, fascinated, as the druids circled the fire, the white-
robed priest making offerings to the four winds.  "To the North, 
Earth.  To the East, air," Gwilym loosely translated for her.  He 
understood the intent more than the actual words.  "And to the 
South, fire and the West, water.  They honor the Earth as their 
mother and the sky as their father.  It is said that a child of these 
fires is breathed to life by the Ancient Ones."  

"I have never seen such a thing.  It is beautiful – like fairies or 
moths around a flame."

"They have come to this clearing since before my grandfather's 
time, since before memory.  These are the simple children of the 
Earth, even as you and I are the children of God.  If you are going 
to stay, wait here. I will come back for you."

He should have known better by now.  Gwilym no sooner joined 
the circle than he saw Duana beside him.  

"You should not be here," he hissed to her, taking her hand as they 
moved to the left around the fire, although, as long as the rituals 
were respected, the druids had no objection to outsiders. 

"Then tell me to leave," she whispered back, taking a drink of the 
spiced wine before she passed the communal cup to him.

"Three things from which never to be moved," the priest intoned, 
his voice causing the animals of the forest to fall silent and the 
leaves to stop rustling, "One's oaths, one's gods, and the truth.  
The three highest causes of the true human are truth, honor, and 
duty.  Three candles that illuminate every darkness: truth, nature, 
and knowledge."

Once the ceremony was finished, couples began to slip away into 
the forest and fields – one man and one woman – for another rite.  
Soon, the clearing was empty except for Gwilym and Duana and 
the druid priest, his face hidden deep under the hood of his cloak.

"He wants to know if we would like to be married," Gwilym 
translated for Duana, feeling more than a little drunk now.  "He 
thinks that is why we are waiting."

"We are already married," she answered, seeming dazed by the 
drums and dancing.

"A handfasting – a marriage of love rather than law.  That is 
another ancient rite of Beltane: couples can be married for a year 
and a day.  For that year, nothing can come between them.  
Duana…" he hesitated, but it was easier to be bold in the darkness.  
"I have never actually asked you.  Marry me?"

She nodded, and the priest motioned for them to kneel.  

"Do not do this lightly," Gwilym warned her.  He had sworn his 
soul and sword to God, but, like many of his kinsmen, he respected 
the old ways.  "This is pagan, but no less binding."

"I do not do it lightly," she assured him.

"Take my left hand with yours," he told her as the druid began to 
speak, binding a green cord around their joined hands:
"As the Sun and the Moon bring light to the Earth, do you vow…"

Gwilym closed his eyes, feeling the heat from the fire on his face 
and Duana's hand damp in his.  His breathing seemed overly loud 
to him, as though he could feel every sensation twofold.  The 
night and the smoke were swirling around him, and he noticed 
himself swaying, overpowered by the fairies or the Old Ones or 
whatever watched them from the shadows.

"…for as long as love shall last.  So let it be," the priest finished, 
then turned and disappeared silently into the trees.  

When he looked again, Duana was still kneeling beside him, and 
the cord was still tied loosely around their left hands.  He kissed 
her, feeling the spark flowing from his body into hers.  

"It is done?" she whispered, as though they might disturb the forest 
spirits.

"Not yet," he murmured to her, gently laying her back into the soft 
grass.  Her pupils, as she watched him strip off his tunic and shirt, 
were huge from the herbs the druids had tossed into the bonfire and 
the wine they had drunk.  Realizing what was about to happen, she 
reached out her hand, drawing him down onto her.  

"Do you want me to undress?" she asked as he covered her, 
pushing her long skirt up around her hips.

"No," Gwilym answered, already panting lightly.  Even though 
they were alone in the clearing, other couples were being married 
and making love in the distant fields and among the trees.  The 
possibility of being seen was very real.  "Close your eyes – feel the 
drums in your chest."

He had heard of something, but had never had the opportunity or 
inclination to try it with another woman or the courage to mention 
it to Duana, since it fell firmly into the 'sin' category.  She was a 
good wife – a very good wife as of late, but there are some things 
that did not belong in a Christian marriage bed.  Perhaps in the 
forest, as they were playing at being pagans, though, they would be 
fine.

As she lay before him in the grass, the flames from the bonfire 
making her face and neck flush, he pushed her legs apart, touching 
her with his lips and tongue instead of his fingers.  It took her a 
few seconds to realize what was happening, but Duana 
immediately told him it was wrong, although she seemed to be 
enjoying it.

"You have done this for me," he reminded her, holding her thighs 
open as they began to tremble.  From the sounds she was making, 
he assumed he was doing this correctly, if there was such a thing.

"You must stop this," she insisted, tossing her head from side to 
side as she moaned.  "Please, William.  This is a sin."

He could have argued that it was a sin to deny him anything he 
wanted, but his brain seemed to be a little cloudy.  Relenting, he 
moved further up her body.  "Kiss me – that is what you taste 
like," Gwilym told her, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth as 
he reached between their bodies to untie the string fastening his 
breeches.

Oh Christ, he could smell her on his face, the same as an animal 
catches the scent of a female in heat.  She enjoyed lovemaking, he 
had no doubt of that, but he had never allowed himself to lose 
control, to truly glory in her.  Besides that it was not proper, there 
was always the fear of pushing her too far and frightening her.    

She wreathed under him, for the first time telling him she wanted 
something other than kisses and touches.  Begging, in fact.  He 
caught her hands, holding them gently above her head with one of 
his so she could easily escape if she wanted.  When she opened her 
eyes to look up at him, Gwilym thought he might fall into those 
blue depths and drown.  "I am not afraid," she assured him. "Not 
of you.  Not now."

*~*~*~*       

Oh, there had been something in that wine, Gwilym told himself, 
stretching and working up the nerve to open his eyes.  Images 
swirled back to him like a hundred arrows all fired at once: the 
handfasting, Duana under him, astride him, in front of him on her 
hands and knees like an animal.  The taste of her, sounds of the fire 
cracking, the heat dancing over bare, sweaty skin.  Teeth, tongues, 
lips, thighs.  Her breathing, her body convulsing around his, the 
damp grass, the thick smoke from the bonfire, the pulsing of the 
drums.  

No, that did not happen.  He could spend the next year trying to 
confess all that to Leuan.  They had overseen the May Day 
festivities as the Lord and Lady of Aber, as the white lady and the 
green man - and everything else had been some vivid dream.  
There had been no druids, no pagan rites.  And certainly not that 
Duana-on-hands-and-knees, putting-tongues-in-places-tongues-
did-not-belong part: he could never look her in the eyes again if 
that had really happened.

Gwilym rolled, realizing he was in their bed, which further 
evidenced that it had been a dream.  He had no memory of coming 
in from the fields last night.  

Duana was not with him, although there was an indentation from her 
body on the down mattress beside him.  From the soreness in his 
knees and groin, they must have made love last night, but that was 
to be expected.  When he had last seen her, her flux had come, and 
then he had been away overseeing planting for more than a week.  
There was no shame in making love to one's wife, provided one 
did not do it in the middle of the forest, bare-assed in the 
moonlight, while saying things no gentleman would say to a 
common whore.   

No, that did not happen.  With a low moan, he pulled the furs over 
his head, wanting to hide for just a few more minutes.  Then he 
would see if he could join that new Crusade the Pope had been 
preaching.  It generally took more than a year to reach and return 
from the Holy Land – perhaps he could face Duana by then.  
 
*~*~*~*
 
"There is dinner for you on your desk," Duana mumbled from the 
sofa, having pulled the bed robe over her like a blanket.  "Unless 
the dogs got to it."

Gwilym froze, horrified that she was still somewhat awake.  It was 
well past midnight – he had been sure she would be asleep and he 
could sneak to bed and then slip out again before morning. 

"I do not see it.  The dogs look guilty," he managed, too stunned to 
even look.  The dogs raised their ears, puzzled as to what they had 
done now.  A small loaf of bread and some leftover venison sat on 
his desk beside a bottle of wine, untouched.  Even his hounds knew 
better than to cross Duana.

"I will get you something," she said, shifting and starting to stand, 
still not awake.

"No, sleep.  I am fine."

Duana sat up, rubbing her eyes tiredly.  Once she discerned that he 
really was fine – not bleeding or fevered, she stumbled toward 
their bed, dragging the communal bed robe behind her.

He waited for her to ask where he had been since dawn, but she 
was either too afraid to know or too angry to care, probably the 
latter.  "I have been fishing," he offered, following her.

"In the rain?" she asked, pushing the bed curtains back and folding 
down the coverlets.

"Fish bite better in the rain." Which was true, he congratulated 
himself.  Not that he had been anywhere near water today.

"And in the dark?" Duana blew out the candle, scooting across the 
bed to make room for him.

"Fish bite better in the dark," he mumbled, knowing she would 
never believe that and terrified to ask why she had been waiting up 
for him.  "But I still did not manage to catch any.  Someone must 
be charming them: that is all I can figure."

"Of course," she said obediently. 
 
Damn this woman!  She could not even yell at him and make him 
feel better.

"I am so sorry.  I swear it will not happen again," he blurted out, 
pacing beside their bed in the darkness.  "Not like that.  Never like 
that again.  That was my sin – to let you come down to the fires 
and everything that happened after – not yours.  You only did what 
I insisted you do."

The mattress shifted, but he could not see her as the thunderclouds 
passed over the moon.  "I have been thinking about it – about the 
fires," she said softly, her face briefly illuminated as lightening 
kissed the top of the next mountain.  "Actually, I am not sure what 
to think: of the rites, of myself, of what we did."

"Do not think about it.  Just put it out of your mind."

"Come to bed, William, before you burst into flames from 
nervousness.  I am not angry, and, before you start asking, you did 
not hurt me.  I am just confused."      

He lay down, trying to stay as far away from her as possible 
without falling to the floor.  "Of course you are confused.  Duana, 
when the Church says for wives to obey their husbands, the priests 
leave out the part about the husbands obeying God.  I did not do 
that.  You are subject to me and I am subject to God.  You did 
exactly what you should have, but I swear I will never ask you to 
do that again."

"Never again?" she echoed.

"No.  I am sure you have spent the day in prayer, thinking that you 
have sinned, when you have not.  I have, but not you.  Do you 
understand?"           

"Yes," she mumbled, pulling him against her.  "No.  No, I do not 
understand.  I have always been taught not to question the Church, 
but I know when I have sinned: when I have been prideful or 
disobedient or lazy or even lustful.  I do not feel that way now."

Gwilym desperately wanted to know when she had been lustful, 
but he did not want to interrupt.

"So it is not a sin to love my husband – as long as I do it as the 
Church decrees and do not enjoy it?  I do not understand why God 
would give us pleasure and then forbid it."        

"Do you really love me?" he asked before he could stop himself.   

"Of course I love you.  How can you be so brilliant and so thick at 
the same time?"

"Still – even after last night?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"  Duana made an exasperated noise, 
punched the pillow a few times to fluff it, and rolled away from 
him, taking most of the covers with her.

Gwilym rested his head on his hands and stuck his cold feet under 
a nice, warm dog as he stared up into the muggy darkness, very 
confused.  He could not make heads or tails of all this just yet, but 
his wife did not seem to be speaking to him, so he would have 
plenty of time to think.  

Who needed amber fish and druid mysteries – Lady Duana of Aber 
always gave him plenty to think about.   

*~*~*~*

"Of course she is with child," Gwilym answered Merfyn, hopefully 
out of Duana's hearing.  "She just does not want to tell people until 
she is sure."

"And when does she plan to be sure?" the sergeant asked, sneaking 
a glance at Duana's belly as she followed on her mare.  "When she 
gives birth?"

"Only a few more months now…I suppose," he added, trying to 
sound as casual as he had heard other men be.  Men who paid so 
little attention to their wives they had to ask if the woman was 
carrying another child, or still pregnant with the same one as 
before.  Husbands who rode off hunting and whoring as their 
children were born, annoyed with all the noise and mess their wife 
was causing in the bedchamber.

So far, this child of the Beltane fires had been blessed.  Although 
she had been sick early on, there had been no bleeding that he 
knew of.  The hardest part still lay ahead, though, and Gwilym did 
not care to hear once more how he should just relax – that it was a 
woman's place to suffer as she brought forth children.  As much as 
Duana wanted this baby, he would trade anything to keep it from 
ever actually coming.   

"Gwil – we seem to have lost our following," Merfyn pointed out, 
bringing Gwilym back to the present.  

Duana had stopped her horse to inspect something in the spice 
merchant's stall, and was now in the process of awkwardly 
dismounting.  "Ride on," she told Gwilym and Merfyn, "I can find 
my way from the village to the castle."

He did not even bother to argue with her – just stopped Goliath 
and waited.  Headstrong woman: as though Gwen or a dozen servants 
could not come to market for her.  No, Duana had to do it herself, 
climbing up and down from her horse and waddling around like 
some peasant's wife.   

"It does not get easier – not with the fifth, not with the tenth child," 
Merfyn said quietly, seeing Gwilym watching Duana.  "Put your 
trust in God: his will be done."

"His will was that your first wife died in childbirth, was it not?" he 
snapped back, caught off guard that Merfyn had almost read his 
thoughts.

Gwilym had been just a boy, but it was a vivid memory: seeing the 
midwives carrying out bloody sheets and Leuan hurrying into 
Merfyn's house beyond the stables to bless the young woman and 
her child.  He had been sent back into the castle before the bodies 
were brought out, the babe having been delivered after the mother 
died, but he remembered finding Merfyn sobbing in the forest later 
than day.  It was the first and only time in thirty years he had ever 
seen the old soldier cry.  He had remarried, four times, in fact, 
since then, but it was not the same.  

"I am sorry, Merfyn.  I should not have said that," he apologized, 
feeling very ashamed of himself.  "You speak the truth – it is not 
easy to watch."

"Anne," Merfyn murmured.  "Her name was Anne."

"I remember: Anne of the apple tarts and daisy chain necklaces.  I 
was eight, perhaps."

Merfyn nodded, still focusing on Duana as she haggled over the 
price of cinnamon and salt with the merchant.  "I was Lady 
Duana's age.  Anne was fourteen.  Much too young to die like 
that."

"Go back to the stables.  Your horse looks as though he might be 
lame."  

Merfyn reined his mount toward the road leading to the castle 
without glancing back, not even bothering to dismount and check 
his gelding's feet.  The big chestnut was not lame and both 
Gwilym and Merfyn knew it.

"My Lord!  My Lord – the tanner's wife!" a young boy called out 
to Gwilym, scurrying across the square, weaving through the sheep 
and carts of market day and causing quite a commotion.  "My 
Lord, please come.  They have caught the man!  A Norman!"

Merfyn had already heard and turned his horse, looking to see if 
Gwilym wanted him to go deal with the rapist or stay with Duana.  

As much as he disliked the idea, if the man was Norman – or 
English, the peasants could not tell the difference; all foreigners 
were 'Normans' – Gwilym would need Duana to translate.  He 
could speak some proper French, but not the casual language used 
by commoners and almost no English at all.

The first question was the obvious, as the tanner clutched his 
weeping wife, her face bruised and her dress torn: Had any man 
seen?  He knew his villagers well enough that Gwilym did not 
question that the woman had been raped, but a woman could not 
testify against a man, even in Wales.  If there was no male witness, 
then there was no crime.

Duana was keeping her distance from the woman as the crowds 
gathered to watch, and Gwilym sent the same boy who had brought 
them to go for Father Leuan to translate instead.

The tanner had seen, he told Gwilym, causing murmuring among 
the peasants.  If the husband could bear witness, then the rapist 
could be punished and Gwilym was not known for his leniency 
about rape as of late.  Several had speculated it had to do with his 
marriage a few years past, but none of the villagers could figure 
out how the two might be connected.  Lady Duana was obviously a 
noble, if a foreigner, and the peasants could not fathom a lady 
being forced by any man other than her husband.

"Where is the man?" was Gwilym's next question, and the 
blacksmith appeared, dragging a well dressed, if somewhat 
bloodied man, behind him.  The village men seemed to have begun 
their own justice before sending for Gwilym.

"Nom?" he asked, hoping the man spoke French and not English.

"Alcekov iz Krysa.  Alcek," the man spat out, followed by a 
jumble that Gwilym did not understand.

'Alcek' – Rus for 'Alex.'  Gwilym glanced quickly at Duana, trying
to catch her eye, but she was staring at the ground.  If this was her
Alex – one of the names she said in her nightmares, he was as good 
as dead. 

"He says he thought she was a prostitute," Duana translated, 
passing her mare's reins to one of the serfs and stepping into the 
center of the crowd, but still not looking up.  "He says he does 
not speak Welsh and he made a mistake."
 
"You do not need to speak Welsh.  When she would not take your 
money, you should have known she was not a whore anymore.  Tell him 
that, Duana."

She did, and then translated for Gwilym, and he had the sense 
that French was not the man's first language, either.  He was 
a Rus, then – a Russian.  He was a very long way from home, and 
there was probably a reason for that. 

"He does not deny that he forced her.  He will pay the fine.  He 
has money."

Another murmur among the villagers: it was rare for a commoner 
to receive any compensation when his wife was raped.

On cue, the foreigner opened the purse tied to his belt, tossing a 
few shillings at the tanner.  It was more money than the man would 
see in a lifetime and far more than the usual fine for raping a 
woman who was not a virgin anyway, but somehow the gesture did 
not seem to sit well with their lord.

"I do not think he wants your money, Rus.  I think he wants his 
wife untouched."

Duana repeated what Gwilym had said, and earned a torrent of 
words that sounded vulgar, even to Welsh ears.  

"I judge you guilty of the rape of this woman, based on your own 
admission and her husband's word.  Let all here bear witness.  
Hang him," Gwilym ordered, nodding to Merfyn.  

Duana had barely finished translating that as someone appeared 
with a rope and the crowd began to back the foreigner toward the 
nearest tree.  

"That is not the law!" Alex shouted, obviously having a basic 
command of Welsh, which Gwilym had suspected he did to be 
wandering this far into northern Wales.  And, with winter almost 
upon them, any gentleman would be supervising his own lands, not 
traveling.  This was a well-dressed thief or mercenary who had 
been exiled.

"When you rape a woman on my lands, you are under my law.  I 
will send your head to Prince Llewelyn if you would like to object.  
The rest of you can feed the pigs."

The villagers murmured their approval; enough Welsh women had 
been forced by outsiders.  It would be different if it had not been a 
foreigner, but this sentence, though extreme, was fine with them.  

"I want an ordeal!" Alex protested as Merfyn blithely tossed the 
noose over a tree branch.  "This is not the law!  I will pay the 
fine!"

"Why trouble God? There is no need for an ordeal when you admit 
your own guilt.  And no amount of money will give this man back 
what you have taken from him," Gwilym told Alex, noticing that 
Duana was trembling.  "Come away – unless you want to watch 
this," he whispered to her.  

Although she had certainly seen the public executions in London, 
possibly even her first husband's, if Gwilym judged King John 
correctly, she shook her head violently 'no.'

"You Welsh bastard!  You barbaric whore-son!" Alex screamed as 
Gwilym turned his back and helped Duana onto her horse.  "How 
dare you!  You would not dare hang me over some peasant slut!"

Later, Gwilym would remember the next sequence of events as 
though everyone had been moving and speaking through honey; as 
though actions happened much slower than normal:

Merfyn finished tying Alex's hands behind his back and slipped 
the noose over his head, telling him that while Lord Gwilym had 
only ordered him hanged, he would die a eunuch if he did not shut 
his mouth in Lady Duana's presence.

After Duana got her foot in the stirrup and he helped her up, 
Gwilym reached for the reins as she started to swing her other leg 
over the saddle.  The excitement of the crowd and Duana's 
trembling was making the animal nervous and it was fidgeting.

Alex, scarlet with rage, kicked out, striking Duana's mare's 
haunches and causing the normally gentle animal to bolt.

Gwilym held onto the reins, keeping the mare from going very far, 
but still throwing Duana over the saddle and onto a pile of stones 
that had been gathered to build a fence.   

He heard his own voice shouting 'No!" as she lay perfectly still, a 
little trickle of blood coming from her nose and forehead.  

Merfyn pulled his dagger and simply slit the foreigner's throat.

*~*~*~*

"Llwynog!"  Leuan bellowed furiously as he hurried up the stone 
steps as quickly as his knees allowed.  "Llwynog!  What in the 
Devil has gotten into you?  What is this about not troubling God?  
A village boy is saying you just hanged some Russian without-" 

Father Leuan reached the doorway of the bedchamber and stopped 
short, seeing Gwilym and Gwen hovering over Lady Duana as she 
lay on the bed.  Gwilym could have just walked off the battlefield 
from all the blood soaked down the front of his tunic and smeared 
on his forearms.

"Come, Leuan," Gwilym said, his voice shaky.  "Hurry.  Tell me 
what she is saying, what she wants.  I do not know this word."

"What has happened?"  

"She fell from her horse.  I have sent Merfyn to find a doctor, but 
the cut on her forehead is bad.  And she is bleeding…the baby…"

"She had been asking for something in Gaelic," Gwen took over 
for Gwilym.  "Mathir' is 'mother', I have heard that."

"Do you want your mother, cariad?  I will send for her, but it will 
be some time.  You have to stay strong until she can come."  

Gwilym turned, picking a wide-eyed servant at random and 
dispatching him to Dover with vague instructions to find a woman 
among the Scully clan with a daughter named Duana.  "There's a 
cross she said she wore as a child – take it from her jewelry box 
and show it to her mother so the woman will know you are telling 
the truth.  Catrin – her mother's name is Catrin!  And send back 
the alchemist named Llangly," Gwilym yelled after the poor 
servant as an afterthought.  "And a midwife!"  

Duana mumbled the foreign word again, then "Froid."  Cold.  

Christ, this was Gwilym's nightmare come to life.  She was 
already pale with blue lips and her breathing was shallow – 
Gwilym had seen soldiers with belly wounds look like this in the 
hours before Death took them.

"Mulad," Leuan guessed wildly, knowing very little Gaelic.  
"Melancholy.'  She is sad and she is cold."

As though the bed was not already heaped with the softest blankets 
and furs, Gwilym took off his cloak and tucked it around her, then 
sent for hot tea.

"What else, Duana?  What else do you want me to do?" he asked 
her urgently.

That word again, and then in French, "What has happened?"

"Mullach – the summit?  Mathir – mother?" Leuan guessed.  
"Mealladh?  Gwilym, mealladh na minnseach is an herb used in 
witchcraft." 
 
"You fell.  You have a cut on your forehead and the baby is 
coming," Gwilym told her, completely ignoring Leuan.  "What do 
we do?"  

Duana just mumbled that same word again.

"Cariad, I do not know this 'muldah.'  Tell me how to stop the 
baby from coming.  It is far too soon."

"William?"  She finally opened her eyes, pupils huge and staring at 
nothing.  "I cannot see you."

"Yes, William – Gwilym.  Herbs for miscarriage – I have seen you 
give them to other women.  What are they?" 
 
"Yarrow for bleeding, always.  Black haw and cramp bark to relax 
the womb.  Wild yam as well.  William, I am so cold."

Gwen already had Duana's chest of herbs open and was rooting 
through as though she could actually read any of the carefully 
labeled pouches.  

"You put yarrow on my shoulder, I remember that.  And willow 
bark and poppy for pain.  What is this other: mealladh?  Muldah? 
Is that an herb you want?  Or a person – is that a man?"

"No," she answered weakly, "mealladh na minnseach is for 
shifting a man's shape.  That is witchcraft.  No willow until the 
baby is safe – it will make the bleeding worse.  No poppy, either." 

"Gwen is mixing now, cariad," Gwilym said, maneuvering so her 
head rested on his lap.  "It seems she has been paying attention to 
your herb-craft.  I am holding you, and Leuan – Father John is 
here."

If last rites became necessary, he thought, but did not add.

"Breathe, William," she mumbled.  "I am only fooling you.  It is 
not so bad."

Of course Duana would interrupt her bleeding to reassure him.

"No, it is not so bad," Gwilym lied.  "You did not have me fooled 
for one second."

Assessing the situation with liquid brown eyes, the dogs lay down 
with their muzzles flat on the floor, making themselves as small as 
possible, and began to whimper.

*~*~*~*

"Come feel," Gwen whispered, causing Gwilym to jump and shake 
himself awake in the dark bedchamber.  "The babe lives."  
     
"She is not fevered?" he asked.  Now that the bleeding had 
stopped, the most danger would come from fever either in the 
wound or if the baby had died inside her.  

As Duana slept soundly, as she had for two days now, he put his 
hand on her belly where Gwen indicated and felt a strong kick.  

"I think that is a boy.  A girl would know to be more docile."

"Perhaps a girl who takes after her mother," Gwilym suggested, 
finally allowing himself to draw a deep breath.  "Do you think we 
could give her the willow bark tea now?"

The alchemist and midwife had known little of Duana's herb-craft, 
but had left a lapis stone for her to hold in her hand against 
miscarriage and agreed that willow bark was good for pain.  
Llangly had advised Gwen, who refused to leave Duana's bedside 
until the doctor could come, to be careful of poppy.  Too much 
poppy was deadly, he had said, eyeing Gwilym nervously.  Poppy 
and belladonna and hemlock and cyanide and foxglove – all should 
be avoided.  But willow bark should be safe once the bleeding 
stopped.

Reassured, Gwilym had fallen asleep across the foot of their bed as 
Leuan and Gwen knelt beside it in prayer.  With all the windows 
shuttered against any sickness in the night air, he could not tell if 
morning had come yet, but Leuan had finally passed out, 
exhausted, on a pallet on the floor.

Duana rolled to her left side under his hand now, and the baby gave 
another good kick as his tiny world shifted.  

"When she wakes, we will give her the tea," Gwilym decided.

Gwen twisted her hands together nervously.  She had never been 
blessed with a child – not even as a young woman when she had 
shared a bed with Gwilym's father.  After the Old Lord had left for 
the Crusades, she had contented herself with the kitchens and 
doting shamelessly on a young Llwynog ap Gwilym.  Although 
she had never understood Gwilym very well, as a boy or as a man, 
he was as close as she had ever had to a son, and the child Lady 
Duana carried, the closest to a grandson.  Eimile was beautiful 
with her blonde curls and blue eyes, but Gwen could count months, 
the same as the rest of the castle.  Eimile was no more Gwilym's 
child than Dafydd had been.

"Do you really think she will wake?" she whispered.   

"She is my Camelot – she is not dead, she only sleeps," he replied, 
earning a tired, puzzled look from the cook.  "I think she will 
wake, Gwen.  Go to sleep," Gwilym assured her.  "I will sit with 
her.  Sleep."

Gwen gave Leuan a nudge with her toe, telling him to get up and 
go sleep in his own rooms above the kitchens.  If no one was 
dying, Leuan was only in the way.  As the priest mumbled some 
very unpriestly words and stumbled out, Gwen settled her bulk on 
the pallet among the floor rushes and, lifting her head one last time 
to check on Gwilym curled up behind Duana in the big bed, finally 
relaxed and closed her eyes.

*~*~*~*

"Ready?" Gwilym asked, as Gwen held a blanket in front of the 
fire to warm it.

Duana nodded, not really willing to get out of her bath yet, but the 
water was beginning to cool.

"Up," he said, lifting her out of the water and holding her upright 
just long enough for Gwen to wrap the blanket around her 
nakedness, getting his shirt and tunic soaked in the process.  Once 
she was covered, he carried her back to bed while Gwen and Elan 
began the laborious task of carrying out the bathwater pail by pail.

"And down," Gwilym narrated, sliding her under the furs.  "One 
clean Lady Duana.  Better?"

"Much better," Duana replied, sounding contented and sleepy.  It 
had been four days since her fall, but she was still not awake for 
more than a few minutes at a time.   

"Gwen made some soup for you.  Cariad, try to stay awake and 
eat."  

She opened her eyes again, and Gwilym pushed her hair back from 
her face and helped her scoot up on the pillows.  "I am awake.  I 
am fine."

Of course. 

"Change your clothes before you chill," she ordered.

Now that sounded more like his Duana.  

Gwilym obediently stood, stripped, and decided he could use a 
bath himself.  Looking down, he realized there was still blood 
dried across his stomach – her blood from when he had carried her 
back to the castle days ago.  Leuan had finally convinced him to 
change his filthy, blood-soaked tunic and shirt, but it had seeped 
through to his wool breeches and linen braies underneath. 

So much blood.  It was going to stain.

The numbness that had insulated him for the last few days was 
fading, and his fingers began to shake from the realization of how 
close he came to losing her.  Not to kings or war or childbirth, but 
to something as common as a jittery horse and a misplaced pile of 
stones. 

And he was supposed to tell himself that it was the will of God.

Gwilym fiddled with the string lacing the front of his breeches, 
noticing Duana was watching him from the bed.  "Shall I dance for 
you?" he asked her, his brain mixing anger with fear and coming 
up with sarcasm.  "Put a jewel in my navel and sway my hips like 
the Infidels' women.  Some of those men have a dozen wives – did 
you know that?"

Duana replied tiredly that no, she did not know that, and yes, he 
was welcome to dance.   

"It is called a harem – having all those wives," he told her, 
regaining some control and ashamed of himself for snapping at 
her.  She was lying in bed too weak to even walk and he was 
feeling sorry for himself.

Raising his eyebrows at her mischievously, he climbed bare-
chested and nasty onto the clean sheets, looming over her.  "I 
should do that.  I will find eleven more women and live like a 
sultan – that is the husband.  We will need a bigger bed.  And the 
dogs will be horrified.  They get that puzzled look on their faces 
when they watch us now."

"Um," Duana replied, so impressed with his half-naked, filthy 
splendor and sense of humor that she was nodding off.  "That is 
you the dogs are watching." 

"With so many women, I would not have time to give my heart to 
any one of them," he continued, pretending he had not heard her.  
"One could even die and I would not notice."

"You would notice.  There would be a brief lull in the nagging," 
she replied, smiling at him before she closed her eyes.

"I do not think I could stand a dozen women all telling me what to 
do.  And squabbling lustfully over my body – all that noise would 
make my head hurt.  And I would not want to upset the dogs.  I 
suppose I will have to content myself with only you, cariad."

"I suppose," she mumbled, rubbing her belly and nestling deeper 
into the pillows. 

"Then you cannot leave me.  With only one wife, I would be lost 
without her."  He stayed face to face with her, watching her 
features relax as she fell asleep.  "Especially when I have done 
such a common thing as falling in love with her."

*~*~*~*  

"Some fever, but not so bad," Leuan answered, thanking God 
Merfyn had been able to find such a well-trained doctor so quickly.  
Apparently, the sergeant had physically dragged the man out of 
Chester and across the Welsh border when the promise of fifty 
shillings did not persuade him.  "The bleeding stopped days ago, 
but she is still very weak."

The physician looked over Duana critically as she slept, reaching 
out to twist a strand of her vivid hair between his fingers and then 
stroking her hand like a lover.

"This girl has far too much black bile – her skin is dry.  I will bleed 
her to balance the humors," the doctor announced slowly, as if he 
were speaking to a child.  "And it will help the fever to cut her 
hair.  It is only by God's grace that you have not killed her with 
your barbaric herbs and soups and teas.  After I have bathed her, I 
will need topaz, garnet, fragrant oils, powdered hartshorn, black 
crab claws, the kidney stone of a goat and the semen of a goose. 
Mugwort and dill to protect me, as well.  And several lengths of 
strong rope.  I have my own knives."

Merfyn had been nodding along as Leuan translated for him, 
making a mental list, but was a little stunned by one item: "Semen 
of a goose?"

Even Gwen paused from lighting all the candles the doctor had 
requested, although why he wanted candles at midday was beyond 
her.  Lady Duana never wanted this when someone was sick.  The 
doctor cleared his throat and Gwen, thoroughly intimidated, 
continued with her assigned duty.  She was not a doctor, after all.

"We bathed her yesterday, so you will not need to do that," 
Gwilym spoke up, following at least some of the French 
conversation.  By now, he was accustomed to men staring at his 
wife, and it was true – she was laying helpless in their bed with her 
hair down, but this Donaes de Pasquier was still making him 
uncomfortable.  Something about the way the doctor watched her – 
fixating on her hair, but not breasts or face – that was not the way 
one would normally admire a pretty woman.

The big man looked back at Gwilym slouching in the shadows of 
the bedchamber, wanting to see who had dared cross him.

"Duana does not like to be touched by strangers, especially men," 
Gwilym explained as Merfyn left the room, still mumbling 
something about a goose and looking puzzled.  "My wife had a 
bath yesterday," he repeated for emphasis, standing up straighter.  

Gwilym had seen Court doctors diagnose and treat women without 
ever laying a hand on them, and he did not see why this man could 
not do the same, since he claimed to have been a physician to 
kings.

"I will not be questioned by some Welsh devil.  If you want your 
wife to live, you will do as I direct," the physician replied, his 
voice low and melodic, as though he cared little one way or the 
other.  "Or I can leave and let her die."

Gwilym, his patience already stretched thin by stress, lack of sleep, 
and being left out of the conversation, automatically put a hand on 
his dagger.

"Gwilym!  Donaes has come a long way at your request!  Lady 
Duana is sick," Leuan intervened.  Then in French, "My apologies, 
Donaes de Pasquier – Lord William is quite devoted to his wife.  
We will do as you request."    

"No – we will not," Gwilym protested.  "I do not like this."  

There was a commotion in the bailey below: Welsh curses 
combined with frantic honking and flapping as Merfyn and the 
stable boy tried to catch one of the geese Gwen had been fattening 
for the Christmas feast.   

"Your wife is a witch," Donaes explained to Gwilym, speaking 
slowly so he could understand.  "The herb your priest said she 
asked for – mealladh na minnseach – that is only used by witches."

"Duana is good with herbs, but she is no witch.  She is an iachawr 
– a healer.  We were only guessing at what she was saying.  
Probably she was asking for her mother," Gwilym said. 
  
Leuan translated for clarity, nodding in agreement.  Donaes was 
beginning to make him uneasy as well.  Of course Lady Duana was 
not a witch; her herbs had helped his gout and the pain in his 
knees, but that was just folk medicine, not witchcraft. 

"Watch," the doctor said, holding a red stone on a thin chain over 
Duana's belly as she slept.  "You are simple people, but you 
should understand this.  If it swings side-to-side, the child is of 
man.  If it swings in a circle, it is a changeling."

As Leuan and Gwilym watched wide-eyed, the stone pendant 
circled the swell of her stomach.  "This baby is a demon spawn – 
that is why she is still sick after her fall.  There is no shame for 
you, my lord – the devil can take many forms.  Your wife probably 
thought she had coupled with you.  If I can purge the evil from her, 
she may live. If not, she will at least die purified."

Leuan began to object on a dozen different levels, none the least 
that destroying the child was a mortal sin, but Gwilym interrupted.

"It is a blessed child of the Beltane fires, not a changeling," he 
said quickly, desperate to convince Donaes that Duana was not a 
witch.  Witches could be tortured and then stoned or hanged once 
they confessed and were redeemed.  Many women did not even 
survive the ordeals that proved them innocent.  "A child of the old 
Druid ways. That is what your pendant is detecting."

The priest looked from Lady Duana in the bed to Gwilym standing 
in the corner.  "Llwynog!"  

Leuan preferred to think Lady Duana could conceive without 
engaging in any sort of carnal acts, but he had at least trusted 
Gwilym not to harm her or mislead her in her faith.  Duana had not 
confessed it to him, either, which was unlike her.  He had never 
known Gwilym to be rough with women, but this was a hundred 
times worse – he had corrupted her.  

And Gwilym was making it worse still by admitting it in front of 
an outsider.   
 
Gwilym shifted from foot to foot, hanging his head.  "She did 
nothing wrong.  Duana only did what I told her to do."
  
"How could you do this?" Leuan screamed at him. "How could 
you take your Christian wife into the forest like some whore!  
Christ, Llwynog – even whores generally have a bed!"

"Duana did nothing wrong!" Gwilym yelled back.

"But you have!"  Leuan switched to the tone he had used to scold a 
ten-year-old boy who had been caught stealing apples.  "Get out.  
Go to the chapel and pray.  I will hear your confession, but I 
cannot even think as to how to absolve you.  And you-" he turned 
to the doctor, "You will not touch Lady Duana until I return.  It is 
not proper, and I think we have already had enough lust and 
impropriety."

Donaes opened his mouth to protest, but it did not seem wise to 
question the priest.  Later – there would be plenty of time to deal 
with this girl later.

Gwilym stomped through the hallway and down the stairs, 
ignoring the servants' questioning looks.  As he crossed the bailey, 
dogs and chickens scurrying out of his way, Merfyn triumphantly 
held up the big bird he had finally caught.

"Any ideas?" Merfyn asked.

Gwilym just stalked past him.  
 
The sergeant's face fell.  Well, at least he had a goose. Someone 
else could figure how to get… that from it.  Now, how to tell 
which goat might have kidney stones.

*~*~*~*

"I will not have my wife dread me touching her – she says God 
created pleasure for man, and then man, not God, decided it was a 
sin.  I agree.  I agree with many things she says.  I will not beat and 
chastise her until there are no ideas in her head that I did not put 
there.  I refuse to believe God would give men the ability to think 
and reason and then expect them not to do it," Gwilym said, as 
as he knelt beside Leuan in the chapel, shoulders slumped 
and head hanging miserably.  "Truly, Leuan, there was no evil or 
witchcraft.  I have watched the child grow inside her and it is of 
man – one man – me.  We did nothing against God's word, only 
the Church's." 

Leuan had been on the verge of patting Gwilym on the back, 
reassuring him that he was a good man, and telling him to go back 
to Duana, but quickly changed his mind.  "The word of the Church and
the King, is the word of God," he said forcefully, as though he might 
convince Gwilym this time.  "You must learn not to question that."

"Priests and popes and Templars are only men.  Good men, often, 
but still men.  I do not question God, but I feel free to question 
men.  I have been in eight different churches in the Holy Land that 
each claimed to house Christ's cross.  Now, I have never seen a 
man crucified, but I doubt it takes more than one cross, so if there 
are eight, then at least seven of those priests are wrong."   

Leuan crossed himself.  "That is blasphemy!"

"No, questioning God is blasphemy – questioning the Church is 
heresy.  At least damn me for the correct crime."

They had been having this debate since Gwilym was fifteen or so, 
and Leuan had yet to win.  Even the Knights Templar had not 
managed to convince Gwilym to follow their cause blindly, and he 
probably spent more time doing penance than crusading when he 
rode with them.  The best the priest could ever do was persuade 
Gwilym not to stand up at Court, announce his beliefs, and get his 
neck stretched.

"I can only say this, Gwilym: the world is changing, and Wales 
must change with it.  That is what your father wanted and what I 
taught you.  You were not the only man among the Beltane fires, 
but you were the only one unwise enough to admit it to an outsider 
and to bring a woman with you who is not one of us."

Gwilym snuck a glance at Leuan out of the corner of his eye – had 
the priest and the Norse woman been one of the couples handfasted 
among the bonfires?  Leuan was a Christian, but so were many 
peasant couples: it was just the old way of marriage.  Gwilym's sin 
was taking Duana to the Druid ceremonies and in coupling as they 
had afterward, not the handfasting.  

Leuan tried so hard to embrace the Church's teachings, but he was 
only mortal, although he liked to deny it.  Unlike a secular knight 
who could marry when his term of service had passed, there was 
no way for a Templar priest to ever take a wife in the Church.        

"I understand you were only curious about the Druids," Leuan 
continued. "They must have drugged or charmed you, so I cannot 
hold you accountable for those carnal sins.  And my knees are 
aching now without your wife's tea: that is medicine.  But in 
London, you both would be dead – she as a witch and you as a 
heretic – and it would be because of you.  Our ways – the old 
mysteries, hearth marriages, handfastings, fairy folk – they are 
called illegitimacy and witchcraft now.  We respect the Old Ones 
and blend them with the new, Saeson Christian beliefs and live 
happily in our mountains, but that is not the Norman way."

"But I am not a Norman," Gwilym countered.

"You are a vassal of Llewelyn who is a vassal of the English boy-
King.  You and the other Welsh nobles are Normans-by-proxy and 
each year Britain chips away a few more of our traditions.  Your 
lands will not be divided among your sons in the Welsh way, but 
must pass only to the oldest, legitimate boy, if there is one.  
Women must come to their marriages virgins now, and there is no 
divorce without the husband's and Church's consent, even if the 
man beats her or brings another woman into their bed.  Only the 
peasants are still purely Welsh – the rest of us are the bastard 
children of the King's law."

"And they call us barbarians.  I cannot be other than I am, Leuan.  
Lying is as wrong as heresy."

"I respect you for that – that you are true to your convictions even 
when you know there could be a price.  And I do not doubt that 
your faith in the Christian God is as strong as mine.  But now you 
have put Lady Duana at risk – led her astray from her beliefs, and 
that I consider a sin.  Perhaps it is not a sin the same as gluttony or 
envy, but it is wrong and you know it.  Do you understand?"

Gwilym nodded, still staring down at the alter.   

"Go to your wife," Leuan commanded.  "For this, you are 
accountable only to her and God, not to the Church."

*~*~*~*

Unless they were making love, people freely came and went from 
their bedchamber, and in the week since Duana had fallen, the 
quiet bustle continued at all hours.  Gwilym shifted closer to her, 
blending the angles of his body into hers, but did not really wake at 
the sound of the door opening.  Even having the bed curtains 
pulled back did not bother him – Gwen had become quite 
obsessive about checking on his wife, so he did not even open his 
eyes.  

Not until a drop of hot wax fell in his cheek did Gwilym jump, 
ordering the servant away even as he squinted to see who it was 
behind the single candle.

"You sleep with your wife?  How very common: how Welsh.  You 
must not do that.  It is better for her to sleep alone, especially 
now."

Gwilym's French was not good enough to catch every word the 
doctor had said, but he got the general sense.  And he wanted to 
know what the man was doing in their bedchamber in the middle 
of the night.   

"I came to check the girl," Donaes answered in his monotone 
voice, holding the candle close to her face as she slept.  "What 
lovely hair.  It will be a pity to cut it."

Gwilym sat up and stretched.  This man still made his stomach 
nervous, but it spoke of great dedication to his patient to monitor 
her even at night.   

"Why cut her hair?  It was cut last year when our daughter was 
born and her fever has passed now."

"I must have it," the doctor answered quickly.  "To – to ward off 
the evil spells that have been placed on her and the child."   

Yawning, he stood and covered Duana, who reached out her hand, 
examining the place beside her where his body had just been.

Gwilym had his doubts that the Druids had done anything except 
hold their rites and maybe added a few herbs to the wine, but he 
understood that hair must always be burned so it was not used for 
casting hexes.

"Oh – then you do not need to cut her hair.  I – I, um…"  He 
fumbled until he found the key to the lock on the chest and opened 
the creaky lid.  "I did not keep it all, just some," he said sheepishly, 
searching for the pouch containing a few locks of her hair.  "And I 
kept it safe."

Donaes set his candle in a nook in the wall, his eyes fixated on the 
red curls as Gwilym wove them through his fingers, enjoying the 
silkiness one last time and remembering that first night Duana had 
come to Aber.  

"Are you all right?" Gwilym asked Donaes. 

"I am fine.  Please – may I have the hair?"

Gwilym nodded, handing it over.  "I am thankful that you could 
come, but I would like you to wait before you bleed her.  My wife 
is no witch.  She is slowly getting better, and bleeding is so 
dangerous.  I will pay you well for your time if you will just stay in 
Aber with us in case she becomes ill again." 

Gwilym mentally repeated that to himself, making sure he had said 
what he intended, but Donaes simply replied, "Of course," and 
hurried away with Duana's hair.

"You have a very strange doctor," he informed Duana as he 
climbed back into bed with her.

"Mumm," she responded, putting his hand on her belly and 
snuggling against his shoulder.

*~*~*~*

"Look!  Quick!" he called to Duana as they rounded the corner and 
entered the bedchamber.  "Look who has finally decided to walk!"

Duana had been dozing in a chair beside the fire, but she opened 
her eyes in time to see Eimile take two steps in a row before falling 
on her backside.  Gwilym helped the little girl get up, laughing at 
her determined expression as she got her balance and tried again.

Eimile managed to stay upright for several seconds once she 
reached her mother, then began to flap her arms and babble in 
excitement, collapsed onto the rushes, and howled in frustration.  
'Dehdeh' came to the rescue, settling her against her mother's 
chest before flopping in front of the hearth.

"What a big girl," Duana cooed over her.  "We were beginning to 
think you would crawl around with the dogs all your life."

"Duhduh?"  Eimile asked, and the dogs hurried over, hoping there 
would be food.  'Dehdeh' was Gwilym and 'duhduh' were the 
dogs, at least according to Gwilym.  Duana had long insisted it was 
the same word and Eimile simply thought he was the biggest, 
noisiest of the pack.  Of course, 'muhmuh' was claimed by both 
Duana and Merfyn – but not in the other's presence.

"I think she learned to walk by holding onto their tails.  Really, we 
are raising a wolf-child," Gwilym commented from the floor.

"I have barely seen her in the last two weeks," Duana said, rubbing 
noses with her daughter.  "She could have grown a tail herself and 
I would not have known."

Gwilym could have assured her that Eimile had been just fine, but 
he was trying to learn when to keep his mouth shut and this 
seemed like one of those times.  Instead, he got to his knees, 
peeked down the back of the baby's diaper, and announced, "No – 
no tail."

"Dehdeh!" Eimile chastised him, wrinkling up her forehead.

"Wolf-child!" he informed her, and she pursed her lips, glaring at 
him.  He was in the process of getting on his hands and knees to 
bark and howl at her when Duana's expression told him someone 
was behind him.

"Donaes – good day."  And night and day and night and day – the 
doctor seemed to appear in the bedchamber at all hours to 'check' 
on Duana, and Gwilym was getting tired of this boyish crush of 
his.  "This is our daughter Eimile," he introduced.

"Lady Duana should not be around that child," Donaes ordered.

"Oh, she is fine," Duana said, leaning back as Eimile settled 
against her shoulder to cuddle and suck her own fist for a while.  "I 
am feeling much better now, thank you."

"No!  She is getting you dirty.  Children are filthy creatures!"  

Gwilym stood up, not liking the man's tone at all.  Eimile had 
some residual egg and crumbs on her face from her supper, but her 
nurse would clean that off soon enough, if the dogs did not beat her 
to it.

He leaned out the doorway to call for Merfyn, then, keeping an eye 
on Donaes, went to his desk in the adjoining room.  Returning with 
a pouch of coins, Gwilym said tactfully, "We are grateful for your 
help, but I could not expect you to winter here.  My sergeant and 
guards will give you safe passage out of Wales before the blizzards 
start.  And this," he handed over the heavy bag of silver, "should 
cover your trouble."

"Your wife is not yet out of danger," Donaes insisted.

Gwilym looked back at Duana, who shook her head 'no' - there 
had been no more bleeding or fever and the cut at her hairline was 
healing cleanly.  In fact, Donaes' suggested remedies seemed so 
ludicrous that Gwilym had finally asked Merfyn privately if he was 
sure he had found a doctor and not a butcher.  And once she was 
awake, Duana did not want Donaes near her.  Gwilym would have 
just thought that was her usual hesitancy around strange men, but 
then had realized he did not want Donaes near him, either. 

"It is time for you to leave.  Merfyn," he nodded to the sergeant in 
the doorway, "and his men will see you home.  Again, thank you 
for coming so quickly."

Donaes lost all pretense of formality and simply glared at Gwilym.  
"The evil is still inside that girl," he growled.  "It cannot be 
allowed to live."

"Merfyn," Gwilym indicated, stepping back.  The two guards with 
the sergeant quickly flanked Donaes as Merfyn stepped in front of 
Duana.  "See him to the border of Wales.  I would not want 
Donaes to become lost and wander in a circle back to Aber.  I have 
been known to hang Normans who touch even peasant women in 
Aber."

Merfyn nodded, understanding.  No one could say exactly what it 
was about the man, but Donaes' obsession with Lady Duana was 
just not… natural.   

Without another word, Donaes whirled and stalked out of the 
bedchamber with Merfyn and the guards dutifully following at his 
heels.  Gwilym opened the shutters to watch them ride out of the 
bailey, and breathed a sigh of relief as the horses' hoof beats faded.

Out of curiosity, once Duana and Eimile settled down together for 
an afternoon nap, Gwilym went to the room that had been assigned 
to Donaes to see what the doctor had done with the locks of hair he 
had thought were so important.  There was not a strand to be 
found.  Either Donaes had burned Duana's hair or taken it with 
him.

*~*~*~*

"Read to me what I have so far," Gwilym requested, sitting on the 
edge of the desk and drumming his fingers against the scarred 
wood.

Duana pushed the inkwell safely out of the way, as though he 
would be careless enough to spill it twice in one morning, and read 
in her careful French:

"Done by the hand of Llwynog ap Gwilym, Lord of Aber, this 
twenty-first day of December in the second year of the reign of 
King Henry.  Your most Royal Highness, by the grace of God King 
of England, Lord of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Duke of 
Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, greeting.' William, I 
am not sure Henry still holds Anjou and Aquitaine, but that is what 
you said," she added.

"Go on," he urged her. "What is next?"

Duana picked up the quill again, stretching over her swollen belly 
to reach the parchment, and waiting to write whatever he dictated.

"I know I have said more than that," he insisted.  Gwilym had been 
helping her compose this letter for what seemed like an eternity. 
"About this ridiculous idea that a vassal's service to his liege lord 
can carry over into the next year if it is not used.  That, just 
because my army did not serve forty days this year does not mean 
that Norman boy-king can call me to war eighty days next year.  It 
is my duty to equip my men for forty days' service each year – 
after that, the Crown must pay us as mercenaries.  The royal brat 
has no intention of reimbursing me for more than forty days, so I 
have no intention of serving them.  Did I not tell you to write that 
already?"

"Yes, but that was not such a good way to put it, so I did not mark 
it down," she replied, tapping the quill impatiently.

Gwilym twisted to look at her, his mouth hanging open in shock.  
"You did not mark it down?"

She raised her eyes, looking puzzled, and then nodded.

"You did not mark it down?  Have I been talking to myself?  
Perhaps you can write all my letters for me, if you are so wise?"

"I do write all your letters for you, William, and I have for the past 
year," she replied, sounding irritable.  "Please go find something 
else to do and let me finish this.  I will leave it for you to read it 
before I seal it."    

Duana shifted in the chair, probably trying to find a comfortable 
position.  She said earlier that the baby had dropped – that she 
could breathe easier now, but seemed to make her back ache to 
carry it so low in her belly.  And she was averaging three trips to 
the privy per hour, by Gwilym's estimation, although he did not 
know if that was in any way significant.  

"I can write, you know," he insisted, sounding like a petulant child.  
"It is just clumsy.  I only have you do it because it is good for you 
to practice."  

To her credit, his wife nodded, as though that was actually the 
truth.  Gwilym could keep a grip on the quill for more than a few 
minutes at a time now, but Leuan had edited all his correspondence 
for decades.  Gwilym's tact and tactical skills did not extend off 
the battlefield – for some reason men became upset to receive 
letters that only spoke the truth.

"Do you understand what I want to say – that a vassal's period 
service is forty days each year, regardless of whether or not he was 
called to fight the previous year?  After forty days each year, the 
king must pay me if he wants my army.  Days may not be saved up 
and then used all at once the way Gwen saves lard to make soap."

"I will not mention lard to the king, but yes, I understand.  And I 
cannot write with you chattering at me.  I promise this baby will 
not be born or vanish if you leave me alone for ten minutes.  
Really, I am fine."

She stood up, pressing her hands into the small of her back as he 
hovered protectively.  

"See – that is the problem, cariad.  Are you fine the way you are 
usually 'fine', which is not fine at all, or really and truly fine?  I 
wish you would specify your 'fines.'  Are you 'fine' for a woman 
who is going to have a baby by the New Year, or 'fine' for 
someone who should still be abed after she fell from her horse, or 
'fine' in some other way that I am not familiar with?"

Duana looked at him tiredly, crossing her arms across her swollen 
breasts.  "If you strike me, there is a fee, a fine, yes?"  Gwilym 
nodded. Of course – hitting a woman for no reason was a 
barbarous Norman custom. "What is the penalty if a wife beats her 
husband senseless for driving her insane?"

He was actually thinking it over; Gwilym had never been asked to 
judge something like that among his serfs, but when Duana opened 
her purse and began to count out coins, he took the hint.

*~*~*~*

"Where is my horse?" Gwilym asked as the stable boy led 
Merfyn's gelding into the bailey, leaning into the frigid wind to 
keep his balance.  "Where is Goliath?"

The ten year-old boy blinked, surprised, as he brought the big 
chestnut to a stop in front of his lord, wisely keeping his fingers 
away from its mouth.  "Lady Duana said you were to have this one 
today."

Further information did not seem to be forthcoming, so Gwilym 
turned and yelled, "Duana – Duana!" at corner of the castle.  After 
a moment, the shutters opened and his wife's head peaked out from 
the narrow window of his study.  "Cariad, where is Goliath?  I 
want to ride down to Aber."

"Just take Merfyn's horse," she instructed, squinting her eyes 
against the blowing sleet. "And your new cloak is ready if you 
want to wear it – that old gray one you have on is ragged."

"But where is my horse?" Gwilym called up to her, ignoring her 
fashion advice.

"Goliath is at the smith's being shod – your squire said he had a 
shoe loose this morning.  Merfyn's bad hip is acting up today and 
he is resting, so he will not need his horse.  Leave Merfyn's horse 
at the blacksmith's to be shod as well and bring back Goliath.  
Your squire is supposed to be with Goliath at the smith's, but he 
has probably wandered off by now.  Go to the tavern and tell him 
to wait with Merfyn's horse instead."    

"Oh," Gwilym answered.  She seemed to have it all worked out.  
"Leave Merfyn's horse and bring back Goliath?"

"And I am sending down a decent cloak for you," Duana 
answered, starting to close the shutters, but then stopping to watch 
a small woman saying something urgently to the guards, trying to 
convince them to let her pass.

"Caithrin inghean Uilliam ui Scully," the woman informed the old 
sentry at the gate, who nodded, trying to figure out what to make 
of her colorful dress and desperate Gaelic pleadings.  She was not 
a beggar or a serf, but not a noble, either.  "Inion – Duana?  
Uilliam ui Aber?"

"I am Uilliam – Gwilym of Aber," he said, pulling Merfyn's 
uncooperative horse behind him.  Then, to the sentry, "Just show 
her to the kitchens before she freezes.  Gwen will feed her, 
whoever she is.  She is probably lost."   

"Uilliam?  Aber?" the woman asked again. "Caithrin inghean 
Mairghread ui Scully.  Mathir ui Duana inghean Uilliam ui Scully.  
Inion – Duana!"

As though he was supposed to make any sense of that.  "Duana!" 
Gwilym bellowed across the bailey as the Irish woman attacked 
him with questions like a crusader that finally catches sight of the 
Holy Land.  

"I do not understand.  No, I am sorry, I do not understand," he told 
her repeatedly – in Welsh, in French, and in desperation, even in 
Latin.  His wife had taught him three words in Gaelic and none of 
them were suitable outside their bedchamber.  "Duana is coming - 
she will understand."

"Duana?" she asked, her intelligent eyes lighting up.  "Duana 
inghean Uilliam ui Scully?"

Ah – Duana, daughter of William of the Scully clan.  "Duana of 
Aber," he responded slowly.  "I am William of Aber.  Duana is my 
wife, not daughter."  

"Duana?"

"Yes – Duana," he replied, getting frustrated.  It was not such a 
difficult concept: that a man of almost forty could be married to a 
pretty woman of six and twenty.  "Wife – not daughter."  He 
gestured to Duana waddling across the frozen cobblestones as 
quickly as her eight-month pregnant belly allowed.  "Duana."

The dark-haired woman clasped her hands on either side of Gwilym's 
face and, pulling him down to her, impulsively kissed him full on 
the lips before hurrying past him.

"Was that an Irish custom?   A man could get used to that," the 
wizened sentry commented as Gwilym wiped his mouth in his sleeve, 
trying to recover his poise.  

"I supposed she liked me," he replied, as excited female voices 
babbled behind him in the lilting, melodic tongue of Eire – as 
though they made love to each word rather than just pronounced it.  

"Thank you so much, William," Duana called to him, embracing 
the older woman.  "What a wonderful New Year's gift!"

Gwilym smiled and shrugged sheepishly, having absolutely no 
idea what this was about, but willing to take credit if it was a good 
thing.

"My Lord – I have returned," a red-haired man announced 
breathlessly, his words hanging in white vapor in front of his 
flushed face. "We are here."  

"I see that," Gwilym replied as Duana and the woman disappeared 
inside the castle, arm in arm, leaving him forgotten at the gate.  
Then, looking down to see who was speaking, "And which part of 
the 'we' are you?"

"Pyn – your seneschal.  Pyn Dral, my lord.  You sent me to bring 
Lady Duana's mother.  I am sorry; Caithrin went off and left me in 
the village.  I saw your horse alone at the smith's and thought I 
would bring him back, but Caithrin did not wait as I told her."

Oh.  Most of his memories of the week after Duana fell were of 
blood drying on his hands and the frightening silence of the early 
morning darkness as he prayed she would keep breathing, but he 
had sent someone for her mother at one point.

The guard leaned on his spear, taking all this in with great 
amusement.  So far today, the only excitement had been a 
mediocre dog fight and Father Leuan cursing when he slipped on 
the ice – guard duty in winter was a frigid, boring affair.  Seeing 
Lord Gwilym kissed by a strange Irish woman who turned out to 
be Lady Duana's mother – this was the highlight of the old man's 
week. 
  
"Well, um – well done, Pyn.  You are my what?" Gwilym asked.

"Sene-s-chal," he pronounced slowly, struggling with the French 
word.  "Seneschal – like a steward.  I am to oversee the castle for 
you: the household accounts, the kitchens, the stables.  I know 
French and a little Latin and I can read and even write, some.  
Well, I have seen writing done and it does not look so hard."

"And who decided this?"

"Lady Duana, of course."

"Of course," Gwilym replied, putting his boot in the stirrup and 
then quickly swinging into the saddle before the animal could bolt.  
Merfyn claimed his horse had 'spirit,' but Gwilym thought of it 
more as a vendetta against all humans for gelding him.

Pyn – obviously another of his wife's admirers – turned and 
hurried into the castle after Duana and her mother, probably fearful 
Duana would sneeze and he would not be there to bless her.   

Keeping the reins tight, Gwilym leaned down to the sentry, who 
had been married to the same woman for twenty years and would 
understand:  

"I am going to take Merfyn's ill-mannered nag to the blacksmith 
and get my own horse," Gwilym said with false, wide-eyed 
earnestness.  "And I am going to wear my old gray cloak and stop 
at the tavern to find my squire and then have a bottle of ale if I feel 
like it.  And I will belch – loudly.  And, if I itch, I plan to scratch 
wherever I please.  When I return, I will write my own letter to the 
king and warm my feet at my hearth in my castle with my dogs!"

"I will inform Lady Duana of your plans," the sentry replied, 
trying to keep a straight face.  

Gwilym's mouth twitched, then he gave up all hope of decorum 
and grinned broadly.  "When did it come to this?" he chuckled.  
Duana would never, ever argue with him in public or even raise 
her voice to a servant, but the entire castle seemed to defer to her, 
just the same.  "One day, I looked up and found I was in charge of 
nothing except fathering the children, fighting the wars, and – no, I 
think that may be it."     

"Those are the best parts," the old guard said with a gleam in his 
eye.  "Would you have it any different?" 

Pyn bustled back out of the castle with Gwilym's new cloak, 
looking very self-important.

"Of course not," Gwilym replied, reining Merfyn's horse toward 
the village, leaving Pyn to yell after him, fruitlessly waving the 
new not-gray cloak.

*~*~*~*

"He says a horse bit him," Duana translated for her mother, 
stripping off William's tunic and ruined shirt so she could see the 
wound.  "He goes through more clothing…"   

William stooped down to show Caithrin the twin rows of tooth 
marks on his left shoulder, still telling his woeful tale.  "A bloody, 
ungrateful, demon-possessed, bastard, eunuch of a horse bit him," 
Duana clarified in Gaelic, and William nodded in satisfaction.  

Not sure what was expected of her and more than a little 
intimidated, she did as she would with her own sons.  Caithrin 
made the sympathetic face, clucked over him like a mother hen, 
and William, pacified, settled down on the stool by the fire to let 
Duana doctor him.

She had heard of him – this warrior Gwilym of Aber.  Clearly 
some of the stories were true: the scars across his torso and down 
his strong arms told of a life of battle and he had the air of a man 
accustomed to being obeyed.  Caithrin would want her own sons on 
the same side of a war as William, but someone had chosen a good 
husband for her Duana.

This Duana.  He was good for this Duana, who was almost a 
stranger to her.  This noblewoman who could read and write and 
speak foreign languages and had an army of servants at her 
disposal.  Caitrin had never been past the great room of any castle, 
and here she was in the bedchamber of the lord of Aber with the 
lord stripped to the waist and the lady much alive and heavily 
pregnant and calling her 'mother.'

It was a little overwhelming trying to reconcile the fourteen-year 
old girl she remembered with this poised, elegant woman who was 
Lady Duana.   

Caitrin's younger son Charles had found Duana in London years 
ago, but could not persuade her to return home – which probably 
meant she was ashamed to return home, and Caitrin could only guess 
why.  Then, by chance, her older son Uillec had seen her at 
London Court while on a business trip.  Uillec said Duana had 
been widowed and then married to a Welshman, but he politely 
deflected any further questions about her life.  Whatever Uillec 
knew, it was not information he thought his mother would want to 
hear.  Then a foreign man had appeared in Dover babbling that her 
daughter was dying – that she must come immediately.  Caitrin had 
gotten on the boat honestly expecting to find a corpse in Wales, but 
she had wanted some answers about what happened to her little 
girl.

So this is what happened to her little girl.  She had grown into a 
lovely woman in the last twelve years.

Caitrin had been mortified at the realization that the tall, handsome 
man in the bailey that she had taken for a knight was actually the 
lord of the castle, but Duana had laughed.  'William was probably 
twice as embarrassed as you,' she had said, and that seemed to be 
the case.

Duana translated a bit of the story her husband was telling: that 
William had been unsuccessfully holding a horse's head while he 
was shoed, but Caitrin was more interested in the way he casually 
rested a hand on Duana's belly whenever she was close to him.  
Duana had proudly shown her Eimile, but this would be his first 
son, perhaps.   

He eyed the wine-soaked rag as Duana prepared to clean the 
wound, which was more a nip, really.  The bite was nothing 
compared to some of the scars his body bore.  To Caithrin's 
amusement, William squirmed, he cursed, he kicked his heel 
against the rung of the stool, but he knew better than to pull away.  
For a man who seemed to spark with danger, he behaved like a 
child with a skinned knee around his wife.  

"He wants to know if I am trying to kill or cure him," Duana 
translated as William pretended to glare at her.  "I told him I would 
allow him to live, but would torture him a bit.  He was annoying 
me earlier."  

Caithrin put aside any remaining worries about whether or not her 
daughter was well treated – she was not only well treated, she was 
adored.  However she had come to make her way first to London and 
then to the majestic heights of northern Wales, God had been with 
Duana.  Perhaps not during a few awful moments that a mother 
would rather not think about, but God had an overall plan for her 
daughter's life.

Duana rested her forehead against his for a moment, said 
something, and William answered affirmatively.  Duana had told 
her they had been married only two years, but they were 
comfortable together, as though each poured in and filled the 
cracks and crevices of the other.

"What is that he calls you?" Caitrin asked, noticing William 
assessing her with curious, hazel eyes. 

"'Cariad' – beloved, usually, but he was calling me 'witch' before.  
My name does not translate well into Welsh."   

William turned his head to watch Duana bandage his shoulder, and 
then looked from his wife to Caithrin as he spoke.

"William wants me to tell you that you are welcome in Aber, that 
he would like for you to stay as long as you wish.  He wants you to 
be comfortable here and says you are very brave to leave Ireland 
alone on the word of a man you did not know…"

She paused, and William looked at her expectantly, aware she had 
not said all that he asked.  
       
"You are very brave and a very good kisser, just like your 
daughter, and that is a good combination," she finished, blushing.

*~*~*~*
 
"That is it.  I am not getting up again," Duana announced, 
returning from her midnight trip to the privy.  "There should be a 
limit to this."

Gwilym, fully awake now, rolled to the edge of the mattress, 
holding out his hands and cupping them into a bowl helpfully.  

"In a few more hours, I may be willing to take you up on that 
offer."

He raised his eyebrows, but dropped his hands.

"Take this off," he requested, tugging at her chemise as she stood 
beside the bed.

Duana wrapped an arm around her belly protectively.  "William, 
are you serious?"  They had not made love since she fell, out of fear 
of more bleeding.

"I just want to see you.  I have never seen you this big before.  
Take off your chemise and come to bed."

"Those are the words that make a woman's heart soar: 'I have 
never seen you this big before,'" she said, pulling the yards of soft 
linen over her head before sliding under the coverlets.  

"It works well on men, though."  

Duana sighed, resigned herself to another round of her husband's 
insomniac musings, and relaxed into the pillows as Gwilym 
stretched out beside her.   

"Would it be foolish and idealistic to tell you that you are 
beautiful?" 

Duana replied that it would be, indeed.

"I will not say that, then."  He propped his head up on his hand so 
he could see her face by the candle she had left burning.  "Or some 
drabble about this being the first child I have ever been certain was 
mine and what that means to me.  The wonder I feel when I look at 
you and know that I have done this.  And then there is that I need 
you to the point that it is vulgar to even mention it – some 
nonsense about being incomplete and adrift until you came.  All 
that is appropriate to say to one's mistress, but not to a wife."

Without comment, she adjusted his hand on her abdomen so he 
could feel the baby's feet shifting.  Duana always treated his 
nocturnal chattering like a head cold: she made herself comfortable 
and tried to ignore it as much as possible until it ran its course.

"I do not have a mistress, you know.  That is why I am practicing 
on you."  He ran his palm over the swell of her belly, and was 
surprised when she stiffened for a moment.  "Cariad, are you all 
right?  Was that another pain?"

She exhaled.  "Only a light one. They are not close together yet."  

"Well, make them stop.  You said it would be another few weeks," 
Gwilym said urgently.  

Duana turned her head to look at him, then reached up to stroke his 
cheek comfortingly.  "Babies come when God decides they are 
ready.  This one is ready.  Try not to worry." 

"How soon, do you think?" he asked, his heart beating faster.  

"Hours," Duana said casually, as though women had babies every 
day.  "Afternoon, maybe.  It is hard to predict."

He swallowed.  "It is really happening, then?  Can I stay a little 
longer?" 

Duana nodded, scooting over so she could rest her head on his 
shoulder.  "I would like for you to stay until I have to send for my 
mother.  She can bring the baby as well as any midwife."  

"Are you afraid?" he said softly.  Then, in a more confident tone, 
"Because I am not afraid - not that something could go wrong and 
I could lose you.  Because there are so many things I have not said 
- and if I told you I loved you right nnnow it would seem like I was 
doing it under duress and you would not believe me." 

"Perhaps I am afraid," she admitted.  "But I should not be."

"Then I will be too.  You should not have to be afraid alone."

*~*~*~*

"Any word?" Gwen asked, wiping her hands on her dress before 
she knelt beside Leuan in the chapel.  No one was interested in 
eating dinner, but she had served it and cleaned up afterward just 
the same out of her need for something to fill the hours.

"Still that all is well and it will not be much longer.  Midwives 
always say that, but they have not sent for me," Leuan replied, 
rolling his shoulders to try to ease the knotted tendons.      
 
"I have opened all the windows and doors in the castle.  We may 
freeze, but it will help the womb open for the child to come.  And I 
sent up a knife for Lady Duana's mother to put under the bed to cut 
the pain by half.  Can you think of anything else?"

"See if you can persuade Gwilym to pace inside," Leuan 
suggested.  "Or at least get him to put on another cloak besides that 
old gray one.  Maybe he will listen to you."

"You are supposed to be praying!" Gwilym informed him tersely, 
shaking the snowflakes out of his hair and stalking up the aisle of 
the chapel.  "You are not praying; you are gossiping!"

"I am praying," Leuan insisted, folding his hands piously as 
Gwilym knelt on his other side.   

"Do you know what the Druids say?" Gwilym asked, far too 
restless to remember his prayers himself.  "That on the last day of 
April, the king becomes the lover of the goddess.  And on the 
twenty-second day of December, after the winter solstice, at dusk, 
as penance, the king awaits Death.  It is dusk, Leuan.  Duana said it 
would be afternoon and it is already dusk.  And the moon is rising 
blood red on the horizon."

"You are neither a king nor a Druid, Llwynog," the priest 
reassured him.  "This child is blessed – breathed to life by the Old 
Ones, but I will deny I ever said that.  That is all the moon 
signifies."

Gwilym considered a moment, and then stood up.  "Pray louder," 
he ordered, marching out.  "Perhaps God cannot hear you through 
the snow.  And pray in Welsh, not Latin – no need for God to have 
to translate." 

"Any word?" Merfyn yelled from the walkway atop the castle as 
Gwilym emerged from chapel.  The sergeant claimed he was on 
guard duty – patrolling the perimeter in case Aber was attacked in 
the snow three days before Christmas.

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' and both men went back to pacing. 
Gwilym resumed his path across the bailey with his displaced dogs 
whining at his heels, while Merfyn prowled the battlements, both 
glancing nervously at the moon each time it emerged from behind 
the clouds.  

Merfyn told himself it was not time to worry just yet.  Gwilym said 
the pains had started around midnight and it was barely dusk.  
Eighteen hours was not so long.  He had heard of much longer – 
but of course those women had not lived.

"Any word?" Pyn asked, leaning precariously out of the window of 
Gwilym's study.  He addressed Merfyn on the walkway above 
him, having had his head almost bitten off earlier for daring to 
speak to Lord Gwilym.   

"You are in the next room and I am on the roof – now, who do you 
think would know better, boy?" Merfyn snapped at him, and Pyn's 
red head disappeared back inside the stone walls, his mouth 
twitching dejectedly.  Merfyn sighed, smoothed back what 
remained of his hair, and resumed his lookout for nothing in 
particular.

Hearing boots crunching quickly through the snow and into the 
castle an hour later, Leuan and Gwen went to the doorway of the 
chapel, watching the window of the bedchamber for a sign.     

Gwilym was not outside, so he was almost certainly already with 
Duana.  No one had been able to persuade him to do anything other 
than pace and pray since he had left their bedchamber at noon.  If 
he was not in the bailey or the chapel, Duana's mother had sent for 
him.  Word would come soon.

As they waited, Gwen silently pointed up at the frozen night sky.  
Through the clouds, Leuan caught glimpses of the full moon, but 
something was nibbling away at its red flesh.  The priest knew the 
legend as well as Gwen: the last child of the Druids born during a 
lunar eclipse had been Merlin.  This was an oracle, the Druids 
would say, that a great change or tragedy was coming - or that a 
great leader was being born.  

Leuan crossed himself and started mumbling his prayers as Gwen 
clutched his hand, her chubby fingers damp against his slender 
ones.   

Above them, Merfyn stopped pacing, and Pyn's head peaked out 
again, his fair face eerily lit by a single candle.  Most of the 
servants and guards were loitering on the stairs outside the 
bedchamber, but the stable boy, the master of the horses, and a few 
others perched on the woodpile, waiting, not daring to breathe.  
Even the old sentry guarding the gate stood up a little straighter, 
watching Caithrin as she came to the window of the bedchamber.

Caithrin started to say something, then stopped and glanced behind 
her.  Finally, reassured that she was pronouncing the word 
correctly, she leaned out the window and announced, "Bachgen," 
in her faulty Welsh.

Son.    

*~*~*~*

End: Bachgen

Title: Hiraeth VI: Echen

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

Summary: sixth in the Hiraeth series.  Aber, North Wales; 
winter 1217

Keywords: long story, msr, angst, historical au

Spoilers: I can't see how

Distribution: link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Silver spoons: Jen check – it will be fine, have faith (no cd & ends 
msr); Skinnerhead check – um, well, um; Spooning – and then 
some; angst-o-meter 6.64 out of 10; Snorkameter (distance coffee 
may spray from nose): 15 inches.


Echen
By prufrock's love
*~*~*~*

There were just times when a husband – as head of his family, lord 
of his castle, and slayer of dragons, invaders, and hairy black 
spiders – needed to guide his wife.  It was his duty, his 
responsibility, however distasteful it may be.  A woman could not 
be expected to know right from wrong the way a man did.

Gwilym had two years of practice with Duana, and he had tried to 
learn from his mistakes.  He found the most skillful approach was 
similar to driving a team of stubborn oxen: one carefully observed 
which way the animals wanted to go and then immediately called 
out that direction in a loud, commanding voice.  It made the driver 
feel better, fooled anyone who might be watching, and the oxen 
did not seem to mind too much.

He made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, put his 
hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders as he watched her put 
the baby to her breast.  Again.  He was going to have words with 
whichever servant had brought the baby to Duana.  Again.  
Probably Pyn Dral – that man thought the sun rose and set 
exclusively for her, which was not true.  The sun rose and set for 
Duana, Eimile, and his new son.  

"That is common," he pronounced, scowling at her from the 
doorway.  When she did not respond, he crossed his arms and 
pursed his lips for emphasis.  

"I am a commoner," she casually replied, pulling the coverlet up 
over the baby's head now that someone else was in the 
bedchamber.  Oh – so she wanted to suckle her child like a peasant 
woman, but she had to be modest about it.

He lay down on the mattress with the utmost care, still certain she 
would go to pieces if he jiggled her, propped his head up on his 
hand and pulled the furs and blankets back down.  He at least 
wanted to observe what he was scolding her for doing.

"You should be resting.  You are not even supposed to be sitting 
up.  Look – he is not really eating; he is almost asleep.  Give him 
here," Gwilym ordered, starting to take the baby from her.  "I will 
take him to the nursery," he lied.  Probably, Gwilym would get as 
far as the next room before he barred the door, sat on the sofa, laid 
the baby across his knees, and just stared at him.  It seemed so 
miraculous: to see his own eyes reflecting back at him.

Duana clutched the baby and turned away protectively.  "William, 
I would like to see my own son occasionally.  Between you and 
Mother and Melvin and Gwen and Father John all fawning and 
strutting around like peacocks with him, I seem to have been 
forgotten."  

"I do not strut," he answered haughtily, then added, "Although I 
am certain he is the smartest, strongest, most beautiful week-old 
child I have ever seen."

Her mouth twitched as she tried not to look amused.

"Go ahead – laugh at me.  No one else can hear and I am sure you 
will explode if you do not do it soon.  See," he brushed some milk 
off her nipple with his forefinger, "You are already leaking.  You 
had better laugh or you will burst."  

Gwilym touched his wet fingertip to the baby's mouth, and a 
curious little pink tongue emerged, trying to decide what to make 
of this newest food source.  When his son started to latch onto his 
fingertip to nurse, Gwilym leaned closer in awe, but then 
remembered himself, pulling his hand away and cleared his throat 
as he stood up.  As soon as his back was turned, he quickly brought 
his forefinger to his own lips, just out of curiosity.  

He stopped short, worrying the traces of milk around his mouth in 
wonder, then turned to look at the baby nestled contentedly against 
Duana's bare breasts.

Regaining his composure, he carried the cradle across the hall from 
the nursery and set it down softly beside the bed.  "There, now you 
will not have to get up – which I am sure you do not do every time 
I leave the room or fall asleep.  I will take him to his nurse when 
he is hungry and you will know just where he is at night."

"I do not sleep alone in this bed," Duana replied.  "So I doubt I am 
the only one who wants to check the baby at night."

Gwilym made what he hoped was a disinterested noise, and laid 
the baby in the cradle himself so she would not have to twist to do 
it.  Her mother had given very strict instructions: keep Duana flat 
as much as possible.  The bleeding had not been as bad this time, 
according to Duana – which gave Gwilym nightmares about what 
Eimile's birth must have been like – but Caithrin was still very 
concerned.  And she was not the only one.

"Lay down," he told her softly, closing the curtains against the 
afternoon sun and stretching out on the bed so they were eye to 
eye.   "Rest."  Gwilym pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and 
stroked her cheek, which was not as pale as it had been earlier this 
week.  "I want you to ask your mother before you keep feeding 
him.  When Eimile came, there was no choice, but I want to hear 
your mother say it is all right now.  And do not think she and I 
both do not know when you just pretend to translate what she says.  
My serfs on the Isle of Mon speak a Gaelic language, and neither 
Caithrin nor I are fools.  If she says it is fine, I will stop scolding 
you about doing it, no matter how inappropriate it is."

"Mother knows, William.  She wants him fed by the wet-nurse 
most of the time until I am stronger, but it is good for babies to 
have milk from their own mothers.  Especially at first: it makes 
them healthier.  But if you keep having the wet-nurse feed him 
constantly, I will not have any milk soon."

"Why is that?" he asked, scooting down so he could examine the 
two subjects of their discussion more closely.  "Is it like a cow that 
must be milked regularly?"  

That was a flattering analogy, but Duana, probably used to him, 
only nodded, and then laid her head against her forearm on the 
pillow. 

"Then it must hurt not to be able to nurse.  Cows make an awful 
racket if the milk maids are late – mooing and carrying on like they 
are dying."

It was a good she had little choice about becoming his wife – he 
would never be able to charm any woman into marrying him with 
flowery, romantic observations like that.

"It is uncomfortable," she mumbled, already partially asleep.  "But 
new babies eat often, so he will be hungry again soon."

He was quiet a moment, running his hand carefully over the swell 
of her breast and down over the softness of her waist.  "I do not get 
to tell you often that you are wrong – not and really mean it.  My 
father was the last Lord of Aber born in this castle, so, yes, 
everyone is celebrating my son, including me.  But I have not 
forgotten about you, either, so do not think I have."  He glanced up 
and saw her finally smiling as she dozed.  "Oh, do not look so 
smug, woman.  As though you do not know I absolutely adore you 
past the point of common sense."

Her breasts jiggled temptingly in front of his face as she chuckled, 
resting her hand lightly on his cheek.  He weighed the pros and 
cons for a moment, then decided he could not possible horrify her 
more than he had the night she conceived his son.  This would earn 
a mere raised eyebrow from her when compared to what they had 
done among the bonfires.  

As he took her nipple into his mouth, exploring the taste and 
fullness rather than suckling, she inhaled, pulling her shoulders 
back.

"I think I know why you like to feed that baby, cariad," he paused 
to say, licking his lips.  "Wanton."

"It is not the same thing at all.  I cannot believe you are jealous that 
your son gets to nurse, but you do not."

"Not nursing," he murmured, and instead nuzzling against her neck 
and closing his eyes.  "Appreciating."   

"Is that what you call it?"

"You have no idea."

*~*~*~*

Gwilym had sworn Merfyn to absolute secrecy before they left the 
castle, but there are still some things a gentleman just does not tell, 
especially knowing Merfyn's penchant for gossip.  

The sergeant, however, had no such modesty, and seemed to think 
any topic was suddenly open for discussion.

"You have actually waited the entire forty days?" Merfyn asked, 
forgetting to guide his horse as he stared at Gwilym in shock – or 
horror: it was hard to tell.  "I thought that was just one of those sins 
Leuan made up to torment his parishioners and no one actually did 
it.  So you waited seventy days after Eimile was born?  Seventy 
days – how many months is that?  More than one, I know."

"Seventy days is a little more than two months," Gwilym mumbled 
noncommittally.   

Merfyn considered a moment, cocking his head to the side with the 
effort.  "I would die," he decided.  "I would rather confess, do 
penance, and pay for indulgences.  I can understand a few weeks 
after a son or any child, really, but two months - a man is supposed 
to wait seventy days to lay with a woman after a daughter is born?  
I have so many daughters; if I waited two months after each one, I 
would be waiting…" He struggled with the math, then gave up and 
just said, "…a very long time."

"If you would wait, then you might not keep having to think up 
names for so many daughters.  How many is it now – eight?"

"Nine; three boys and nine girls," Merfyn said proudly.  "How 
long is that all together that I was supposed to abstain?"

"Almost two years," Gwilym answered, glad to have a new topic 
besides his relations with Duana.  "But you have two sets of twins 
and those new triplets, and I think Leuan would count days of 
abstinence after each birth, not by each child.  So a woman is never 
unclean for more than seventy days, regardless if she has one baby 
or a whole litter, as your wives seem to do."

"So how long it is really?  Perhaps I can do it all at once the next 
time we go to war and get some of my indulgence money back 
from Leuan.  I think I would be fine if I got to kill someone every 
so often, because, I swear, I have paid for the chapel's new altar 
myself.  That priest knows more ways to make something a sin-" 
Merfyn reined his gelding sharply and ducked to avoid a low tree 
branch.  

"Five hundred and seventy days," Gwilym figured, having had 
time to calculate since Goliath had sense enough to walk around a 
tree rather than into it. "Nineteen months – more than a year and a 
half," he added for Merfyn's benefit.  

Like most uneducated men, Merfyn judged time by the height of 
the sun, the phase of the moon, and the season of the year.  He 
could recognize his name, read scales enough to know how much 
he was being paid, and, not having owned more than fifty of 
anything in his life, had never needed to count any higher.    

The older man whistled under his breath, which Gwilym took to 
mean Leuan could rely on Merfyn continuing to buy indulgences 
and warm the confessional for many years to come.

"So, then, who is your mistress, if you are actually so moral all of a 
sudden?" he asked, feeling bold.  "There was Diana and Phoebe, 
though I never saw the appeal.  Of Phoebe," Merfyn quickly 
added, although he had been quite vocal about despising Diana as 
well at the time.  "Whores, of course, but that is not the same.  
When you came back from the Holy Land, there was the blonde, 
Murietta, in the tavern, but I have not seen you give her the time of 
day lately.  Really, Gwil, I do not know who it could be since Lady 
Duana came.  No woman in the castle, I am certain, or I would 
have heard of it.  That is polite, though, and as you were taught: 
there is no need to flaunt other women in front of your wife.  And, 
come to think of it, I have heard of no village girls, no prostitutes, 
– which do not count – no camp followers-"

"It is lovely to hear you chronicle my life.  You are not the only 
one with a good memory.  Would you like to hear my account of 
your mistakes?" Gwilym interrupted, wondering how he could 
explain how a prostitute 'did not count' to Duana, if she found out 
- or to himself, even if she did not..   

"Dear God in Heaven!" Merfyn exclaimed, spurring his mount to a 
trot so he was riding beside Gwilym, who had suddenly felt the 
need to pick up his pace.  "You are actually faithful to your wife!"

Gwilym ignored him, turning off the road and onto the snowy path 
to the alchemist's hut.

"That is it, is it not?  There is not only no mistress, there are no 
other women at all.  That is why you are so worried that Lady 
Dana might become pregnant again so soon.  The forty days have 
almost passed and you have not been with anyone else."

Gwilym flung him his nastiest look, but knew it would do no good: 
Merfyn had sniffed the wind and caught the scent of something to 
tease him about.  

"Interesting.  Well, you are not the only one hopelessly in love.  
Someone else we know has a new daughter – twin daughters, in 
fact."

"Who?" Gwilym asked, very interested.  Probably one out of every 
ten women in Aber had given birth this winter, but there were no 
twins or triplets except for Merfyn's.  Duana generally delivered 
any local babies, so these girls must have come in the months since 
she fell from her horse.

And he was being baited somehow – he doubted his sergeant was 
going to let him off the hook about his wife so easily.

"I will tell you if you will say it: I, Llwynog ap Gwilym, have not 
been with a woman in almost forty days."

"You are being childish.  Tell me who has the new twins.  One of 
the kitchen maids, maybe?"

"Not until you admit that you are actually managing to be faithful 
to a woman.  Then pick me up after I faint and I will tell you."

Gwilym frowned – no deal.  Aber was not that large: he would 
know about the twins soon enough.  

"No, not really – no one?" Merfyn tried again.  "We were in the 
south of Wales for all those months…  How about while she is 
with child?  According to Leuan, that is a sin as well, yes?  She has 
been pregnant most of the time you have been married to her-"

"And that is why we are here," Gwilym snapped back.  "And I am 
not the only one who wanted to come, so either close your mouth 
and be helpful, or go home and pray your Elan lives through 
another set of triplets."

Merfyn's eyes narrowed, but he kept quiet the rest of the way 
through the snowy woods to Llangly's hovel.

*~*~*~*

"And one would do what with this?" Gwilym asked, peering 
suspiciously into the mixture of cedar gum, olive oil, rue, lead, and 
white pepper. 

"Inside," Merfyn reminded him, so puzzled he forgot he was not 
speaking to him.  
 
"No, I do not think so," Gwilym decided, wrinkling his nose at 
Llangly's latest suggestion.  "If my wife knows, then it is her sin as 
well.  This," he said, sticking his fingers into the repulsive 
concoction and then, regretting it, trying to flick it off and still 
maintain his dignity at the same time, "This, I think, she would 
notice."
 
"Do not worry – there are other choices," Llangly assured him.  
"Many things are said to prevent a child from forming."  
 
"I have heard of brake-root," Merfyn offered,  "One of my wives 
drank brake-root powdered in wine."

"And how many children did you say you had?" Llangly asked 
haughtily.  "Perhaps your science is a little questionable?"

"And how many times did you say you have been married that you 
think this-" he gestured to the alchemist's contraceptive offerings 
so far, "-is a valid option.  Let me count: never, I think it was.  Can 
you imagine what my wife would say if I told her she was to put 
this-"

"Better your wife do it than you.  I would have to sketch you a map 
for you to figure out where it goes," Llangly retorted, having 
disliked the grumpy old soldier at first sight.  "Tell me, do your 
children resemble any other man you know?"

"All right!" Gwilym intervened.  "Enough.  You said there were 
other choices.  What are they?  And do not suggest dung from
-any- animal applied to –any- part off mme or my wife again."

"Weasel testicles," Llangly replied, nodding enthusiastically.    

"I am sorry?" Gwilym responded, eyes wide.  He looked to Merfyn 
to see if he had heard correctly, and his sergeant's expression 
indicated he had.

"The Normans say to have a woman wear them," Llangly 
explained.

Merfyn quickly thought up a brilliant jibe about whether or not 
Lady Duana already did something similar, but Gwilym was 
wearing his sword and Merfyn preferred to keep his manhood.  
Gwilym always had the last word in his marriage, of course – as 
soon as he made sure that was all right with his wife.

Just like Merfyn did.

Llangly held up a sizable jar and assured them with great pride that 
he collected these himself, which worried Gwilym for several 
reasons.  "Weasel testicles worn as a necklace are said to be a sure 
guarantee against pregnancy," Llangly said, sounding like he was 
actually serious.

"Perhaps for female weasels," Gwilym said skeptically.  "I will put 
a jasper stone under the pillow like you suggested, but is there 
nothing else?"

"My Lord, wives have so many children for a reason – because it is 
God's will.  You are trying to prevent that, which is as unnatural as 
a woman speaking in Church or a court of law."

Gwilym was quiet for a moment, glancing at the cobwebbed 
crocks that lined the high shelves and the parchments on which the 
alchemist's experiments were carefully recorded.   
       
"You know, of course, that my wife had a child before Christmas? 
A son?"  

Llangly nodded – all of Aber had celebrated: Lady Duana was well 
liked, especially for a foreigner, and everyone breathed a sigh of 
relief to know there was again a male heir.  

"There was bleeding afterward," he continued. "Just like after our 
daughter was born.  Her mother was there and got it to stop, but I 
was with my wife when it happened.  Duana sent for me as soon as 
the baby came – they did not even have him bathed yet.  I did not 
want to leave her in the first place, but everyone insisted, so I made 
her promise I could come in as soon as possible after the birth.  I 
have seen men cut in two with axes in battle; I thought I could 
manage not to panic as she gave birth; that maybe it would make 
her feel better to know I was there.  The midwives are right, 
though – watching her suddenly start to bleed and not knowing any 
way to help was much worse than any war I have ever been in.  
One minute I was stroking her sweaty face, thinking how tired she 
looked and thanking God she was alive, and the next there was so 
much blood…" he trailed off, not wanting to discuss the details, 
but obviously upset.  "Do not tell me it is God's will that Duana 
die just because – because of me."

Merfyn shifted, feeling awkward, and decided the thatched roof 
and then the floor alternately needed to be stared at.  

"These are only folk remedies," Llangly responded in a 
sympathetic voice.  "I would not put much faith in them if so much 
is at stake.  Perhaps they work; perhaps they do not.  I am sure you 
already know what coitus interruptus is; either that or… or ask 
your wife.  She is very good with herbs.  I know metals and 
science, but the villagers say she is a skilled healer, for a woman. If 
there is another way, she will know it.  Perhaps-"

Gwilym was shaking his head from side to side.  "I have already 
asked her and she will not say."             

"But she might tell another woman," Merfyn piped up cheerfully.  
"And she is bound to be sympathetic to Elan: twins and then 
triplets within two years is just not reasonable.  I will have Elan 
ask Lady Duana and tell me, and then Llangly can give you 
whatever herbs Duana recommends.  Then it will be up to you, 
Gwil, to get your wife to take them."

"I do not think she will tell Elan," Gwilym replied, sounding 
doubtful.  Merfyn's young wife might be pretty and she might 
adore Merfyn, but she had about as much sense and tact as a rabbit.  
"The tan- another woman wanted herbs to end her pregnancy, and 
Duana would not even tell her what they were.  Elan is not going 
to convince my wife if this other woman did not."

The woman had been the tanner's wife last week – her husband had 
sent her and told her not to come home still pregnant with that 
Russian's child.  Not that the tanner did not love her; just that he 
could not look at her every day, remember what had happened, and 
stay sane.  

If ever a situation would play on Duana's soft heart, it was that 
woman.  Gwilym had accidentally overheard, via his ear pressed to 
the door, her desperate pleas to Duana.  The next day, Duana 
seemed to have acquired a new, completely inept, and suspiciously 
pudgy lady's maid for the duration of said 'pudginess.'  Then, he 
was betting, he was going to acquire a foster child.   

"If you have a better idea, feel free to share it, Gwil," Merfyn 
replied, frustrated that his idea was dismissed so easily.  "Perhaps 
you are not the only man fond of your wife."

Gwilym shrugged, defeated, thanked Llangly for his time, and 
walked outside, wanting to clear his head before Merfyn started 
picking at him again.  

"Leuan and the Norse woman," the sergeant said neutrally, the 
leather creaking as he swung into his saddle.  "She has returned to 
her homeland, but sent word that the two girls came safely.  That is 
where Leuan has been since he christened your son and my newest 
children – with his hearth wife in the North."

He had been busy checking Goliath's feet – his gait was off for 
some reason, but Gwilym glanced up, surprised.  "I thought you 
were going to make me say I loved only my wife before you would 
tell me."

Merfyn forced a grin – he delighted in secrets the way a glutton 
delighted in sweets, but he was in no mood to laugh at the moment.  
"I think you just did.  Do not worry – I will not tell anyone."  

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym tossed the summons across his desk so it slid over the 
edge and fluttered to the floor, and clenched his fists until the 
joints ached.  "Why did you not tell me?" he spat at Llewelyn.  
"Could you not have mentioned who my wife is?  I thought she 
was joking when she said her husband called her 'Countess'."

"Who your wife was," the prince corrected, puzzled by his friend's 
reaction.  Gwilym had put off swearing fealty to the new king to 
stay with Duana and his son, and the King had finally sent a 
summons for Llewelyn to bring him, and, oddly enough, Duana, to 
London Court.  "Why – would you have refused her?"

Gwilym whirled around, his temper and pride getting the best of 
him.  "As if I had a choice!  You sent Leuan back to Aber with a 
message: I had been married by proxy.  Not 'was to be married' – 
'married.'  Over, done, sight unseen.  By order of Prince Llewelyn, 
I had a new wife and you were in King John's good graces again.  
So do not pretend you were so considerate of my feelings."  

"You did not send Duana back, Gwil, and you know I would have 
let you if you did not want her.  Why does it matter now?  Next to 
my Joanna, you have the most beautiful wife in Wales and a new 
son as well.  And Eimile – I know you are proud of her, no matter 
what."  Llewelyn put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and 
Gwilym shrugged away.  "This is some sort of bad joke – someone 
put her old title on a summons to taunt you; nothing more.  You, as 
always, are over-reacting."     

"The Countess of Pembroke and Striguil, and Lady of Leister, 
Llewelyn – that is land in Ireland, Britain, south Wales and 
Normandy.  That must be half of the Crown's taxes.  There is quite 
a difference between that and the Lady of Aber."

Llewelyn, who had other things to do today besides listen to 
Gwilym be insecure, sighed and sunk into the sofa.  The Prince of 
Wales had never been troubled by a lack of self-confidence.  "If 
you are so curious about her past, ask her.  If you want a wife 
without a past, marry a twelve-year old virgin and raise her the 
way you want her.  Otherwise, come to London with me to pay 
homage to the new king, bring your wife with us, and stop 
dwelling on a dead man."

Gwilym exhaled noisily and changed the subject.  "Why would the 
brat-king summon Duana?  I do not like this."   

"Eimile and your son can stay at my Court while we are gone, just 
to be safe.  I do not see how the Crown could benefit by harming 
Duana, but I will not take any chances."  Gwilym had already lost 
enough by putting his faith in Llewelyn, but neither man would 
ever say that.  "I would rather face a trap knowingly, if that is what 
it is, Gwil, than to run blindly from one snare into another."

"All right.  We will be ready to ride tomorrow.  I will need to 
borrow a horse – Goliath has a swollen hock.  Pyn Dral can 
manage the castle well enough, but there is a woman, Duana's 
maid, who is with child.  I do not want Pyn to know the details, so 
I will send her with the children along with their wet-nurses, and 
Duana's mother, if she will go.  If the maid's baby comes before 
we return, I have already paid for Saint Mary's Abbey to take it.  I 
thought Duana would want to keep it, but she is adamant that she 
does not."  

Llewelyn was surprised - aghast, even.  Taking a wife's maid as a 
mistress might be convenient, but it was certainly unwise.  He had 
thought Gwilym would have been more sensitive to Duana's pride. 

"The abbot knows Duana, and promised the monks would keep the 
child until it is old enough to be pledged to the Templars or one of 
the nunneries.  My serf's wife was raped and this is the rapist's 
child, not mine.  The serf will take her back, but not the child," 
Gwilym explained, then, tilting his head to the side, asked, 
"Pembroke's son Alex – does he still live?"

"As far as I know, he did not have a son named Alex.  Not by his 
first wife, anyway, and I do not know of any others.  There is a son 
and a stepson, but neither is Alex."  Llewelyn, also not a fool, had 
no intention of telling Gwilym their names.  "Why?"
 
"No reason," Gwilym replied casually, toying with the hilt of his 
dagger.  "As you say, I like to know the trap I am walking into."

*~*~*~*

The sensation was like tiny flames licking her all over as sea foam 
caressed her skin, which made no sense at all, but she was not 
going to dwell on the disparity.  In the blackness of their 
bedchamber, Duana ran her hands across the smoothness of a 
man's shoulders as rough stubble scratched her face, then neck, 
then breasts, suckling gently.  She could not see anything in the 
darkness, but the scent of his skin, the sounds from deep in his 
throat, and the rhythm of his mouth and hands roaming over her 
body were familiar. 

"Do not wake," William whispered to her, moving further down 
her body and pushing her legs apart.  "All a dream."

She relaxed under him, letting her muscles go limp.  They had 
finally finished all the arrangements for their trip to London and 
fallen into bed long after midnight, barely speaking.  She was not 
at all happy about leaving the children because of one of her 
husband's whims and had told him so.  Making her accompany 
him was selfish – she was still nursing their son and this was just 
another way to try to make her stop, regardless of what he said.  
William had been in a foul mood all evening, refusing even to let 
her see the summons and barking orders at her like she was a fool, 
so perhaps this was his way of apologizing.  

Oh, sweet God – he must be very, very sorry.

The tension inside her began to build, and she moaned, shifting her 
hips, not sure if she wanted to press toward this sensation or away 
from it.  In a heartbeat, it did not matter, because the wave crested 
and broke, crashing over her and leaving the last of the sea foam 
effervescing on her skin.

Still half-asleep, when Duana could focus again, she found 
William kissing her deeply, mumbling endearments into her mouth 
that he would passionately deny if he ever thought she heard.  
There was pressure, and then a pleasant, familiar protest as her 
body began to open for his.  She gasped, and the forward 
movement immediately stopped.

"It is all right," she mumbled, kissing the base of his neck.  "Do 
not stop."

"Cariad?  Are you awake?"  

"Um," she answered.  "Very awake, thank you."

He pulled his hips back, leaving her.  "Sorry – I was dreaming.  Go 
back to sleep; I will not bother you."

He was lying, of course, but she had no idea why.  "All right – I 
will give you the next fifteen minutes or so to stop bothering me."  

William scooted away from her, pulling the furs over him as if he 
was going to sleep.  She followed him, sliding her palm down the 
front of his body and earning an unwilling moan before he pushed 
her away.  "Asleep?  You seem very awake to me.  It is all right; 
you were not hurting me.  Just go slow at first."

"No, stop.  It is too soon and we have to get up in a few hours.  I 
was having a dream and got carried away.  Another night, 
wanton." 

She considered trying to persuade him – she could be quite 
persuasive – but he rolled away, seeming annoyed.  Duana fished 
out a rock from under her shoulder, wondering how in the world it 
got there, cuddled up to his warm back, and closed her eyes again, 
still puzzled.

*~*~*~*

"William, I want to stop," Duana said, speaking to him for the first 
time that day.  

He reined his borrowed horse so quickly the knight riding behind 
him almost ran his mount nose-first into Lariat's haunches.  His 
wife was acknowledging his presence and he was not even 
bleeding to her satisfaction – something must be wrong.  If anyone 
else had asked, Gwilym would have replied curtly that they were 
almost at Court and this was not a good time to stop, but he instead 
passed the message up the line to Llewelyn, who signaled his guards.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, just out of habit and chivalry.  
When Duana did give her pat answer immediately, Gwilym 
dismounted, his boots splashing deep into the mud and muck of the 
London streets.  Holding his arms up to her, he said, "Come on, I 
will help you down."  To his surprise, she slid down from her mare 
without protest and let him set her on the steps of Temple Church, 
keeping her skirts clear of the filth of the open sewer.  

They had traveled at what seemed like a crawl to seasoned 
horsemen out of deference to her, seldom covering more than forty 
miles a day since leaving Aber a week ago, but that was still more 
than she was used to.  Eimile, much like Gwilym, had an irrational 
fear of being away from Duana, so in addition to having to leave 
the toddler and baby wailing at Llewelyn's castle – which bothered 
Gwilym far more than he would ever admit – Duana's breasts had 
swollen painfully since she was also not able to nurse.  And she 
had spent the last six nights sleeping in nasty, noisy taverns, eating 
food Gwen would have fed to the pigs, and listening to strangers 
tell stories that made Gwilym blink, and he could not understand 
French as well as she.  And, unless he was mistaken, her flux had 
come a few days ago to further compound her misery.  If she 
would have had a sword and weighed more than five stones, Duana 
would have been a dangerous woman by now.

She had not complained, but she also still thought he was dragging 
her to London just for company or spite, so Duana probably saw 
any protest or admission of discomfort as playing into Gwilym's 
maniacal plan to torment her.

If Duana wanted to rest, they were resting, damn it.  

He was opening his mouth to ask her if she needed anything when 
one of Llewelyn's knights yelled at him to catch his damn horse – 
Gwilym had forgotten that Lariat did not ground-tie like Goliath 
did, especially among all the temptations of London.  Always an 
optimist, he tried whistling, but only got a few stray dogs and a 
sow, so there was no choice except to chase the stupid animal, 
enlisting a few of Llewelyn's men as unwilling herdsmen.

By the time Gwilym pulled Lariat away from a cart of half-rotten 
cabbages, still chewing happily, attempted to compensate some 
red-faced English farmer, and, if he was not mistaken, been called 
"a baseborn Welsh son who laid with sheep," Duana had vanished.      
 
"She is in the church," Llewelyn told him, sprawling on the steps 
and offering him a drink.  The prince's knights stayed close, 
watching the crowds for any signs of trouble instead of relaxing 
and milling about as they would have in Wales.  In Aber, they said 
the only good Englishmen was a dead Englishmen – in London, 
they said the same, but about Welshmen.  

Gwilym, thinking Duana probably only wanted a little privacy, 
flopped beside Llewelyn, and watched in amusement as a maid, 
aiming for the sewer, emptied a bucket of wastewater out of a 
second-story window and directly onto a pedestrian below.  The 
poor man, spitting and sputtering, cursed at the maid, and she 
cursed right back, and then slammed the shutters closed.

"He should not complain – he probably smells better now," 
Llewelyn commented in a low voice, keeping his foreign accent 
from being overheard.

"I would think this city was nasty if I had not been to Paris one 
summer," Gwilym replied, restlessly getting to his feet.  "I wonder 
what is keeping my wife?"

"She is fine; just give her some time."  The Welsh knights, 
accustomed to following Gwilym in battle, watched him as he stood, 
but seeing Llewelyn stay seated, remained where they were.  
"Gwil, just wait.  Give Duana a minute.  She does not have to be 
within your sight every second of the day."  

Ignoring him, Gwilym pushed open the massive church doors and 
went to find Duana.  He expected to see her kneeling or perhaps 
even emerging from the confessional, since she probably would 
not want to tell Leuan about his aborted midnight "dream" last 
week.  He could certainly manage coitus interruptus, but he would 
die of humiliation if Duana thought he did it by accident.  And she 
would be praying for days if she was fully awake and thought he 
did it on purpose.  Even, well, whatever one would call what he 
had been doing to her with his mouth – even that would earn him a 
lecture from Leuan.  In fact, he would much rather she horrified 
some London priest by confessing here. 

Instead, after several minutes of searching, he found her among the 
effigies and mausoleums, sitting beside a low, marble coffin.

Gwilym hesitated, realizing he had stumbled onto something she 
would not want him to see.  Whoever this man was, he could easily 
come back later and find out – no need to ask her, since she would 
never tell him anyway.  The phantom 'Muldah' perhaps, that she 
asked for when she was so ill.  

Of course she had admirers; Pyn Dral's doe-eyed mooning was 
something of a castle joke.  It was not unreasonable to think that 
a young wife with a much older husband might have found some 
man to admire back in all of London.  Duana had never given 
Gwilym any reason to doubt her faithfulness to him – let her shed a 
few tears over a dead man.   

He had turned to walk away, trying to make as little noise as 
possible, since every sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling, when 
Duana sensed him and looked up.

"Come, William.  If you want to know so badly, come here."

She sounded more tired than anything else, and he started to 
mumble something about not meaning to disturb her, then stopped, 
knowing he was making a fool of himself.  If he had not wanted to 
disturb her, he should not have spent ten minutes searching for her.

"Pembroke," he read off the marble inscription, as though he did 
not know what her husband's name had been.  Then, seeing how 
the effigy was posed and dressed, added, "A Templar."

"A long time ago, William.  You would not have known him."

"No, I did not know him," Gwilym replied, needing something to 
say.  He ached to take Duana in his arms and try to make her pain 
go away, but if she had wanted that, she would have already been 
there, and she was not.  Like she said, some hurts were not about 
him.

"Do you know the term 'kingmaker'?  The nobleman who guides 
the prince of England, teaches the heir what he needs to know of 
statecraft and war?  He was Kingmaker and high counsel for Henry 
Plantagenet's sons: to Prince Henry before he died, and then to 
Richard the Lionheart, and then to John Lackland.  King John 
seized almost half his lands and took his son as a hostage, just like 
your David, and still he was loyal to the Crown.  He said he had 
pledged fealty to the Crown, not to any one man."

Gwilym, still standing beside her, rested his hand gently on her 
head and Duana leaned her cheek against his leg.  She raised one 
hand to take his, leaving the other on the marble statue of 
Pembroke.  

"Young King Henry – the brat-king, as you call him – I have 
kissed his scraped elbows and dried his tears while his own mother 
was too busy inspiring poems.  Every Plantagenet prince of 
England learned his lessons in our home, and King John had my 
husband tried and executed as a traitor without a second thought so 
he could bed me.  I was the one thing he was not willing to give to 
the Crown."  

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, fiddling with his tunic, 
his sword, his hair – anything at hand, then said, "I will be outside 
when you are ready."

Duana nodded, not looking up or seeming to notice as he walked 
away.

*~*~*~*  

She ached.  Not just her inner thighs from too many hours in the 
saddle or her eyes from too few hours of sleep, but in other places 
that Duana found more difficult to explain.  

Her breasts and heart ached from listening to her babies cry as she 
rode away.  She had looked back, seeing her mother's 
disapproving expression, and William reached over and took her 
horse's bridle, leading her out of Wales.  She had hated him at that 
moment.  How could he just leave their children so casually?  He 
had spent more time saying goodbye to his damn horse and dogs 
than his 'echen,' – his family, as he called it.

Her head ached from too much thinking: about the tomb in Temple 
Church, about feeling out of place in a city where she had lived for 
almost ten years, about – oh, just too many things for one female 
brain.  Perhaps the priests were right: that it was a woman's place 
to obey rather than to question.  It would certainly be easier if she 
could close her mind for a few hours, but if she let William think 
for her, she might end up on a horse bound for Camelot or the 
moon.

And there was a place in the small of her back that not only ached, 
it felt very dirty all of a sudden.  The further they walked into 
London Court, the sweatier and filthier that spot became until she 
felt certain it must be visible through her dress.  Sure enough, 
Duana felt William touching her there, probably wanting her to 
translate what the royal seneschal was saying to Prince Llewelyn.

"I will arrange an audience with the King for Prince Llewelyn and 
Lord Gwilym tomorrow," she repeated in Welsh for him and the 
knights.  "Until then, please enjoy the hospitality of Court.  
Countess Duana is to-" William's hand clenched the fabric of her 
dress, "Countess Duana is to come with him.  William, what does 
he want with me?  Why did you bring me here?"

Llewelyn's knights stepped in front of Duana, hands on their 
swords, as William pulled her a few steps backward, tensing as if 
he was prepared to take her and flee if necessary.   

"Her apartments are ready," the seneschal said, addressing Prince 
Llewelyn instead of her or William.  "Did you expect the countess 
to sleep among your men?"  

Llewelyn glanced back at William as she translated, her heart still 
pounding, and William relaxed his grip on her.  It was fine.   

The seneschal seemed puzzled as William followed Duana and the 
two knights Llewelyn assigned to guard her through the maze-like 
halls.  "I go with my wife," William said in his broken 
French, looking like it would not be wise to offer any argument.  

It was one of his odd quirks that she had gotten used to and then 
grown to like: if possible, William slept with her, whether they 
made love or not.  Her rooms in Aber Castle had sat empty so long 
they had finally turned them into a nursery.  If she was away at 
night for any reason – if a woman was in labor or someone was 
sick, William slept on the sofa and the dogs got the bed.  He had 
not slept alone in his bed since she had known him, nor, to her 
knowledge, had he ever slept there with any other woman, which 
was more than many wives could say.  Perhaps she did not hate 
him after all; she just did not like him very much this week.

"Geoffrey!" she said sharply, recalling the seneschal's name after 
some thought.  

In spite of her poor, over-burdened brain, it amused her to see 
Geoffrey still jump after all this time.  He always had been a 
nervous little weasel.

"I am Lady Duana of Aber," she continued, speaking forcefully, 
but slowly enough that William could understand.  "My husband is 
Lord William of Aber.  You will remember that."

"Yes, my lady," Geoffrey replied, then thankfully turning in the 
opposite direction of where her apartments had briefly been two 
years ago, said, "This way, Lady Duana.  My Lord," he added, 
admirably managing not to sneer.

*~*~*~*

"Better?" Gwilym asked, as Duana emerged from the bedchamber 
wearing a fresh dress with her face and hands scrubbed clean.  

"I will be better still after a real bath," she replied, surveying the 
lush sitting room that had been assigned to 'Countess Duana.' 
"But, yes, I do not feel like a street urchin now."   

"You do not look like a street urchin, either – you are not tall 
enough.  Are you going to leave your neck bare?" he asked.  She 
had adopted the Welsh custom of wearing only a veil over her hair, 
no wimple to cover her throat, but she would look out of place in 
London.  Unmarried women might leave their heads and necks 
uncovered, but Duana looked all of seventeen now: more than old 
enough to be married.  With his clean-shaven face, dark skin, and 
poor command of French, no one was going to mistake Gwilym for 
a Norman, but there was no need for Duana to be scorned.

"Does it bother you?"  She sounded like she was spoiling for 
another fight.

"I am used to looking at you," Gwilym answered nonchalantly, 
deciding his boots were as clean as they were going to get and 
pulling them back on.  "Other men are not.  Wear whatever you 
want."  
 
There were footsteps coming down the hall, swords clanking 
against armor: soldiers.  They were coming.  He had not expected 
it to happen so fast.  Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could 
already hear the gallows being built outside.

Gwilym stood, stepped close to her, and whispered quickly, 
"Llewelyn received a summons to bring you to Court – I do not 
know why, but your old titles were on the letter.  If anything goes 
wrong or if anything happens to me, get to any church; the Templars
will get you out of Britain.  It is all arranged.  No one is going to
force you into marrying against your will again – that is all I can think:
that the King would grant you widow's rights to Pembroke's lands and 
find a more politically useful husband for you.  That is why no one 
from Aber came with us – I will not have anyone else die because 
of my beliefs."  

The footsteps stopped outside the oak door and he heard a man 
speaking in French to the guards.  Gwilym had faced Death many 
times before, but never just stood and waited for it to find him.

"If I am dead, Llewelyn will claim Eimile and Mab as his.  Do you 
know what primae noctis is?"  

Duana nodded; she knew very well what a feudal lord's right to 
'first night' was, but she seemed too stunned to speak.  

"No one actually does it – it is a barbaric custom; everyone pays a 
fee to his liege lord instead, but it is still the law.  Duana, I never 
paid the fee; I was furious at Llewelyn for arranging my marriage 
and I refused.  If anything happens, you say Eimile is his child by 
that first night here in London and that Mab is his because you are 
his mistress.  Until there is some record of me paying the fee, he 
has every right to you, and he is in Aber often enough that people 
would believe that Mab is his as well.  The King might execute my 
son for spite, but not Llewelyn's.  Llewelyn will confirm your 
story; he and I have already spoken.  And our marriage is legal: 
Llewelyn will see that my estate passes to whoever your next 
husband is, but you will need to remarry to hold lands in Wales.  
You will be wealthy enough to choose whatever husband you like, 
so just pick a man who will be good to the children and will not 
bother you too much.  Do you understand?"       

She stared at him, her eyes wide as she tried to absorb so 
information much at once.  "We have to run," she whispered back, 
reaching for his hand.

"This is not like King John wanting you and Eimile back.  If King 
Henry wants to charge me as a heretic, he has just cause.  If 
Llewelyn or I disobey the summons – refuse to come or to bring 
you - we are guilty of a felony and our lands, all of north Wales, 
revert to the Crown.  I cannot take you and run this time, but Leuan 
made me learn all that damn English law and I can still out think 
that joke of boy-king.  You and the children will be safe.  Cariad, 
tell me you understand!"

Duana swallowed, nodding her head and gripping his hand as the 
door opened.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym could not decide if he needed his sword or not as the 
wooden door squeaked open on its hinges.  It was like taking a 
drink from a jug and swallowing something entirely different from 
what one was expecting – getting milk instead of tart wine – it is 
hard to decide whether or not the taste is offensive for that first 
second.  

Duana paled and he thought for a moment that she had seen a 
ghost, but then her face changed, softened.  Of course, this man in 
the doorway might be an old friend, but he seldom saw his wife 
look at another adult with such open affection.  Their children, yes; 
Gwilym, if he was fortunate; but never another man.  

"Duana?" the tall man said, sounding like he was not sure if he was 
correct or not.

Duana smiled – one of those rare, relaxed smiles like she had after 
their son had come or when she had caught him singing and 
dancing around with Eimile in only his braies one morning.  "My 
Fitz," she said in French, going to the knight and tiptoeing to wrap 
her arms around his neck.  "I was so afraid.  I was sure you were 
dead as well.  I am so sorry, Fitz."

'Fitz' hugged her, then, seeming to remember himself, kissed her 
forehead chastely.  Gwilym sucked in a noisy, disapproving breath, 
but he seemed to have been forgotten.  

It was difficult for Gwilym to make out what the man was saying: 
his French was more colloquial than Duana's and he spoke 
quickly, but he seemed to be apologizing.  "You never would have 
been married to a Welshman if I had been here," – that he 
understood quite clearly.  "This is not your fault.  You did not do 
anything wrong, Duana," he said, resting his big hands on her 
shoulders and looking down at her with warm, brown eyes.  "You 
did not, did you?"

"Do not question me, Fitz," she responded coolly, stepping back.  

"I am sorry," Fitz quickly apologized, looking chastised.  "It is so 
good to see you again.  I did not know if he would really let you 
come, even with the summons."

"You sent the summons?  Boy, you scared us half to death.  Can 
you not write a polite letter if you want to see me?"

Gwilym raised an eyebrow at that.  This 'boy' was probably almost 
thirty, about three fingers taller, and probably a stone heavier than 
Gwilym, which made him an imposing figure.

Fitz did not seem to mind.  He grinned at her, perhaps even 
looking bashful.  "Duana!" he said, seeming delighted to even say 
her name.  "My God – you are finally not such a skinny little thing. 
You look like a woman instead of a girl."

All right!  Gwilym had been lounging in the shadows looking 
morose, but at that last observation, he straightened and walked 
toward the happy couple.  He was still all wound up to kill 
someone and now seemed like a good time.

"You are rude to mention it, but I just had a baby.  We have two 
now: a boy and a girl."   

The man's face grimaced, looking pained.  "Duana – no."

"I am happy, Fitz," she assured him.  "It is very different from my 
life before, but I am happy.  Come, meet my husband."

Fitz shook his head 'no,' wrinkling his nose. 

Duana ignored him, gesturing for Gwilym, which made him 
breathe a little easier.  "This is who sent the summons for me, 
William.  It is fine," she said in Welsh, then in French, "Fitz - Lord 
William of Aber.  William speaks French, just speak slowly."  

Gwilym offered his hand, trusting Duana not to embarrass him, but 
Fitz looked skeptical, which was enough for Gwilym's overloaded 
brain and hot temper.    
   
"Welsh does not rub off," he said in French.

Fitz exhaled and took his hand, gripping harder than necessary.  "I 
have heard much of you, Lord William."

"And yet I have heard nothing of you," he replied sarcastically.

"My stepson, William," Duana explained, still speaking French.  
Gwilym's expression hardened, but she added, "No – Fitz was only 
a squire when his father and I married.  And that father would be 
quite ashamed of him right now because he is acting like a child."

Fitz grinned good-naturedly.  Gwilym had the feeling Duana had 
the same affect on Fitz that Leuan had on him – reducing a grown 
man to a teenaged boy in seconds.  "I have missed hearing you 
scold me, Duana." 

"Come visit us in Wales, Fitz – she does it all the time," Gwilym 
offered, draping a possessive arm over Duana's shoulders.  "Some 
days in four different languages."

"I may do that."  He offered his hand again, speaking more slowly 
and clearly for Gwilym's benefit.  "Let us start over: William of 
Aber, I am fitzWalter, Earl of Pembroke, although I still look for 
my father if someone says 'Walter' or 'Earl.'  I think I was 
'Marshall fitzWalter' at birth, but Duana christened me 'Fitz,' 
saying I was the very image of my father, when I was sixteen and 
it has been 'Fitz' ever since."

Gwilym tilted his head toward her fondly.  "I am surprised she 
managed to name a boy.  Girls, she does well with, but we have 
had a 'Mab' – a 'male child of' for almost two months now.  
'Samer,' Cariad?" he suggested.

"Artur," she countered, which meant she had moved on from 
'Adam' – her decision the last time he had checked.  Perhaps she 
was going through the alphabet, although there was going to be a 
problem when they got to the J's: French had a J and Welsh did 
not.

"Cariad?" Fitz asked.

"Beloved," Gwilym explained, trying his best to be friendly, out of 
curiosity if nothing else.  "Fitz, this son will probably be 'Mab' all 
his life.  Soon we will have another to try to name and poor Mab 
will still be Mab."  He slipped his arm from Duana's shoulders to 
her waist for emphasis, purposely taunting him.  "I see a pattern – 
'Mab,' 'Fitz.'  The next boy will be only 'Ap:'  'Ap ap Gwilym.'  
'Son of son of William.'  After that, I do not know what we will 
do." 

"I once met a Fitz fitzWilliam, so it must be a common problem," 
he replied, but Fitz's eyes changed for an instant as Gwilym 
touched her stomach, answering Gwilym's unspoken question.  
Duana might not be aware of it, but her stepson was in love with 
her.

*~*~*~*

Duana wanted to wait for William to return before she got out of 
the bath, thinking it would be easier – and far more pleasant – to 
share with him rather than to try to convince the Court 
chambermaids to heat more bathwater for him.  Once the worst of 
her aches and the heaviest of her thoughts had floated away and 
her skin began to shrivel, she finally got out, but did not call the 
maids to empty the tub. William could have a cold bath whenever 
he came back from The Tower tonight rather than no bath tonight.

She had dried off and slipped on her chemise when there were 
noises: someone entering the next room.  "William, come see this 
– quick before it vanishes," she teased, wanting to make amends 
for being so hateful to him this last week.  He had been prepared to 
die for her the whole time she was acting like a spoiled, sullen 
child.  "I have found a bathtub in London Court!  It has water and 
everything, though I traded my honor for soap.  I hope you do not 
mind – it was quite a bit of soap."

She was drying her hair with a towel and he had his back to her as 
she entered the dim sitting room assigned to them.  Fitz had 
assigned several servants to them as well, but Duana had sent them 
away before her bath, thinking William would return soon and she 
wanted to thank him properly.  And privately.  "What is the news 
of Prince Llewelyn's son?  Did you get to see him?"  

He did not answer, so she put down the damp towel, pushing her 
hair off her face and thinking something must have gone wrong: 
the boy was dead or they had not been allowed into the Tower, 
even after Fitz had promised to go with them.  "Did they not let 
you in to see Gruffydd, William?"

"Do you actually believe your husband and the other Welshmen 
are visiting the prisons tonight?  They are sampling the Southwark 
whores – it is a tradition they have.  That man is not worthy of you, 
Duana."

It was not until he spoke in fluent French that she realized it was 
Edward, not William, in the dim light.  She had forgotten how 
similar the two men looked, except for the eyes: William's eyes 
were warm and alive, and Edward's had always been dead.

"If you get out now, I will not yell for the guards and you will not 
be dead by sunrise, Edward," she said icily. "How dare you come 
in here!  What were you thinking?"

"Now Mother – is that any way to greet me?  I am sure you were a 
little warmer to Fitz.  He still dreams about you, you know.  It is 
our tradition: all fathers, sons, and stepsons must be in love with 
you."   

Obviously Edward had not gotten any saner since her first 
husband had finally ordered him out of London years ago.  She 
made good on her threat to yell for the guards, but there was no 
response from outside the door.

"They should be more careful of what they drink; it is so easy to 
bribe a servant," Edward said flatly, stepping closer to her, and an 
invisible hand began to tighten around her stomach.  "No one is 
going to come, Duana.  My stepfather is dead, thanks to you.  Your 
bastard husband and my darling stepbrother are probably 
scrutinizing some slut by now, and your guards will wake up in a 
few hours.  You and I need to talk, Duana."

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, buying herself some 
time.  He was between her and the door to the hallway, and she 
was not sure she could outrun him to make it to the bedchamber 
and bolt that door.   

"That I still love you.  Come home."

"I am not going to come back to London, Edward.  My husband is 
here to pay homage tomorrow and then we will leave.  My home is 
in Wales now."

"But I love you, Duana," he insisted in his slow, deliberate voice, 
his face completely expressionless.  "I have always loved you.  In 
time, you will learn to love me."

"You watched your friend rape me for sport, Edward.  Even if you 
can convince yourself that I ever wanted you to touch me or to 
make me leave Dover, how can you have allowed that to happen 
and still say you care for me?"
 
Edward shrugged – her argument did not even seem to register in 
his mind.  "I kept him from hurting you again, and I always will.  
You would have learned to love me if Father had not interfered.  
Stay here at Court; let us start over.  No Alex this time, no 
Pembroke-"

"Alex is dead – he has been dead for months.  You always 
underestimate my husbands, Edward.  You always underestimate 
me."  

She saw his hand moving out of the corner of her eye, but before 
she could dodge, his open hand struck her, sending her sprawling 
back.  The room swirled a dark gray, and several seconds passed 
before she could see clearly again; it had been so long since any 
man had hit her that she had almost forgotten how much it hurt. 

"Show some respect, woman," he hissed at her.  "I am not some 
unwanted stepchild now; I am a friend of the King.  Fitz thinks he 
can become his father as Kingmaker – he cannot, of course, but it is 
amusing to see him failing.  He is very simple, this King Henry, 
very lonely for friends and very suggestible.  I want you, and 
Father is not going to make that disapproving face and take you 
away from me this time.  Do not underestimate me, Duana."  

Think, think, think!  Help was not coming and there was nowhere 
to run.  William had left his sword on the table, knowing he would 
not be allowed to bring it into The Tower, and she grabbed it 
impulsively, holding it in front of her with both hands as she 
turned back to face Edward.

"Silly girl – put that down before you hurt yourself."  His mood 
shifted again as though it were made of mercury: his emotions 
splattering, shifting, and re-forming instantly.  "You look foolish.  
That sword is bigger than you are and I can take it away from you 
before you can blink."

"Yes, you can.  You can force me to do whatever you want, just 
like you have before… but you will sleep sometime.  And what 
you say is true: men should be careful what they eat and drink.  So 
many poisons cannot be tasted.  Foxglove is very sweet, and you 
like sweets, if I recall.  And my husband tells me it is possible to 
cut a man's throat while he sleeps and he will never wake or feel it 
as he bleeds to death.  It is a Welsh trick – to sneak into the enemy 
camp at night and start slitting throats.  Is that so, Ed?"  

He took another step toward her and she raise the sword slightly, 
keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

"Stupid bitch!  That Welsh bastard you married is as good as dead.  
Accidents often happen in battle: very tragic, completely 
unforeseen errors that will conveniently leave you a widow.  If not, 
there was a doctor at Court a few months past that told me the most 
interesting stories of this William of Aber.  Druids, Duana?  Pagan 
ceremonies and changeling babies?  That is heresy - witchcraft.  
How can I allow that?  What would Father say about me for 
allowing that?"

Her arms were beginning to tremble and ache now, and she shifted 
her grip in the hilt.  Aside from small knives, Duana had never 
touched a weapon in her life. 

"He would say the same thing he always did: nothing.  He would 
try to right whatever you had done, Edward; to compensate 
whoever you had hurt.  He would grit his teeth and square his 
shoulders and try to fix it because he promised your mother Siron 
he would take care of you.  And when the mess was cleaned up 
and the door was closed, he would grieve that the boy he had 
raised as his own had no more honor than an animal." 

She stepped forward so the tip of the sword was inches from his 
neck, and Edward stepped back toward the door.  

"You were a plaything, Duana.  You still are," he growled at her, 
putting his hand on the door.  "A pretty little witch that charmed 
me and then charmed my stepfather.  You have done quite well for 
yourself, Countess – climbed quite high on your back - but you are 
still nothing but an Irish peasant."

"Of course I am.  Get out, Ed."

"You will be sorry," he promised.

By the grace of God, she managed to hold onto the sword until she 
heard his footsteps fading away down the end of the hallway.  
Then she simply dropped it, letting it clang into the rushes, threw 
the bolt on the door to the hallway, ran for the bedchamber, and 
bolted that sturdy door after her as well.

*~*~*~*

"What did you do?" Llewelyn asked tiredly as Gwilym pounded on 
the door again.  Servants were beginning to raise their eyebrows at 
the ruckus he was causing and all the Prince of Wales wanted to do 
was not think for a few hours.  And maybe shed a few tears if no 
one was looking.

"Where have you been the last few days?  Pick something."

Llewelyn folded his arms disapprovingly.  He understood why 
Gwilym had tolerated Duana's moodiness this week, but barring 
him from their apartments was a bit much.  

"Do you have any idea what is wrong with my wife?" Gwilym 
asked Jacques, the Welsh guard, who nodded 'no,' looking 
miserable.  "Are you ill?  You are green.  And where is the other 
guard?"

"Something we ate," Jacques mumbled, leaning against the wall 
instead of standing at attention, which was not a wise thing to do in 
front of Llewelyn.  "He went to get someone else to guard Lady 
Duana.  My Lord, I think I may have passed out at some point; I 
am so sorry.  I have been vomiting out the window and I have not 
left for a second, but I do not remember all of this evening."

"Maybe she is sick, Gwil," Llewelyn said.  "I will get an axe."

Gwilym pounded on the door one last time, and heard footsteps 
inside.  "That is her – wait.  Duana?" he said hesitantly, as she 
opened the door wearing only her chemise, her cheek red and her 
hair loose and wildly tousled.  Just out of basic decency, 
Llewelyn and Jacques quickly found something else to look at, 
although Jacques peaked.  "Are you all right?"

"I was sleeping," she murmured.  "I am sorry."

"I will send new guards for tonight, Gwilym," Llewelyn said, 
quickly turning to leave.  "And I will see you at Westminster in the 
morning."

"Are you really all right?" he asked, slipping into the darkened 
sitting room and noting she bolted the door behind him.  "What 
happened to your face?"  There was an ugly red mark beginning to 
turn purple and black on her left cheekbone.

"I- I fell.  Against the table.  And I knocked your sword to the 
floor."

He glanced at in lying in the rushes.  "It looks to be in one piece, 
but I am not so sure about you.  Look up at me – how hard did you 
fall?"  Gwilym tilted her face toward the torches on the wall so he 
could see the mark.  "I do not like that you have been sleepy after 
you hit your head; that is not good.  Did you faint?  You cannot 
possibly be with child again.  Llewelyn thinks maybe the guards 
ate something that made them ill – have you been feeling nauseated?"  

"I am just too tired, William."

"Well, I wonder why.  I have only dragged you across Wales and 
Britain and then scared you half to death over some silly summons.  
And there is that baby you just had barely six weeks ago.  Come 
lay down."

"If Llewelyn's knights are ill, I should see if I can help them," she 
protested, although she did not sound very convincing.

"They can vomit with or without you.  Back to bed."   

She let him lead her to the bedchamber, turn down the covers, and 
pull her chemise over her head – which he only did to see if there 
were any other marks on her.  She stumbled against him, jumping 
back and almost falling when her warm skin made contact with his 
cold chain-link armor.

Gwilym caught her and guided her onto bed, pulling the blankets 
up to her chin.  "I am getting a doctor."

"No!" she said so urgently he flinched.  Then in a smaller voice, 
"Just stay with me.  I am just too tired.  Stay with me and tell me 
about Llewelyn's son.  Did you get to see him?"

He sat down on the mattress beside her, watching her suspiciously.  
"You promise me you are fine? Really fine – not your usual vague 
'fine'?"

She nodded, reaching up to stroke his face.  "I am better – seeing 
everyone again, being at Court again – I want to talk about 
something else.  Rinse off while you tell me of Gruffydd."

Gwilym eyed her for a few more seconds, and then stood up, 
beginning the laborious process of taking off his layers of armor 
and clothing.  "We saw him.  Your Fitz let us walk right into The 
Tower, and Llewelyn brought him some new clothes and books 
and a few other things.  Gruffydd is not good, cariad.  Physically, 
he is thin and pale, but something else is different about him – like 
he is hollow inside now.  I think perhaps he has been beaten one 
too many times or maybe just been in that cell too long.  His death 
warrant was signed before Eimile was born, so he has lived each 
day since then waiting to die, and that is too much for a boy to 
bear.  Llewelyn – he is upset.  This, by Norman standards, is his 
only vaguely legitimate son, and even if King Henry relents and 
lets him out one day, I do not think Gruffydd will ever be able to 
rule Wales."

"Come here.  I will untie you," Duana offered, sitting up.  

Gwilym had long since abandoned any pretense about his right 
hand being as dexterous as it once was, so he went to the side of 
the bed to let her unfastened his belt, then the drawstrings on his 
breeches and braies.  He could manage it, but she could do it 
quicker.  She finished, kissing his stomach lightly before she lay 
back down, probably her way of making peace for every cross 
word they had hurled at each other since the summons came.

"What will he do?  What about the son you want Eimile to marry?"

"Rhys' mother was Llewelyn's mistress, never anything more.  
Gruffydd's mother was his hearth wife – Norman's hear the word 
'wife' and think 'legitimate' and hear 'mistress' and think 
'bastard.'  Wales is too Norman now to be ruled by a bastard.  And 
Rhys has been raised as a second son, raised to be a knight, not a 
prince.  He is almost twelve now: perhaps too old to go back and 
learn statecraft.  I do not know what Llewelyn will do.  What 
would your Pembroke say, cariad?  Could he have taught a boy of 
twelve to be a prince?"

He tested the round tub of water that had miraculously appeared in 
the bedchamber and found it still tolerably tepid, so Gwilym 
stepped in and began to scrub off a week's worth of grime.

"His name was Walter, William.  You can call him Walter."

"What did you call him?" he asked, picking up the soap and 
doubting she would answer.  

She was quiet for a moment.  He looked over at her and saw she 
was smiling slightly.  "For the longest time, I called him Sir
I was fourteen years old and so intimidated I kept forgetting 
his titles.  That was the one word I knew in French: monsieur.  
He spoke Gaelic, but he was very sick and I did not know that.  
I told you he had been wounded: maybe a horse stepped on his 
lower back after he fell in battle – he did not remember – 
and there were many other injuries as well.  After I had been 
in London for a month or so and was… doing better, as was he, 
he told me it seemed a little pretentious to call him 'The 
Earl Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Leister' when he was 
laying in bed and I was changing his bandages.  He said that 
when he could walk again, I could call him that, but until then, 
I should find another name for him.  And that if I would bring him 
paper and a quill, he would show me how to write down and read 
his name so I could remember it until then."

Gwilym had been so caught up in her story that he forgot not only 
to wash, but momentarily what his first question had been.  

"Yes, he would have said twelve was too old, William.  He 
believed kings are ordained by God, but honed by man, and a 
twelve-year old will never think like a king.  That was one of the 
problems with King John, he said, but do not repeat that.  Henry 
Plantagenet had always expected one of his older sons to rule, so 
John, years younger, was all but forgotten.  Then, with both heirs 
dead with no sons, that left only John Lackland.  How could my 
husband suddenly teach a grown man to be a king?  King John 
understood how to wield power, but never the responsibility that 
came with it."
 
"Jesus, you do pay attention, Duana."
  
"I have had a few brilliant men to listen to," she responded, 
nestling down among the pillows as she watched him bathing by 
candlelight.  "Of course, one of them is not you," Duana added 
sarcastically.

"Witch," he replied, glad she seemed to be feeling better.

"A wanton witch.  Tell me of Fitz, William."

Gwilym stuttered, still focused on her first statement.  "W-what of 
Fitz, cariad?  Aside from his fairly open adoration of you?"

"Yes, aside from that.  It was hard for me to judge while he was 
staring at me like a forlorn puppy dog and you were wrapping 
yourself around me like a second skin.  What kind of man has he 
grown to be?"

He considered for a moment, then answered, "A good man.  
Honorable, not afraid to admit when he makes a mistake.  He was 
tolerant, even friendly to Llewelyn and me, which is more than 
many Normans would have been.  I would say his father – your 
Walter – was a great man and that Fitz is trying too hard to be his 
father instead of himself."

"I would say the same, I just wondered what you thought."

"Well, now that we agree on that, do you want to try to name our 
son again?" he asked, standing up and drying off.

"He has a name – your name."

"Which I am still using.  A given name, like Leuan calls me 
'Llwynog.'  I was not christened Llwynog; that is just what 
everyone thought I should be called.  By the time I was seven I had 
forgiven them and by the time I was eleven, I had learned not to 
answer to 'Fox'.  Mab cannot be Llwynog and he cannot be some 
name I cannot say: no j or c-h sounds.  And, until I get used to the 
idea that you had a life before we married, please do not call him 
Walter.  Aside from that, just pick."

"Another night," she said as he blew out the candles and slid under 
the blankets.

"Are you sure you are all right?  Something seems… I do not 
know… is something bothering you?  Something besides what I 
already know of?"

She turned so they were laying face to face, although he could not 
see her in the darkness.  "Not yet, William.  I will tell you, but not 
yet.  Being here is not easy for me."

"I know that.  Are these the same rooms, cariad?"

"No.  I do not want to think about that right now.  I want to think 
about you," she whispered.

Shit – maybe he should have taken Fitz up on his offer to go 
carouse the taverns.  It had been too long and having her nude 
beside him got an immediate, instinctive response.  He kept finding 
and picking up jasper stones and Duana kept throwing them out, 
wanting to know why he had taken to collecting rocks all of a 
sudden.  Gwilym had told her they were dragon droppings, which 
proved to be a mistake: now she was horrified when she found one 
under her pillow.  Regardless, he did not have any jasper now and 
there did not seem to be any way to save face.

"Ummm.  Perhaps I can give you something else to think about, 
cariad, but I want to ask you a question."  She shifted closer, 
pressing against him.  "Joanna has not conceived in several years 
and Llewelyn needs another son.  How would he do that?"

She laughed softly.  "William, I know you have this fixation on 
Llewelyn and me, but if he does not know how to do that by now, I 
have no intention of teaching him."

Gwilym growled playfully at her, tickling her so she squirmed.  
"Witch – that is not what I meant.  Let me be more direct: I want 
you to conceive again, to have another child.  When should I be 
sure to be home at night?"   

"So soon?" she asked, probably before she thought.

"Yes," he bluffed.  "Tell me."

He heard her swallow.  "Most babies seem to be conceived a little 
more than a week after a woman's flux comes.  Not right before 
and not right after and almost never during.  Since I have stopped 
nursing, that will help as well.  It is not an exact science, though."

"Is that why you want to nurse the babies, cariad?" he asked.

"No.  No, William," she insisted, as though he was accusing her of 
actually doing something wrong instead of just socially 
questionable.  "But that is why noblewomen have so many – are 
blessed with so many," she corrected, "children, and sometimes 
poorer wives do not: while you nurse your own child – or another's 
child – it is harder to conceive.  No, I just liked feeling Eimile and 
then Mab still close to me.  They had spent so long growing inside 
me and the milk was there; why give them to another women when 
I can nurse them just as easily?"

"But your flux just passed, so you could not conceive tonight?  
Next week, perhaps, but not tonight?"

"No, probably not tonight.  I am sorry.  You are not going to stop, 
are you?"  Her voice had a slightly desperate edge, which affected 
him in ways she would never know.

He sighed, trying to sound disappointed.  "All right.  Just for you, I 
will make this sacrifice.  Only this once, though.  I suppose this is 
one of the burdens of having a pretty young wife."

"Oh," she said, using her so-sorry-little-girl voice, "I should not 
bother you.  My –older- husband needs his sleep."  Duana started
to get up.  "I will just leave and let you rest."

He moved like lightening, hooking his arm around her waist and, 
mindful that she had just had a baby seven weeks ago, pulling her 
carefully back down.  "Do not dare," Gwilym laughed.
   
*~*~*~*

"What is wrong?" Duana mumbled sleepily as Gwilym slid back 
under the blankets, blending the front of his body into the softness 
of the back of hers.  "Sick?"

"No – go back to sleep. I was just confused."  

"Why?" she asked, shifting closer to him.

"Thought I was at home," he murmured.

"Did you get up to check on the children?"

"No," Gwilym said defensively, as though he had not been doing it 
every night since they left Wales.  "And I did not get as far as the 
hallway before I figured out I was in London, either."

She made a contented sound, rubbing her fingertips lightly over his 
forearm.  "Of course you did not.  We will be back in Aber in a 
week."

"I thought it was probably three or so – time for the baby to nurse, 
and I was going to bring him so you would not have to get up.  
Imagine the stories Llewelyn's guards will have to tell around the 
campfire: Lord Gwilym opened the door stark naked to see who 
wanted to come play with his wife's breasts."

Her shoulders moved as she chuckled, still not really awake.  "I do 
love you, William.  And you do make me happy.  Do not doubt it."

"I do not doubt it," he whispered, drifting off to sleep before it 
even occurred to him that she had never heard those words back.

*~*~*~*

Duana must have been exhausted. It was at least half an hour past 
dawn and she had not stirred yet; had not even moved as he pulled 
back the blankets to check for other marks, and finding none, 
simply stared at her while he tried to decide what to do.  

Eventually, she opened her eyes, blinking sleepily and trying to 
figure out what was wrong as she found him looming over her.

"Did the table grow fingers?" he asked, trying not to sound as 
furious and frightened as he felt.  "And rings?"

She shifted her shoulders, stretching her arms and yawning.  
"William?" she began, and then stopped mid-yawn as she realized 
her face ached.

"Who hit you?" he snapped.  "Damnit, Duana – how could you not 
tell me that!  Someone drugged the guards and came in here and 
struck you! I swear to God I will-"

"What, William?  What will you do?  Start hanging men as you 
please?  This is not Wales; you will end up in The Tower or 
dangling from the end of a rope yourself.  Will you challenge a 
man younger and quicker with a sword and get yourself killed?  It 
is just a bruise – I will live, and I would prefer you did as well."

She started to sit up and turn her back to him and he pushed her 
down on the mattress, so livid he was having trouble breathing.  
"You are -my- wife.  As long as we are in England, you are my 
property.  Not in Wales, but here you are the same as a horse or 
a plot of land under the law.  If you do something wrong, it is my 
place to correct you, no one else's.  I could beat you senseless in 
the middle of Westminster and men would nod and say what a 
good husband I was, but no one would interfere or touch you 
without my consent.  Never!  Not for any reason.  I do not care 
what you did or said.  Goddamn it!" He picked up some knickknack
from the table beside the bed and threw it at the wall, feeling 
slightly satisfied as it shattered against the whitewashed stones.  
"How dare you not tell me!"

Duana closed her eyes again, turning her face away from him.  As 
he watched, a tear appeared on her cheek.

"Damn it, cariad-" Gwilym said, trying not to cry himself and 
mostly succeeding.  "Just tell me who did this.  That is all you have 
to do."

She shook her head 'no.'  "I will stay here.  No one will think you 
hit me.  No one will see me."

"Piss on people seeing you.  I am going to drag you up on the 
king's dais and demand to know who did this if you do not tell 
me."

Her head continued to move 'no.'  "I am sorry, William."

He was afraid he would lose his temper completely and 
accidentally hurt or frighten her if they kept arguing, so he stood 
up, putting some air between them until he cooled down.  "I have 
to go swear homage to the brat-king," he said, using his distant, 
authoritative tone to conceal that he felt the way a woman must 
when a stranger rapes her.  "Do not leave here or open the door 
until I return."

Pivoting on his toes, he stalked out, slamming the bedchamber 
door behind him.  "Get up and bar the damn door!" he yelled, and 
heard her footsteps hurrying across the floor.

Gwilym picked up his sword and sheathed it before opening the 
door to the hallway, his teeth clenched so hard he could actually 
hear his heart pounding in his ears.

One of Llewelyn's guards immediately fell in step behind him, but 
Gwilym stopped.  "Stay with my wife.  If you let anyone in that 
door or let her out before I get back, you answer to me, not 
Llewelyn this time," he ordered.

"You do not want an escort to Westminster?  Prince Llewelyn said 
to escort you to Westminster," the young knight said, still dazzled 
by his first trip to London.  "What if there is trouble?  What if 
someone sees that you are Welsh and-"

Gwilym spun around, his dark eyes snapping dangerously, and the 
knight decided this was the wrong morning for any foolish Norman 
to pick a brawl with the lord of Aber.

Without another word, the guard resumed his post on the left side 
of the door to the apartments, swallowing nervously and watching 
warily as Lord Gwilym walked away.

*~*~*~*
 
Llewelyn was already pacing outside the church, watching 
anxiously for Gwilym to arrive.  Gwil was famous for telling 
Llewelyn, as his liege lord, to piss off and showing up to pay 
homage as he felt the need.  He was always there when called on to 
fight and there was no question of his loyalty, so Llewelyn just 
overlooked the absences as one of Gwilym's many quirks.  It 
would not do to ignore the summons, though – even if they both 
had sons older than the new king.

"Jesus, Llewelyn - you smell like you spent last night rolling
around the bottom of a bottle of mead with some woman," Gwilym 
informed him, swinging down from his saddle. 

Llewelyn glared at him.  Any other man would have politely 
overlooked his hangover, but Gwilym was speaking as a friend 
rather than a subject.  "My son - you saw him.  You cannot 
possibly understand."

"Perhaps I can," Gwilym shot back, still eager to pick a fight with 
someone.  He and Llewelyn had never discussed Dafydd again 
after the day the Prince of Wales had come to tell Gwilym he was 
dead.  It was as though the boy – the young man – had never 
existed, nor had Llewelyn ever given his word that Dafydd would 
be well treated in London.  He was sending his own son Gruffydd: 
what better assurance could there be that King John would never 
harm the hostages he demanded?  

Not that tearing out Llewelyn's heart would bring back Dafydd.  
Gwilym added more calmly, "I am not judging you – I am just 
saying you smell as though you did not sleep alone."

"I did not sleep, so it does not really matter whether I was alone or 
not.  Let us go and get this over with."

"I need to speak with you after.  About my wife."

"What about her?  Besides that she needs to learn some manners.  
Really, Gwil – there is no excuse for her locking you out last 
night."

"It seems someone already tried to teach her some manners," 
Gwilym replied as the doors to Westminster opened and their 
names were announced to the King.  Llewelyn gave him a puzzled 
look, but there was no more time for private discussions.

They approached the dais as commanded, waiting for the King, a 
slim, dark-haired boy of ten or so, to acknowledge them.  A few 
feet to Henry's right stood Fitz, acting as regent, kingmaker – in 
reality, the true ruler of England.

"Your majesty, Prince Llewelyn of Wales and Lord William of 
Aber.  You have requested Lord William pay homage to you," Fitz 
supplied for the boy, who nodded.

"Louis – Louiselen," he tried, then started over.  "Lewelin?" He 
glanced at Fitz, who mouthed 'Llewelyn' again.  "How is my sister 
Joanna, Llewelyn?"

The Prince of Wales shifted uncomfortably.  Gwilym was not the 
only one who had settled down with age – Llewelyn was generally 
faithful to his wife, provided it was convenient at all.  Wherever he 
had been last night and whomever he had been with, he would not 
be bragging about his conquests.

"She is well, your majesty."

"And Lord William," Henry said eagerly, "You have married Earl 
Pembroke's widow, yes?  The Countess has become the Lady of 
Aber?"

"Yes – oui," Gwilym replied, remembering he was expected to 
speak instead of just understand French.

"I hear she is well and that you have a daughter now."  Young 
Henry seemed to have very fond memories of Duana.

"Yes – Eimile.  And a son.  He is only a few weeks old."  He felt 
like a fool explaining this to a boy who should be out playing 
crusader and searching for imaginary dragons instead of sitting on 
a throne.  And the idea that Eimile and Dafydd and this King 
Henry shared a father was just too odd, even for Gwilym.

Henry said something quickly in French, getting exited, but Fitz 
shook his head, reminding him that Gwilym's French was not 
good.  "His name?" he asked, shortening his sentences.  "What is 
your son's name?"

"We have not chosen a given name, your majesty.  He is 'ap 
Gwilym of Aber,' of course, but we call him 'Mab.'  It means 'the 
male child of', much like 'fitz."

"David is a good Welsh name – a saint's name," Henry suggested.  
"David, son of William of Aber: that has a nice sound to it.  Mark 
that down," he ordered the scribe, who scribbled away.

"Your majesty…" Fitz began.

"You said David was the patron saint of Wales, Fitz!" Henry 
protested, not understanding what he was doing wrong.  "He has 
not yet named his son and I have helped him."

Gwilym opened his mouth to protest and Llewelyn gave him a 
none-too-subtle nudge.

"Lord William had a baseborn son named David – that is why you 
know the name," Fitz whispered to Henry.  "Remember? We spoke 
of it this morning."

"So he has a bastard son and a legitimate son sharing the same 
name.  How many bastard Henries did my father have?"  

'One too many,' Gwilym thought, but managed not to say through 
some sort of God-like effort.

"It is a Norman custom; naming sons alike," Henry continued, 
"And you also said this morning that Lord William could use a 
little Norman civilizing if he was going to be married to the 
Countess.  Really, Fitz, I do not understand you sometimes.  Lord 
William, is your wife with you?"

"Yes… your majesty," he remembered to add, not sure if he 
should be amused by this joke of a boy or furious.  He could call 
Mab whatever he wanted, but in London, the young lord of Aber 
would always be 'Dafydd.'  There was a poetic justice to that, 
somehow.

"Then swear your oath and let us go see her.  This is all I have to 
do this morning, yes, Fitz?  After the Welshmen, I can go play, 
right?"

Fitz nodded.

"She is not well this morning," Gwilym said quickly.

"You will not interrupt me!  You will not argue with me!  I am the 
King!  I want to see the Countess and you will take me to her!" 
Henry yelled at Gwilym.

"And you need your ass warmed until you can learn some respect, 
King or no!" Gwilym shot back, luckily in Welsh, and luckily in 
the almost-empty hall of Westminster.  Very few nobles were at 
Court in February, although Llewelyn looked horrified just the 
same.  Gwilym swallowed, and answered more politely in French, 
"Of course.  My wife speaks very fondly of you, your majesty.  
She recalls when you were just a boy."

That had the desired effect, and Henry relaxed, puffing up a bit.  
"Swear, and then I have a prop- a prop- I have an offer for you and 
Llewelyn.  Do you want my scribe to read the oath first?"

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' quickly knelt, and recited: "By the 
Lord God, I will be to King Henry faithful and true, and love all 
that he loves and shun all that he shuns, according to God's law 
and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by 
force, by word or by work, do ought of what is hateful to him; and 
on condition that he keep me as I am and willing to deserve, I, 
Lord Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber swear fealty and service."

There – it was done.  And, as Duana would say, the world had not 
ended.

"That is much to remember, especially when you do not speak 
French very well," Henry said in awe.  "Oaths and the Roman Kings – 
Caesars – those are most difficult to keep straight."
 
Gwilym's mouth twitched.  He was a little calmer now that it was 
over and he had not felt like a complete idiot.  His oath was to the 
Crown, not so much this simple child.

Fitz cleared his throat and mouthed 'proposition.'

"Yes – the prop-po-sition," Henry remembered.  "Wales and Dover
and France and the Welsh boy in The Tower.  Fitz, I do not 
remember.  Can I go play?"

Fitz shook his head, but took over for the boy.  "First, Llewelyn – 
the King will conditionally release your son.  Wales has been loyal 
for a year now, and the King believes you have learned your lesson.  
The sentence of execution has been repealed and you, if you agree, 
may stay in London with him until the King gives you leave to return 
to Wales.  Or you may return for him later.  Regardless, he will be 
released from The Tower."

"Thank you, your majesty," Llewelyn said, remembering to 
address Henry instead of Fitz.  Henry was busy trying to scratch an 
itch deep in his ear and did not seem to notice.

"But," Fitz continued, "The Welsh cannot have nothing else to do 
except think up ways to rebel against England.  The lands that 
should have passed to Countess – Lady Duana – the King will 
restore the estates in the south of Wales to her on the condition that 
Lord William can manage to rid England of the Frenchmen in 
Kent and Dover.  You figure out a way for the Crown to take back 
Dover, William, and the King will give you the lands in south 
Wales as her dowry.  As your liege lord, Llewelyn would hold all 
of north and south Wales."

"You cannot manage to keep peace in the south anyway," 
Llewelyn said.  "You give me back my son but you assure that I 
will be too busy trying to subdue the Marcher Lords in south 
Wales to rebel again."

"Yes," Fitz replied.  "You are very quick.  The King does not have 
money to keep pouring into fighting in south Wales, so he will 
give it to you and let you deal it.  As long as Wales is loyal to you 
and you are loyal to the Crown, it is a good trade.  And he cannot 
fight wars against every country around him.  Lord William is said 
to be quite the military strategist; if he can figure out a way to get 
the French out of England, which is no small task, the Crown does 
not have to worry about Wales or France."

"The west and the south coasts of England would be secure," 
Gwilym supplied, already plotting.    

"Leaving only Ireland and Scotland in rebellion," Fitz finished for 
him.  "In addition to your army, the King will supply you with 
knights and ships and whatever else you need.  And if your army 
fights more than forty days, the Crown will pay you for it," he said, 
knowing Gwilym's current sticking point: King John had simply 
ordered the Welsh to war almost constantly for years, always 
swearing he would reimburse them, but never did.  "There is no 
catch, William – it is a bona fide offer.  The King of England is a 
boy.  He needs as little war, and, in truth, as little expense, as 
possible for the next few years.  He cannot have the French army 
camped ten miles outside of London."

"There is always a catch, Fitz.  I have received gifts from the King 
before," Gwilym said.

"I am not – the King is not- a fool.  I will not put the entire British 
Army at the disposal of you, a Welshmen, without accompanying 
you, William.  And Duana will stay here at Court, of course, just in 
case you decide England needs liberated from the English as well 
as the French.  Your first son did not seem to be a powerful enough 
incentive to keep you in line, but I think Duana would be."

"No," Gwilym replied immediately.

"Not like Gruffydd, William.  Not even like the other Welsh boys 
as noble foster sons who had the run of the Court.  Duana stays 
here as a royal guest.  She was the Countess of Pembroke and my 
stepmother; I will see she is treated properly.  You have my word."

"I have had the king's word before, thank you."

"Gwil-" Llewelyn hissed at him.  "All of Wales, damn it.  My son!  
Yes, Lord William accepts your offer," Llewelyn answered Fitz, 
by now completely forgetting about Henry.

"No!  We have two small children at home.  She had awful 
nightmares last night just being here again and someone came into 
our apartments and attacked her!  Struck her!" Gwilym argued in his
stilted French.

"Who attacked her?" Fitz asked, squaring his shoulders.  "I mean 
it, William – on my honor, she will not be harmed at Court.  
Henry!" he said sharply.  The King looked up, distracted from a 
bug he had been watching.  "You are finished – you may go see 
Lady Duana now."

"Who?" Henry asked.

"Pembroke's wife."

"Oh!" the boy replied happily, scrambling down from the dais.  
"Do you think there will be plums? I would like a plum."

*~*~*~*

"What is this?" Gwilym asked sharply, pointing to a tray of 
untouched food sitting on a table outside Duana's apartments.

"Breakfast," the guard answered.  

"Breakfast?  Why is it out here?  It is very difficult for my wife to 
eat food which is in the hallway."

The poor young knight, who had been guarding the door since he 
replaced Jacques last night, blinked, terrified of Lord Gwilym's 
temper, but numb from his lack of sleep.  "I have let no one past 
this door, my lord.  Not in or out.  Not a soul."

Gwilym, already furious, actually started to see red.  "I did not 
mean the damn maid you idiot!  How could you think I would 
order you not to let my wife eat?  Do I look like a Norman to 
you?"

He had his sword halfway out of the sheath when Llewelyn 
grabbed his upper arm, ordering him to stop.  Old King John had 
starved a few prisoners to death; if Fitz or Henry understood 
enough Welsh to realize Gwilym was talking about Normans and 
starving women, there could be trouble.

"I am going to kill someone very soon, and I am out of practice 
with executions – I think I will warm up on this fool!"    

"Gwil!  Stop it!" Llewelyn demanded, then to the knight, "I would 
get out of his sight, boy."

No one needed to tell him twice.  The guard hurried down the 
hallway, then, glancing back at Gwilym, actually broke into a 
trot in his haste.

*~*~*~*

"Do not touch her," Gwilym reminded Llewelyn as the prince 
surveyed the mark on her cheek.  "She does not like it."   

Llewelyn gestured for Duana to tilt her head and pull back her veil 
so he could see.  "Yes, that is a handprint.  Who hit her?  Who hit 
you, Duana?" he said softly, "Is that all he did?"

"She will not say, but there are no other marks on her," Gwilym 
supplied.

"Well, make her say, Gwil."  Llewelyn was extremely 
sympathetic, but he also wanted to go get his son out of The 
Tower.  And he was hung over as hell.  Trust Gwilym to have a 
crisis on this of all mornings.

"Llewelyn, this is Lady Duana," Gwilym introduced sarcastically.  
"Cariad, Prince Llewelyn.  Obviously you have not met my wife, 
Llewelyn."

"It does not matter," Fitz intervened, finally looking away from the 
unmade bed in the next room and shaking off the images it brought 
to mind.  "I know who did this.  I have already sent for him."  

"Please do not do this, Fitz," Duana pleaded, speaking for the first 
time since she opened the door and found three men, the boy-king, 
and a dozen guards waiting in the hallway.  King Henry had 
planted himself on her lap on the sofa and she patted the boy's 
back out of habit, avoiding everyone's gaze.

"My father never allowed Edward to harm you again, never to 
even see you.  How can I say I am my father's son if I allow this?"

Gwilym's chin shot up.  He finally had a name.  "Edward?"

"Please, Fitz," she tried one last time.

"Edward is my stepbrother.  He is… not sane; possessed maybe.  
My mother's first husband's son – there is no blood relation 
between us.  I am sorry, Duana; I did not think he would dare 
do something so bold.  Ah, there he is," Fitz said, as the royal
guards appeared with Edward.  

"I did nothing to her, Fitz," Edward said, not even waiting to be 
asked why he had been brought to Duana's apartments.  "I give 
you my word, brother."
 
"Your word will hold no more water than a sieve, brother."

"It is still my word – my word against a Welshman's that I struck 
her and not he."

Gwilym, pacing behind Duana, was considering the merits of 
simply attacking this Edward with his bare hands, since Llewelyn 
had commandeered his dagger and sword.  The Welsh guards were 
keeping him corralled to one end of the sitting room, keeping the 
sofa and a line of knights between Gwilym and Edward. 

"You seem to know quite a bit about what you are accused of for 
an innocent man," Gwilym said, feeling his chest rising and falling 
as he breathed faster.  "Duana, is this who was here last night?"  

She ignored him, so Fitz said tersely, "Either get your wife to tell 
the truth, Lord William, or I will hold you in contempt of the 
Crown and you can rot in prison until she learns how to answer a 
simple question."

The bluff, if that was what it was, worked.  Duana focused on the 
wall behind Fitz, but she finally said, "I thought it was William, 
but Edward said he was a friend of the King, that if I did not do 
what he wanted, he would see that William had an accident in 
battle."

"He is no friend of Henry, Duana; that is just another of his false 
beliefs, one of his voices talking to him," Fitz answered, as 
Gwilym's stomach churned.  "What did you do?  Did you…do 
what he wanted?"

"No – I picked up William's sword and I made him leave.  Then I 
bolted the door."

The three men looked at each other in shock as Edward glared at 
her.  "He tried to rape you and you picked up William's sword and 
you – all five foot nothing of you - made this man – this knight – 
leave?" Llewelyn echoed, not sure he believed his ears.  "Gwil, 
remind me never to cross your wife."

"It does not matter," Edward hissed, his face red with rage.  "She 
cannot speak against me!  You have no man that can bear witness 
against me.  That is the law and you know it!"

Fitz shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  That was indeed 
the law.  "I want you out of Britain.  No, not just out of Britain: out 
of Europe.  I will have you escorted to the border – do not return 
this time."

Gwilym's face flushed, and Llewelyn, anticipating his friend's 
reaction, quickly grabbed one arm while one of the Welsh guards 
held the other.  "That is it?  We all know he struck her, and you are 
just going to banish him?  You think that is justice, Fitz?"

"It is the law," Fitz replied miserably.  "I cannot teach Henry to be 
just if I also teach him to put aside the law as he pleases."

"You are as good as dead, Edward!" Gwilym assured him, as 
Duana whispered to Henry to get down from her lap.  "They can 
hang me, but you will never see another sunrise!  And you will 
never force another woman!"

"Your French is good, for a bastard Welshman," Edward replied, 
laboring under some false delusion that Llewelyn could actually 
keep Gwilym from killing him for very long.  "You should teach a 
few words to your Celtic women so they know how to be more 
appreciative of an English soldier's attention."

"They do teach us one French phrase," Duana replied softly, 
standing and stepping close to Edward.  "They teach us to ask 'is it 
in' so we can tell the difference.  It would be rude not to notice."

The guards, both Welsh and English, were focused on Gwilym's 
struggling, so no one had time to intervene before Edward lashed 
out, hitting Duana hard enough to knock her to the floor.

"Goddamn it!" Gwilym yelled, managing to get one arm free.  
"Goddamn it - stop that!  I will rip your throat out, you 
son-of-a-bitch!"

Duana stayed down, dazed, and by the time her head cleared, the 
guards had released Gwilym and seized Edward.  Llewelyn passed 
Gwilym a handkerchief, which he pressed to her bleeding nose, his 
hands shaking.

"Dead man," Gwilym said to Edward, cradling Duana against him.

"No need for that," Fitz said.  "We have at least a dozen witnesses.  
Henry, what is the penalty for striking another man's wife?"

"Prison," Henry answered, twisting his fingers together anxiously.  
Henry had seen his father strike his mother Isabelle plenty of 
times, and it made his stomach hurt.  He had never seen Pembroke 
hit Countess Duana though, even when she would tease or disagree 
with her husband, and Henry had always liked staying in their 
home much better.

"And if he tried to rape her?" Fitz asked.

"Death," Henry replied, making himself a very small target in the 
corner of the sofa.  "Was he going to rape her just now, Fitz?" he 
asked, still not sure exactly what that entailed.

Fitz nodded yes, ordering the guards to take Edward to The Tower.

"Wait," Henry remembered.  "Did she insult him?  It is not a crime 
of she insults his manhood.  Did she do that?"  He glanced 
nervously at Duana and Lord William still sitting in the floor, 
William lifting the cloth briefly to see if her nose had stopped 
bleeding, which it had not.

Fitz looked from Duana to Edward's defiant expression and back 
to Henry.  "No – she did not insult him."

"Good.  Well, then he can be executed, then," Henry said happily, 
thinking maybe Duana would like a drink of water to help her feel 
better.

"Goodbye, Mother," Edward said, his eyes as lifeless as a dead 
fish's as he stared at her.  "I love you, Mother.  And I have loved 
you, whether you liked it or not.  I have, Father had – sort of.  Poor 
Fitz; when will it ever be your turn?"

"Take him away," Fitz ordered.

*~*~*~*

"Come," Gwilym said, looking up from the maps and lists, and 
seeing Duana finally awake in the doorway of the bedchamber.  
"How are you feeling, sleepyhead?"

She opened her mouth, getting as far as "fi-" when he held up one 
finger.  "Like some lunatic hit me in the face.  Twice.  And like I 
have just had a baby and then ridden across Britain in the snow.  
And my brain is full.  And my stomach is empty."

"That is better.  There is soup for you – I did not think you would 
want to chew.  Come, eat and make me feel better."

"Is he-"

"Dead?  Very.  Fitz had him hanged by noon and you slept through 
it all.  Eat – then we will talk."  Gwilym admirably waited until she 
had sat down on the sofa and taken a single sip of the chicken 
broth before he observed, "You look as though you lost a fight."

"I was supposed to lose a fight, William," she replied calmly.  
"That was the idea.  And you should see my opponent."

"This is true." He furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes, "I still 
do not like that you did that."

"I never thought you would.  What are you doing?  Why do you 
have all these maps?"

He considered whether or not it would be possible to extract any 
information about Edward from her, and decided it was about as 
likely as men flying to the moon.

"I am playing a very large game of chess with real pawns and 
castles and knights.  And you are the queen of hearts."    

He brought the largest map with him, sitting on the floor in front of 
the sofa so she could see over his shoulder.  

"War?" she asked.

"Just a little one," Gwilym lied.  "You will stay at Court until I 
return."

He pretended to study the parchment until the silence from behind 
him was unbearable.  

"Welsh Court? With Llewelyn?"

"No, here in London."

"And, and Mab?  And Eimile?" she asked, her voice making his 
throat tighten.  Duana did not need one more thing piled on her 
narrow shoulders this week.

"They will stay with your mother and Joanna in Wales.  I will not risk 
bringing them through the mountains in February.  Perhaps in 
the spring, cariad."

"London spring in April or," Her voice kept getting smaller and 
smaller, "Aber spring in late May, William?"

"Watch – the King wants the French out of Dover here in the 
south.  My troops are here," he indicated to the middle of Wales, 
"and the Norman armies are here just above London. If I-" he began 
before Gwilym heard something suspiciously like a sob.

"Do not cry.  I absolutely forbid you to cry." he ordered, and 
discovered he was talking to her back as she walked quickly to the 
bedchamber.  

Abandoning his maps, Gwilym followed her, finding her face 
down among the pillows.  

"Go away," she ordered him, which he ignored, climbing onto the 
bed, boots and all, and sitting beside her.  "How can you do this?"

He reached his hand out several times before he finally settled it on 
her back, rubbing gently.  "I did not do this.  We would leave 
tomorrow if I had my way.  The King wants me to help him win a 
war, and he plans to hold you here until I do it.  If I win, Llewelyn 
can take his son home and the King will give him most of the land 
in south Wales."

"That does not even make sense, William," she said, her words 
muffled by the pillow.  "And do not say 'the King' when you mean 
'Fitz.'  Fitz will keep me here while he sends you off to die."

"No," he insisted, turning her over.  "No – I tell them what to do, 
nothing more.  The generals will lead the armies.  I will never ride 
into battle, I promise."

She sniffed, looking up at him with her red-rimmed eyes and a poor, 
swollen cheek.  "That promise is like that gray cloak I cannot peel 
off your back: so thin that I can hold it up to the sun and see light 
through it.  You told me once you had been too busy saving the 
world to take care of your family, your echen.  You said you would 
never let that happen again.  And that is exactly what you are doing 
now.  That was one of the first Welsh words I learned because you 
said it so much – talked about your family.  Your 'echen' and your 
'cariad.'  I am always 'cariad' – you must make that distinction to 
everyone, including me: I am cared for indirectly, casually, 
conveniently.  It is not the same word, William.  Beloved, because 
you had no choice in marrying me, but not loved."  

"You are too tired; you know that is not true."  Gwilym wrapped 
his arms around her, pulling a stiff, unwilling Duana against him.  
"This war is a game of strategy, just like I said.  What happened 
the first time we played chess?  What did I do?"  She buried her 
face in his shoulder, not wanting to answer.  "No, Duana – what 
did I do?"

"You – you lured me.  You attacked and then retreated until I was 
sure I could beat you, so I attacked.  Then you surrounded me and 
moved in from all directions."

"And do I ever lose?"

"No, William," she sniffed, reaching up to stroke his face, "You 
never lose.  No matter what it costs, you never lose."

He watched her damp eyes in the candlelight, trying to think up 
something brilliant to say to make this better, but words did not 
come.  

"Do not lose, William. Our year is not yet up."

"What year?"

"For a year and a day nothing can come between us.  The Druids – 
the ceremony.  Our year has not ended.  Do not break that vow to 
me."

"I will not," he promised.  

*~*~*~*
 
End: Echen
  


Title: Adduned 

Author: prufrock's love 

Rating: R 

Summary: seventh in the Hiraeth series – southern 
England; winter, 1218 

Keywords: story, historical au, msr, angst, light 
'other' 

Spoilers: I can't see how 

Archive: link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html 

Website: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html 

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue 

Silver spoons: Jen check – fine, have faith (no cd & 
ends msr); Skinner-head-check – um, well, um – that 
was a long time ago; Angst-o-meter 7.8 out of 10; 
Snort-o-meter: (distance coffee may spray from nose 
to keyboard) fairly safe 

Quick Note: Chester, the city on the border between 
Wales and England, and the Earl of Chester, owner of 
Lincoln Castle on the other side of England (near 
Nottingham, for the Robin Hood fans), are two 
different things.

*~*~*~* 

Adduned

By prufrock's love 

*~*~*~* 

"Christ – will they ever get that brat to stop 
crying?" Fitz asked, purposely using a voice loud 
enough that everyone in the tavern surely overheard. 
"I cannot think with all this racket! Show me again – 
where are Gloucester and Leicester's men and where 
are mine? And is the Earl of Chester's army the spoon 
or the rock – I have forgotten?" 

"It is just tired," Gwilym replied. "Look – have 
Gloucester move his army toward London from the west 
while the royal army approaches from the northeast. 
That is enough men and knights that it looks like a 
sizable force, but it is not, really. It will be days 
before you can bring the other armies down from the 
north, but I do not want to wait any longer. You said 
you wanted to use mainly mercenaries for the initial 
attack, yes?" 

Fitz rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, 
not looking at Gwilym's map on the wobbly wooden 
table. He might be ten years younger, but keeping up 
with Gwilym as he surveyed the troops and the lay of 
the land was exhausting. Gwilym always seemed to be 
thinking three weeks ahead of everyone else, and all 
this brilliance was making fitzWalter's head hurt. 

"Fitz?" 

"Yes? What? Shut that baby up!" he ordered to old 
woman trying to soothe the infant while stirring 
something in a pot over the fire.  

The tavern owner, knowing these noblemen would pay 
well to spend the night and pay even better to spend 
it with a few of the prostitutes, gestured for his 
wife to take the child outside. 

"No," one of the men said, placing his cup on the 
parchment he had been studying to keep it unrolled, 
and raising his hands. "Here.  Not out – cold."  

His wife hesitated – Norman soldiers had been known 
to kill children for sport, but this one did not 
sound nor look Norman. If they harmed the babe, they 
would surely pay for it, and it was only one of the 
whores' brats, anyhow. The innkeeper nodded his 
approval, and she gratefully handed the child to the 
dark-haired man and went back to her cooking. 

"He- she," Gwilym scrutinized the dirty baby as he 
took it. "She is just tired. And I think that is her 
mother sitting on your lap. Look at the red hair." 

Fitz petted the teenaged girl's long, vaguely clean 
locks and she smiled up at him encouragingly. "Is 
this your child?" he asked in French, then repeated 
it in English, just in case. Her green eyes widened 
and her freckled face earnestly shook 'no.' 

"Oh, she is not going to tell you if it is, Fitz. 
Whores never have children, remember? This baby has 
just gotten too tired to go to sleep easily. I do not 
think she is hungry or wet." 

"How do you know that?" Fitz asked, thinking again 
how odd Welshmen were as Gwilym leaned back, letting 
the infant nestle against his shoulder and, lulled 
by the sound of his voice and the beating of his 
heart, start to quiet down. 

How did he know that? Because the girl's chest had 
gotten damp when the baby had started to cry and she 
had 'accidentally' spilled a drink on her dress to 
conceal that. Because she watched worriedly as the 
old woman tried to cook over the fire and hold the 
child at the same time. And because this baby was two 
months old at the most, making the prostitute still 
unclean, and because the tavern they had stopped at 
desperately seemed to need the money, Gwilym was not 
going to mention any of that to Fitz. 

"I have had four children; it is hard not to notice a 
few things after four," Gwilym answered casually. "Do 
you not have any?"  

"Oh, a few bastards here and there, but no – Isabelle 
and I do not have any children." 

Gwilym looked up from murmuring to the baby, 
interested in Fitz's tone rather than his words. It 
sounded like not only did Fitz not have any 
legitimate children with his new wife, the Queen 
mother, but he would not be expecting any. 
Isabelle was not yet thirty and had borne several 
children for King John – there was no reason why she 
would not conceive again. 

"I have a king for a stepson, William; what more 
could a man ask for?" Fitz said a bit too quickly, as 
a slim blonde girl of about twenty refilled their 
cups and then, uninvited, sat down beside Gwilym. 
Under the table, out of sight, Gwilym quietly removed 
the warm hand she had placed on his thigh. 

There was an uncomfortable silence that Fitz filled 
by whispering something in English into the redhead's 
ear, and she giggled appropriately.  

"I am not looking at any more of your maps or lists 
tonight, William. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am 
going upstairs – are you coming or are you going to 
spend another evening staring at your papers?"  

"You, as always, have laid claim to the only redhead 
in the tavern, Fitz," Gwilym replied, deliberately 
sounding like the innocent fool Normans expected 
a Welshmen to be. "I thought Isabelle was a blonde – 
the most beautiful blonde in Europe, the last time I 
saw her. Do you not like to … pretend a little?" 
Then, knowing Fitz would refuse, "I will trade you – 
this blonde for your redhead." 

"Isabelle is certainly the prettiest blonde in 
Europe, but variety is nice as well." He gave the 
redhead a squeeze and, on cue, she smiled again and 
squirmed expectantly. "I was here first. Close your 
eyes and make do with the blonde." 

"I will be back by morning, then." Gwilym said, 
handing the baby off, paying the tavern owner much 
more than necessary for what he had eaten, and 
rolling up his maps. "By first light." 

"Oh for God's sake! Are you going to go off and 
pout?"  

"No," Gwilym said calmly, "I am going to ride back to 
London. We are close now - it cannot be more than 
fifteen miles. I have not seen my wife in a week." 

"Through the snow?" Fitz said to the back of Gwilym's 
head. "You are going to ride through the snow and 
ride back before dawn? It will be almost midnight by 
the time you reach London. Where is the sense in 
that?" 

"Goodnight," Gwilym called, as the tavern door swung 
closed behind him. 

"Shit!" the Kingmaker said disgustedly, and then, 
draping his arm around the redhead's shoulders, asked 
her, "Nom?" 

"Dianora," she decided, taking his hand and leading 
him toward the stairs. That was not her name, of 
course, but it seemed more exciting and exotic than 
plain 'Joan.' And she preferred men not call her by 
her real name; they always forgot it at the most 
intimate moments, anyway.  

"Close enough," he replied in French, knowing she 
would not understand. "Come on."  

*~*~*~* 

"It looks as though you had a Roman orgy in the 
sitting room, but things did not go so well," he 
whispered, pulling off his boots and chattering 
nervously as he climbed onto the bed, not sure if he 
was welcome or not. "Thirty men and only one woman – 
that is the kind of orgy King Richard would have 
preferred. It is said a knight had not really been on 
Crusade until he had been with King Richard and a 
camel, so I suppose I just wasted all that time in 
the Holy Land." 

The guards had said King Henry, when Fitz was gone, 
often wanted to sleep in the apartments across the 
hall from Duana's, which meant that Henry's dozens 
of servants overflowed and ended up sleeping in her 
sitting rooms as well. And he had seen Llewelyn and 
Gruffydd among the snoring Welsh knights on pallets 
in the floor – Llewelyn would be joining the battle 
to lead the Welsh army instead of Gwilym, but he 
wanted to stay with his son for a few more days.  

Duana rolled over, blinking as she awoke, but not 
seeming surprised to find him suddenly in her 
bedchamber. "What is an orgy? Or a camel?" 

He pulled the bed curtains closed, setting his candle 
on a shelf in the headboard, and knelt on the 
mattress beside her. "Welcome, William. How have you 
been, William? I am fine, William. Have you killed 
any Frenchmen yet so we can go home, William?" he 
supplied for her. 

She sat up, squirming as she pulled her chemise over 
her head and began efficiently undressing him. 
"Goodness, you are half-frozen." 

"Does this mean you have forgiven me?" he asked. 
Their parting words had not been pleasant and he had 
ridden away feeling both like a kicked hound and like 
the boot that did the kicking.  

"No, it means I have missed you. It is different. 
Come down here and see if you can make me forgive you 
as well." 

"I am nasty," he replied, not sounding very 
convincing as she skinned off his breeches. "I really 
planned to check on you and then sleep with the 
guards in the next room for an hour or so. And I did 
not bar the door." And he could not count how many 
days it had been since or until her flux if she kept 
touching him there. 

"It does not matter; if Henry has a nightmare he will 
pound on the door until I let him in anyway. Just try 
to be quiet."  

"I have used that same strategy," Gwilym replied, 
laying her back on the down mattress. "You are sure 
you do not want me to wash off a little?" 

"Hush," she ordered. "I will take you covered in 
honey so long as you are still alive and in one 
piece. I am furious with you, but not so furious that 
I was not worried." 

"One day, when this is all over, I will have to let 
you take me while covered in honey. That sounds 
interesting, I think." 

Always a smart woman, Duana found something else for 
him to do with his mouth, and there was no more 
thinking for a little bit. 

*~*~*~* 

"I am listening," Gwilym assured her, shifting 
contentedly. "I am awake – tell me of Aber. I need to 
leave soon; Fitz is expecting me back by dawn." 

"You cannot stay?" 

"No, not this time. We will attack in two days, then 
retreat back through London and I will see you for a 
few hours then. Once the French troops lay siege to 
London, we will be driven further inland and north 
before we divide and backtrack. Then it is just a 
matter of waiting."  

"How do you already know you are going to lose?" 
Duana asked, fitting her body perfectly against his. 
"What kind of war do you begin knowing you will 
lose?" 

"The kind where the enemy must bring food and 
supplies and fresh troops twenty miles across the 
Dover Straits from France by boat, cariad. The kind 
where, in the middle of winter, the enemy will find 
London, always sympathetic to the French, suddenly 
closes her gates. It will be almost March.  There is 
nothing to feed foreign troops except what can be 
brought from France and, while the French are busy 
trying to seize London, I will quietly see that 
nothing can be brought from France. Every English 
port will refuse French ships and every English city 
will close her gates." 

"You will lure them inland, starve them in the middle 
of winter, and then, once the French troops are 
surrounded and you have had a chance to move all your 
armies down from the north, you will attack. You are 
right, William – as long as the French cannot get new 
supplies, you will not lose."  

"Yes," he replied noncommittally, not liking one bit 
that Duana would be in London while the French tried 
to take the city. London will not fall, though – it 
had never fallen during a siege. "Tell me of Aber." 

"The messenger returned yesterday – I sent him to the 
camp to find you, but I suppose he has not yet. 
Melvin sends word that the Welsh horsemen will be 
west of London in a day and the Welsh army there in 
three weeks, as ordered. He says 'all is ready,' and 
he is 'seven days into getting his indulgence money 
back and ready to kill some Frenchmen,' whatever that 
means. He could not bring Goliath, something about 
his hock, but offers you his horse if you want it." 

"No, thank you," Gwilym replied. "Lariat and I will 
be just fine. I do not need anything else to contend 
with right now. Did – is there any word-" 

Duana let him suffer for a moment before she said, 
"Mother and Princess Joanna say both Eimile and Mab 
are well. Eimile can walk very well now and is 
chattering up a storm. Mab is rolling over, but his 
eyes are still hazel, not blue." 

"I wanted his eyes to be blue because your eyes are 
blue," Gwilym murmured, sounding like a sentimental 
fool. "I do miss the children; do not think that I do 
not. And I miss you. And I hate that you are trapped 
here like some pawn with fighting all around you."  

"I like you after we make love," she replied softly. 
"It is perhaps the only time you speak without first 
calculating every word." 

Gwilym made a sleepy grumbling sound, wishing he 
could lay in this nice warm bed for about a month. 
"No, while we are making love, I certainly speak 
without thinking; I just deny it later. But it is 
nice to know I am in your good graces again." 

"Close your eyes, William. Roll on your back and 
close your eyes." 

"Wanton, are you planning on raising the dead?" he 
protested, but rolled to his back.  

He felt soft fabric brush his face as she said, 
"Smell." 

Gwilym was starting to quip about this truly being an 
odd game, but realized what the cloth smelled like. 
"Mab. My clean, after he has a bath, baby boy." 

"Mother sent it," Duana told him, draping the baby 
blanket over his chest and throat. 

"I want to take it with me," Gwilym said impulsively, 
but realizing he was being selfish, added, "But it 
would be ruined. Better you keep it." 

"I will give you something else." 

"I do not need a hanky. If I want to ride into battle 
– watch the battle," he corrected, "while carrying 
one of your hankies, I will just ask Fitz if I can 
borrow one. I think he must have them all. Do not 
sneeze – between Pyn Dral and fitzWalter, Regent of 
England, you have no handkerchiefs left." 

"Truly, you are bad, William. No, I have something 
better for you." 

"Yes, you do," he answered, thinking maybe he was not 
so exhausted tonight after all. He could always sleep 
when he was dead. "I like very much that you have 
something better only for me."  

"Be easy," she cautioned him, as Gwilym pulled her 
down on top of him, and he promised he had no 
intention of being otherwise. Not only was she 
probably sore, he was not seventeen anymore, either. 
"And, when you dress, take the new shirt from my 
sewing basket and leave me the one you have been 
wearing." 

"It is not torn," he said, resting his hand on her 
head as she kissed a line down his body, more than 
willing to relax, enjoy, and let her lead, if she 
would. "Just dirty."  

Dear God, he was going to have to stop at Temple 
Church and thank the late Earl of Pembroke for 
teaching her this. The woman really could raise the 
dead with that mouth. 

She leaned up to blow out the candle a little later 
and then positioned her hips over his. "It is all 
right," he soothed her, feeling her hesitate. Duana 
had done this once before in the monks' stables 
before he had sent her to Ireland, but Gwilym had 
been half out of his head with grief that morning. 
Even when she was heavily pregnant, she did not like 
feeling so exposed. "Go slowly; do what feels right. 
I cannot see you in the darkness, and even if I 
could, you are beautiful. Your body looks like a home 
someone lives in and loves rather than one just for 
show. Relax. You like this, I know you do, and there 
is no shame in liking it." 

Hands on her hips, he gasped as he guided her down, 
trying to remember they had a baby that was barely 
two months old and not to thrust.  

"Now?" she asked, breathing quickly. 

"Lean down here if you feel bare," he managed, and 
felt her head against his chest. Wrapping his arms 
loosely around her, Gwilym instructed, "Now move – 
rock. However feels right. I have you: move as fast 
or slow as you like, but do not pull away. Some 
nights we make love for me, some nights for both of 
us. Tonight, for you." 

*~*~*~* 

Gruffydd had been watching from the window as the 
English troops flooded through the narrow streets of 
London since early morning, looking frighteningly 
bloodied and defeated. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" he asked Duana, 
sounding like a small child instead of a teenaged 
boy. 

"I am sure the army is only pretending to lose, but 
that is a secret. You cannot tell anyone," Duana 
said, trying to appear like she was actually sewing 
something. 

"I know secrets," Henry offered, looking very un-
kingly wearing possibly the first outfit he had ever 
chosen for himself: a borrowed, oversized tunic, his 
own heavily embroidered bedrobe, and knee boots like 
the Welsh knights he had made friends with. The 
servants, seeing London was about to be under siege, 
had scattered like rats and no one had bothered 
dressing the ten-year-old, instead sending him to 
Duana's apartments where he would be out of the way. 
"I know lots and lots of secrets," he said, waiting 
to be asked what they were. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" Gruffydd asked for 
the tenth time, forgetting Duana had just answered 
him.  

"He is just fine," a familiar male voice said as the 
door swung open, and Gruffydd, beaming, scrambled 
down from his perch at the window.  

"We have been soundly beaten," Gwilym announced 
victoriously, unwrapping Llewelyn's arm from his 
shoulders and letting the prince slide down onto the 
sofa. "And we are now in a splendid full retreat." 

"My God, William!" she said, horrified by the blood 
and dirt and gore that seemed to cover both men from 
head to toe. "My God, where are you hurt?" 

"Nowhere," he assured her. "Llewelyn actually turned 
his ankle hurrying up the steps a second ago. We 
slaughtered a bunch of pigs and cows last night and 
painted ourselves. What?" he asked, holding out his 
arms for her to examine him, "Do I not look lovely? 
You should have seen the fine time Merfyn had tossing 
livers and hearts and pig intestines over his 
shoulder as we fled the field. I have never seen just 
a man's liver laying on the field, but Merfyn thought 
it was a wonderful idea. Henry," he added in French, 
"Fitz is just behind us. He is even a little 
cleaner." 

Duana, not yet convinced, wet a towel and, ordering 
Gwilym to sit in a chair near the window, tried to 
wipe off a layer of filth.  

"It is really me, cariad. I only got all decked out 
in case I had to go into battle, but I did not."  

Behind them, Gruffydd began wringing his hands 
nervously as Llewelyn tried to reassure him that he 
too was unharmed.

Duana kept looking back and forth between her husband 
proudly grinning at her and Gruffydd whimpering 
beside his father on the sofa.  

"You- he- I would kiss you if you were not so nasty, 
William!" 

"Kiss me anyway," he requested, licking his lips 
clean for her. 

*~*~*~* 

"Come on!" Fitz ordered from the hallway, actually 
succeeding in getting Gwilym to move half a step this 
time. 

"I am coming," Gwilym assured him from the 
bedchamber, still kissing Duana goodbye. That was his 
one saving-grace: Fitz probably suspected she was 
barely dressed, otherwise he would have dragged 
Gwilym out twenty minutes ago. "One minute." 

"William!" Fitz yelled. "We are waiting on YOU so we 
can close the city gates. Just YOU, William." 

"And I am COMING," Gwilym yelled back, then softly to 
Duana, "You know he loves this, do you not? He is 
going to have you all to himself for weeks." 

That was not really true; he was leaving enough Welsh 
guards that there was no danger of her being harmed, 
but it bothered Gwilym just the same.  

"I thought he was accompanying you?" 

"No, it seems there are things that keep fitzWalter 
at Court. Pretty little red haired, blue-eyed things, 
I suspect."  

"What is it you say about your dogs, William? 
Something about them 'barking up the wrong tree'? I 
do not think you need to worry," she promised him. 
"Swear to me one more time that you are only guiding 
the armies, which you will not fight. And then swear 
you will come back." 

"I swear it – make you an adduned, a promise," he 
said, putting his hands on the back of the door on 
either side of her head and leaning down to whisper 
in her ear. "We are old souls, cariad. If we lose 
each other in this life, I will find you in the next, 
but I do not plan to lose you in this one just yet. 
If I had to start over, I would need a new horse, a 
new cloak – and in the next life I will expect you to 
be taller." 

Christ, he should just shut his mouth and leave. 
Gwilym certainly was not making it any better for 
either of them. 

"I will see if I can grow." 

"Not too much. I like the way you fit against me, 
around me now." He kissed her again, then said 
quietly, his lips brushing hers, "We fit very well. I 
will always come back for you, cariad. Do not doubt 
it." 

"I do not doubt it," she whispered back, sounding 
very convincing for a woman who was lying. 

"I used to love so easily.  I would give my heart so 
carelessly. Then I kept losing pieces of it, one 
chunk at a time torn away until I thought I could 
never stand to lose again, so I tried to stop caring. 
It is not a choice, though – whether a man loves or 
not." 

He opened his mouth to say it, and, getting only 
breath instead of words, closed it again. 

"Go on," she told him, quickly kissing the tip of his 
nose, then stepping away from the door. "I am fluent 
in Williamspeak. Go – hurry up, or I will be angry 
with you, for making me cry." 

"William!" Fitz bellowed from the hallway. 

"Do not doubt it," he told her one last time, 
slipping out and closing the bedchamber door behind 
him. 

*~*~*~* 

"Duana," Fitz called, knocking on the door of her 
bedchamber an hour later. "William is out of London. 
He got out before the French troops had the city 
completely surrounded. He is safe – I saw him ride 
away myself. It is not dawn yet; William will catch 
up with the army easily before sunrise." 

Fitz waited for a response, knowing she was not 
asleep. Light from the candles was seeping through 
the cracks around the door and he could hear her 
pacing on the other side.  

"Duana, are you all right? Do you need anything?" 

To his surprise, the door swung open, banging loudly 
against the wall in the predawn silence of a city 
under siege and, he was confronted with the lady of 
Aber in only her long, white chemise.  

"I need my husband!" Duana yelled at him, her hair 
falling around her flushed face in red waves. "I need 
my husband and I need my children and I need you to 
let me out of this gilded cage, you son-of-a-bitch!" 

Fitz stood rooted to the floor, shocked as much by 
her temper as by seeing her in anything other than 
her lady-like dresses and veils. God, and she was 
crying. "Duana?"  

"Go to Hell!" she screamed at him, then slammed the 
door closed so hard it rattled the shutters. 

*~*~*~*

"Go, Gwil. You have one night to spend in a real bed 
instead of on the ground. Go get some sleep; I will 
be fine," Llewelyn assured him. "You have done all 
you can – really, I am fine." 

"You sound like my wife," Gwilym replied, yawning. 
"And she is generally lying." 

"It is only a small cut, and the bleeding has 
stopped. Get some sleep." 

Gwilym would not describe the gash in Llewelyn's 
thigh as a 'small cut,' but there was really nothing 
else he could do to help. He was just hovering, and 
he knew Llewelyn hated it as much as Duana did when 
he hovered. 

Certain they were several days ahead of any French 
troops as they retreated to Lincoln, Gwilym and 
Llewelyn had relaxed a bit, ridden a little ahead of 
the army to talk strategy, and stumbled across a band 
of French deserters. The group, catching both men off 
guard, had lashed out madly before they could be 
subdued and executed. Gwilym had only a few nicks and 
a minor cut on his hipbone – at least, it seemed 
minor, he had not really checked it yet, but 
Llewelyn had a nice new wound on his thigh to add to 
his collection of scars.  

Llewelyn, having lost a fair amount of blood, was 
already dozing, so Gwilym followed the servant to the 
room in Lincoln Castle that the Earl of Chester had 
offered when they had shown up pleading at the 
gatehouse two hours ago. Closing the door, he 
stripped to the skin, carelessly letting his chain-
mail shirt of armor fall to the floor, and held the 
candle close, craning to see the cut. 

No, it was not life threatening, although pulling off 
his clothes had caused it to bleed again. Too tired 
to care either way, he set the candle on a table and 
crawled naked into the bed, wondering how he would 
explain to Duana that he had just been promoted to 
General of the Welsh army. Llewelyn was not going 
to be able to ride for a week with a wound like that 
and they circled back to attack the French in two 
days. Merfyn led Gwilym's knights, not the entire 
Welsh army. There was no choice, but, still, he had 
promised her. 

He was so tired he could actually feel the bed 
spinning as he lay staring up into the darkness. 
Yawning again, Gwilym decided his brain would work 
better after a decent night's sleep, and, rolling 
over, tossed his arm over the small female form 
beside him, and… 

And jumped back so quickly he almost fell out of the 
other side of the bed. 

"Jesus! My God! My lady, I am sorry – the servant 
showed me to this room. There must be some mistake. I 
will find my… Jesus Christ! I will go. I am so 
sorry." 

She sat up, thankfully, from what he could see by 
firelight, wearing a chemise instead of nothing but 
bare breasts. "Are you William, Lord of Aber?" she 
asked. 

"I am," he managed. 

"Then you are in the right bed. The Earl of Chester 
sent me." 

Ah – Norman hospitality at its best. "How old are 
you, child?" He leaned closer to see her face as she 
leaned back, wary. 

"Seventeen," she insisted stubbornly, watching him 
with big, dark eyes. "Sixteen. Fourteen. Thirteen," 
she finally decided. 

"That is it? Do you know I have a daughter who would 
be…" He was about to embark on a fatherly lecture 
when he suddenly realized, "You speak Welsh. I have 
been speaking Welsh all this time and you have 
understood me. How is it a servant girl in East 
Britain speaks Welsh?" 

She shrugged, and his heart started to beat faster. 
"The earl knew you were a Welshman and thought you 
would like me. Have I done something wrong? I can 
take this off-"  

She started to untie the ribbon at the neck of her 
chemise and he barked, "NO! No- you have done nothing 
wrong. Tell me again: how is it you speak Welsh? 
What is your name?" 

No, this could not be her. He had frantically 
searched every inch of Wales after his daughter had 
vanished years ago. Gwen had seen her playing in the 
bailey one minute and she was just gone the next. 
They had checked every house, every cave, every 
church between the Irish Sea and the Welsh border and 
she was just gone. She had fallen off the cliffs into 
the ocean or wolves had gotten her or… 

"Lucy. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, you 
do not like me." The corners of her mouth turned down 
in a childish pout the way Diana's had when she was 
angry with him, but it is very easy for a man to see 
what he wants to see, and Gwilym knew it. 

"I really do not think the question is whether I like 
you or not, child. Have you always been called Lucy? 
Never Catyna? Never Tyna?" 

She shook her head 'no' as he tried to imagine what 
his daughter might look like today. It was plausible 
for her to have been kidnapped and sold or just 
wandered out of Wales and ended up on the other side 
of Britain. Far-fetched, but plausible. 

"How long have you lived here in Lincoln?" 

"Since I was a child." 

"You are still a child," he replied, and seeing her 
bottom lip begin to tremble, added. "You are fine – 
very pretty, in fact – but I need to sleep. Tomorrow 
night," he promised, knowing he would be long gone by 
tomorrow night. "Are you sure you have never been to 
Wales? Think hard: do you remember a brother named 
Dafydd? A father– Lucy- look at me; do I seem 
familiar to you at all? I do not usually have a beard 
and my hair would have been shorter. Do you 
remember a Templar knight who lived with you in a 
castle? Your mother died in a fire so you came to 
live within the castle on a hill. There was a priest 
named Leuan and a cook, Gwen – and a man named Merfyn 
who used to let you ride around on his shoulders. You 
had a black pony named Saul because my horse was 
Goliath and your brother was Dafydd and you would get 
in trouble for trying to get Saul to jump over things 
after I told you not to and… No, you do not remember, 
do you?" 

She just kept shaking her head no, puzzled by his 
bizarre questions. "Can I at least stay here tonight? 
The earl – he will not be happy if he knows you do 
not want me. He has been very good to me. I do not 
want to disappoint him." 

Gwilym reached for his pants, trying to dress as 
modestly as possible. "Of course; stay." 

"But you are getting dressed! You are leaving! What 
do I tell the earl?" 

"I will talk to Chester in the morning – I will thank 
him and say you were just fine. And I want to speak 
with him about where you came from. Jesus: you even 
look Welsh. If he asks you, just lie, Ty – Lucy. How 
will he ever know?" 

Lucy looked at him, wide-eyed, and he finally 
realized what the problem was. Apparently, the 
commander of the king's army was important enough to 
merit a virgin.  

"There will," he checked the still-oozing cut as he 
fumbled with the laces of his britches in the 
shadows, missing Duana's nimble fingers, "Yes, I 
think there will be plenty of blood on the sheets for 
anyone who wants to see tomorrow morning. Just lie – 
which is an awful thing for me to tell you to do - 
and I will see if Chester will let me buy you. Would 
you like to see Wales, Lucy? Maybe you could remember 
more if you could see Wales again. Perhaps you are 
someone I once knew."

"I have never seen Wales, my lord. I have lived in 
Chester since I was a little girl." 

He was not going to reiterate that she was still a 
little girl and he planned for her to stay that way, 
but, as he pulled on his boots, he asked, "But where 
did you live before that? You did not just fall out 
of the sky one day in Chester. Where were you born?" 

She wrinkled her brow, trying very hard to remember, 
but could not. "I have been in Chester since I was 
nine or so. They found me wandering – I suppose I 
could have been in Wales. Where is Wales?" 

"Home, I think. Lay down and sleep, Lucy." She lay 
down, still watching him curiously as he pulled his 
tunic over his head and gathered up his armor and 
sword. On impulse, Gwilym leaned down and kissed her 
forehead, pushing her hair back and gazing at her 
pretty face. It was not just his imagination – she 
did look like Diana. "If you are Tyna, I have missed 
you very much," he murmured. 

"I am not Tyna," Then, in a frightened little voice: 
"But I will be if that is what you want to call me. 
Is Tyna your wife?" 

"No," he told her, stepping out into the hallway. 
"Goodnight." 

"My Lord," a young Welsh knight asked, scrambling up 
from his pallet on the floor outside Llewelyn's room. 
"Are you all right? You are shaking. Is the wound-" 

Gwilym took a long, shuddery breath. "I am fine. 
Really fine, perhaps. Will you watch this door? Just 
until I can speak to the earl in the morning. I do 
not trust my eyes until I have had a little sleep." 

"Of course, my lord. And I let the maid inside with 
breakfast, yes?" 

Gwilym nodded, too dazed to laugh. "Yes. You are 
learning."  

"Shut up," he ordered Llewelyn, who grumbled oaths at 
Gwilym appearing in his dark bedchamber, shining a 
candle in his face. Gwilym wanted to make 
absolutely sure it was still the Prince of Wales 
before he crawled into the bed. 

"Are you so lonely that I am starting to look like a 
woman to you?"  

"Just shut your mouth and scoot over," Gwilym 
responded, "I might decide I prefer your hairy chest 
to the flat one in next room if you keep giving me 
ideas."  

"We cannot all be as pretty as you, Gwil," Llewelyn 
mumbled, falling back to sleep. 

*~*~*~* 

"Stop lurking and come in, fitzWalter," Duana 
ordered, pausing to tell Gruffydd to stop doing 
something, and then, "I know you are out there." 

The door finally opened and Fitz appeared carrying a 
heavy ledger, which he dropped on the table in her 
sitting room with a thud, making Gruffydd jump a 
foot in the air.  

"Have you brought me your accounts to do?" Duana said 
crisply, laying down the quill and covering the 
letter she had been writing.  

"They were my father's accounts. I can make neither 
heads nor tails of them," Fitz said awkwardly, 
knowing he was not welcome here, even with a fairly 
good excuse.  

Henry spent most of his afternoons playing in Duana's 
apartments, trying to soak up all the mothering she 
desperately wanted to bestow on her own children. 
Sometimes Fitz found the young King underneath the 
blanket-covered table, insisting he was searching a 
cave for dragons, and other times curled up on the 
sofa with a cup of tea, listening wide-eyed to Duana 
read him stories of Hercules or Camelot or Wales.
Fitz's first reaction was to say it was not 
appropriate for Henry to spend half his day doing 
little that was productive, to which Duana had 
replied being a ten-year-old boy was very productive. 
And then, to his surprise, she had apologized, 
asking if perhaps she was causing problems with 
Henry's mother. Did Isabelle dislike Henry spending 
so much time with her? Fitz had skipped over the 
details: that Isabelle had not seen Henry, nor Fitz, 
for that matter, since she and Fitz had married, nor 
did she seem to miss either of them. He had simply 
said 'no,' that it did not cause problems, and 
allowed Henry to come whenever he wanted.  

Which also meant Fitz had a reason to check on Duana, 
although she now treated him with a formality so cool 
it chilled the room when he entered.  

"I have finally run out of things to do during the 
siege," he said weakly, "So I opened Father's ledgers 
from the country estate and found this mess." 

"I kept those records perfectly – what are you 
talking about?" She stood, insulted, walking around 
the table, and opening the old leather book she had 
once spent many hours poring over.  

"Look closely, Duana," he instructed. "You kept them 
in Gaelic. You and my father know Gaelic, but I do 
not, nor does my seneschal. Could you perhaps tell 
me what a few words mean so I know what I own and 
what I do not own?" 

Her glare softening, Duana trailed her finger slowly 
down the yellowed parchment, skipping randomly 
between memories. "This page is all payments: taxes, 
the Crown's share of his rents, retainers for two-
hundred knights, and then this is just general castle 
expenses for the spring of 1215. This, I would 
politely call a loan to King John rather than another 
extortion. It was such a large sum I went with his 
men to deliver it to Court." 

"It is the last entry," Fitz said quietly. 

"Yes, it is," Duana replied tightly. "If you will 
leave this, I will make notes for you. I am sorry; I 
never considered that anyone might need to understand 
it besides your father and me." 

"Did you love him?" he asked, then immediately wanted 
to snatch those words back. 

"He was very good to me," she replied, sounding as 
though her words were wrapped in an icy wind.  

"But did you love him? Did you love him or did you 
spend almost a decade with someone because it was 
safe and convenient?" 

"Yes, I cared for him very much," Duana responded, 
her voice starting to tremble. "Yes, I have cried for 
him, if that is what you want to hear." 

Fitz worried his lips, wanting to know and not 
wanting to know the answer to another question.  

"I have news of your William, Duana. He has turned 
the armies, bottled up the harbors, and is pushing 
the French from all sides. Everything has gone 
exactly as he said it would – the French are hungry 
and cold and thinly spread as they hurry to reconquer 
all the land from Dover to Lincoln. He is picking 
them off like ticks, surrounding London for the final 
attack. He is sure London will hold, and the French 
will have nowhere to hide." 

Her posture seemed to relax a bit. "He is well, 
then?" 

"Only a few messengers have been able to get in and 
out of London, but they say he is well."  

"If I – Gruffydd, do not pick at your hair; your 
father is fine – If I write a note, will you send 
it?" 

"Of course," then, noticing Gruffydd playing alone in 
the corner, asked, "That is Prince Llewelyn's son, 
yes? What is wrong with him?" 

Hearing his father's name, Gruffydd got up to check 
the window, then sat back down again, sighing 
dejectedly.  

"King John took a fourteen-year-old boy, had him 
beaten, and then locked in a cage for more than a
year waiting to die. What do you think is wrong 
with him, Fitz? It would probably have been 
kinder to hang him with the other Welsh boys, with 
William's David." 

"I did not do this, Duana," Fitz insisted, sounding 
like a child trying to talk his way out of a whipping 
he knew he deserved. "The Court was chaos when the 
royal counsel appointed me as regent. I did not know 
any of the boys still lived at first. I had to get 
Henry crowned, marry Isabelle, figure out-" He 
stopped short, biting the tip of his tongue. "I had 
him moved to better quarters as soon as I realized 
who he was. I never wanted him to come to any harm, 
just like I never planned to make you hate me." 

"I do not hate you, Fitz," she said sadly. "I 
understand – you are still my friend. I just want to 
go home."  

He clasped his hands in front of him, knuckles white 
with tension. "Father made it look easy: creating a 
king, creating a nation. Even your William: he leads 
armies as easily as others play chess and commands 
respect from men who would sooner spit on a Welshmen 
than follow one into battle. Father wielded 
power as though it was lightweight, but it is 
not. Power weighs a man down like heavy, wet 
clothing, and lashes him in dreams like an unexpected 
tree branch. He never thought to tell me that." 

Duana swallowed, closing the ledger and turning to 
face Fitz as they stood beside the ornate table. "A 
wise man once told me that being powerful is like 
being a lady – if one must tell people that one is, 
then one is not." 

"That sounds like one of William's odd sayings," he 
replied tiredly. 

"Perhaps, but it was your father that first said it 
to me. When the other noblewomen laughed at me 
because I did not speak French very well and was 
just learning to read and write, that is what he told 
me."  

He closed his eyes, wanting to take a break from 
living for a moment, and, without thinking, Fitz 
leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. There 
was not even time to enjoy the warm, yielding 
softness before she realized his intent was not just 
a chaste kiss and pulled away. 

"Do not-" 

"I am sorry," he said, taking one, then two steps 
back. "That was wrong." 

Duana hugged her arms around her body, looking at the 
floor and saying nothing. 

"I should not have done that. I-I do not know what I 
was thinking. I was not thinking. Duana, it will not 
happen again." 

She nodded that she understood.

Not knowing what else to say, Fitz turned to leave. 

"It will all be over in a few days, Duana," he said, 
his voice calm and even. "Listen to the city walls – 
the siege engines have stopped. The French have taken 
the field against the English army all around London. 
The battle has begun." 

Fitz-" Duana finally looked up. "You said the 
soldiers were following a Welshmen into battle. They 
are following Prince Llewelyn, yes?" 

"Of course," Fitz lied.  

*~*~*~*  

"Gwilym?" he heard a woman's voice say softly through 
the peaceful darkness. There was no pain here – the 
night covered him like a warm blanket and all he had 
to do was sleep. "My name is Owens. I am going to 
help you. Open your eyes. It is time to open your 
eyes. Do not sleep yet." 

Deciding he must be the one being addressed, he 
tried, feeling tired and light-headed. Finally 
getting both eyes open, he watched sleepily for a 
moment as the stars swirled in lazy, unfamiliar 
patterns through the Heavens. He was floating: he 
could feel the boat raising and dipping with the 
gentle waves.  

It took him a moment to realize it was a funeral pyre 
– he was lying on a soft pallet on a raft, the way 
the pagans once buried their high kings. Soon, they 
would light the kindling around him and the pyre 
would drift away until it was a tiny blaze on the 
horizon.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gwilym heard a 
priest telling him he was neither a pagan nor a king, 
but that voice seemed very far off in the distance. 
He was drifting between Heaven and Earth, and the 
heavens were much closer. 

"Get up – do not rest. It is not time," she told him. 

He blinked, started to shake his head to clear it and 
felt a pain so sharp it made his stomach tighten 
before it faded to a dull throb. 

"I cannot," he told the woman, "I am hurt." 

"Yes," she agreed, her round, matronly face appearing 
over him as he lay there. "You are hurt." 

"I do not remember what happened," he whispered, 
frightened. "Am I dead? Is this Death?"  

"You do not need to remember yet. Turn your head – 
look at the shore," Owens told him. 

He did, and was surprised that the small figure 
standing on the dock was hazy, like he was seeing her 
through a fog. There should not be fog on the lake if 
the stars were so clear. "She is so far away." 

"Not so far, really. All you have to do is go to her. 
She is waiting for you." 

"It hurts," he said, trying to find some way to 
escape the pain in his head.  

"Yes, it will hurt very much." 

"Will you help me?" 

"If you want to go back, I will help you," she 
promised. 

*~*~*~* 

"He is not dead," she insisted, pacing the length of 
her sitting room like a caged animal and clutching a 
piece of dirty fabric in her hand. "William tends to 
wander off, but he always wanders back eventually. 
And he is no deserter. Perhaps he is a hostage-" 

"Duana," Fitz said softly, trying to soothe her. "You 
are going to make yourself sick again. It has been 
days now. There were no hostages. The battle went 
exactly as William said it would: the English Army 
surrounded the French and butchered them. Only the 
side that wins takes hostages." 

"But he was not in the battle. William promised…" She 
stopped, looked away, and seemed to grow a littler 
smaller.

"William's sergeant has looked among the wounded – he 
is not there." 

"And the dead?" she managed to ask. 

His stern expression started to crumple, and he closed 
his eyes, trying to find a gentle way to tell her 
this. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell. Yes, we 
think so. We think he must be among the dead." 

"Then bring me his body." 

Fitz stared at the floor, not answering, and perhaps 
blinking suspiciously. 

"He is still out there and he is hurt and alone. You 
have to keep looking."  

"The other soldiers saw him fall." William had to be 
one of the dead so mutilated that he was 
unidentifiable, and Fitz did not want to share that 
with Duana. "We found his horse wandering." 

"If he was dead, I would feel it, and I do not."  

"I am so sorry, Duana. I want you to know I did not 
plan this – nor did I ever want it to happen, but it 
is God's will. Continuing to believe he somehow 
survived is just not rational. Please let yourself 
grieve and stop insisting that William is out there. 
I am not going to give you false hope by pretending 
there is somewhere we have not searched." 

She draped the old shirt she had been carrying over 
the back of a chair, rested her hand on it for a 
moment, took a ragged breath and offered, "Whatever 
you want, Fitz." 

He glanced at her, not understanding, and found her 
teary blue eyes focused on his. 

"I trust you – you will not hurt me. I will do 
whatever you want, just send out another search party 
to look for William. Just keep looking." 

The noises of the castle – the servants in the 
hallways, calling instructions, gossiping, laughing – 
they suddenly became very loud and her sitting room 
very silent as he realized exactly what Duana was 
saying. 

"You know my secrets," he murmured. "You have for a 
long time, I think." He picked up her hand, rubbing 
his thumb over hers. "If I thought it would help you 
now, ease your pain, I would have my marriage to 
Isabelle annulled in a heartbeat and marry you as 
soon as the banns could be posted. I cannot say that 
I have not thought about it: what it must be like. 
And I cannot say I care for you and then allow you to 
act against your will. He is dead, Duana. Humiliating 
yourself will not bring him back."  

"I am pregnant," she said evenly. "He is not dead." 

"I will keep looking," he replied, dropping her hand. 

*~*~*~* 

The first sensation was a sickening, throbbing pain, 
as though his whole head was a giant toothache. There 
was a flash of light and Gwilym jerked his face away, 
moaning, and swirled back into the buoyant darkness 
for a few seconds. When the hammer pounding on his 
skull subsided to mere steady agony, he tried 
opening his eyes, and found himself staring at 
daylight drizzling down through an old thatched roof.  

"Have you finally awakened?" a husky female voice 
asked, putting something wonderfully cool on his 
forehead. A hand, he realized – a woman's hand. 

He tried unsuccessfully to answer, noticing the 
coppery taste of blood in his mouth. 

"Drink," she said holding a cup to his lips and 
carelessly spilling most of it down his chin and 
neck.  

"…Happened? What happened?" he finally mumbled, 
discovering he could speak French as she did, 
although that was not the language he thought within 
his head. "Get here?" 

"There was a battle. Many men died, but you did not. 
You have just hit your head."  

Her face came into focus for an instant: deep brown 
eyes, square cheekbones and full, wide lips, and he 
reached out to touch her, trying to see if she was 
real. She took his hand and rested her jaw in his 
open palm, nuzzling as though they were lovers, and, 
on instinct, Gwilym pulled away.  "Get… Get Scully. 
Dana." 

"Who is that?" she asked, picking up his hand again 
and running her rough finger down his bare chest.  

Images and sensations taunted him as he tried to 
think, coming close to his mind and then fading into 
nothing. There was another dark-haired woman with a 
little boy on her hip and a hand on her belly, 
telling him to hurry home, that this child was his. 
Hearing hoof beats, feeling the weight of armor on 
his shoulders, and wondering if she was telling the 
truth as he rode away. A fire – the smell of burnt 
hair and the sound of a baby crying. A few too many 
women, a few too many battles: those swirled by very 
quickly. Frantically searching for something he could 
not find. A little girl; he was looking for a little 
girl but she was not in the forest anymore. No, he 
found the girl, so now he was searching for a woman 
with red hair swirling around her face in the icy 
water. She was so cold – someone had hurt her and she 
was cold and afraid, but if he held her against him 
she would be warm again. There were English soldiers, 
Templar monks, dying kings. Tombs: cool marble under 
his fingertips as he cried. Spring. Bonfires. Holding 
a minuscule baby in his arms and a woman pulling back 
the blanket to show him this was a man-child. Tired, 
happy blue eyes. And then there was blood – so much 
blood so quickly. A battle that he was not supposed 
to be in, but he was going to be very careful because 
he had made a promise – an adduned – but his saddle 
girth broke and the ground rushed at him and the 
sound of a mace whistling near his ear and then 
nothing.  

"I am hurt. Please… Get Dana." 

This time there was no response. 

Gwilym must have moved his head, because the sunlight 
darkened like a candle almost snuffed out, flickered, 
and then slowly returned. There were the stars again, 
laughing at him as they floated by, and then the 
purple and scarlet of the sunrise.  

He licked his cracked lips, and tried, "You? Who are 
you?" 

"My name is Dana," the same woman's voice answered, 
"You have been asking for me. Do you remember?" 

"No… No. Are you Dana?" He squinted at her, having 
the sense that something was not quite right, and 
started to nod 'no,' but caught himself in time.  

"It is all right." She took his hand, holding it 
between both of hers. "Just rest."

"…my name? W-who am I?" 

She leaned closer so he could see her pretty dark 
eyes, laying his hand on her slightly pregnant belly 
and then stroked his dirty cheek. "You are my 
husband." 

*~*~*~* 

Seeing him standing in the doorway of the hut, hands 
braced on the rough timber beams on either side, she 
observed, "You are up. That is good." 

"I am up. I am not sure I am good," Gwilym replied, 
waiting for the trees at the edge of the clearing to 
stop swaying.  

She smiled, wiping her hands on her mended skirt, and 
getting up from the open fire to come kiss him. When 
he pulled back after a few seconds, she asked, "Is 
something wrong?" 

"Yes. No. You are going to have a child?" She nodded. 
"We should not be together while you are with child. 
That is why I stopped you last night," he lied. "Da-" 
He kept trying to call her that and failing. "How is 
it that I call you Dana? That is not a nice name – to 
call a woman 'under.'" 

"It is my name," she shrugged, turning away to add 
more wood to the fire. 

"Tell me again: what is my name?" 

"You still do not remember?" 

He thought for a moment. "Fox." 

"That is not a name, that is an animal," she teased, 
tucking her long hair behind her ears. 

He grinned sheepishly. "So this is my life? Whose 
land is this; whose forest?" 

Her brown eyes looked puzzled for a moment, as though 
a shadow had passed over them. "The King's." 

"But who owns the fief? Who is my liege lord? You 
said there was a battle – for whom do I fight?" When 
she did not answer, he continued, "Look at something; 
I noticed this yesterday: look at my hands." Gwilym 
held them out for her. "There are no calluses except 
where I have held reins and a sword. Are these not 
the softest hands you have ever seen? There are even 
pale lines where there were rings not so long ago. 
Are you sure I am whom you say? Are we hiding from 
someone? This place seems very safe – very far from 
the world." 

"Feel," she told him, taking the hand he was holding 
out and putting it on her belly. "Your son is 
moving." 

"He is moving," Gwilym agreed in French, and then 
said in Welsh, "He will be proud his father speaks 
this language." In Latin: "And this one, whatever it 
is." He added rapidly in Gaelic, Manx, and English: 
"And this one, and this one, and this." 

She stepped back, giving him a wide berth as he 
carefully stooped down and, using his finger, slowly 
wrote in the dirt: 'Llwynog ap Gwilym.' "That says 
'Fox, son of William,' and this," he wrote, "Is that 
name in another language, and another, and another. 
Am I not the most well-educated serf you have ever 
seen…wife?" he said, drawing out the last word. "Even 
if I am a tradesman or a merchant, I should still not 
be able to read and write. And the calluses; I would 
not have carried a sword unless I am a knight." 

"You have hit your head very hard. Perhaps you should 
lay down again," she tried to persuade him.  

"Are you my mistress?" Gwilym asked, trying to figure 
out why this woman kept skirting around the obvious 
fact that he was a gentleman and she was a commoner, 
albeit a pretty one. Very pretty, but clearly a serf. 
"I am not angry with you – you have probably saved my 
life, in fact, but I do not belong here in the 
forest, in this life. I only want to know where I 
belong. You are good to me, but I feel adrift, as 
though someone cut all the ropes and obligations 
holding me and set me free. Many men would envy that, 
but I do not. If you do not know who I am, or if I 
cannot be that man any longer, at least tell me who I 
was."  

"You are my husband," she insisted, her eyes getting 
damp. 

"You keep saying that. Would you like to know what I 
think?"  

She shook her head vigorously 'no,' chestnut hair 
flying in all directions.  

"I am not angry with you; do not be afraid. I think, 
wherever this battle was, you went to the field 
afterward looking for your husband among the dead and 
found me instead. And when I did not remember whom I 
was, you found it easier to believe that I was your 
husband than to accept that he was killed. I do not 
think this is my land or my home and I will swear on 
my honor that whoever 'Dana' is, it is not you." 

"You are my husband," she whimpered. "He is not dead. 
You are my husband!" 

He reached inside his filthy, torn shirt – that had 
been his first clue: redressing and discovering the 
fabric, the fit, and the careful, tiny stitches of 
his clothing. Someone had spent a great deal of time 
and money sewing his shirt and breeches. And, given 
that his right hand seemed clumsy, it was probably 
not he.  

Unpinning the strip of dark-green cloth he had found 
there yesterday, he pulled it out, holding it between 
his hands for her to see. "Do you know what this is?" 

She looked up through her tears, then shook her head 
'no.' 

"I do. It is the cloth tied around a man and a 
woman's hands when they are married in the old way. 
And I know this piece of fabric is only for me - 
someone gave it to me. I can see her in my dreams – I 
can remember that night. And that the marriage is for 
a year and a day, and our year has not yet passed. 
And I promised her I would come back for her: that 
souls mate eternally and I would find her in this 
life or the next. But I have tried for a week to 
remember who the woman is and all I know is that it 
is not you," he said coolly.  

"You are Vernon! You are my husband and we are going 
to have a child!" 

"And who are you?" he pressed her gently, realizing 
exactly how fragile she was.  

"I am… No– no… I am…" 

"You do not know either, do you?" 

Sinking into the dirt and pulling her knees as close 
to her chest as her belly would allow, she nodded 
'no,' starting to sob. 

*~*~*~* 

The city was asleep, kings and commoners locked 
behind the safety of stout doors as a sliver of moon 
watched disinterestedly. Hearing the horses return, 
Duana went to the window, then, wrapping her cloak 
around her and signaling her guards to follow, 
hurried through the halls and courtyard to the gates. 

Fitz was dismounting, looking at least twenty years 
older in the dim light from the torches the servants 
brought to meet the search party. 

"You still did not find him," she said, more as a 
statement than a question. 

"He is not there to find, Duana. I would empty the 
Thames one bucketful at a time if I thought he might 
be at the bottom of it, but he is not. It is starting 
to rain - go inside; you are going to catch cold. 
Duana?" 

"Open the gates, Fitz," she said, telling her guards 
to wait, taking a torch from one of the servants, and 
quickly stepping past Fitz. When he did not 
immediately respond, she ordered the castle guards, 
"Open them!" 

The men were already on the verge of obeying when 
Fitz agreed: "Open the castle gates. Duana – where 
are you going?" 

She did not answer, so he hurried to catch up, taking 
long strides to keep pace with her. 

"I am not your prisoner anymore. That was the 
agreement. William won your war; I am free to go. If 
you and all your royal knights cannot manage to find 
one rather large man in an open field, I will find 
him myself." 

"You cannot-" He took three big steps, getting in her 
path. "You cannot go-" She dodged around him. "For 
God's sake! Even if I let you go run through the 
streets at night, the city gates are closed. You 
cannot get out of London until morning." 

She spun around, looking like she had grown a foot 
taller. "Watch me!" 

The English knights caught up with Fitz as he watched 
Duana hurrying away. "My Lord? Do we seize her?" 

"No – she is correct. She is a freewoman and a widow. 
She may go as she pleases. Follow her," he decided. 
"Make sure she is safe. And," he added, knowing 
Duana's hardheadedness, "Make sure she does not find 
some way around the city walls that the French army 
missed." 

*~*~*~* 

Of course she could not get out of the city. The best 
Duana could hope for was to get out of her apartments 
and away from the Welsh knights William had left to 
guard her. They stared at their boots and spoke in 
low, sympathetic voices, telling her how brave and 
noble he had been and how sorry they were. 

Even Llewelyn had come earlier, as had Melvin, so 
drunk he could barely stand up. They too, were very 
sorry. Llewelyn was sorry William went off and left 
him at Lincoln Castle while he was still busy 
bleeding, and Melvin was sorry he could not kill 
every single Frenchman in this world and the next. 
But they were both sorry. 

That he was dead.  

Duana swallowed a sob, squared her shoulders, and 
walked quickly and purposefully in no particular 
direction except away from Court. 

She knew what William would tell her to do: marry 
again, and marry before she left London. 'Just pick a 
man who will be good to the children and will not 
bother you too much.' Duana was heiress to too much 
land now to ever be able to reach Wales without being 
kidnapped and 'persuaded' to marry some opportunistic 
knight. His lands in Aber and what Fitz had given her 
in south Wales would become the property to any man 
who married her, and any consummated marriage was 
considered valid, whether she ever agreed to said 
consummation or not. Fitz, whether he realized it or 
not, had added a few more bars to her cage.  

Just pick a man. Check his teeth and his temperament 
and just pick like she was at the market.  

In that case, Duana wanted one who told the most 
awful jokes imaginable and spouted off bizarre ideas 
left and right, making people wonder how far from 
sane he actually was. Perhaps someone who could get a 
baby to calm down faster than she, yelled right back 
when she yelled at him but never struck her, and left 
gifts on her pillow and then swore fairies must have 
done it. One who called Father John to exorcise the 
sprites and then cursed and tried to look innocent 
when the fairies brought her something else the very 
next night. Yes, that was exactly what she wanted: a 
man who still became tongue-tied and blushed if she 
invited him to come to bed, but would, and probably 
had, tell the Devil to piss-off for her sake. And one 
who, if asked if he still had a heart left to break, 
would deny it and almost be convincing - unless one 
could see his eyes.  

Yes, one of those would be just fine, thank you.  

As she neared the city gates and tried to decide what 
to do next, a figure crossed the narrow street in 
front of her, his dark cloak whipping behind him as 
he hurried through the light drizzle. To her tired 
brain, he reminded her for an instant of William: the 
way he moved as though he had decided long ago where 
he was going and was simply waiting for the rest of 
the world to catch up. He paused at the corner, 
looking for someone, and not finding them, crossed 
the cobblestones, dodging to avoid the puddles. 

The English knights, already unhappy at following a 
woman around on such a miserable night, cursed as 
they had to jog to keep up. This was silly, Duana 
assured herself, picking up her pace: following some 
man on his way home from a tavern because he walked 
like William. She should think of the baby and the 
sickness in the night air and go back to the castle 
so Fitz could scold her for being such an impulsive 
child. 

"William – William!" she called, chasing him through 
the dark city, and figuring that the worst he could 
think was that she was mistaken or insane. Half the 
men alive were named John, Richard, or William, so 
the odds were in her favor. 

He paused, as though he was not sure if he had heard 
his name or not, then, seeming to decide not, turned 
and faded into the shadows and mists as though a 
cloud had passed over the moon and the moon was 
simply not there afterward. 

Rounding the corner, Duana sidestepped quickly to 
avoid tripping over a man sitting on the bottom step 
of a church, hunkered down against the cold, damp 
night. Standing in the middle of the deserted street, 
she looked, frantically turning in circles to survey 
every brick, every stone, as her torch sizzled in the 
rain, but he had vanished. Perhaps he was never there 
in the first place. She was tired and alone and 
afraid and her mind was playing tricks on her. Or 
perhaps she had just seen a ghost. William did tend 
to wander off – trust that man to wander completely 
into the next world without her and without even 
thinking to look back. 

Well, at least she had a few seconds alone to cry 
before Fitz's idiotic guards caught up with her. 

"Are you lost, my lady?" the man asked from behind 
her, standing up and rubbing his hands briskly over 
his damp shirt sleeves to warm his arms. He watched 
her, but kept back, making sure not to frighten her. 
"I saw a castle nearby – did you lose your way?" 

Duana whirled around, inhaling sharply at the hideous 
French spoken with a strong Welsh accent and pushing 
back her hood in disbelief. "William? My God – 
William! Where- Why- How- My God!" Losing all sense 
of propriety and forgetting about the royal posse 
following her, Duana dropped the torch onto the wet 
street and threw her arms around him. 

"I have the feeling you have missed me," Gwilym said, 
tentatively putting one hand, then both hands on her 
back. 

"Missed you?" she echoed, finally letting him up for 
air. "Where have you been for the last week and a 
half? I do not know whether to kiss you or knock you 
silly, William!"  

"Am I William?" he asked, looking down at her. "I had 
thought so, but I was not sure." 

"You are hurt." She peered at him, noticing the cuts 
and bruises on his face. As the guards arrived with 
more torches, she discovered, "Your head. Yes, you 
are William," Duana assured him. "Lord William of 
Aber." 

"I did not believe I was William of London," he 
answered thoughtfully. "I was just looking around, 
trying to decide. I am looking for my home, but I do 
not think this is it. It was the closest city, but I 
hope I do not live here. It smells foul." 

"No – this is not your home. There was a battle: we 
have been searching for you. You must have somehow 
found your way into the city. Damn it, William: you 
terrified me! And, and," she picked at his torn 
sleeve, starting to cry, "You have ruined another 
shirt. Really, I cannot take you anywhere," she 
sniffed. 

Gwilym watched her, his dark eyes lighting up. "You 
are Dana. No - Duana," he decided. "I have been 
looking for you, Duana." 

*~*~*~* 

Fitz listened to Llewelyn's complicated story, 
slouching in his chair behind the wide desk, and 
nodding slightly every few minutes.  

Standing in the background, having sobered up enough 
to mumble the appropriate responses to the 
appropriate questions and thus shredded his and 
Lady Duana's honor, Merfyn started to fidget. He did 
not understand what Llewelyn was explaining in 
French, and, in truth, he really did not want to, 
either. Just the basics of the lie and the look on 
Gwil's face the day he had accidentally admitted he 
wanted no woman other than his wife – that was enough 
to turn a strong man's stomach. 

"Count the weeks, Fitz; Eimile is not William's," 
Llewelyn said calmly, having rehearsed the words 
several hundred times. "Duana is my mistress. I 
married her to William because King John wanted her 
married. There is no bad blood between us, and 
William is very fond of her, but the children are 
mine." Fitz did not seem convinced, so he added: 
"William's mistress Muritta is even staying at my 
Court while she is with child so Duana will not be 
upset. Muritta is a pretty blonde commoner, a tavern 
wench before she conveniently married his tanner. 
William could never marry a woman like that – I am 
sure you understand. We are very polite about it, 
really." 

"Father," Gruffydd called from his usual perch on the 
windowsill, watching some commotion in the bailey. 

"I am here, son. It is fine," Llewelyn assured him in 
Welsh, hoping the boy could not understand the 
conversation. "Just a minute."  

"So the two children are yours – what about the child 
she carries now?" Fitz asked. 

Llewelyn blinked, caught off guard. Gwilym had not 
specified that part of the plan. "Mine as well," he 
guessed, hoping that was the correct answer.  

He wanted nothing more than to turn to his right and 
find Gwil as he had for more than two decades, 
looking morose or sarcastic as the mood struck him, 
but thinking ten steps ahead of any other man. He 
knew he was not a good liar, this story was 
convoluted at best, and that Fitz was agreeing a 
little two easily. Llewelyn desperately needed his 
best friend alive so he could ask Gwil why that 
might be. 

He held his breath, praying he had done the right 
thing. Llewelyn just kept telling himself this was 
what Gwilym wanted, this was what Gwilym wanted: to 
ensure his children were safe and that Duana could 
live her life as she pleased. Llewelyn did not have 
to understand the plan, he just had to act his part 
and rely on Gwilym's brilliance one last time. 

"Father," Gruffydd said again in Welsh, making 
Llewelyn and Merfyn almost jump out of their skins. 
"Uriah is here. There is no Bath-Sheba for King 
David." 

"Just a minute, son. FitzWalter, you have my word as 
well as Sir Melvin's. It does not matter what Lady 
Duana claims. She is a good wife; of course she 
would not dishonor her husband's memory."  

Fitz considered a moment, and then nodded his 
approval, allowing Llewelyn to exhale. "I will have 
it entered in the record. Do you want the boy to be 
'Mab' or 'David'?" 

"David," Llewelyn decided, thinking that if there 
were any justice left, perhaps that was it: "Dafydd 
ap Llewelyn, heir to Wales." 

Fitz made a note, then stood, looking very tired. 
"Are we finished?" he asked, as though he was not the 
most powerful man in England.  

"He is back, King David – you do not get Bath-Sheba 
after all," Gruffydd said cryptically in his singsong 
voice, still speaking Welsh, although he was fluent, 
or had been, in French. 

"What is it, Gruffydd?" Llewelyn finally asked, 
thinking his son was just talking nonsense again. 
Uriah was the soldier in the Bible that King David 
had sent out to die in battle so the King could have 
Uriah's wife, Bath-Sheba.  

"Uriah," the young man said sadly, pointing out the 
window. "Too bad for King David." 

Llewelyn, needing something else to think about 
besides having just sworn he had dishonored one of 
the most honorable men whoever lived, leaned over 
Gruffydd's shoulder to see. He forgot to breathe for 
a moment, and then said shakily, "Not Uriah, son - 
Lazarus. That man does make the most dramatic 
entrances."  

Fitz looked out just in time to see Duana and a 
battered William walking hand-in-hand across the 
bailey. "Jesus Christ," he said slowly, "I should 
learn not to underestimate Duana when she says she 
will do something. Jesus!" 

"No," Llewelyn replied, exhaling and grinning 
broadly, "Jesus only took three days; William took 
eleven."  

Hearing the name, Merfyn pushed his way through so he 
could see this with his own eyes. Llewelyn grabbed 
him quickly, reminding the old man that while 
jumping out the window might be the fastest way to 
reach Gwilym, it was possibly not the wisest. 

"Of course," Merfyn finally managed to say as they 
hurried down the stairs three steps at a time. "Of 
course it took him eleven days instead of three to 
return from the dead – Goliath is still in Wales. 
Gwil had to borrow a horse." 

*~*~*~* 

End: Adduned
Title: Amau
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Keywords: story, historical au, msr, angst, light 'other'
Summary: London, spring, 1218
Distribution: link to: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Website: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/index.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver spoons: Jen – you're good (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – 
yep, Skinner-head-check – long gone, Snortameter – 5.5, 
Angst-o-meter – 7.4 
Author's note: The real Pembroke Castle is south Wales, but in 
The Hiraeth universe, it's been relocated to somewhere outside 
London.  (Walter) William Marshall, Count of Pembroke, was a 
real person – the greatest knight of his time - and did have 
a son named Walter.

*~*~*~*
 
Holding his breath, he lifted the blanket, appraised the 
expanse of pale flesh, and had a single thought: 'Please
let there be no mistake.'

Gwilym kept staring at her in wonder, trying to acquaint himself
with the idea that this woman belonged in bed with him and he 
with her.  As dawn began timidly skirting the city, he checked 
again, and found last night had not been a dream after all.   

In response to the cool air, Duana shifted, draping her bare
leg across his. "Do you need anything?" she mumbled, trying to 
sleep for a few minutes.

"Not a thing," he answered honestly.

She stretched, her breast passing against the crisp hair of his chest 
with a sigh, and opened her eyes to check on him.  "Really?  Are 
you sure?"

"Really – I am fine.  You do not need to jump every time I breathe. 
Are you always like this?" 

"No," she replied, closing her heavy eyelids.  "Do not get used to 
it."

"Duana…" he began, not sure what he wanted to ask or say.  Aside 
from recognizing her, his life was only flashes of images and 
sensations, and there was so much he needed to know.  
Occasionally, a memory flickered like a candle had been lit in the 
darkness of his mind, letting him see for an instant, but then was 
gone, leaving more questions than it answered.     

A tentative hint of dawn slipped through the cracks in the shutters 
and found its way through the bed curtains, making her hair glisten 
gold and scarlet on her bare shoulders.  "My God, you are 
beautiful," he murmured, trailing his finger down her face.  

"Am I?" she responded softly, snuggling against him.

"More than beautiful.  If man could create a woman – take a statue 
of the purest, strongest marble, cover it with soft white skin, and 
then wrap it in the crimson of a sunrise for lips and hair – he would 
almost have you.  He would still need to turn two sapphires to fire 
so they spark blue flames at me and make my breath catch in my 
throat.  Kings would die for you and men would barter their souls, 
yet here you are beside me."

Duana squirmed, embarrassed, and hid her face against his 
shoulder.  "I think you have hit your head very hard."

"Why?"

"You do not usually say things like that to me," she mumbled.

He looked down at her, puzzled.  She obviously cared for him very 
much, and, after getting him fed, bathed, and doctored, she had come 
to bed with her hair down – an invitation to make love if he could 
have worked up the nerve.  He saw other women in his head, but 
mostly, only her – he could not conceive that he did not love her.

"What do I usually say to you?" Gwilym asked, showing a 
surprising amount of tact.

"You call me your 'cariad' – your beloved.  Beyond that, you say 
very little.  It is just not your nature.  When you remember more, 
you will understand.  I know you care for me very much."  She 
kissed him softly, melting her body into his arms, then opened her 
mouth, offering. 

Whether he said it or not, Gwilym had no doubt as to what he felt.

"Are you up to this?" Duana paused to ask a few minutes later, 
already a little breathless.

"I think so," he joked, glancing down.  Then he added more 
seriously, "Are you?  Duana, I do not remember – to me it is like 
we have never been together before."

She glanced away for a second, and then met his eyes.  "I think I 
would like that.  I think I would like that very much – you not 
remembering.  For you to treat me like a woman instead of a 
fragile friend who shares your bed."

Gwilym paused, propping himself up on his elbows.  "I do not 
understand."

She pulled him down to her, whispering as her hands traveled over 
his body, exploring, caressing.  "Sometimes, when you have had a 
little too much wine or when you are upset, you forget for an 
instant and treat me as your lover instead of as your wife.  After 
those nights, I can still feel you inside me the next day – you are 
still with me.  And when you are away for weeks, I ache in that 
very same place.  I do not think you understand that, William."

Oh, dear God in Heaven.  He simply said the last rational thing he 
was capable of: "You are so slight – perhaps I am afraid of hurting 
you."  

"You told me before you left for this war that we fit together very 
well.  That you liked that."

He shuddered as she rubbed against him, but still he hesitated.  
Gwilym did remember a jumble: her struggling, frightened, trying 
to pull away as he held her in the darkness, feeling a baby moving 
inside her, spots of blood on a white sheet, hearing her gasp one 
morning in a stable, surprised at her body's reaction to his.  It all 
blurred together, though, like smeared ink, and made an incoherent 
story.  

"Will you tell me if you do not like this?"

"Better," Duana whispered back, "I will tell you if I do."

*~*~*~*

He wanted to stay in this tranquil place: his body deep inside hers, 
her legs wrapped around his hips and waist holding him to her, 
mouth on mouth, hands on hands.  Nature, however, had other 
ideas.

Rising a bit so she could breathe, Gwilym studied Duana's flushed 
face, then kissed her leisurely.  "I think you liked that," he 
whispered into her ear.  "I think you liked that very much."  

"You are very observant," she murmured back, still floating in her 
euphoric haze.

"I still have you," he reminded her, squeezing her hands under his, 
fingers tightly interlaced.  "Perhaps I am not sure; perhaps I should 
do it again so I can watch you more closely."  

He gave his hips a gentle thrust and she gasped, her body 
convulsing.

"Or perhaps I will just watch your face each time you sit down 
today." Gwilym rolled to his side, keeping her against his chest.  
"Are you really all right?" he checked one last time. "I just did 
what you asked."

Duana nodded affirmatively, then aligned her body with his, 
closing her eyes.

"Cariad," he said, trying out this new name, "I remember 
something: it is May Day; at dusk, our year will have passed. If we 
renew the vows tonight, the pagan marriage continues; if not, it is 
as though it had never been.  We have a son from the Beltane 
fires, yes?"   

"We have a son from last year: Mab – David," she mumbled, 
wanting to sleep.  "And Eimile is a toddler.  You had two other 
children with a woman named Diana, but they are with God.  It is 
very complicated though, and Prince Llewelyn has just made it 
more so."

"It seems my life is very complicated," he replied, trying to digest 
all that.  "Four children – really?"

"The King and Queen of Spain have seventeen, Melvin has twelve, 
and Llewelyn has seven, one even with his wife.  Do not sound so 
surprised.  And, I think, perhaps you are going to have a fifth."

Gwilym had been hovering in a pleasant fog somewhere between 
his body and sleep, but he jolted back to reality.

"I am not certain yet," she continued calmly, "But I think so, and 
Fitz already knows; he may tell you if I do not.  I just do not want 
you to be disappointed again if I am wrong."

He stroked her sweaty, tangled hair, counting the months. 
If they had a son from the bonfires last year, the child 
had been born mid-winter and it was barely spring.  That was much
too soon for her to be pregnant again.

"Did I want this, cariad?"

"Of course; very much."  

Gwilym swallowed, wondering what had possessed him.  "Did you 
want this?" he finally asked.

There was the slightest hesitation before she answered 'yes,' which 
told more than any assurances she could offer.  

*~*~*~* 

"He looks better," Fitz observed quietly, as Duana checked a 
dozing William again.  "The ladies of the Court will rejoice – he 
causes more than a few hearts to flutter. As Llewelyn says, he is 
very pretty.  Are his memories returning?"

She nodded, tucking the blanket around him as a hand snaked out, 
making a lewd gesture at Fitz and then searching for her.  "I am 
here – rest; Fitz is just jealous," Duana assured her husband.  The 
hand squeezed hers, and then disappeared under the pillow as 
William relaxed.

"Have you slept at all?" Fitz asked, following Duana out of the 
bedchamber and shutting the door softly behind him.  "Or have 
you been taking care of him all night?"

"His head wound is not as deep as I first thought, although he will 
not like his new haircut when he gets a look at it," she replied, 
seeming not to hear Fitz's questions as she busied herself tidying up 
the sitting room.  "I think as the swelling goes down, more of his 
memories will return."

She picked up some scrap of green fabric off the floor and Fitz saw 
her eyes lose focus as she straightened back up.

"Easy," Fitz said, quickly grabbing her and backing her to a chair.  
Even as flustered as he was, he did not miss that she flinched as he 
touched her and as her backside made contact with the wooden 
seat.  He had come to her apartments early this morning to check
on William – and Duana, and overheard more than he had wanted 
to before he could make a hasty exit.  Fitz took a deep breath, 
trying to push those sounds and images out of his mind for the 
moment.  

Never having been around a pregnant woman before, he hovered 
nervously, offering everything but his soul to make her feel
better until she shushed him.

"We can speak another time if you need to rest, Duana.  It 
will wait.  You cannot ride to Wales like this.  I do not 
want you endangering the baby.  Or yourself." 

"No, I am fine.  This happens."

"I see how you are fine.  Do you want me to send for a doctor?"

"Really, Fitz – I am-" His forehead wrinkled with worry and 
Duana acquiesced, "Maybe a little fresh air.  Just for a few 
minutes." 
 
"Of course.  It is a beautiful day."  

He helped her up, gesturing for several servants to follow them to 
the outer courtyard.  Choosing a bench near the castle gates, Fitz 
sat beside her, making sure to leave a decent space between them.  
Maids swarmed like bees, bringing blankets, sips of water, and 
fanning her until Duana ordered them to away.

"For Heaven's sake, I just became a little dizzy.  I am not that 
delicate." 

He worried his lips for a moment, then opened his mouth, sighed, 
and closed it again.  

"What is it, Fitz?" Duana asked, keeping an eye on the outside of 
the shuttered window of her bedchamber as she rested.  
"Something is on your mind."

"I am not sure how to say this, Duana.  I had thought I would say 
nothing, but now it seems I have to.  But I am not sure this is the 
right time – with the baby."

"Speak: it has been a long few weeks.  And I am used to William – 
I doubt you can shock me."

Fitz shifted uncomfortably, then signaled a servant to bring her a 
package.  "When we could not find William's body after the battle, 
I had my seneschal Geoffrey intercept any packages or messages 
that came for you.  I did not want some Frenchman with a sense of 
humor sending you William's head – or worse, especially when 
you said you were going to have another child.  This came for you 
from the Earl of Chester."

Duana untied the letter, skimming it quickly.

"Is that William's seal and signature?" Fitz asked.

"It is.  Why do you think this is so important? It just instructs me to 
pay for some servant girl named 'Lucy' and see that she is sent to 
Wales.  I handle his accounts just as I handled your father's; 
there is nothing unusual about this – just another of William's odd 
expenses."

"That is quite a sum to pay for a mere girl."

She shrugged, puzzled.  William had bought dragon eggs, unicorn 
horns, and three different maps to Camelot – she did not even 
question it anymore.

"Duana, I think he is paying her bride price as well.  William and 
Llewelyn spent the night in Lincoln Castle after Llewelyn was 
wounded, and William must have spent the night with this girl.  
Afterward, he wanted very badly to keep her.  I do not expect him 
to be faithful to you any more than any other man, but I just cannot 
stomach that he would send you the bill."

"He would not do that," she said coolly.  "I think you are mistaken.  
In fact, I-"  

"Chester sent the bed sheet, Duana, in case William might not 
recall why he agreed to such an steep price.  There is no mistake."  
Fitz watched her face as she reached further into the parcel, 
touching the large spots of dried blood on the white fabric, and then 
looked away. "I have already provided a dowry for her and seen 
that she will be well-cared for in Chester.  If there is a child, it 
will be fostered there as well; you will never see it."

"Why did you do this, Fitz?" she said after a long pause. "Whether 
this is true or not, why hurt me?  I thought you were my friend.  
We are friends, Fitz, nothing more – please remember that."

"You do not need to worry; I will not forget again.  And I do not 
want to hurt you," he said shakily.  "I only want to see that you are 
not hurt.  If he will be rough with a serf, a thirteen-year-old girl, 
he will be rough with you and I will not tolerate that."

"He is not like that," Duana insisted.  "And it is not your concern 
anyway."

"Explain to me again how he cares for you so much?  I heard you 
this morning – there is no excuse for that, Duana.  And you pull 
away when anyone suddenly touches you now; you did not do that 
with my father.  Perhaps he cares so much that you are carrying 
your third children in barely two years?  And it is nice that this 
Muritta – his mistress – has free run of your bedchamber in Wales.  
The word among the Welsh knights is that he wanted you to keep 
Muritta's child, but you refused.  Then there is what Edward spoke 
of – taking you go among the Druids, practicing some sort of 
fertility witchcraft.  I cannot allow that!"

"You may not say things like that to me.  It is not prop-" Duana 
leaned down, covering her face with her hands.

"Please do not cry.  I like William, I really do, but he is not one of 
us – the Welsh are different with their odd laws and ways.  They 
are warriors: hotheaded, uncivilized pagans.  I would give him my 
army to lead, or my son to train as a soldier, but not my stepmother 
to wife.  But the Crown did give you to him and so it is the 
Crown's place to object to your treatment.  I know you and I know 
you will put on a brave face and pretend everything is perfect when 
you are miserable."

"You do not understand, Fitz," she said, her voice trembling. "I am 
sure there is an explanation; he just does not remember it.  And 
even if there is not, he is still my husband.  I have no say in 
whatever he wants to do.  You love this, do you not – planting 
doubts about a man you know I care for?"

"I would never have told you if he had died.  No, I take no pleasure 
in this, but I will not send you back to those God-forsaken Welsh 
mountains alone as though I trust your husband to put you above 
all others."  

'As I would,' Fitz did not add.

Duana looked up, her face and eyes red.  "Do not harm him."

"Of course not."

"If you are saying you want me in exchange for not charging 
William as a heretic, I will agree.  I will hate you, but I will agree." 
She took a few breaths, trying to keep her voice from shaking, 
"Your father died because of me and I will not have that happen 
again."    

"Do not even say such things!  Duana, all I want is what I said – to 
know you will not be hurt again.  I am not going to harm William; 
you have my word."

She stood, smoothing out her skirt so she had something to do with 
her hands.  "I am going for a walk.  I will be back shortly – but 
please tell William where I am if he awakens.  I do not want him to 
worry.  And please have them open the castle gates."

Fitz signaled the guards, then watched, hands on his hips, as Duana 
squared her shoulders and walked away.

"My lord?" Geoffrey asked quietly, appearing beside Fitz.  "My 
lord, the horses are ready.  Do we take her?"

"Is it right to keep a woman from a husband she loves, even if he 
mistreats her?" Fitz murmured, talking more to himself that 
Geoffrey.  "I am not so sure now."

"Your orders, my lord?"

"Go ahead," he finally said.  "Be careful that she is not harmed; 
she is with child.  Tell them not to try to ride any further than my 
county estate tonight and to station extra guards at the gate in case 
Lord William tries to go after her.  And God forgive me if I have 
done the wrong thing."

*~*~*~*   
 
"There has been some mistake," Llewelyn insisted, as Gwilym 
stared dumbfounded at the sheet and then read the letter a seventh 
time. "He would not do this."

"It seems he did," Fitz answered, resting his hands lightly on the 
edge of his desk.  "William?"

"I-I do not remember," Gwilym said shakily. "Has Duana seen 
this?" 

"Yes.  She asked me for safe passage and I have given it.  She is 
hours away by now.  All I want is for you to explain this – all of 
this: why you would be so rough with a young girl, why your 
mistress is her maid, who fathered her daughter.  I am concerned 
for her; that is all.  Duana is very dear to me."

Gwilym stood, letting the sheet fall to the floor, and started to 
pace, feeling the room was much too small for something so awful.  
Those were the images he saw in his head: the other women, 
Duana struggling, crying, pulling away.  Blood.

"You have interfered in something that is not your place, 
fitzWalter!" Llewelyn spat.

"You forget to whom you are speaking," Fitz replied icily.

"I will tell you to whom I speak," Llewelyn hissed, bracing his 
hands on the desk and looming over Fitz.  "A bright young man 
with too much power and a childish crush on his pretty stepmother 
as he tries to live in his father's shadow.  You have known William 
for a few months; I have known him since we were boys and I 
have never known him be rough with any woman.  He has risked 
everything for Duana, and, according to one of my sharp-eared 
knights, she offered everything she had to ensure you continued to 
search for him after the battle.  And now you are telling me she 
would leave him over some peasant girl he does not even 
remember?  When your marriage is more than an empty bed and a 
piece of paper giving you control over a boy-king, you come tell 
me of love.  Write your poems and brag of your English chivalry, 
but when you will be laughed at for taking back your faithless wife 
as I have, or when you will give your children away to ensure they 
will not be murdered out of spite, then you come tell me of 
marriage.  Boy."

FitzWalter flushed and Llewelyn stepped back, realizing he had 
said too much.

"There is rebellion in Scotland," Fitz said after a moment, the 
tendons of his throat standing out angrily. "I am sending William 
and his knights to put it down.  I understand his forty days of 
service for the year have passed, so I will pay him for this."

Llewelyn gritted his teeth.  "And then the rebellion in Ireland, and 
then in South Wales and then perhaps the latest Crusade, providing 
you do not send him to re-conquer France.  You will just keep 
sending him into battle until one day, he does not return.  You 
cannot do this – I will go to the Royal Counsel."

"It was my father that headed the Counsel, Llewelyn.  Let us take 
this sheet and that convoluted story about who fathered whose 
child you made up – and perhaps this Muritta's child – and go ask 
them.  I can understand how they would want my father's widow 
mistreated."

"Then I will go to the Templars."

"Yes – there is a doctor who tells of a very Christian Druid 
ceremony that William took his wife to.  And, even in London, 
they are saying how the heir to Wales was born during an eclipse 
of the full moon, that the sky was blood red even as it snowed 
because the babe, like Merlin, is of the Old Ones.  The Knights 
Templar are very tolerant of the old religions.  Ask the 
Infidels."

"You cannot do this!"

"It is done," Fitz replied defensively, thinking this had spiraled far 
beyond anything he ever intended.  "I do not want you dead, 
William.  You will stay with my army as a strategist, not as a 
general.  Duana will be well kept, and her daughter can join her as 
soon as the girl is old enough to travel.  The boy stays in Wales as 
your heir, Llewelyn – I think I owe you that: to act as if I believed 
your lie unless William says otherwise.  I will not keep you from 
your children, William, but you may not see Duana.  I will not take 
the chance that you will hurt her." Fitz looked at Llewelyn's 
flushed face, then at Gruffydd standing in the shadows staring into 
space, then watched Gwilym pacing. "Will you tell me who 
fathered her daughter, William?  Was it my father?  Or was it 
another man?"

"No," Gwilym replied.

"No, you will not tell me, or no, it was not my father?"

"No – I will not lead your army and no, I will not believe Duana 
does not want to see me or that she left Court of her own free will.  
She would want to yell at me if nothing else, and I intend to see 
she gets to do that."

Fitz folded his arms across his broad chest.  "You and your knights 
will ride for Scotland within the week or I will charge you with a 
felony and seize your lands.  Under the law, that is my right."

Gwilym leaned over the desk so he was eye-to-eye with Fitz.  
"Charge me," he said slowly.  "Llewelyn has my children, the 
Crown has my lands, and you have my wife.  One of those things 
is going to change."

Fitz flinched back a hair's breadth.  "You would renounce your 
oath to the king over a woman?  It is true then: a Welshman's 
word is worthless."  

He waited for a response, but there were only Gwilym's dark eyes 
burning into him.  Then, as he had done in the tavern that night, 
Gwilym simply turned and walked away without a word.

*~*~*~*

Geoffrey spotted the idiot Welsh boy playing near the gates at 
dusk, once again picking the new leaves off the decorative plants 
and tearing them into bits.  Christ, why did they not lock Griffith – 
Gruffydd up somewhere and keep him out of trouble?  Ever since 
fitzWalter had decided he would have free run of Court, the boy 
had been nothing but trouble.

"Do not do that!"  The gardener would have a fit when he saw 
what the young man had done to the roses. "I have told you before.  
Do you not speak French, boy?  I said stop it!"

Gruffydd ignored the seneschal, moving further along the outer 
castle wall and continuing his unique method of pruning.      

"Boy, those are the king's roses," Geoffrey said, following him.  
"And I do not like being ignored!"

The young man looked at him, shrugged, and stepped deeper into 
the shadows, still stripping the leaves off the domesticated 
rosebushes.

"You impudent brat!  How dare-"

As soon as Geoffrey was within a foot of Gruffydd, a man's arm 
snaked out lightning-fast, pulling him into the shadows and 
holding a dagger to his throat.  "Do not cry out," a voice he 
recognized as the Prince of Wales ordered.  "Keep quiet and you 
will live a little longer."

"Where is Lady Duana?" another man asked in faulty French, 
pressing a second knife against his ribs.  "Where fitzWalter send?"

Geoffrey started to call for help and both blades pressed slightly 
harder.  Behind William of Aber, Gruffydd looked up from the 
rosebushes, proud of his role in this ambush.

"Rosslyn," he answered, picking something that sounded very far 
away.  "Rosslyn Castle in Scotland."  

The taller man stepped back, and leather squeaked as William 
swung into a saddle.  "Say 'open gate,'" William commanded as the 
horse snorted.

Geoffrey hesitated, and the knife at his throat twitched, causing a 
Small, wet trail of blood to flow.  "Open the gates!" Geoffrey called 
out, careful not to move.  "I am riding out – open the gates!"

A few words were exchanged in Welsh, then the man on the horse 
pulled his hood over his head and rode out at a full gallop – too 
quickly for the guard to realize it was not Geoffrey leaving the 
castle.

"I did what you asked," Geoffrey said, as the hoof beats faded and 
the blade at his throat still had not moved.

"You knew my son was locked in that cage in the dungeon," 
Llewelyn responded quietly.  "And you conveniently forgot to tell 
anyone that for months. I am not quite finished with you yet."

As Geoffrey began to tremble, Gruffydd sprinkled a handful of 
shredded rose leaves in front of Geoffrey's face, smiling.

*~*~*~*

"No!  Absolutely not!" a pretty blonde ordered, shaking her head 
and gesturing for the knights to ride out of the bailey.  "I will not 
have her here."

Richard, who had been reinstated as captain of fitzWalter's knights 
for the day, sighed, but kept a firm arm around Duana in the saddle 
in front of him.  Richard fitzMatthew had finally resorted to having
her ride with him: she kept trying to get off her horse and it seemed 
disrespectful to tie her onto the saddle.  Besides, getting to hold 
her so close was not entirely unpleasant, even for an old man like him.  

"She needs to rest: she is with child, Isabelle," Richard replied, 
and then remembered to add, "Countess."  He still thought of 
Fitz's wife as the girl-queen rather than the queen mother and the new 
Countess of Pembroke.   

"She is?  Well, Fitz found something to do during the siege after 
all.  No, Richard.  I will not have her under my roof."

The knights, embarrassed, looked at everything else except Isabelle 
and each other.  It was an open secret that Isabelle despised Fitz's 
rigid sternness as much as he hated her petty flightiness, but the 
marriage was still politically necessary.  Fitz found comfort 
elsewhere, just as Isabelle did, but most people were polite enough 
not to mention it.

The captain debated, then decided this was just another of 
Isabelle's tantrums and was best ignored.  Richard slid down from 
his horse, then offered his hands to help Duana.

"Careful," another knight reminded him, holding up his bruised 
forearm. "She bites."

Isabelle's eyes flashed and she tossed her long hair angrily.  She 
had never accepted the idea that only virgins and queens wore their 
hair loose and uncovered and she was a long way from either.  
"Did you not hear me?  I said-"

"FitzWalter said she was to stay here tonight," the captain said 
tiredly, making sure Duana had her balance before he let her go.  
"She needs to rest."  Richard added in a softer voice to Duana, 
"Just a few minutes more and you can lie down.  Will you make it 
inside?  I can carry you?"  She had not come as easily as the 
knights had anticipated, and he was terrified they had injured her 
trying to wrestle her onto a horse.  For a woman said to be fleeing 
her barbarian husband, it was like manhandling a lioness to get her 
to leave London.

Duana shook her head 'no' staring at the ground. "I am fine."

"Yes, you are – fine, that is."  Isabelle held her torch up to examine 
Duana, who ignored the other woman.  "How is it men continue to 
turn me out of their beds to chase you? Me!  Turn me out!  First 
my John, and now Fitz, although fitzWalter could not turn me out 
because I was never there.  He is too besotted with you to even 
notice me.  They say Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, covets you as well.
It seems the greatest men of our world believe themselves in love
with you, when really, you are only exotic: nothing more."  
Isabelle leaned close, hissing at Duana. "I think it must be 
witchcraft – that you could please a man so well he would sell 
his soul to you."

Several of the younger knights shifted uncomfortably. Isabelle was 
still quite pretty and persuasive with her blonde curls and big blue 
eyes – more than one of the king's men had risked his head to 
spend a night with her, only to have her extract her pound of flesh 
afterward.  Having Isabelle was like being loaned gold in female 
form, but she demanded interest for her favors one bloody shilling 
at a time.    

Isabelle waited for a response, for Duana to defend herself, and 
then flushed furiously as she continued to be ignored.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?  You try to take two 
husbands from me and you do not even have the courtesy to 
pretend you are ashamed?"

She raised her hand to slap Duana, and the captain grabbed it 
quickly.  "Enough!  We are going inside.  She stays here tonight 
and we will leave in the morning: those were fitzWalter's orders. If 
you disagree, discuss it with your husband."
  
Isabelle jerked free, so livid at this insult to her pride she was 
trembling.  

"Sir Colton – Thomas?" she said evenly as the men escorted 
Duana inside, leaving Isabelle still standing in the bailey.  One of 
the knights topped, shoulders hunched, staying behind.  "You will 
tell my husband we are going to have a child," she instructed.

Colton did not turn around to look at her, but his head fell forward 
as though waiting for the executioner's axe.  Fitz had not seen 
Isabelle in months – not since the wedding, and he had not even 
bothered to pretend to spend the night with her then.  But Colton 
had… seen her.  Once; two months ago.   

"Tell Fitz he is going to have a child, Colton.  Tell him I am not so 
easily annulled now."

"Yes, my lady," Colton replied, walking quickly into the castle 
without looking back. 

*~*~*~*

Gwilym heard snores, recognized them as his, and realized he must 
have fallen asleep against the horse's flank again as he tried to 
groom this latest mount.  The stable was quiet, the horse was warm 
and smelled better than the last place he had slept, and the snoring 
had a nice melody, so he decided to rest his eyes for a few more 
seconds.  

He had covered the hundreds of miles between London and 
Edinburgh riding flat out and trading or buying horses as needed, 
trying to ensure he was ahead of the guards moving Duana toward 
Rosslyn Castle.  It was too chancy to challenge so many knights in 
the open, but as long as he knew their destination, all he had to do 
was beat them there and then wait.

At least, that was what he hoped.  One man against a party of 
knights was not good odds, but he had very little left to lose.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, waking him and startling the 
horse. "Asleep," a woman said in poor French, dodging back 
quickly as though she expected him to swing at her.  

"Sorry," Gwilym apologized, blinking and discovering he was still 
holding the brush.  Out of habit, he started to move his hand again 
while watching the slim brunette out of the corner of his eye.  He 
had left London with a good deal of money in his saddlebags and 
he did not want her stealing what remained.

"Will you come inside for the night?  I have a room."

"And I have a wife," he replied politely, not interested in a 
prostitute, although her Gaelic accent reminded him of Duana.  
Whores did not get paid to talk, though, and he did not need any 
more guilt. "Thank you for the offer, but I will sleep here.  Alone," 
he added for clarity.

"And I have a husband," she said easily. "Iohn is on crusade, so I 
run the tavern while he is away.  Please come inside.  You look as 
though you have not rested in weeks."

"I am sorry; I did not mean to insult you.  I am not passing the 
night, just resting the horse.  Or I will buy another if you have any 
to sell."

"I do not, but you cannot push this horse any further or he will 
drop.  It would be a pity to ruin such an animal."

Gwilym, who could not have told anyone the color of his current 
mount without looking if his life had depended on it, just shrugged.  
"It does not matter.  Rosslyn Castle is only a few more miles, yes?"

"Yes.  About six miles; follow the River North Esk."

He finally turned to look at her, noting she reminded him of 
someone else as well.  Dark hair and eyes: probably Diana – he 
had finally assigned that name to one of the women he 
remembered.  He did not recall Diana looking so haunted as this 
Highlander woman, though, but what he recalled was highly 
questionable these days.

"You are far from home - you are looking for someone, Welshman," 
she said, fingering the crude cross of Duana's he had tied 
around his throat.  "Someone you have lost.  I pray you find her."

"So do I," he answered, stepping back out of her reach and looking 
away.  "Will you leave and let me pray?"

Crystin nodded, leaving the stable and sliding the door closed after 
her so it blocked out the crimson sunset and the darkness returned.

*~*~*~*  

Fitz could not even get his foot out of his stirrup before Isabelle 
pounced on him about Duana, digging at his conscience and then 
twisting her claws.

"She is not my mistress," Fitz assured her for a tenth time in a row, 
still using the polite, aloof tone he had cultivated for French 
ambassadors. "And I will have Duana moved as soon as it is safe 
for her child.  She left London very quickly…"

Isabelle was glaring at him, and he decided it was not worth 
wasting his breath.  The only person Isabelle had any sympathy for 
was Isabelle.  

"How dare you insult me? How dare you continue to keep that 
woman under my roof?"

Fitz cocked his head to the side, gritting his teeth.  Not a word 
from Isabelle asking about him or her son Henry after not seeing 
either in months.  His seneschal had vanished to God-knows-
where, the Royal Counsel was having marathon meetings about 
nothing in particular, and Fitz had a head cold – the last thing he 
wanted to do was smooth Isabelle's ruffled fur. "My roof," he 
said evenly, pointing to the castle battlements. "Pembroke Castle.
Under -my- roof."

Static crackled in the air between them as Isabelle calculated, her 
narrowed eyes and flared nostrils looking out of place on her pretty 
face.  "Do not dismiss me so easily," she warned.

"I do not dismiss you; I am only saying there is no insult to you.  
Duana needed sanctuary and I gave it.  That is all.  This was once 
her home."

If she even heard that, she gave no sign of it.  "We are going to 
have a child," she informed him.

He took a few breaths before asking, "We?"  

There was no 'we'; there had never been a 'we.' Marrying 
Isabelle had soothed the Royal Counsel and cemented his place as 
kingmaker, but Fitz was now firmly established as regent and she 
was nothing but an embarrassment.  If the need ever arose: say, in 
the form of a pretty redhead, Isabelle was easily annulled.  But 
once there was a child, annulment was not possible.  The marriage 
had been consummated.  There was still the option of charging her 
with adultery and treason against him and having her executed, but 
Fitz could never bring himself to do that.  

"We?" he repeated.  "Would you like to tell me which man 
constituted my part of this 'we' while I was in London?"

Isabelle smiled, revealing her even white teeth – God had 
overlooked nothing in making this woman perfect except a heart.  
"No, I would rather you wondered."

*~*~*~*

Duana was sitting by an open window staring out toward London 
as Fitz hovered in the doorway.  "Are you supposed to be out of 
bed so soon?" he mumbled, feeling like a chastised child.  "Are 
you still fainting?  Have the pains stopped?" 

She ignored him, continuing to watch the horizon.

"He is not coming, Duana.  The Welshmen left Court weeks ago; 
William is in Aber by now.  If you are able to ride, do you want to 
come back to London?  Or I can have Isabelle moved and you can 
stay here.  Whatever you want."

"What did you tell him, Fitz?" Duana finally said, still not looking 
away.  "What did you say to him to get him to leave me?"

"I did not – Llewelyn's knights overheard us talking abo-about," 
he stuttered, "continuing the search for William after the battle."  
He swallowed nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the 
other.  "William was gone by morning.  He did not even challenge 
me, Duana.  I would have told him it was not true if he had asked."

"Then he did not believe it."

"Because he did not challenge me?"

She finally turned her head, but kept her hands on the stone 
windowsill.  "No, because you are still breathing.  William would 
not bother with Norman chivalry and jousting; he would have just 
slit your throat."

"You overestimate your husband."

"Not very often," Duana answered, returning her gaze toward the 
city. "Do you have any idea how much I hate you?"

"Yes, I have some idea."  Fitz sat heavily in a chair beside the 
door, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  "I do 
not know how to fix this, Duana.  I had no idea that once you were 
safely away, you would still want to go back to him."

"You must never sleep, fitzWalter, with all the time you spend 
monitoring marriages in addition to running Britain.  I thought a 
day had only twenty-four hours, but you must somehow find 
more."  She stood, locked her elbows, leaning slightly out the window 
so the sun warmed her hair through her veil.  "So he has a mistress; it 
is his right.  So there are other women as well, women who can 
offer him things that I cannot.  You have still caused me more hurt 
in ten minutes than ever William has."    

"He hurt you," Fitz insisted.  "I heard-"

Duana whirled, her long skirt swirling around her legs. "Oh for 
Christ's sake!  No, he did not!  What is wrong with you men?  
How can you think putting 'Lady' or 'Countess' in front of one's 
name somehow snuffs out passion?  You lust after it in your 
mistresses, but blush at it in your wives.  Would you like to know a 
secret, fitzWalter?  We are all women.  The only difference 
between a lady and a courtesan is what her father, her Church, and 
her lover have taught her."

Fitz leaned so far back in his chair that his head pressed against the 
whitewashed stone wall, his mouth hanging open. 

"You want to know how to fix this?" she continued angrily.  "You 
send a messenger to Wales with an oath swearing I did not leave 
him or dishonor him.  A woman can end a Welsh marriage, Fitz, 
and William would let me leave if I had asked; I do not need your 
knights kidnapping me.  William thinks I want a divorce and he is 
agreeing by not coming after me.  You send a message – no – you 
ride to Wales yourself and tell him that is not true and then you 
grant him safe passage if he will come for me.  And you do it 
immediately!"

He gaped like a dying fish.  There was no way he could put aside 
his duties for the two weeks it would take to ride to Wales and 
back.  "But I have to – Henry – the Counsel- London…"

Duana tilted her chin up slightly, daring him to defy her.
	
"Wales?" he pleaded.

"North Wales."   

"Wales," Fitz conceded, getting up from his chair.  At least that 
was two weeks away from Isabelle.  

*~*~*~*

"It is a game; I told her it was," Gwilym whispered, pausing to 
rest his cheek against the horse's forehead and swallowing a sob. 
"Life just takes my pieces one by one until the board is clear." 

The animal rolled his brown eyes and nudged him gently, trying 
to understand what was wrong.  Lacking anything better to 
do, Gwilym would have answered, but how did one explain love to 
a gelding?     

"That is not the way to wrap a kilt," a woman's voice with a Gaelic 
accent called from the stable doorway, and Gwilym looked up 
quickly, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

No, it was just that wanton innkeeper.  He went back to unsaddling 
his mount, angry with her for interrupting his solitude.    

"My husband is a Highlander.  Would you like me to fix it?" 
Crystin asked, stepping closer, making the horse shy away from 
her.

"No," he said firmly, jerking furiously at the girth, then deciding to 
leave the horse saddled: he would not pass the night here after all.  
He did not care to be another woman's substitute husband.

"You should at least wear nothing underneath," she observed as he 
bent over to get his saddlebags, revealing a glimpse of loose, linen 
underclothes reaching to his mid-thigh. "That is the Highland 
way."

Gwilym, who felt like his heart was being stretched on a hoop so 
life could embroider it with rusty needles, stood up, his face 
flushed scarlet. "I paid your groom to stable my horse for the night.  
I do not need you to check my clothes or see that I eat or fluff my 
pillow. What is it you want?" 

"You are hurt," she answered, reaching up to touch the fresh cut on 
his cheek as the horse snorted nervously. "You are hurting."

He pulled away as though her hand were hot.  Jesus, this woman 
did not know when to quit.  "It is one of many."    

He could cover fifty or sixty miles a day with a fresh horse, but 
moving a woman, especially if she were with child and had to rest 
often, from London to Edinburgh, could easily take a month.  So 
he had found a nice spot in the treetops across the ravine from 
Rosslyn Castle and waited, knowing any travelers would have to 
cross the narrow bridge to enter the gates.  He could not miss her, 
and then it would just be a matter of slipping into the castle and 
asking if she wanted to leave with him – or if she wanted a 
divorce.  Gwilym suspected he knew what her answer would be, 
but he still wanted to hear her say it and see that she was safe.

Gwilym had watched the castle as May became June and 
threatened July, and thought he had finally seen knights ride in 
with a woman.  He had traded clothes with some traveler and 
slipped inside, hoping he could pass for a Scottish commoner.  He 
did not pass for long, of course, but long enough to search the 
castle for Duana before the guards had roughed him up and thrown 
him out.  

And Duana had not been there.  The woman he had seen had been 
the lord's daughter, not Duana, and he had not been able to tell 
from so far away.  

"You did not find her, Welshman.  The woman you have lost: you 
did not find her."

"No, I did not find her," he answered, faltering a bit.  Gwilym 
could function as long as he did not think about it: that he had no 
home to return to, that he had wasted months and Duana could be 
anywhere by now, and that she probably did not want him even if 
he did find her.  

He could remember now – he could remember many things, but 
not what had possessed him to hurt the serf girl in Chester Castle.
Those weeks of his life were still a dark swirl of ink in his mind –
not even hazy like some of his older memories, but just gone.     

"She is not here," Crystin said sadly. 

"I know she is not here," he snapped, pain pulling at him like a 
dangerous undercurrent.  "She is not here and making polite 
conversation with you does not help me find her.  I told you 
before: I have a wife."

"You bleed for her."

He exhaled. "Yes, I bleed for her," Gwilym replied tiredly, 
dropping his head, not even having the energy left to fight.  

He meant his soul, but felt her fingertips touching his scraped 
cheek.  He must have reopened the wound trying to wash off a few 
minutes earlier.  The Rosslyn guards, finding he did not speak their 
language, had expressed their displeasure with their fists – and he 
had let them.

"I miss having Iohn to bleed for me."

Gwilym closed his eyes, swearing he would not cry in front of a 
woman. "You said you husband is on Crusade; how long has he 
been away?"

"I was fifteen when we married.  He left that summer and there has 
been no word since.  I am two and twenty now.  How many years 
is that?"

"Seven," Gwilym calculated, knowing her husband was almost 
certainly dead and she did not realize it.  Or perhaps, like he, she 
only wanted to believe. "And you still wait?"

"I still hope," she answered, grazing the tip of her nose down the 
raw skin of his cheek, making a line to his lips.  "So does your 
woman."

"How do you know?" he managed, not moving a muscle either to 
stop or encourage her.   

"I know." She found his mouth, running her tongue over his 
chapped lips to moisten them and then pressing gently, urging his 
mouth open.  He tasted his own blood and pulled away, feeling the 
veil of darkness she wore beginning to lure him in.

"I do not want you," he insisted breathlessly, his heart pounding 
out of fear as much as anything else.

"Then why did you return?" she asked, outlining his body with her 
hands. "Edinburgh has many inns, but you returned to this one." 
Crystin pressed him against the wall of the stable, beginning to 
gather up the gray plaid fabric of his kilt with her fingers. "If you 
are so certain you want to die, I can show you what death feels 
like.  You hide it – that you feel dark things you think this red-
haired woman does not."

He stopped her hands and jerked his head back, hypnotized by the 
flecks of gold in her brown eyes.  They burned, luring him in like a 
fire on a cold night.  "What sort of witch are you?"  

"Take this off," she requested, pushing Duana's cross aside and 
licking hungrily at the base of his neck.

"No.  No," he said more forcefully, catching her wrists and forcing 
her away.  "I told you, I do not want this.  I have a wife.  Whatever 
you are seeking, I cannot give it to you."

Her eyes seemed to glow for an instant, and she reminded him of a 
wolf seeing its prey escape. "You think she expects you to be any 
better than any other husband?" 

"No, I think she deserves it."  
   
*~*~*~*

Since the midwives did not want Duana out of bed, Fitz waited in 
the hallway while the maids asked her if he could come in.  Under 
any other circumstances, he would never have entered a woman's 
bedchamber without her husband present, but his gut would twist 
inside out if he waited any longer to tell her. 

He watched from a window as dozens of wagons in the outer 
bailey were loaded with Isabelle's things, wondering idly how fate 
separated the blessed men from the fools.  FitzWalter liked 
systems and order, but life seemed to give and take love as 
unthinkingly as one flicks a bug off one's shoulder.  In this 
scenario, he was not sure if he was the shoulder or the bug.  Both, 
perhaps. 

As soon as he stepped into the room, Duana did not need to ask if 
Fitz had not been able to convince William to come.  Failure, not 
power, was that wet cloak he had spoken of, and she could see it 
weighing him down.  Duana knew fitzWalter – he had been gone 
for weeks and it was not a question of whether or not he had tried.  
There was no need to say anything else, really.    

She bit her lips and then swallowed, focusing on her fingers as she 
smoothed the blanket.  Fitz's jawbone jutted out as he clenched his 
teeth, then looked away. "I am sorry, Duana."

He had taken fifty knights – Wales was not a hospitable place for 
Normans – and desperately sent message after message to the gates 
of Aber, but there was never any response except a rain of arrows 
from the gray walls.  The castle gates remained closed, even when 
Fitz finally stood outside and yelled.  One messenger claimed 
William's piss ant of a sergeant had dumped a chamber pot on him 
from the battlements: that seemed like an answer to Fitz.  

"If you want him, I will lay siege to the castle.  William can come 
out or he can starve," he promised, overlooking that William's 
lands had technically been forfeited to the Crown. It did not really 
make a difference: owning a castle in north Wales and actually 
managing to rule it were two separate things.  "He could at least 
hear me out."

Duana shook her head.  That was just too humiliating.     

"I sent knights to Llewelyn's Court escort your daughter to 
London.  She had an earache – her nurse did not want her to travel 
yet, but Eimile will be here by harvest.  As for William - I did try, 
and I will keep trying.  Perhaps he will change his mind."

"Or perhaps not," she replied shakily. "It may seem he believes 
every story the bards sing, but William actually trusts very few 
people.  He doubts as powerfully as he believes, and now he 
doubts me.  It is a very little word: doubt.  In Welsh, 'amau' – such 
a small breath for something that can end so much."   

Fitz started to respond, but Henry scampered into the room, 
wrapped in a child's obliviousness to the adult world, and happily 
pounced on Duana's bed.   

"Sit in a chair, Henry," Fitz ordered more sternly than necessary, 
pulling a seat across the floor. "Either that, or stand.  You are not a 
child; you may not sit on the bed."   

Henry frowned at Fitz, not budging from beside Duana, who was 
looking away. "Why? Why can I not sit here?"

"Because it is not proper.  You should not even be in here.  Go 
visit your mother before she leaves."

The boy folded his arms, pushing out his lower lip. "I have seen 
Mother – now I want to see Duana. I am the king, after all."

Duana sniffed, then tilted her head to whisper in Henry's ear: 
"Your face will freeze like that: birds will perch on your lip and 
roost in your nose.  We cannot have a king with a bird in his nose."    
   
The empty wooden chair protested as Fitz rattled it, reminding 
Henry.  Sucking his lip back to its proper place, the boy crawled 
down, sitting in the chair, but leaning over to prop his elbows on 
the bed.  Fitz decided it was wiser to praise an improvement than 
dwell on an infraction and let him be.

"You are going to have a baby, yes?" Henry asked, resting his chin 
on his fists.

"I am," she managed, her voice wavering.

"My mother believed she was going to have a baby, but she was 
wrong, and now she must leave."

Fitz readjusted his hands on the back of the chair, frowning as he 
stood behind Henry. "That is not quite what happened, Henry."

"Can I feel it?" he asked, ignoring Fitz, who cleared his throat 
disapprovingly. "When my dog had puppies, I could feel them 
moving inside her."

"Not yet – a little longer until the baby moves."

"Then how do you know it is in there?" Henry asked, staring at the 
blankets covering her abdomen suspiciously.

"All right!" Fitz announced, turning Henry, still in the chair, 
toward the door.  "Enough rude questions. Either go see your 
mother or run and play.  I want to talk to Lady Duana."

Henry did not seem inclined to budge, so Fitz tilted the chair 
forward, threatening to dump him in the floor.  "Bore!" the child 
said, grinning affectionately at Fitz 

"Rascal!" Fitz shot back, managing a tight smile. "Go play: you do 
not have to see your mother again if you do not want to."

Henry seemed to like that option and skipped out happily, pausing 
to slam the door for effect.  Fitz immediately got up and reopened 
it for propriety's sake, then returned to Duana's bedside.

"He is a good boy," she said, wanting to talk of anything else 
except William. "Your father would be proud.  Henry adores you."
 
"And you," Fitz replied, taking Henry's vacant seat, but scooting 
further back from the bed.

"But I am not his mother.  Fitz, it is easy to be wrong, especially 
when a woman knows it is important for her to have a child.  Are 
you sure you want to have Isabelle annulled so quickly?"

"It is not so simple, Duana," he answered cautiously. "I never 
expected to marry a woman I loved, but Isabelle and I cannot even 
manage a civil conversation.  We only make each other miserable.  
And she was not with child, she was only bluffing, and I do not 
appreciate her bluff.  She thought that if you were with child, she 
could be as well."  
  
She started to object, so he just opened his mouth and said it: 
"Duana, when other men ask me, I lie, but the truth is no woman I 
have ever been with has conceived.  Isabelle knew that."

She had been busy trying not to think of Wales and Welshmen and 
closed castle gates, but Duana still understood.  Doctors believed it 
was the woman's fault when a couple did not conceive, but many 
supposedly barren widows suddenly found themselves pregnant by 
their second husband.  "Isabelle's child was not… Could not be… 
Oh, Fitz, I am so sorry."

Fitz shrugged; that was the least of his worries. "It is done.  She is 
going back to her father in France, and she will be much happier 
there.  Henry barely knows her; he is more attached to you…" 
Losing his nerve, he tried another approach: "Can I ask – how is 
your child?"

She rested her hand lightly on her stomach, feeling the beginning 
of a belly. "Fine.  I was having pains earlier, but they have 
stopped. The midwives are just being careful."

"I should let you rest, then."

Duana nodded, wanting to be alone.

He started to stand, and then sat back down, shifting his feet 
restlessly.  "I know you hate me," Fitz said quickly.  "That if I had 
not been too jealous to see straight, I could have just come to you 
and asked about William.  I will not condone what he has done, but 
you are a smart woman; I respect your choice to live with it.  
Many wives do.  I never expected him to simply walk away, 
especially from this child, but he will not listen."

"I think he must believe the baby is not his," Duana said quietly, 
wondering how she managed to actually form those words.  
William had never actually said Diana had been unfaithful, but he 
hinted at it – that he had not been certain his daughter was his until 
he had seen her.  How easy it would be to believe Duana would do 
the same, especially if William did not remember ever being with 
her before. 

"I have thought of that.  Duana, I will just say it." Fitz had 
rehearsed this, so he took a deep breath and spoke: "I cannot give 
William's trust back to you, but I can see that your child is well 
cared for.  I have no heir; if William does not want to acknowledge 
your child, I would like it to inherit my estates, either by right as a 
son or as a dowry for a daughter."   

"That is not le-" 

"It would be legal if you were my wife."  

"Oh," she said simply, looking away again.

"Just hear me out: whatever you want, Duana.  You said we are 
friends and there is no reason for that to change unless you want it 
to.  As I said, you know my secrets, but you have also known me 
since I was a teenager.  I am not going to force you into something 
you do not want."

"That is a very generous offer, but…"

"Do not say 'no' yet.  Just think about it; you have some time.  As 
long as we marry before your baby comes, it is legitimate.  I will 
post the banns so William can object if he wants.  Perhaps then he 
will realize what he is losing.  Please at least consider it."

"I will think about it," she conceded, looking around the dead end 
alley in her cluttered mind and trying to find a way out.  She could 
refuse to marry again, go to a convent, and have her child be a 
bastard, or marry a stranger, or marry Fitz and have her child 
inherit half of Britain.

He stood, starting to reach for her hand and deciding against it. 
"One last thing.  Eimile's father: it cannot be William and I would 
say it is not Llewelyn, either.  I would say someone forced you 
after my father was executed, and if it was one of my knights or 
guards, I want to know it.  If you are going to be my wife, it is my 
right to know." 

Isabelle's game of letting him watch and wonder which of his men 
had been with his wife had its desired effect, and Fitz did not want 
to play it ever again.

"He is dead.  You hanged Edward and William hanged Alex and 
killed Eimile's father.  Your father and William – I have been with 
no one else.  William has always acknowledged Eimile, although 
he must have changed his mind if he is letting her leave Wales.  
Please go, Fitz."

"I am sorry, Duana," he replied, pulling the bed curtains closed and 
walking away.

*~*~*~*

"Are you all right, my lady?" Richard fitzMatthew asked, seeing 
Duana sitting alone in the manicured courtyard, staring at the 
castle walls.  

"I am fine," she replied politely, not looking like that was really 
the case. "And you?"

"My shin and pride have healed well," he answered, smiling and 
referring to a good kick she had given him when he had tried to 
persuade her to leave London. "It is good to see you are feeling 
better.  May I sit down?"

She nodded, and was surprised when he sat, not on the bench 
across from her, but close beside her. "I am an old man now, I do 
not keep up on the world outside of London.  When fitzWalter said 
you wanted safe passage, I did not realize it was from William of 
Aber," he said smoothly.  "I had thought Will died years ago.  We 
were friends in our youth – as close to friends as any Norman and a 
rash Welshman can be."

"Perhaps you mean my hus-" she faltered, "The Lord of Aber is 
Llwynog ap Gwilym – Fox, son of William.  Are you thinking of 
his father?"

"I must be.  The boy lived, then?  I did not know; I thought he died 
with the others.  I suppose he would be a man by now."

"A good man," Duana said, staring at her lap.  

"And you asked for sanctuary from a good man? You did not seem 
very willing to leave."  She did not respond, so Richard offered, 
"My eyes are old: perhaps they deceive me.  I think I see things I 
do not, sometimes.  In the treetops, for example: I could have 
sworn I saw a ghost yesterday, but now I think it must only be an 
animal."

"It must be," she answered, wondering that in the world they were 
talking about.  The silver-haired old man must be feeble.  

"I was fortunate: I grew up knowing the cousin who would become 
my wife," Richard rambled. "But love was not so easy for some of 
my friends.  A Jewish woman, for example, would be a very poor 
choice, even as a mistress.  A nobleman would have to keep such a 
thing very secret.  You are too young to remember, but King 
Richard took a special pleasure in tormenting the Jews.  Once, 
when a Christian baby was found dead, he said they were 
responsible and ordered his knights to kill every Jew in the London 
ghettos and then to burn the remains.  There was no warning for 
them and nowhere to run.  I did not think a child could possibly 
have survived."

"William's mother was a Jew, then?"

"He told me a man cannot choose who he loves."   

Duana finally looked at Richard's dignified face.  William had 
once said almost those same words to her.

"I suppose the son is much like the father," he continued, as though 
she were not scrutinizing him. "Will always followed his heart 
over his head, even when his friends warned him not to.  If I may 
say, you are very beautiful.  Many men must covet you, especially 
powerful men, but you have other admirers as well.  Even the 
treetops seem to watch you as you walk in the courtyard."

"I do not understand."

Except for a few maids out of earshot, there was no one to 
overhear, but Richard lowered his voice anyway. "There seems to 
be a wild Welsh fox in the treetops.  Slowly, look past me and 
above the tower.  He has been watching you since yesterday."

"Oh my God!" she whispered, scanning the trees outside the castle 
walls.  A branch moved, and she saw William's face among the 
leaves.

"I am guarding the gates tonight, but sometimes I doze off and it is 
easy to slip past me, especially at midnight when everyone else is 
asleep."

"Why are you doing this for me?" 

"I told you: your William's father was my friend.  This is his son 
fitzWalter has taken you from, and I do not believe you wanted to 
be taken."

She shook her head slightly 'no,' not believing that was the whole 
story.

"FitzWalter wanted to ensure you would be safe, so he assigned 
me to lead the men, but I do not usually ride anymore.  Forty years 
ago, though, I was captain of the guards for King Richard." 

"You were one of the knights he ordered to burn the ghetto. And 
William's mother – your friend's mistress - was inside."

It was Richard's turn to look away.  "I am old; my memory fails," 
he lied. 

*~*~*~*   
           
"Come," Fitz called, looking over the stacks of ledgers and 
parchments on his desk to see who it was at this hour. "Duana?  
Should you not be abed?"

"I could not sleep," she answered. "What is all this?" 

Duana found a fairly flat surface on his desk and set down a goblet 
she had brought, sipping from her own cup.

"Records, taxes, charters – just the business of Britain."  

"It cannot wait until morning?" she asked, then watched him over 
the rim of her wineglass.

Fitz looked at her, then laid down his quill, picking up the cup.  "I 
suppose.  I never seem to make a dent, anyway.  Duana, you brought 
me brandy?"

"I knew you liked it.  Come: talk with me for a little bit." 

No one was going to let her out to the forest to look for herbs, so 
Duana had to work with what she could find in the castle.  She was 
not sure how quickly the sedative in his wine would take effect.  
Without Fitz to give orders for a few hours, the castle guards 
would be unsure of what to do when they found she was missing: 
Duana bought herself a little more time to try to convince William. 

Unfortunately, Fitz took one sip, then set his goblet on the table, 
sitting down and stretching his legs out to the fire.

"You do not want your drink?"

"It makes me sleepy," he answered, rolling his tired shoulders.

"It helps me calm my nerves," she replied, thinking quickly, and 
sitting beside him.

He turned his head to look at her, and realized that she was 
blushing. "Why are you nervous?"  She glanced up, dropped her 
eyes, and Fitz, no stranger to women, picked up his wine glass. 
"You come to my apartments alone, late at night; if I were not the 
Earl of Pembroke and said to be fearless, I should be the one who 
was nervous.  Are you trying to steal my virtue, woman?"

Duana chuckled.  She had never loved Fitz, but she had always 
liked him, and often thought Walter had once been similar – 
young, idealistic, ready to right the world – before Walter had 
discovered the world was not the chivalrous place he wanted to 
believe it was.  Unlike his father, Fitz had yet to have life laugh at 
him: it did change a man.

"Of course," she said lightly. "My plan is to get you drunk and 
seduce you."

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, then purposely reached past 
her to set the glass on the opposite table, brushing against her.  
"That is about twelve different sins all at once: we cannot be 
married for another two weeks, you are with child…  Do you know 
how much absolution I would have to pay for?"

"Would it be worth it?" she asked, trying to sound bolder than she 
felt.  By her calculations, he needed more wine then that – at least 
half the cup.

"Every penny, every second." He stayed close to her, watching 
her face in the firelight.  "You have changed your mind then: 
about the marriage?"

She nodded 'yes,' hating to lie to him while he was looking at her 
with those soft brown eyes.  

"And about me?" he asked, deciding he could use a little more 
wine after all.

Duana heard his voice hesitate – that was the key: he was anxious 
about her, of all the silly things.

"I am just nervous."

"So wait, Duana." He moved away, leaning back against the sofa. 
"We are not even married yet. There is no hurry."

"No, the longer I wait, the more nervous I will get."    

He took a longer drink, then set the goblet down. "Tonight, then? 
You are certain?"

"I am not certain of anything right now, Fitz," she said honestly. 
"Except that I am going to have a child in barely four months and 
that I want my child to have a father."

He hesitated, not sure how to make contact.  Finally, he rested his 
hand carefully on her abdomen, rubbing lightly. "I thought I 
noticed it the other day: you are beginning to show.  I guess if I am 
going to be your husband, I get to make observations like that."

Duana watched his hand move, finding it tolerable.  William 
seemed to spend most of her pregnancies with one hand on her 
belly, so this was not a new sensation.

"Can you tell yet if it is a boy or a girl?" he asked, trying to get 
her to relax.  He was nervous, but the poor woman was about to jump 
out of her skin.

"Honestly, I have never been able to tell."

"It does not matter." He slipped his hand further around her waist, 
pulling her to him. "A son would be wonderful, but as long as 
you and the child are healthy, I am content."

He brushed his lips against her forehead, and Duana swallowed, 
trying to stall.  He should have had enough of the sedative now to 
start getting sleepy, but she was not positive.  These were not her 
herbs that she could know exactly how potent they were.

"Fitz, I – I am not one of those women that bears children easily, 
and you know I have been ill.  It is not good that there are already 
so many problems.  It is very possible that you will end up with an 
heir, but no wife.  Are you sure that is what you want?  If William 
does not want this child, I can think of no better father than you, 
but do you want to claim a child that is not yours if I die?"

Fitz pulled away a few inches, eyes frightened. "Do not even say 
that! You will be fine."  

She blinked, again wondering how she always managed to say 
things to Fitz that she could not tell William.  

"You will be fine," he insisted again, then put his arms around her 
carefully.  "God would not do that," he whispered into her ear, 
then lightly kissed her neck. "Duana – stay with me tonight. Just 
sleep, nothing more. Will you do that?"

She nodded, and he led her through the passageway to the 
bedchamber, stumbling slightly.  

"That wine did make you sleepy," she commented, guiding him 
back to the bed and pulling off his boots. "Raise your arms so 
I can get your shirt off."

"Later," Fitz mumbled, laying down on the pillows and reaching 
his hand up for her. "Too sleepy.  Stay with me, Duana."

"I am right here," she said, sitting beside him, stroking his dark 
beard and thinking how very much he looked like his father as he 
dozed.  

It was only a few moments before his breathing slowed to the calm 
rhythm of deep sleep.  Duana folded the blankets over him and 
closed the bed curtains, whispering that she was sorry as she 
slipped out.

*~*~*~* 

She had seen him – Gwilym was certain of it, but there was no way 
past that castle gate.  Even if he could get in, he could not get her 
out safely.

Of course, being Gwilym, that still meant he was going to try.  

"Do not do it, Welshman," the old man on guard duty growled, and 
Gwilym froze, knife in hand, certain he was still in the shadows 
and had not made a sound as he approached.  "Be patient.  Your 
father must have told you never to underestimate a woman. And 
that they are always late."

He debated what the knight could mean, but did not respond, not 
willing to give himself away.  As he watched, the gate opened just 
enough for a small form to slip through, then quietly closed again. 
Someone had greased the chains and hinges so it would not squeal.

The knight said something to the woman, and she turned toward 
Gwilym, her face still hidden under her dark hood. "Gwilym," she 
whispered in Welsh. "Are you there? It is safe."

Trusting her, Gwilym stepped out, and the old knight's eyes lit up.  
Gwilym felt like he was being appraised, but he did not have time 
for small talk.  Any second, a servant might discover Duana was 
not in her bedchamber and soldiers would swarm like angry ants.

"I saw the banns posted in London: do you want that?" Gwilym 
asked, trying to talk around the huge lump in his throat.

She shook her head vigorously 'no,' not able to get her tongue to 
cooperate.

"I have horses waiting in the forest.  I will take you wherever you 
want to go."

"Home," she managed. "This is your child; I want to come home."

"There is no home," Gwilym replied, stepping closer. "There is no 
more Lord and Lady of Aber or castles or courts.  I am a traitor 
against the Crown."

Duana hesitated, wondering if he meant the Welsh or English 
Crown.  Had Gwilym and Llewelyn had a falling out?  Or was it 
Fitz?  How deep did the lies go?  

"Go back, cariad; go back to what you know while you still can."

"There are lights in Lady Duana's apartments," the old knight 
warned from behind the metal bars of the gate. "And now in 
fitzWalter's.  Either run now or get back inside."

"Cariad?" Gwilym said urgently, surprised at how easily the word 
rolled off his tongue. "Get back inside. Get back before someone 
sees you."

"Go," she said, grabbing his hand and heading for the trees. 
"Now!" Duana ordered a stunned Gwilym. "Hurry - run!"

"Go!" the guard ordered, and Gwilym turned, following Duana 
into the dark forest as a servant sounded the alarm.

*~*~*~*
End: Amau
Title: Dechrau
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Summary: Bath, southwest Britain; summer, 1218
Keywords: historical au, msr, angst
Spoilers: I can't see how
Distribution: link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Homepage: www.geocities.com/purfrocks_love/prupage.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver Spoons: Jen – good, really (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – 
check, Angst-o-meter – up there: 8.76 out of 10, Snortameter 1.5

Dechrau
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

It was probably wishful thinking, not poor navigation, that Gwilym 
had guided them to Camelot.  

Not Camelot, really, but where bards liked to say Camelot had 
been.  Somewhere in this dense, misty forest was supposed to be 
the gateway to a land of heroes and legends: to a place where 
quests were always noble and love conquered all and the high king 
would return when his people needed him.  
 
Gwilym sighed, rolling his aching neck from side to side.  Camelot 
– it made for a nice story, anyway.

It would be dawn again soon – Gwilym could see the sky 
beginning to glide across the spectrum from the blue-black of night 
to the violet-black of sunrise.  Duana was too tired to keep her eyes 
open any longer, so they were riding double on his horse and 
leading hers.  Somewhere in the night, she had managed to fall 
asleep in the saddle behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around 
his waist as though life was normal.  Her head bobbed against his 
shoulder blade, but she did not stir as he stopped the horses.  

It was not far enough.  They had covered more than a hundred 
miles in barely twenty-four hours, but it was still not far or fast 
enough for Gwilym.  It did not matter that there was really 
nowhere to run to, a man still had the instinct to hurry to nowhere, 
to frantically search for 'it,' whatever 'it' was. 

"Where are we?" Duana asked sleepily as he helped her down, 
noticing for the first time the slight swell of her stomach under her 
dress and cloak.  They had simply fled, putting as much distance 
between them and London as possible, and not taking time for 
polite questions about marriage and children and futures.

"Near Glastonbury, I think," he answered, "I was trying for 
Glastonbury Abbey, but I do not think either you or the horses will 
make it that far.  This house looks empty; we can sleep here and 
rest the horses."

"And then?" she asked, looking around at the dark trees.

"And then it will be tomorrow," he responded, not knowing what 
else to say.  

She nodded, shrinking away from his touch and turning her back.

Wherever the hell Camelot was, it was a long way from here.   

*~*~*~*

By the time Gwilym saw to the horses, got a fire going, and carried 
in a bucket of water to rinse off, Duana had a bed made up near the 
hearth.  She got as far as taking off her shoes and veil, then decided 
actually undressing was not worth the effort and lay down – then 
scooted back to make a place for him.

"You are sure?" he asked, hesitant. 

She nodded, closing her eyes.  "You are my husband," she said, 
not realizing how those words stabbed his heart like a dull knife.  
She did not want him; she simply had no other choice.  Duana was 
very practical that way.

As he stretched out, keeping an ocean of unsaid things 
between them, she murmured, "William, what do you remember?
Do you remember that this child is yours?"

He rolled over, making a tangle of her neat blankets, "Of course I 
remember!  Did you think that was why I did not come?"

Duana nodded 'yes' again.

"Fitz told me you asked for sanctuary, Duana.  When I went after 
you, his sencha-something told me you were in Scotland.  That is 
where I have been; I never doubted you.  Whatever you did, you 
did because you had to."  He swallowed, fiddled with a hole in the 
blanket, sticking his finger through it like he was not supposed to, 
then asked, "Did you want a divorce, cariad?  I never assumed you 
wanted to be with me; only that you did not want to marry Fitz.  
That is why I came."

"I was upset, but I would not leave you or my children," she said 
quickly.  "Fitz assumed I would, or that I would change my mind, 
so he had his men take me out of London.  He thought you would 
be rough with me, too."

He opened his mouth, but she interrupted that she did not want to 
talk about it.  

"I would like to tell you I was not with that girl," Gwilym said 
after the silence became unbearable.  "But that does not seem to be 
the case.  I do not remember – there are still many things I do not 
recall or understand.  Yes, I have been with Muritta, but I do not 
know when. Not since before we married, I think.  I see other 
women in my mind as well, but I cannot tell you who they were or 
if they were even real.  I cannot promise you those nights did not 
happen, only that they will not happen again.  Cariad, is that 
enough?"

"Of course," she said softly, stroking his shoulder.

"No, do not do that.  Do not pull inside yourself and pretend you 
are fine.  For the rest of your life, every time another woman looks 
at you and smirks, you will wonder, and I will not be able to tell 
you because I do not remember.  I wondered as we walked through 
London Court for the first time, and I did not like it.  Do not tell 
me it does not sting."

"No, it does not sting, it aches," Duana whispered, rolling away 
from him. "I understand now why Isabelle hates me as she does.  It 
is one thing to wonder – to wake up at night and find you are not in 
our bed, or to deliver a peasant woman's baby and notice it has 
dark hair and eyes when her husband does not – but seeing the 
evidence is different.  To know a name or see a face is different.  
You are always asking me how I feel, William?  This makes me 
feel like I want to throw myself on the ground and kick and scream 
and cry that it is not fair.  But, you would hold up your index 
finger and tell me calmly that life is not fair, and you would be 
right."

Not sure what to make of all that, Gwilym moved closer to her 
back, close enough that he could feel the warmth from her body, 
but not touching. "What is not fair?" he asked quietly, neutrally.

"That you did not get what you agreed to," Duana sniffed. "You 
got a daughter you must lie about, a woman who seems to bring 
you nothing but trouble – though God knows what men see in me - 
and you are the one husband in the room who knows other men 
have touched your wife. And I do not help that by offering myself 
like some novice prostitute.  I am always with child, and I spend 
my days running a castle, and writing letters, and patching wounds 
and shirts… and, and," she sniffed again, beginning to cry in 
earnest. "And it is no wonder you feel cheated.  Some fairytale 
heroine I turned out to be."  

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, and then covered her 
face with her hand. "I am sorry – it is just the baby making me cry. 
It happens; it will pass."  

He stared at the shadows dancing on the wall, dumbfounded.  "I do 
not feel cheated," he managed.

"No, God forbid you ever feel anything," she shot back, still 
sobbing.  "You can chatter until the end of time, but you wear your 
armor around your heart as well as your body."  

Gwilym rubbed her back, then put his arm around her, resting his 
face near to hers. He worried his tongue against the roof of his 
mouth, trying to put together an intelligent sentence.

"Oh, William, I am so sorry.  I should not have said that and I 
know you hate it when I cry.  I am just tired and testy.  I will be 
better in a few hours, I promise."

"I do love you," he whispered quickly, abandoning the idea of 
composing something eloquent and just speaking. "Do you want 
love songs by moonlight?  I could not play a harp now if my life 
depended on it – once, I could, but now I would fumble and strike 
the wrong notes and just embarrass myself.  The link between my 
mind and my right hand is not the same as it once was, just as the 
link from my heart to my mouth is not after so many wounds.  That 
does not change my heart, and you are in my heart," he insisted. 
"As you say, how can you be so brilliant and so thick at the same 
time?  Jesus, how can you think I do not love or want you?  I 
certainly seem to get you with child often enough.  You are the 
most beautiful woman alive and still you sit in front of the mirror 
searching for flaws.  You are not trouble; you are a challenge, and 
I like a challenge: crusades, mysteries, and my wife.  You give me 
something to think about, to match wits with.  And the only time I 
feel cheated is when I open my eyes and find you are not beside 
me.  Really, I would like to shake some sense into you!"

He exhaled and added, "Jesus Christ!  What a stubborn woman! A 
mule is easier to convince than you are."

She continued silently shaking beside him, so Gwilym raised his 
head to see her face. "Are you still crying or are you laughing at 
me now?"

"Both," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Well, stop it," he ordered, not sounding very convincing. "I do 
not care for either."

"Yes, William." 

"Do not take that smart tone with me," he said lightly, trying to get 
his emotional bearings. He felt like he was laying there naked for 
her to examine as she pleased.

"Yes, William," Duana answered in that same 'tone.'

"Witch - I am warning you…"

"Your wanton witch," she whispered, rolling over, pulling the 
blankets over them, and cuddling up against him again.  

"Fitz should see you shaking with fear at your fierce husband," he 
commented, feeling her cold little nose against the center of his 
chest.  "I do not think we are even technically married anymore, 
wanton – not in the old way, anyway.  Imagine a man being able to 
sin with his own wife." 

"You are finished talking now," she murmured. "Go to sleep, 
William."

As she dozed, he watched the sunrise gleaming through the cracks 
in the old cottage wall while he did not sleep.  Turn about was fair 
play: he had said it; she had not.

*~*~*~*  

It was late afternoon when Duana finally awoke, giving Gwilym 
plenty of time to worry about what to say to her, time to rehearse 
how various scenarios might play out in his head.  He was not so 
idealistic as to think managing three little words was going to fix 
anything.  Managing to go back and live a few minutes over: that 
might fix something.    

She sat up slowly, blinking, and watched him doing nothing – 
although doing it very purposefully – in front of the hearth.

"We have meat: I got a rabbit.  And there is fresh water if you are 
thirsty.  You are in a cottage in Bath," Gwilym said in response to 
her bleary-eyed, confused expression. "I thought last night we 
were closer to Glastonbury, but it is a few more miles.  I have 
looked around: this place seems safe enough.  The horses are too 
exhausted to ride for a few hours, so we will have to rest here."

"Why are you wearing a kilt?" Duana mumbled, yawning and 
stretching.  She always had difficulty prioritizing in those first few 
moments of consciousness.

"It is a long story and I do not like some parts of it.  It is not so 
bad once I got used to it – just a little breezy.  I thought the Crown 
would not be searching for a Highlander, so I kept it.  It feels 
barbaric, and so do I: it seemed appropriate.  And it is gray."  He 
was nervous – he always talked too much when he was nervous.  
"Come and eat: you must be famished," he added, telling himself 
that was the last thing he was saying for the next three minutes.  

"Nice legs." She scooted to the edge of the blankets, still eyeing 
him.  "That is my cross."

Gwilym blushed, suddenly finding an urgent reason to turn away 
and poke the fire with a stick.  "I found it.  In London.  I was just 
holding it for you. I did not want to lose it."  He fumbled with the 
knot in the ribbon with his left hand, and then jerked at it furiously, 
trying to get it off.  Of all the stupid things for her to see him 
doing: wearing a woman's necklace.

"Come here: I will help you with it," Duana offered, holding out 
her hands.  

"I can do it," he insisted, aggravated at himself and the world in 
general. This reunion was not going at all as he had planned it.  "I can 
cut the damn thing off, if nothing else."

"Perhaps it is not that you need my help, William; perhaps it is that 
I need to help you," she said softly. 

Without another word, he knelt in front of her, bowing his head so 
she could reach the knot.  Even after he felt the weight lift, 
Gwilym did not move except to roll his head as she massaged his 
neck and kissed the base of his throat.  He closed his eyes, letting 
her touch her lips to his eyelids, his cheekbones, and finally, 
carefully, his mouth.

"You have new scars," she murmured, stroking the one on his face 
from the Rosslyn castle guard.  "We both do."

"Did someone hurt you, cariad?" he asked, misunderstanding.  She 
had not explained how she had gotten the guard to open the castle 
gates – he hated to think what she might have offered in trade.  
And Fitz would not force her, but the kingmaker might be very 
persuasive.  And, again, if she had thought Gwilym was not going 
to claim her baby, Duana was very practical and Fitz was very 
smitten.

"Just my pride, and it will heal."

"Mine is still hemorrhaging." She smiled sympathetically, and he 
wanted to kiss her, to know that all was forgiven, but Gwilym was 
an optimist, not a fool. "Have I ever hurt you?" he finally asked. 
"Like that girl in Chester?  Just because I do not remember does 
not mean it has not happened."

"No.  No, I cannot imagine trusting anyone as much as I trusted 
you."

"Even now?"

"Whatever happened, I just want to go on with our lives."

"Cariad," he said, cupping her face in his hands. "Do you 
understand that we cannot go back?  I have refused service to the 
Crown, and I have something Fitz wants very much – you.  He will 
hunt me for the rest of my life."

"No, I do not think he will.  If we would just explain, he would 
understand," Duana insisted.

"Let me tell you something of your brilliant men, as you call us: 
we do not like to lose.  You knew I was outside the castle; why did 
you not just tell Fitz to let you out if you are so sure he would?"  
She swallowed, looking away, but he held her face still.  "There is 
no going back."

"But you have told me several times that English troops will never 
be able to take northern Wales – that they could not come over the 
mountains or make it through the narrow passes without being 
slaughtered.  Why can we not just go home to Aber?  London can 
scream 'traitor' all it wants, but…"

He shook his head. "If I am in Wales, then Llewelyn is harboring a 
fugitive.  No, I do not think the English could ever take Wales, but 
they can spend many years and lives trying.  Give them any excuse 
– say, a prince who will not hand over a traitor – and the peace that 
Llewelyn has worked so hard for will vanish.  There is no going 
back," Gwilym said again, "Not to what we had before.  Only to 
begin a new life – dechrau… if that is what you want."    

Not looking down, she found his hand and placed it on her belly, 
finally letting him feel.  "We have a new life."

*~*~*~*

"You did not get me another tomb, did you, William?" Duana 
asked, sitting on a fallen tree trunk as she watched him clear away 
the rubble from the ancient archway.  "I do not think I could stand 
the romance of receiving two tombs in one lifetime."

"Are you speaking to me, woman?" he said sarcastically, tossing 
the last stone out of the way. "And are you really expecting me to 
listen?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

Gwilym paused to grin at her, enjoying the easy banter.  It seemed 
so normal: him doing something crazy and Duana watching him 
with her arms crossed, telling him how he was doing it wrong. If 
he did not think too hard or look around, they could still be in 
Wales and the last months could never have happened.

He checked that the horses were securely tied, then held out his 
hand. "If you are finished mouthing, could you manage to come 
with me?  If this place is what I think it is, you are in for a 
surprise."

"A sacred spring where a Goddess lives?" she replied, not moving.  
"Or a ruined building that is going to collapse any moment?"

"Sulis Minerva," he reminded her. "A Roman Goddess."

"Of course," Duana replied, letting him help her over the rubble 
and through the archway. "No, really – what is this place?"

"The Romans built it.  They used to come here to bathe in the 
waters, hence the name Bath, but then the Romans left, Arthur 
died, and the Normans invaded, and so no one has bathed in 
several hundred years."  

"And you have spent an hour breaking into an old bathtub?"

This time he ignored her, letting the magnificence speak for itself: 
the arches along the four walls framing a large pool.  The room, 
except for a few cracks in the walls and some missing stones the 
locals had carted away, was exactly as the Romans had left it when 
they had fled Britain.  Without a roof, the calm water reflected the 
sunset and the first evening stars as perfectly as a mirror. 

"I saw these on Crusade," he explained, but Duana was busy 
staring at the mosaics, the marble statues, and finally bending 
down to dip her hand in the water. 

"It is warm."

"It is filled by a hot spring – it must flow through a dragon's lair.  
And, since the water is so clear, it is probably mineral water."

"I have never seen anything like this place…" she whispered in 
awe, slowly pivoting. "Is this where the Templars keep the Holy 
Grail?"

"No, that is a few miles away, but I am not supposed to tell you 
that.  You said you would like a bath," he said lightly, undressing 
as he surveyed the water – a nice excuse to avoid her eyes.  How 
amazingly stupid: for a man to be nervous about his own wife.  
"This is a bath, an old bath."  Slipping into the deep end, he 
continued, "The Romans had orgies here – dozens of men and 
women together at once – and the water is said to help a woman 
conceive."

"I do not think that will be necessary," Duana said skeptically, 
watching him moving easily through the water. 

Gwilym swam back to the side of the pool where she was, reaching 
up and tugging on the hem of her skirt.  "Come in, cariad. You will 
like it."

She hesitated, looking past him at the water.  "William, I do not 
swim well.  I do not swim at all, really."

"Oh – then walk around to the shallows." He pushed away from 
the edge, crossing the thirty feet to the other end, and stood up, 
showing her the water came only to his waist as he waded to meet 
her. "Come in: it is not deep here."

Duana still watched him, not the water. "I had forgotten… It does 
not matter so much for men, but Llewelyn is right: you are very 
pretty."

He smirked, flicking a few drops of water at her.  "Witch, strip off 
that dress and come here."

Duana sat down on a stone slab in the corner of the room, pulling 
off her shoes, stockings and veil, and unfastening her hair so it fell 
down on her shoulders.  "You are going to watch me?" she asked, 
standing up and starting to unlace the neck of her dress.

"I am going to watch you," Gwilym said hoarsely, folding his arms 
and waiting, trying to look nonchalant.  Duana managed to get her 
dress off, then fumbled with her chemise, blushing, glancing up at 
him every few seconds.  Perhaps it was just being true to her 
nature, but every garment had to be carefully folded before she 
finally turned, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"If you are too afraid, do not do this.  You do not always have to 
pretend to enjoy everything I do." Gwilym, never the master of 
subtlety, trailed his fingers across the surface of the water and 
added as though it had been his original topic: "I can swim; you 
cannot.  I would understand if you do not want this."

"I am willing to try."

"Well, that is all a man can ask," Gwilym replied, managing not to 
stutter. "Perhaps you would like me to come to you first?"

Duana nodded 'yes,' refusing to even stick her toe in until he was 
standing right in front of her.

"You are blushing all the way down to your breasts," he observed, 
drinking her in appreciatively.  "When did you get so modest?"

"The water is warm," she excused, gripping his hands tightly as 
she took a few tentative steps. "And you have never wanted me in 
a room with no roof or door.  Anyone could just walk in."

"There is no one around for miles," he assured her.  "And what 
makes you think I want you?  Such a wanton; do you think of 
nothing else…" When he pulled her toward him, her foot slipped 
on the mosaic tiles and she gasped, tightening her death grip on his 
hands.  "I have you.  The water is shallow here.  The pool deepens 
gradually, and there is barely any current – the other end is over 
my head, deep enough to dive, but here it is really just like a big 
bathtub. Duana, trust me."

She exhaled, cautiously letting go of one hand and watching 
wondrously as her arm floated.

"You have never been in open water before, have you, cariad?"

"Not like this," she said shakily.  "I feel so light, like anything 
could sweep me away."

"Nice?"

"Nice. Just do not leave me."

"I will not leave you," he promised, kissing her forehead, the tip of 
her nose, and then slowly asking her mouth open for his.  She 
moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her 
breasts against his chest. Neither of them were children – she could 
have bathed before they left the cottage and they both knew it.  "I 
have you, wanton," he said huskily, moving to the deeper water. 
"If you want, I will show you why Romans liked their baths so 
much."

"Tell me of these orgies," Duana requested, letting her head fall 
back as he turned them, as though they were dancing, in slow 
circles in the water.
 
He cupped her breast, alternately massaging and teasing as he 
lazily explored the salty skin of her neck and shoulders with his 
tongue. "I would not want to corrupt you."

Gwilym said a few unintelligent things after that, forgetting what 
the question had been, and concentrating on the way the water 
shimmered silver on her skin and the little noises she was making.  
Guiding her to one edge of the pool, he pressed her against the 
side, pulling her leg up and over his hip, and sliding his hand 
between their bodies.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders and her breathing quickened 
in time with the pace of his fingers. "I think it is too late."

"For what?" Gwilym was quickly reaching the stage where all 
thoughts drained down out of his brain, leaving only the rush of 
need.  

"Too late to keep me from being corrupted."

"You have to relax, cariad," he murmured, realizing she was not 
nearly as ready as he was, perhaps because she seemed so 
distracted. It was as though she was trying a little too hard instead 
of just enjoying the moment. "You said you wanted this.  I am not 
going to hurt you."   

She pulled her face away, breathing heavily. "William, I do not 
think the baby likes this…"

"Is fine…" he replied, closing his eyes as he positioned her hips, 
already imagining the delicious sensation of entering her. "Be 
careful - slow," he promised.

"William – stop." 

He blinked, losing the dreamlike haze that had been enveloping 
him.  "I told you, it is just like a bath.  You bathe all the time when 
you are with child.  And, do not tell Father John, but we make love 
all the time as well.  Just relax." 

"No, really."  She loosened her grip on his neck and lowered her 
legs, seeing if she could touch bottom. "I want to get out.  The 
baby does not like this."

"The baby does not or you do not?" he said, sounding angrier than 
he had intended. "Perhaps the stars are rising too bright or the 
moon is too full for you?  Could the water be too wet?  If you do 
not want this, you need to just say. I understand if you do not, but I 
would like to hear you say it instead of making up excuses."

She tried to get free, but he kept his hands on the edge on either 
side of her head, pinning, but not touching her. "Something is 
wrong."

"Yes, many things are wrong, but I want to hear you say it: that 
you-"

"Really, William-" she interrupted, dropping one hand to her 
stomach. "He does not like this at all."

His focus shifted from his dented pride to her ashen face. "Cariad-" 

She started to sway, and he caught her quickly before she slipped 
beneath the water.  

"Jesus, what is wrong?"  When she did not answer, he picked her 
up, carrying her out and wrapping her in the cloak she had been 
wearing.  "Duana – what is happening?" 

Not knowing what else to do, he held her on his lap, stroking her 
wet hair and praying until he forgot which saint he was supposed 
to address.  She had fainted before when she was with child, but 
not like this.  He had told her the truth: there was no one – no 
doctor, no midwife – for five miles in any direction. Glastonbury 
Abbey was the closest, and there were only nuns there: no doctors, 
and she needed a doctor.

"Tell me you are only fooling me," he said desperately, rubbing 
her shoulders and hands to warm them in the cool air. "Please talk 
to me, Duana."

She opened her eyes, but it was a moment before she could focus 
on his face. "This happens - it will pass." She took a careful breath, 
keeping one hand on her abdomen. "I was only fooling." 

"Jesus, you certainly were.  Perhaps we should not be here – 
perhaps we are angering the Roman Goddess."

"Perhaps," Duana agreed shakily. 

"Do you think that is all it is?"

"Of course," she said automatically, then, paling again: "No, no I 
do not think so."

*~*~*~*

The nuns at the Glastonbury Abbey led a quiet life of prayer and 
penance and charity, and were not sure what to make of a tall, 
scruffy Highlander with a lovely unconscious noblewoman in his 
arms appearing at their door in the middle of the night.  The best 
the Sisters could figure was that Robert and Lyra, as he gave their 
names, were runaway lovers. Lyra was the lady of some Scottish 
castle and perhaps Robert was a knight who had gotten her with 
child.  

It was a very romantic tale, at least the way the girls made it up.

Mother Superior donned her disapproving face and accepted the 
money the man offered, while the younger women put their heads 
together and gossiped about the scandal, sneaking peeks through 
the curtain to see the red-haired woman.  The Highlander, not 
allowed in the abbey at night, waited at the gate, hands on the bars, 
and watched the main house with dark, intense eyes.  When 
Mother Superior finally let him in at dawn, he paced the hall 
outside the sickroom, making the novice nuns scatter like 
frightened hens each time he passed.

Someone whispered that the man had gone to the Lady's Chapel to 
pray, so a half-dozen novices gathered around the curtain to take a 
good look, taking turns peeking around the edge and speculating.  

"Sin will always out," a sharp voice said behind them, and the girls 
whirled to find themselves being scrutinized by the Mother 
Superior.  "Women are only vessels of lust and this is what lust can 
bring."

"Yes, Mother," they replied in unison, already envisioning what 
their penance would be this idle gossip.

"The wages of sin are death.  If your mouths are so busy, go to the 
chapel and pray for her child's soul."

"Yes, Mother," again.
  
As they turned, glad to have an excuse to flee, the girls discovered 
the Highlander had returned, and, from his expression, was not 
having much trouble following their conversation in French.  

"My wife?" he asked tersely, looking very fierce and foreign.

The girls squeezed each other's hands excitedly.  Perhaps this 
couple had been married in secret – made a lover's pact and stolen 
away to find a priest.  

"You may see her," Mother Superior answered.  

Instead of hurrying into the room, he hesitated. "She will live?"

"She should," she promised him, then, thinking someone should 
tell him, stared at the floor and began, "The child…"

"The bleeding has stopped?" he asked nervously, for the first time 
seeming like a vulnerable little boy instead of a warrior.

"The child…she has miscarried."

He shook his head, not seeming to care. "The bleeding has stopped?" 

"It has stopped," Mother Superior assured him, stepping to the side 
to let him pass.

*~*~*~*

"There is my sleepy girl," he murmured, tenderly pushing her hair 
back off her face as she began to stir. "I thought you would sleep 
for days."

Duana's hand slid across the blankets to her abdomen, trying to 
figure out what had happened.

"Just rest, cariad. It is all over.  The Mother Superior said you 
would be fine."

"Baby?" she whispered.

He shook his head 'no,' stroking her face.  

"Oh, William – I am so sorry." She looked away, blinking.

"Please do not cry," he stammered. "You are fine: that is all that 
matters. If you cry, I will cry and there will be a big scene which I 
will have to lie about later."

Duana sniffed, watching the candlelight flicker on the wall. "You 
said you wanted another baby."

"Not as much as I want my wife." She opened her mouth again, 
but he interrupted, "No – do not apologize.  You did not fail 
anyone.  I am the one who dragged you across Britain, again, and I 
am the one who thought we should play in that silly bath.  I am not 
a king, a Druid, or a Roman: perhaps I should listen to Father 
Leuan before I go angering Goddesses."

She turned her head back toward him and managed a sad smile. "Not 
a Goddess; you can be so silly, William."

"I like that smile. I was not sure I was going to see it again."  He 
took her hand, stroking her thumb over hers.

"Did the nuns baptize the baby?  I do not remember."

Gwilym nodded reassuringly, actually having no idea. 

"What did they say about another child?" Duana asked, her eyes 
darting over his face.

"I do not know… I would rather you rest and not worry about it 
just yet."  

Gwilym would thank the Heavens if she never became pregnant 
again.  This was the third time he had watched her almost bleed to 
death: after she fell from her horse, after Mab came, and then last 
night.  That was three times in less than three years and three 
times too many.  He shivered, thinking of her joke about the 
Roman bath being her tomb.

"The nuns will not let me in the abbey at night, and you need to 
rest," Gwilym said, needlessly adjusting her blankets, "So I will 
see you in the morning; I will be just outside in the forest.  And, if 
anyone asks, you are Lyra and I am Robert.  The younger nuns 
have concocted quite a romantic story about us."

"That would depend on your definition of romance," Duana 
murmured, getting tired. 

"You are mine," he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "I do 
love you – just rest and get better."

She closed her eyes, keeping hold of his hand. "You are getting 
better at saying that."

"I have been practicing," he said lightly, giving her a moment to 
respond, but she seemed to be dozing. "On the horse," he added. "I 
will see you in the morning, cariad."

Duana nodded slightly, releasing his hand as she fell asleep.

*~*~*~*

Since his Uncle Rhonald had been a full Templar monk – sworn 
never to marry or have children - Gwilym had been raised with the 
certainty of being the only son of an only son.  At the time, Welsh
estates were divided between brothers, but Gwilym had been the only 
heir, so there had been no question of the succession.  As long as 
he could remember, he had been deferred to and treated differently: 
one day expected to govern his father and grandfather's vast lands.  
Even Llewelyn, as a grandson of a great warlord, had not been so sure 
of his inheritance. 

Privileges, power, and comforts had always been there.  Wales did 
not share the Norman custom of providing a woman to a noble 
guest, but he had seldom slept alone in his journeys as a young 
man.  Diana had been the first girl he could not simply smile at, 
casually mention his title, and have her start fawning.  She was 
the first woman he had to work to bed – which explained quite a 
bit when he considered it almost two decades later.

His name and handshake were collateral enough for unlimited 
credit at any tavern or inn.  In Aber, his word was law – whether 
he settled a dispute over a cow or judged a murderer – and he was 
accustomed to having his lightest utterances obeyed.  And, being 
both Gwen's darling and Merfyn's and Leuan's protégée, he was 
also accustomed to being doted on.  Finally, there was the warm 
completion Duana had brought to his life: she created a sanctuary 
of home and children and soft flesh in the darkness that he had 
somehow also come to think he deserved as his birthright.  

There had been great certainty of his world and his place in it: a 
clear line between right and wrong, truths and lies.  And that had 
all begun to change the afternoon Llewelyn had told him Dafydd 
was dead.  That a king he had fought and bled for had not only 
raped his wife, but executed his Dafydd and was coming to take 
Duana and her child.  

For the first time, Gwilym had questioned his universe, questioned 
what was faith and duty and what was blind stupidity.  It was like 
looking at the world with his eyes open for the first time, and it 
was impossible to ever close them again and pretend.  His 
questioning had ended in his turning his back on Fitz and walking 
away not only from his oath of fealty, but from his faith in his way 
of life.
 
It was remarkable how quickly comforts could be stripped away – 
and even more remarkable what a man will do to keep what 
remained.  

"Robert," the sister called Karin said for the second time before 
Gwilym realized she was addressing him and scrambled up from 
his seat against a tree trunk.   

He approached the gate, which she kept between them as though it 
could actually keep him out.  The nuns had been willing to offer 
shelter to Duana without asking any questions, so he had followed 
their rules: seeing her only briefly each morning and sleeping 
outside the walls like a stray dog at night.  And he had tried to be 
useful by chopping firewood and helping with their harvest, but the 
women preferred to be self-sufficient.  Gwilym understood: it was 
a matter of pride.  Duana would fit in here very nicely.

Many of the nuns were kind, careful to speak slowly and slipping 
away from their duties several times during the day to come assure 
him his 'Lyra' was well.  The novices – young girls and teenagers 
who had been given to the Church – seemed sure he was starving 
and smuggled loaves of bread out to him, leaving them at the gate, 
hissing his assumed name, and then running for cover.  He 
responded by keeping the abbey supplied with venison and fowl, 
using that same hiss and run delivery method.  He had even found 
a pair of breeches waiting for him in his makeshift camp yesterday: 
someone had taken pity on him and his kilt.  

Even Mother Superior had finally thawed a bit, but this woman, 
this Karin – Gwilym had discovered she could be trouble, although 
he was probably more sensitive about it than necessary.  She was 
not a nun, but a wife put away by her husband, and she did not 
appreciate having her awkward flirtations ignored by Gwilym.  She 
was harmless, just lonely, but he would never give Duana any 
reason to question him again.  Still, he had tried his best not
to hurt Karin's feelings, but her affection for him had turned
to cool distaste – which he actually preferred. 

"You may not bring weapons in, Robert.  You have been told 
before."

Trying not to take offense, to get used to being addressed as a 
commoner, he unrolled the blue fabric he carried to show her it 
was only a plain woman's dress.  "I thought D-Lyra would need 
something to wear."

"And did you steal that?" she asked, turning up her nose. "She can 
wear a habit – perhaps it would help her learn a little chastity."

"I bought it from a peddler," Gwilym said through clenched teeth. 
"And Lyra is my wife."   

"So you claim.  Mother Superior says you may come in now." She 
lifted the latch of the gate, then turned her back. "You will follow 
me."

Gwilym swallowed, his temper and his pride, and followed her 
across the courtyard and into the main house.  "Half an hour," 
Karin reminded him, lifting the curtain to the sickroom.  Christ, 
she always made it sound like he had paid for a prostitute instead 
of just wanting to check on his own wife. 

Duana was up: standing at the window with a blanket wrapped 
around her pale shoulders.

"How is my Lyra this morning?" he asked softly. 

"Caged," she replied, turning to greet him. "I feel like I have spent 
most of the past six months watching life from a window.  It is not 
as nice as the poets make it sound."

"Would you like to go outside?" he asked, unrolling the dress he 
had brought her.   

Duana nodded eagerly, and he found something interesting to 
watch through the open window while she slipped it over her head.  
Turning back around as she tied the belt around her waist, he 
commented, "I suppose I am used to seeing you with child.  I 
forget how tiny you are when you are not."

She dropped her eyes: it was still a sensitive topic, no matter how 
many times he told her not to worry about it.  A wife's two 
primary functions were to have children and satisfy her husband, 
and Duana had doubts about her ability to do either.  

"Do you think you can manage a walk?  I would like to talk to you 
without a dozen girls," he raised his voice slightly and said in 
French, "listening outside the room."

From the other side of the curtain, there was a flurry of giggling 
and scurrying, which made Duana's eyes light up a little. "They 
really do think we are quite the pair," she commented, smoothing 
her hair.   

"Who is to say that we are not?" Gwilym teased back, relaxing a 
bit and reaching for her hand.      

They walked for a while around the perimeter of the grounds, 
Gwilym trailing his fingers along the stone wall and saying nothing 
of particular interest.  When they reached the front gate, Duana 
paused, looking out at the forest.   

"You are sure you want to leave, Cariad?  I thought you might 
want to stay here.  It would be much safer and the sisters seem 
very nice."
 
"I am not a nun," she answered, not looking at him. "Are you 
saying you do not want me?"

"No," he said quickly, squeezing her hand. "Of course I want you.  
You can leave whenever you are ready."

"I am ready now."

He chewed his lip and rearranged his shaggy hair, trying to figure 
out how to say it.

"William, I am sorry about the baby," she said, a desperate edge 
creeping into her voice.  "Please do not make me stay here. You 
said you would take me wherever I wanted and I want to be with 
you."   

In Britain, divorce was seldom an option, so, like Karin, many 
unwanted Norman wives were sent to convents.  That technically 
preserved the marriage: letting the husband keep the dowry, but 
ridding him of an inconvenient or unpleasant wife.  Under Welsh
law, either husband or wife could just walk away, but they were 
not in Wales.

"Will that happen again, do you think? With the next child?"

"I pray not."

"No, answer me."  He dropped her hand, leaning against the gate 
and watching her. "Llewelyn's Johanna almost died having their 
daughter when she was sixteen, and then she miscarried again and 
again.  Is that what will happen?"

"Perhaps not.  Perhaps it was just this baby. Yes, it was very soon 
after Mab for me to have another child, but other women do it.  
And, I know you do not remember, but you wanted another baby 
so much."  Gwilym, who did remember, looked away, and she 
reached up to stroke his scruffy cheek.  "Sometimes it only 
happens once and then every other baby is fine, but no, I cannot 
promise."

"I am older than you," he said, avoiding her eyes.  "Most men do 
not live past forty, which is not far away for me."

"I think you look healthy enough.  Perhaps in need of a haircut and 
a shave, but healthy," Duana said lightly, knowing what he was 
getting at.  He did not want to leave her with small children and no 
way to provide for them.  It was not an issue when he owned half 
of north Wales, but now any sons would have no inheritance and 
any daughters would have no dowry.  

"I understand the risks, William, but I am not content to sit at the 
window and watch life pass me by.  If I wanted that, I would have 
stayed with Fitz.  And I understand all the hurt I have caused you.  
You told me once that you wanted no more children because 
you could not stand to lose another.  Now, you have lost not 
only this baby and your David, but really, Eimile and Mab as well.
If you do not want me, you do not need to make excuses."

He swallowed, chipping some rust off the bars with his thumbnail.  
Gwilym had worked out a very nice speech in which he calmly 
explained why they should have no more children and why she 
should stay here, but somehow he had forgotten every word of it.

"You are much better, but you still need to rest and winter is 
coming," he said nervously. "The cottage where we stayed last 
month – I can make it livable with a little work and it is very 
secluded.  We could live there, at least until spring."  

Damn it: his mouth just kept moving and this was not what he was 
supposed to be saying.  She was supposed to stay at Glastonbury 
Abbey where she was safe and in no danger of getting pregnant 
again: that had been his plan from the beginning.   

"If you still want me – knowing what you know of the girl in 
Chester and that I will spend my life running from the Crown – 
Jesus, the least I can do is let you run with me."

Ah, damn it all to Hell: she was smiling.  He was always sunk 
when she smiled at him.

*~*~*~*
  
End: Dechrau
Title: Hiraeth X - Diwedd
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Summary: Bath, England; fall, 1218
Keywords: historical au, msr, angst
Distribution: link to: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Checks: Jen – good (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – yep, Skinner 
head check – nope, Angst-o-meter: high, Snorkameter – don't 
know yet.
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Diwedd
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~* 

There was nothing wrong with this particular stick, and it was 
probably immune to pain, but he liked to imagine it was screaming 
and begging for mercy, just the same.  Leaning against the outside 
of the warped cottage door, Gwilym attacked the poor piece of 
wood with his knife, methodically whittling it from a big stick into 
an equally useful little stick.

The door opened, causing him to lose his place, curse, have to find 
another stick, curse, and sit down to start all over.

"Please come inside," Duana asked quietly, sounding almost 
plaintive. "You have been out here for hours. Let me fix you some 
breakfast."

"It is not your place-" He paused to slice off a nice, satisfying curl 
of oak flesh, "to fix my breakfast.  You married a lord, you should 
be treated like a lady." Another slash and another long sliver of 
wood went flying. "Go rest." 

Duana stepped around him to get outside, then turned, crossing her 
arms and changing tactics. "I married you, big cranky oaf that you 
are, for better or for worse.  Now either come eat or be hungry, 
because I am not fixing anything else until noon."

"Was there not a part in those marriage vows about obedience?  I 
told you to go rest," he snapped. 

"I am not ill; it is not the same." She squatted down, trying to keep 
her skirts clear of the dirt. "I am sorry – I told you it was not a 
good time for me to conceive, but I did not think my flux would 
come for another few hours.  That is all it is, William: nothing that 
you did at all."

"And I told you," he started to point at her, then stopped, realizing 
he was pointing with the knife and she was flinching. "I told you to 
go inside and not bother me."  

He held his stern expression for a few seconds, then his forehead 
crumpled, teeth clench, and eyes closed, threatening to tear.  He 
jabbed his knife blade-first in the soft earth, which both Merfyn 
and his father would have skinned him for doing, and covered his 
face with his hands.  

Gwilym had a dim memory of wandering through the streets as a 
small child, not knowing who he was or to whom he belonged.  
Big, strong hands had reached down and lifted him to safety, 
thanking God that he was alive.  His rescuer was someone he knew 
and trusted, and life had begun anew.  Perhaps it was a false 
memory.  Perhaps it had only been a dream, but he desperately 
needed those hands now – someone stronger and wiser than he to 
tell him who he was and to whom he belonged.

Duana abandoned the idea of keeping her dress clean and sat 
beside him, pulling Gwilym against her, trying to comfort him.  He 
had grown increasingly distant since they left Glastonbury Abbey, 
seeking solace in hard labor and strong silence – living as far 
inside himself as their tiny, shabby hut allowed.  Or he could 
suddenly explode out of the blue, yelling at her for the slightest 
thing as if he was a Norman.  Gwil was accustomed to people 
telling him they did not understand him, but for the first time, he 
did not understand himself. 

"You are shaking, William," she murmured, stroking his hair, 
trying to figure out was wrong."  "I am sorry you got it on you, but 
it is just blood for a baby that did not form."   

"I know what it is!" He took a shuddery breath, but looked away 
when he raised his face. "Goddamn it!  I hate this. It is like my 
mind is an egg: my real memories are the yolk and my dreams – 
good and bad – are the white, and they have been scrambled 
together.  I cannot always sort out what has really happened and 
what I have only pictured in my head as someone told me.  And I 
certainly cannot sort it out when we are making love and I see…" 

He trailed off, laying his head against her breast and closing his 
tired eyes.  

Duana had not said a word about the price of being with him, but 
then, she had not said a word about much of anything.  Not about 
losing the baby or missing their children or suddenly being an 
impoverished criminal's wife instead of the Lady of Aber.  Not 
even anything about his obviously having lied to her about being 
with other women: many other women, if the images in his mind 
could be trusted.  It would be easier if she would cry and carry on 
and he could scold her, hold her, and feel better.   No, Duana was 
"fine" and he was the one acting like a blubbering fool.
 
"What are you seeing in your head?"

"A hundred things: you bleeding with Mab and with this last baby, 
a few reasonable excuses I have thought up for the girl in Chester, 
riding through a thousand villages after the Norman soldiers have 
passed through and finished with the women, you and that Edward 
in Dover.  It is all as real to me as if I had seen it, but even what I 
know I saw is not really real anymore.  Oh, shit – that makes no 
sense at all."

He stood, angrily brushing off his backside, and focusing his gaze 
on the sagging thatched roof instead of her.

"The peddler who sold me your dress had just come from the south 
of Wales, and said Llewelyn's army was camped there.  The Welsh 
border is not far – I am going ask Llewelyn to send Eimile to us. I 
will be back in a few days."

Duana scrambled up, following him to the ruined building he used 
to stable the horses. "Are you going to fight?" she said, sounding 
frightened. "You do not even have a sword."

"I am going to have Llewelyn send Eimile to us," he repeated, 
otherwise ignoring her. "I told him he could claim Mab, but I want 
Eimile."

"I thought you did not want a child right now.  You said last 
night-"

He turned to face her, his eyes snapping as he glared down.  "I said 
I do not want you with child again – that does not mean I do not 
want my daughter. You should not have to leave both our children 
just to be with me."

"Be rational, William.  What if the soldiers catch us? How would 
you protect her?"

He ignored her again, walking around the horse and straightening 
the saddle blanket on its back until it dared not wrinkle.  He was – 
or had been – Gwilym of Aber: being irrational was what he did.

Of course he was being irrational.  He was having enough trouble 
feeding himself and Duana, keeping the walls from caving in and 
the fire from going out.  Duana was still wearing the same cheap 
blue dress he bought from the peddler with the last of his money 
months ago – now worn threadbare and ragged.  Her pretty round 
face was growing thin and the eyes were more feline, the 
cheekbones more pronounced from endless days of struggling to 
survive when she should still have been recuperating.

Gwil had only a vague idea what he must look like, since the only 
mirror was the surface of the pond.  Curious, he had looked one 
day and seen someone capable of hurting a young girl for sport, 
then flaunting that in front of his wife.  Someone capable of 
turning his back on his God and King by forsaking his oath of 
service to The Crown.  Someone who had almost killed his wife – 
and had killed his child – by seducing her in a holy place.  Angry, 
he had smacked the water's calm surface with his hand, wanting 
that man to go away, but he just returned when the rippled stilled, 
staring back at Gwilym with old, tired eyes.  

"She is… Fitz sent soldiers to bring her to London to be with me," 
Duana finally said. "You had been gone for months, and Fitz said 
Eimile was still at Llewelyn's castle.  I did not think you wanted 
her, so I agreed.  She is in London by now.  William, I am sorry."

Gwilym froze, and instead of retreating like most women would 
have, Duana stayed, staring at the dirt and waiting for the blows.  
Even in Wales, no one would question his striking her for such 
disloyalty.  In England, where women lived by 'the rule of thumb'- 
it was in poor taste to beat her with any rod thicker than a man's 
thumb – she was as good as dead.  

"You left her?" he asked, pronouncing each word as though it was 
very heavy.  How could she think he would ever give up their 
daughter without a fight?  Or give up Duana until she told him to 
his face she did not want him? 

Deep down, it still galled him how quickly she had moved on: the 
banns for her upcoming marriage to Marshall FitzWalter Pembroke 
had been posted while she was still carrying Gwilym's child.  In a 
stroke of the quill, Duana became Countess Pembroke again, 
Eimile and the unborn little girl became Fitz's stepdaughters, and 
Gwilym was conveniently put aside as an embarrassing mistake.  
Their life together could have been reduced to, "Were you not once 
forced to marry some Welshman, Countess?  Do you even recall 
his name?"            

"No, she was not there, but Fitz told me she was coming."

"Perhaps Llewelyn has not sent her yet," he managed after several 
deep breaths. "I will check.  Wait here – there is enough food and 
firewood for several days."

"I want to come-"

"You will wait here!" he yelled at her, shoving her back toward the 
cottage so roughly she stumbled.  "You will not leave that cottage 
until I return!  Do not dare open that door!  I will not lose you 
too!"

She nodded miserably, wrapping her shaking arms around herself.

"I understand, Duana; I do not like it, but I understand," he added 
softly, embarrassed about losing his temper again and coming so 
close to hitting her. "I just need a break.  I am not angry at you, I 
am not angry about last night.  I am angry at life and I do not need 
to be taking it out on you – as I have been.  Just a few days: bar the 
door and do not open it until I return."

After checking the girth, he swung into the saddle, riding away 
quickly before she could say something or raise her eyes and 
change his mind.

*~*~*~*

With a level of comfort born during a thousand boyhood 
adventures and misadventures, Gwilym slipped inside the dark tent 
and pinned Llewelyn's hands down as he slept, leaning his face 
very close before he whispered. "I think you need some new 
guards, Llewel." 

From the shadows, Merfyn's voice replied softly, "Think again, 
Llwynog. I had you to moment you set foot in camp."

Before Llewelyn could even get his eyes open, Merfyn had tackled 
Gwilym, making undignified, delighted sergeant sounds.  

"I was beginning to worry about you, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered, 
sitting up and tiredly scratching the back of his head. "Usually you 
do not vanish for more than a week at a time. Were you dead 
again?"

"Ugh – get off me, Merfyn.  I have no desire to be your next wife."

Merfyn gave Gwilym a last affectionate cuff to the head, like a 
lioness swipes at her cub, and then offered his hand to help him up.  
"Where the hell did you go, Gwilym?  Did you take Lady Duana 
from Pembroke Castle?  FitzWalter is supposed to be beside 
himself with worry, so I figured it must have been you."

"Of course," Gwilym replied, catching the wineskin Merfyn tossed 
at him. "Tell me of Aber."

"Come see for yourself," Llewelyn replied, holding out his hand 
for the wine as Merfyn went outside to find a torch. "There is a 
little boy running around my Court and driving Joanna half-mad.  
It has been a long time since she had a baby to keep up with."

"Is he really running?" Gwilym asked wondrously, remembering 
only a tiny infant. "What about his sister?"

"Well, last time I was home, he was starting to toddle a bit.  He 
falls on his ass a lot; seems to take after his father.  And, of course, 
he is very pretty.  It is such a waste for a boy to have curls and 
eyelashes like that."

"I am glad he is well," he said tightly, raising the invisible shield 
he had lowered for a moment.  That answered Gwilym's question 
about Eimile: he had not expected Llewelyn to defy the Crown to 
keep one little girl.  If he did not mention her, she was not there.  
Without a dowry or a title, she was just another in a world full of 
dispensable children.  
  
"Come home," Llewelyn said again, finally somewhat awake in 
the violet predawn light. "FitzWalter has let the French slip back 
into Dover and the Scots have their kilts in a twist again – he needs 
a strategist.  In the last summons I received, he wanted to make a 
deal: for you to spend April through October with his army or in 
London and then winter in Aber-"  

"FitzWalter's deals are cheap trinkets polished to a high shine," 
Gwilym interrupted, "And his last generous offer did not turn out 
to be so generous.  Save it, Llewel."   

"He needs you.  He spoke the truth: he inherited an almost-
bankrupt treasury and a weak boy-king: Fitz is one lost battle or 
new tax away from the barons looking to France for a new king -
and a new kingmaker.  He needs to win and he needs you to help 
him do it.  You keep your title and lands, and Duana, if she 
consents, which of course, she will." 

"No."     

Drawing on his own most secret fears, Llewlyn asked: "Do you not 
trust that Duana would choose you?"

"I trust her," Gwil snapped back. "Besides her, I trust no one."

"Not even me?" Llewelyn asked, then wished he had not when his 
friend looked away. "I have gotten you into this, and now I am 
trying to get you out, Gwil.  I want you, not me, to raise Dafydd as 
a possible heir to Wales, and perhaps, in time, Fitz may even return 
Eimile.  Come home, bring your wife, raise your son, rule your 
lands, and live something of a normal life."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied cautiously, wondering how everything 
could fall back into place so easily and still not feel right.  "I will 
think about it.  You said as 'a possible heir' – is Gruffydd doing 
better?"

"He is better, but still not the same.  No, Joanna is with child again.  
Having your Dafydd around made her a little baby crazy, and she 
just passed her second month.  The midwives say the baby is a son, 
but, then, they always say that."         

"Something could still happen, though," Gwilym murmured, 
hiding behind the wineskin as it came around to him again, quickly 
trying to figure if Llewelyn had actually been in North Wales two 
months ago.  In truth, it did not matter.  Mab, passing as Gwilym's 
legitimate son but Duana and Llewelyn's blood, would be 
acceptable in North Wales.  To preserve the fragile bond uniting 
North and South Wales as well as appease the Marcher Lords in 
the borderlands, Llewelyn needed a Norman son by Joanna, a 
Norman princess, and he would take one however he could get 
one.   

"Yes, something could," Llewelyn said, thinking the same thing 
Gwilym was. "It has before."

"Elan is with child again as well," Merfyn chimed in, sitting down 
and not planning to let Gwilym out of his sight. "That stuff from 
the alchemist does not seem to prevent children, but it makes her 
hands nice and soft."

"Llangly was right – you do need a map, old man," Gwilym shot 
back.

Llewelyn chuckled: he had already heard all about Merfyn and 
Gwilym's big contraceptive adventure.

"How is the Lady Dana?  Really, we should get our money back 
from Llangly: I hear you are to be congratulated again."

Gwilym shook his head slightly from side to side. "No."

"What happened, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked quietly, regretting being 
so callous.

"Duana is in the forest outside Bath," Gwilym replied, as though 
that was an answer. "Send word to fitzWalter:  I accept his terms.  
I will get Duana and we can go home."   

Merfyn opened his mouth to ask about the baby, but Llewelyn 
signaled him not to.  If Gwilym had wanted to explain, he would: 
trying to force him into anything was never a wise move.

"I have a big surprise for you, Gwil," Llewelyn offered, changing 
the topic.  

"Um – it is early in the morning and you just have to piss: do not 
go saying that is for me.  Anyway, I would call that only a small 
surprise and you can keep it to yourself."

Merfyn made a strangled sound through his nose, not sure if he 
was allowed to laugh at the Prince of Wales or not.  Gwilym and 
Llewelyn were noblemen; Merfyn was not.

"I thought you might show up, so I have Goliath with us," 
Llewelyn said, pretending to frown. "Would you like some 
company to get Duana? Is she even well enough to ride?"

"She is well enough.  Can you leave the siege?"

Llewelyn shrugged. "It is a siege, and I have inherited a very 
competent sergeant.  There is not much for me to do."  

He sent Merfyn to bring their horses, watching Gwilym quickly 
finish off the wine, which was not like him.  In the flickering light 
from the torch, Gwilym's eyes looked centuries old.

"Is it so bad, Gwil?" he finally asked, wishing they were still boys 
and hurts could be smoothed over by offerings of apples and 
marzipan.   

"Which part, Llewel?  There is quite a list."

"Any part I can help with."

"No," he said quietly. "You have done all you can.  I just want to 
go get Duana and have this adventure end.  We have survived 
before, I have faith we will survive this."

*~*~*~*     

The two men followed the billowing smoke through the forest, 
finding a woman frantically trying to get a terrified horse to leave a 
ruined stable.  The cottage was already blazing, and the flames 
were licking at the nearby trees.  The cinders floated gently 
through the cold autumn air, settling on the thatched roof of the 
stable and setting it afire as well.

"Give me your veil!" a powerfully built man ordered, jumping 
down from his mount.  He wrapped it around the horse's head, 
finally getting the animal through the doorway.

"Thank you," Duana yelled over the sounds of the fire, scrambling 
bareback onto the chestnut mare.  "I have to go."

"Wait," an older man said, not seeming bothered by the thick 
smoke as he stared at her red hair, his deeply lined face unreadable. 
"We will escort - Duane, stop her!"

She kicked the horse, but Duane still held the lead rope and turned 
the jittery mare in a tight circle. 

"It is all right; no one will harm you.  We will take you home."

"My husband will be back any minute," she said loudly, looking 
for some way to flee. "This was our home."  

"She is not with child," Duane informed him, coughing as he 
choked on the gray ash.  "FitzWalter said the woman would be 
with child. An Irish woman with red hair who is with child."
 
"No, it could still be her.  Where is your baby?" the old man asked. 
"Was it in the cottage?"
 
She tried to dismount, but Duane caught her before her feet could 
touch the ground, wrapping an iron arm around her waist and 
pulling her onto his horse as though she weighed nothing.

"Easy," the old man cautioned him. "Be careful with her."  He 
kneed his horse closer, squinting to see her face through the 
smoke. "I think this is fitzWalter Pembroke's bride. Are you 
Duana, my lady?  We will not harm you; all we want is the money 
fitzWalter is offering.  You seem to be worth a great deal to him."

"My name is Lyra – my husband is Robert," she pleaded, 
struggling to get away from Duane. "He will be right back!  Please 
– I do not want to go with you."

There were hoof beats and men's voices in the distance – other 
scavengers coming to pick through the ruins.  Lights from their 
torches flickered through the trees, looking blue in the morning 
fog.

"Go, Duane; get her out of sight," the man ordered, taking a last 
deep lungful of the smoke before he followed them into the forest.

*~*~*~* 

Riding with Gwilym involved a nice mixture of dirty jokes, boring 
facts, bizarre stories, and interesting side trips.  He usually seemed 
adverse to silence, and maintained a rambling one-sided 
conversation.  Generally, Llewelyn contributed only by listening 
and nodding occasionally, but that was not the case today.  
Gwilym had been quiet since they left Wales, and actually mute for 
several minutes now, letting Goliath assume a stately stroll.  

Looking back to see if his friend's mouth had suddenly closed 
over, Llewelyn discovered Gwilym was toying with Duana's gift, 
pointing it randomly as they rode through the deserted city of Bath.   

"Did you ever think of buying her a ring, Gwil? Perhaps a length 
of cloth or even a book of prayer, since she likes to read?"

Gwilym aimed the sleek crossbow again, tilting it from side to side 
to accustom his hand to the weight.  Llewelyn had no idea where 
Gwil had gotten such a thing, nor what possessed him to think to 
give it to Duana.     

"Do you know that is outlawed?  You could be hanged for even 
having it," Llewelyn persisted, sounding like a preachy older 
brother. 

"She will like it," Gwilym replied.  "She could not manage a sword 
or a longbow, but this will be fine."

"When you give a woman a peace offering, it is never wise to give 
her something she can kill you with.  That defeats the purpose of 
the gift."

Gwilym did not answer, stopping Goliath short and standing in his 
stirrups. "Do you smell that?"

"No, but you do not need to announce it to the world.  Just blame it 
on the horse or Merfyn like everyone else does."

Instead of some smart retort, Gwilym suddenly dug his heels into 
Goliath's sides, pushing the animal to a full gallop and whipping 
him with the reins to move even faster.

"What is wrong?" Llewelyn yelled after him, turning his own 
horse to follow through the forest, dodging the trees and crashing 
through the brush at a frightening pace as he tried to see what Gwil 
was chasing.

Goliath was a knight's horse, bred for strength and size as opposed 
to speed, but Llewelyn did not catch up until they reached a small 
clearing.  Gwilym had already dismounted, and was standing in the 
ruins of a charred building, the smoke still clinging to the ground 
in the damp evening air.

"Duana!" he yelled, frantically, breathlessly turning in circles to 
scan the trees, looking for any sign of life in the blackened 
remains. "It is William – come out, cariad. It is safe.  Duana!"
 
As Llewelyn watched, horrified, Gwil waded into the remnants of 
a small house and flipped aside a fallen shutter and tabletop, as 
though anyone could actually have survived by hiding under them.  
Finding nothing, he searched the thicket, still calling for his wife as 
the buzzards circled, annoyed at the racket.

"She is here, Llewel," he mumbled numbly. "I told her to stay right 
here.  She would not disobey me."

Llewelyn dismounted, leading his lathered horse through the 
scorched grass to where Gwil stood, waiting, watching like a dog 
who was just beginning to realize his mistress was never going to 
return.

"Gwil," he said softly. "I-"

"Duana!" Gwilym interrupted, coughing as he tried to breath in the 
ashy air.  "Duana, you come out right now!  I mean it!  Right this 
second!" He pivoted, scanning the motionless underbrush. 
"Duana!"

*~*~*~*

"Do you have her?" Fitz asked, barely stopping his lathered horse 
in front of the inn before he was out of the saddle.  He pivoted, 
scanning the empty street. "Duana!"  

"The reward still stands?" the old man asked coldly.  

"Yes, of course." Fitz nodded, and a soldier quickly stepped 
forward with a purse.  "Do you have her?"

"Bring her, Duane," the man ordered, reaching hungrily for the 
money.

Duane hesitated, trying to think.  The woman was ill and had said 
several times that she wanted to go back to Bath, that her husband 
was there, not in London. "Is he going to hurt her?" he called from 
his hiding place.

"Now, Duane!" the old man barked, and Duane stepped out from 
between the inn and the stable, dragging Duana in front of him. 
	
Fitz's arms were around her immediately, and the English soldiers 
accompanying him dropped their eyes respectfully. "Jesus, Duana, 
I was so scared.  Who took you?  My God – where is the baby?"

Still holding her tightly and beginning to tremble with fear and 
rage, Fitz looked up at the two men. "Where is her child?"

"We think it died in a fire."

"Duana, is that what happened?"  

Exhausted, she shook her head 'no,' weakly trying to pull away. 
"Let go of me, Fitz."

"My lord," one young knight said, sneaking a look at Duana and 
noticing the back of her skirt. "She is…"

Fitz glanced down and saw the dark red spots on her dress.  In a 
heartbeat, someone had arrested her two 'rescuers,' gone for a 
doctor, and Fitz had scooped her up and was carrying her inside 
the inn as she struggled, too exhausted and weak to put up much of 
a fight. 

"What did they do, Duana? Are these the men who took you?" he 
asked, laying her in the closest bed and pushing her back down 
when she tried to get up.  "Hush – whatever they did, it will not 
happen again.  Did they hurt you?  The baby has come early - is it 
alive somewhere?"

"No," Duana answered, refusing to look at him as he held her 
shoulders down to keep her flat, remembering what the midwives 
had said about bleeding. "Please do not do this, Fitz."   

"I am not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you," he 
replied anxiously. "I am so sorry, Duana.  Someone has gone for a 
doctor.  Just rest and try to calm down."

"He will find me, Fitz," she promised. "It does not matter what you 
do.  If he wants me, he will find me."

"No – no one is going to hurt you ever again.  I swear it."      

*~*~*~*  

"Did you misunderstand?" Fitz barked, yet again arriving to find 
the doctor lurking outside Duana's apartments, badgering the 
guards and probably terrifying Duana.  "She is fine – it was a 
mistake you were even called.  I have paid you for your time: leave 
Court immediately."

"She is unclean," Donaes de Pasquier insisted, watching hungrily 
as the guards stepped aside so Fitz could enter. "I must treat her."

"You will do no such thing. She says you are trying to harm her."

"You would take that girl's word over mine?"

"When the girl is that woman, yes, I would.  Until her husband can 
come, it is my place to see she is safe.  The bleeding has stopped, 
and there is no fever – it was my mistake.  She does not need a 
doctor."  

The nursemaid cautiously opened the door, revealing Duana and 
Eimile playing on a blanket on the floor of the sitting room, trying 
to get reacquainted.  Henry, unhappy to be displaced as the center 
of everyone's world, sat pouting on the sofa, glaring at the blonde 
little girl.

"She is a witch – she must be purified," Donaes de Pasquier hissed, 
and Duana pulled her daughter closer as he tried to step into the 
room.

Losing patience with the man, Fitz slammed the door closed again 
and snapped, "Enough! You will not cut her hair, you will not 
bleed her, and you certainly will not bathe her!" Nodding to the 
guards, "Donaes has been compensated for his time - if he tries to 
approach Lady Duana again, cut his throat.  Is that clear enough for 
you, Donaes?  She is not your patient – you may not touch her."

"She is not your wife – you may not touch her, either."

Before he could think, Fitz saw his own fist make contact with the 
doctor's cheekbone, sending him sprawling to the floor. "Get out 
of my sight!"

Donaes made a growling noise, flaring his nostrils and licking his 
lips like a wolf sniffing the wind, then got to his feet, stepping 
toward Fitz. "You will be sorry."

"I do not think so," Fitz responded, entering and closing the door 
in Donaes' face, leaving the guards to deal with him.

Pausing, he exhaled, trying to calm down before he spoke to 
Duana so he would not frighten her.  Her assumption in the inn that 
he would force her – that he was holding her down to rape her, not 
to stop the bleeding – had not sat well with him.  No, he was not 
going to force her into anything.  She was very clear about what 
she wanted, and it was not fitzWalter, Count of Pembroke.

He wondered if was possible for a man's brain to overflow, 
especially when pieces of his heart were torn out, labeled 'honor' 
and 'duty,' and stored in the part of his mind marked 'another 
man's wife.'

She stood, smoothing her new dress, and looked at him hopefully, 
wanting to know if Fitz had been able to find William yet.  Behind 
her, Eimile scrambled up on the sofa beside Henry, glaring back as 
the boy glared at her, the same three lines appearing between their 
eyebrows.

Duana came to him quickly, looking expectant, and Fitz inhaled, 
smelling clean hair and the soft scents of the nursery over female 
skin.  It was remarkable how Duana always smelled exactly the 
way a woman should: of comfortable homes, contented children, 
and a subtle note of something mysterious and visceral underneath. 

"Did you find him?" she asked, staring up at him with enigmatic 
blue eyes.   A man, given the opportunity, could discover an 
entirely new country in those eyes, and never want to return from 
it.

Like anything else a man covets, if he could not have it, it was best 
to put it away and forget about it.  That was what his father would 
have said, anyway.  Out of sight was out of mind, son.

Or absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Or familiarity breeds contempt.  

No, William would be at Court by nightfall, and Fitz would be as 
calm, controlled, and formal as he always was.  They would say 
the right things, then William would disappear into Duana's 
apartments with her, bolting the door behind him.  And familiarity 
did not just breed contempt; it bred babies as well – for William at 
least, not for Fitz.

"I have found him – William accepts the terms, he is coming for 
you and Eimile," Fitz said calmly, keeping his voice soft, but 
deciding it was indeed possible to store his heart in his brain, 
especially if there was no other choice.     

*~*~*~*

"Easy, Gwil," Llewelyn murmured soothingly as they were 
escorted through the gates and into London Court. "You have no 
cause for complaint.  The contract is signed.  FitzWalter has 
accepted the terms – he is not happy, but he has accepted."

"He took my wife," Gwilym insisted.  His heart had stopped 
beating among the ruins of their shabby little cottage and had not 
restarted until word came that Duana was alive and safe at Court.  
It did things to a man: entire days without a heartbeat.  He had 
been dead several times now, and it finally had given him some 
perspective on the importance of life.

He kept hearing it echoing – his angry voice yelling at Duana not 
to leave the cottage and his fist tingling as he struggled not to 
strike her.  Perversely intermingled with that was a haunting 
memory of her whispering to him, 'You will not hurt me?' as they 
made love for the first time.   

"He took back what he thought was his kidnapped bride, he kept 
her safe, and he is returning her to you as he promised, as is 
honorable.  Tell me you would have done any different."

Gwilym turned to glare at Llewelyn, his nerves as frayed as the 
ends of an old rope. "Funny, you look exactly like my friend 
Llewelyn.  How is it a politician has taken over your body?"

"We both know he could keep Duana at Court, do whatever he 
wants with her, and make you dance like a puppet on a string to 
see her every blue moon, but he is not doing that.  He set forth the 
terms and he is honoring them.  Do not lose your temper and make 
him change his mind."

Goliath snorted, responding to the tension in Gwilym's hands and 
legs, and fidgeting as they stopped in the bailey. "He is purposely 
making us wait," Gwilym muttered, scanning the dim courtyard, 
still wondering if this was some sort of trap. 

"Yes, he is," the prince replied calmly. "And you will play his 
game because this is his arena.  When you command his armies, 
you can make him wait a week to find out if he has won or lost.  
For now, behave."

The doors finally opened, and fitzWalter stepped out, looking 
every inch the regal statesman coming to greet them.  Gwilym 
hated how Fitz and men like him never looked down and saw the 
blood on their own hands, staying a step removed from guilt by 
justifying their sins as their birthright.  Just once, he wanted a 
Norman King to hold up a severed head or point to a shattered life 
and say, 'I did this,' rather than, 'This is God's will.'   

Gwilym swung down, crossing the bailey in long, angry strides.

"Gwil!" Llewelyn yelled after him. "Goddamn it, Gwil!"  The 
hotheaded fool was going to ruin everything.

"You have something of mine," Gwilym growled, stepping 
forward, then back, like an angry panther trying to decide how best 
to attack.

"Behind you," Fitz said calmly, and Gwilym turned to see Duana 
hurrying across the bailey with Eimile in her arms.

The world slowed, dragging out the languid evening into a long 
black thread separating them.  He took one step, then another, then 
another when he realized she was real.  There was no sound – no 
birds or horses or background noise from the city.  Then suddenly, 
it all vanished: Fitz, Llewelyn, Court – everything except her.  
Gwilym felt something course through his veins as his fingertips 
touched her cheek, and realized it was life reawakening.  The 
bottom of his chest cleared and he could finally breathe deeply, 
exhaling like a river surging over a crumbling dam.     

"You are real?" he asked, just to make sure.  How foolish that men 
believed they owned women when it was exactly the other way 
around.  This was who he was and to whom he belonged.   

"I am." Her lower lip was trembling and she bit it determinedly to 
get it to stop.

"Did they harm you?"

Duana shook her head 'no,' then leaned her face against a shirt that 
still smelled like smoke and pain.     

Sliding his arms around her thankfully, he whispered, "Do not 
leave me again, cariad.  I would be alone, adrift, and, and, and 
poorly dressed."

"I will not," she murmured, looking up at him.
 
Llewelyn smirked and relaxed as Gwil, usually the most private of 
men, kissed Duana warmly, then picked both her and Eimile up 
and swung them around victoriously for all to see.  Henry appeared 
to join the happy reunion and get underfoot, but Fitz stopped him, 
putting a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

*~*~*~*

"She needs to go to bed, William." 

Gwilym nodded, asking the little girl his name one more time, to 
which she dutifully replied, "Dehdeh," giving him a puzzled look 
she inherited from her mother and probably wondering how he had 
forgotten in the last twenty seconds.  

"She knows you – she remembers," Duana soothed.  

"But Mab will not," Gwilym answered, lifting the girl off his lap 
and handing her to the nurse, who vanished without a word.  "It 
has been too long."

Aber, with dogs and babies underfoot, the sanctity of their 
marriage bed, and late night philosophical verbal foreplay was 
eons, not miles away.  Normal was a state pushed so far into 
memory he was not sure if he could still function there, provided 
he could find his way back at all.

"Do you really think that he has forgotten us?"   

Gwilym saw his pain reflected back at him, and shrugged. "I do 
not know.  Tyna always knew me, and I left on Crusade when she 
was very small.  Right after Diana died in the fire."

"Was that her name: your daughter with Diana?  You had never 
told me."

He nodded, staring at her for a moment, still remembering the 
empty feeling of seeing their burnt cottage in Bath and being 
certain she had been in it, that it was happening all over again.  He 
blinked, the image vanishing into a few stray specks of green and 
gold in her blue eyes.  She looked at him steadily, calmly, waiting 
for some cue.  That was true courage – not swords or chivalry, but 
to knowing what was sweetest in life and what was truly terrible, 
and then going forward, undeterred and unfaltering, to meet what 
was to come.
 
"There are probably many things I should have told you and have 
not." Then, after a pause, "I brought you a birthday gift," he said 
casually, reaching for a package.

"You are either very early or very late." Duana rested her hand 
lightly on his thigh as he unwrapped it. "What is that? Is it a 
weapon?"

"It is an outlawed weapon," Gwilym answered, showing her how 
to hold and aim the crossbow. "I thought you would like it."

She examined it curiously, seeing how the mechanism worked, 
then thanked him, setting in on the table and covering it with a 
cloth, under-whelmed.

He frowned, disappointed, and she picked it up again, feigning 
interest for his benefit.  
 
Gwilym leaned back, stretching his arms out along the top edge of 
the sofa so he appeared perfectly at ease. "The next time someone 
tries to kidnap you, just shoot him.  I seem to spend an inordinate 
amount of time chasing after you in this marriage, and enough is 
enough.  I am tired of having to hunt you down, and I do not care 
for this fleeing-the-Crown, whose-son-is-whose, burnt cottages, 
your-wife-wanted-sanctuary drama."

Taking his sarcasm at face value rather than realizing the fear 
underlying it, she responded, "William, I am sorry I am so much 
trouble."     

"No, that is not what I meant," he said quickly. "I would track you 
to the very ends of the Earth, but I am never sure what to say when 
I find you.  What do I say, cariad?"
 
"Just say 'hello.' 'I have missed you.' 'I love you.' 

'Hello, I have missed you, I love you," he repeated rapidly, 
slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, 
shifting her so she straddled his hips and wondering if she would 
pull away.  "How was that?"

"It was a good place to begin."

"We have a beginning: it just keeps being interrupted. And we 
have a middle – I think we actually began in the middle, if that 
makes any sense.  Now we need diwedd, an end, cariad." 

"Not just yet," she requested, kissing a tingling line down his neck. 
"Not just yet."
        
*~*~*~*
 
"Henry, stop whining and go to bed," Fitz ordered, rubbing his 
throbbing temples and staring at yet another letter from another 
land baron in need of pacifying.  Like being the kingmaker, the 
letter droned on and on until Fitz could not remember what the 
original point had been or why he had even begun it.  

"But I want to see Lady Duana," the boy insisted, slouching in the 
chair across from Fitz's desk.  He folded his arms, shoving out his 
lower lip and uttering one of his favorite phrases: "I am the king, 
after all."

"Lady Duana is with Lord William," Fitz said tightly, focusing on 
the letter instead of that image.  "I am sure they do not want 
company.  It is late – go to bed."

"But-" 

"Now!" Fitz snapped, then added softly, "I know you are upset, but 
it is past your bedtime.  And I know I told you Duana was going to 
stay, but that is not the case.  I was mistaken."    

"I do not want her to leave," Henry said, his lower lip beginning to 
tremble. "Find a way to make her stay, Fitz.  Please." 

"I cannot, Henry.  I am sorry.  Duana wants to go and William has 
done nothing against the law.  William will be back in the spring 
and he may have news of Duana then.  And you can write to her if 
you like: I suppose William lets her read her letters.  Go on to 
bed."

"I want a story," he pouted.

"All right," Fitz conceded, standing up and stretching. "Come on – 
I will tell you a story."

"One of Duana's stories.  Your stories are all about wars."

Fitz sighed tiredly. "What about one from Kym?"  He opened the 
door to his bedchamber, not remembering if he had sent for his 
mistress tonight or not. "Kym…"    

The small form in the bed rolled, sitting up and pushing her long 
red hair back from her face.  "Yes, my lord?"

"Come tell Henry a bedtime story." 

She blinked in surprise, then obediently wrapped the sheet around 
her and got up.  It was certainly not the strangest thing he had ever 
asked her to do, and he at least had called her by the correct name 
this time.       

"I do not want her stories, Fitz," Henry said from behind him.  
"Just because you can close your eyes and pretend does not mean I 
can."

Fitz turned around, his mouth hanging open.  "You may be the 
king, but I am the kingmaker and you are not above a spanking.  
How dare you!  Go to bed now!"

Henry retreated tearfully, the picture of young misery.  He was 
only repeating what he had overheard from the servants: he did not 
even understand what the joke was. 

Fitz flopped on the sofa, sprawling his legs and staring at the 
ceiling for several minutes until he decided the answers were not 
written up there.  

Kym ventured over hesitantly, knowing she was not usually 
allowed in the office.  Fitx had been in a foul mood for days – ever 
since he returned to Court with the Welshman's wife.  Kym waited 
to be displaced in his bed, but Fitz continued to send for her and 
then to seem disappointed that she was what she was. "My Lord- 
did you want me?"

He raised his head, managing a small smile for her benefit.  Kym 
was as sweet as women came; she just was not Duana.  She was, 
however, as close as he was likely to come.

"In a bit. Go on to sleep; I will wake you later."

She nodded, returning to the bedchamber where she belonged.

Fitz hesitated, considering changing his mind as she dropped the 
sheet and slid nude under the covers, but then heaved himself off 
the sofa and headed for Henry's apartments to check on the boy.

*~*~*~*

"Good evening, Count Pembroke," a creaky voice said from the 
shadows as Fitz left Henry's rooms, having managed a most 
embarrassing story with true love, high adventure, and even, 
against his better judgment, a happy ending. "I hope the king is 
well."

"He is," Fitz answered cautiously, turning to locate the speaker in 
the dark hallway.   

A man stepped out, demanding a great deal of space for an 
average-sized person.

"My lord…" Fitz could not recall the old man's name, so he left it 
at that. "I did not know you were still at Court.  I am glad – I 
wanted to thank you and your friend for returning Lady Duana, and 
apologize for the misunderstanding."

"I understand, of course.  A man has every right to be protective of 
his wife."

"Lady Duana is William of Aber's wife.  She was once my 
stepmother."

"Oh. I must have misread the banns. I had thought she was to be 
your wife."

Fitz shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other 
and wondering how soon he could escape and still be polite.  

"It is a blessing she has you to look out for her.  Her husband left 
her alone in the forest – anything could have happened.  It was 
only good fortune we found her instead of someone else, someone 
with less altruistic motivations.  Really, she owes you a great deal 
for your generosity."   

Like William, Fitz had grown up the sole heir to his father's estate 
and was no stranger to empty flattery from false friends seeking 
favors.  "My apologies, but I cannot place your title. Who did you 
say you were?" 
 
"I am an alchemist – I invent the future."

"Ah," Fitz said, amused. He should remember this: Kym would 
like hearing about this withered fool with skin like a smoked ham 
and a voice like a snake. "And how do you manage that?"

"Very carefully," the old man answered.  "Much as you do.  You 
invent a king, I invent destiny."

"Well, best of luck to you.  Goodnight," Fitz said quickly, starting 
to turn back toward his own rooms.  Watching William embrace 
Duana, soothing Henry's tantrum, and humoring an insane old 
man: he was finished with his good deeds for the day.

"Anyway, it is a pity about her child.  One would think Lord 
William would have more sense than to treat a pregnant woman so 
roughly, but the soothsayers must have told him it was only a girl, 
not a son.  She is his wife, though – I suppose he can beat her as he 
chooses so long as he does not kill her."

The kingmaker's jaw twitched. Duana had told him she had 
miscarried, but she had not given a reason.  Christ, was there 
nothing she would not tolerate, or was she just too proud to admit 
it?  

"Is that what happened?"

"Come see for yourself," the old man offered, turning away.  

Deciding to play this delusional game a few more minutes, Fitz 
followed him through the narrow hallways the servants used 
during the day, but which were empty at this hour. 

"Here," he said quietly, stopping somewhere in the bowels of the 
castle and sliding a cracked stone out of the wall. "Look."

"Yes, that is a very nice rock," Fitz said. "What am I looking at?"  

"It is Lady Duana's bedchamber.  Are you not curious?"

"No, actually I am not," Fitz responded, horrified at the 
implication.  "How dare you spy on her!"

"You must know how easy it is to hurt a woman like that.  So 
fragile.  Such a lovely creature – and bright, too.  Her sons will 
certainly be great men.  It is a pity they will never rule more than 
Wales."

In spite of himself, Fitz's eyes followed the movements in the 
moonlit room, hearing William's soft laughter at some private 
joke.  Duana was standing in front of him as he nuzzled her neck, 
caressing her body through her bedrobe.  William stepped back, 
slipping her robe off, letting it fall to the floor so she was nude, her 
nipples rigid in the cool night air.  She turned, wrapping her arms 
around his neck and tilting her head back as they kissed, red hair 
tumbling down on her shoulders, and his big tanned hands sliding 
over her body as easily as water flowed over a marble sculpture.   

"He will get her with child again – it is time," the man said, 
causing Fitz to jump and realize he was not breathing.  "She is 
telling him that in Welsh, that it is too soon, and he is saying that 
he wants a son and she had better manage to carry this child to 
term.  Or else."

Fitz swallowed, looking away, then actually turning his back so he 
could not see. "This is her choice."  
 
"To spend her life being mistreated by a murderer and traitor when 
she could again be the Countess of Pembroke?"

"Enough, old man.  I will see that this stone is fixed in the morning 
and you will need to find another form of entertainment."

Fitz started to leave, hearing Duana gasp, then murmur something 
urgently in Welsh.  William whispered back, and the mattress 
shifted, making a hushed protest as they lay down.

"Did you notice how much her daughter resembles Henry, but not 
Lord William?" the old man hissed quickly. "Did she not tell you 
William killed Eimile's father?  Who do you think would dare 
have touched your father's wife besides the king?  Perhaps it was 
not his right to force her, but it was Prince Llewelyn's – because 
William did not care enough to pay the fine.  It seems he saves his 
shillings to buy thirteen-year-old girls."

FitzWalter stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to the side, then 
slowly turned around again. "Why are you implying he killed King 
John?"

"I am not implying anything.  Put King Henry and Eimile side-by-
side and look at them.  You need an heir, fitzWalter, and you know 
you will not get one yourself.  Think about what a son with 
William's brilliance and your power could accomplish: he would 
rule Europe – the greatest leader since Charlemagne.  If Lord 
William were executed as a traitor, that would leave Lady Duana 
alone, with child, and in desperate need of a husband.  It is not that 
she dislikes or fears you; it is that she believes she loves William.  
She is not a woman quick to admit defeat, and she is ashamed." 

"Put the stone back," he ordered, shoving it into place himself to 
get the sounds from the bed to stop when the old man did not 
move. "This charge you are making – it is not something I take 
lightly, nor is you spying on Lady Duana.  I will speak to Lord 
William in the morning, and I suggest you be gone from Court by 
then."  

"Until King Henry is of age, you are the ultimate law in Britain – 
how can you let a murderer go unpunished?  Perhaps Henry will be 
William's next target."  Fitz blinked, and the old man dangled the 
proverbial forbidden fruit. "Just think about it: what it must be like 
to touch that woman."

"The only thing I think is that you are insane, old man."  

Fitz turned away, muttering about old fools and late hours, angry 
with himself for even listening to such nonsense.

*~*~*~*

Duana rolled over, reaching out and finding a still-warm empty 
space in the bed beside her.  Looking up, she saw Gwilym standing 
nude in front of the window, silhouetted blue-black by the waning 
November moon.  She often awoke to this – sometimes he would 
be watching the dark horizon for any sign of danger, or sometimes 
the stars, as though he was lost and looking for the Pole Star to 
guide him.  More than once, Duana had opened her eyes to 
William's steady gaze only inches above her.  He would part his 
lips as if to speak, then decide against it and fill the silence by 
making love to her gently, but without a word. 

"What is it, William?"

"I was just watching," he said softly, his breath white in the frosty 
air.

"Watching what?" she asked, pulling a blanket around her and 
padding across the floor to his side.  

"Just watching." 

"All right," Duana said hesitantly, sliding her hand down his bare 
back, not sure if she was going to be kissed or pushed away.  When 
he did not stop her, she ran her fingertips over the lean muscles of 
his hips, stroking as though he was a wild animal she expected to 
shy away.

"I am sorry – I do not think I have said that to you yet," he 
murmured after a long silence.  "For lying to you about other 
women, for taking you into that stupid Roman bath, for leaving 
you alone in the forest…"  He glanced at her from the corner of his 
eye, chewing his lip before he spoke again. "I have been in battles 
where so many of my men fell, their bodies covered the ground 
like snowdrifts.  Time became surreal, and I could not think about 
which friend I was stumbling over.  To survive, I had to keep 
fighting.  It is only after the battle that it becomes real: the scope of 
the loss.  That is what I have been feeling: for months, I have only 
had time to survive.  Now, the battle is ending and it is time to take 
stock of the losses."  

She waited, each word a great weight being almost visibly lifted 
from him.   
 
"I did not realize I was asking you to make such a choice: to stay 
with Fitz and keep Eimile, the baby, and yourself safe, or go with 
me.  I knew you were not well, but I did not think…  If I had it to 
do over again, I – I would have made you go back inside the gates.  
Or perhaps I should never have come for you at all."

"Then I would have had to come to you," she whispered, stepping 
closer and wrapping her blanket around him as well.  "And you are 
a terror to track down when you take off on some adventure."

"You almost died, cariad."

"But I did not."

"Do you blame me?  Or hate me?" he finally asked. "I think you 
must, sometimes.  The girl in Chester's castle – that was 
inexcusable, and we both know you should not have been with 
child again so soon, and that you lost the baby because you fled 
with me.  You do not love me as you once did, but… Is there 
anything left to salvage from this wreckage?"  

She hesitated, trying to find the right words.  "You have always 
taken me as I am, and I have tried to do the same.  I know I am not 
the best wife: I am too proud and willful, and I have trouble 
obeying any man who tells me to stay in a burning cottage," she 
teased, and he smirked nervously, "but I do love you."

"Do you?" Gwilym asked softly. "Yes, you probably do, although 
I have no idea why.  Perhaps you are on some mission from God.  
Are you hoping for sainthood?  Duana of the Scullys: patron saint 
of lost causes."

Duana laughed quietly, laying her forehead against his shoulder. 
"To be a saint, I would have to perform three miracles and die a 
virgin."

"Well, that is not likely," he answered lightly, putting his arms 
around her.  "Even when the world is upside down, you never 
seem to flinch.  I think sometimes you are much stronger than I 
am."  

"I do flinch, William – I just do not let you see it.  We are metal 
forged in a great fire: the hotter the fire, the stronger the bond."

"I am afraid of fire, cariad," he admitted, toying with a strand of 
her hair, rolling the red silk between his fingertips.

"You have good reason to be.  Do you blame me that King John 
hung your Dafydd?  Do you hate me for all the trouble Fitz has 
caused?"

"No, of course not.  You are my wife."       

"And you are my husband, you morose fool." She stepped back, 
tugging on his hand to get him to come back to bed. 

"Again?" he asked, only pretending to be horrified. "Jesus, you are 
trying to kill me, wanton.  I thought I would go get Eimile and 
bring her to sleep with us."

"Do you think you can wait a few minutes?" Duana asked, 
dropping the blanket and turning to crawl up on the mattress.

Gwilym followed, stroking his fingers lightly down the curve of 
her bare hip as she had his. "A few minutes?  Do not insult me, 
witch."  

*~*~*~*

"You get up early, William," Fitz said in surprise, looking up from 
his desk. He had been trying to fill his head with paperwork 
instead of thoughts of Duana - and not succeeding.  "Or are you 
just up very late?"  

"My guards said you wanted to see me and I saw the lights in your 
office..." Gwilym trailed off, still standing, since Fitz had not 
offered him a seat.   

Fitz paused, letting Gwilym wait, then finally realized the 
Welshman was not going to fidget or flinch. "I discovered an old 
man watching Duana earlier tonight.  I have already dealt with 
him, but I wanted you to know."

"Thank you," Gwilym answered simply, waiting to see if there was 
anything else, but only half-awake.  He was eager to get Eimile 
and go back to bed before his post-coital exhausted bliss wore off 
and he actually had to think.  

"And I wanted to ask about her child," Fitz said quickly.   

"It was a girl.  Perhaps if there would have been a doctor or a 
midwife… but there was not."    

That had not been the child Fitz wished to discuss, but it was 
interesting information.  He rehearsed the words in his head 
several times, then said carelessly, "It was just a girl, though."

"Tell that to Duana," Gwilym retorted, snapping awake like a 
soldier who had dozed off on guard duty. He tilted his chin up 
defiantly and added, "I am sure it will make her feel better."

Kym peeked out of the bedchamber, wondering if Fitz would ever 
come to bed, then, noticing Gwilym, quickly ducked back inside 
without having to be told.  Gwilym saw her, though, and silently 
took note of the long, red hair, the fair skin, and the slight build.   

As always, Fitz had the sense this was a very dangerous animal he 
was trying to confine to too small an area.  He ran his hands the 
width of his desk, secretly glad it was between them.  "I do not 
know a polite way to put this, so I will just, uh, say it.  Duana has 
never done anything to dishonor you: if you have a quarrel, it is 
with me.  I have no right to tell you how to treat your wife, but I 
will ask anyway: please do not take out your temper on her."  

"I have no quarrel with my wife," Gwilym answered cautiously, 
looking ahead in this maze to see where the trap might lie.  "She 
only did what I told her to do."

"Which is?"

"That if there was no choice, she did not need to make it even 
worse for herself."  It was the same thing he had told Diana, which 
was how she ended up pregnant with Dafydd.  Even without knives 
or fists, when King John decided he wanted a woman, there was no 
choice. Diana had submitted and been rewarded with a pretty ring; 
Duana had resisted and gotten nightmares. "That I would rather my 
pride bleed than my wife - but my sword has a very long memory."

Fitz studied on that for a few seconds, then said, "Duana said you 
hung Alex."

Gwilym nodded, keeping his face expressionless, but filing that 
epiphany away to ruminate about later. 

"And Eimile's father?"

"Eimile is my daughter," Gwilym responded quickly.  

"She is your daughter just a Dafydd ap Llewelyn is your son: they 
are children born to your legal wife."

Gwilym gritted his teeth, knowing he was being baited somehow.  
No one in Wales would question that he was Dafydd's father, and 
Llewelyn said the boy would live in Aber; he did not need to prove 
a point to fitzWalter.        

Fitz walked casually around the desk and leaned back on it so his 
eyes were level with Gwilym's. "I have never asked Duana to do 
anything she did not want to do."

"That was wise," Gwilym snapped, sardonically amused at the way 
Fitz justified what was and was not coercion.  

"She said I would not still be breathing if I had."

"She is a smart woman."

"And a beautiful one," Fitz supplied, noticing the musky female 
scent clinging to Gwilym's skin. He was flaunting it: the bastard 
Welshman was flaunting that he had just been to bed with Duana, 
and probably just gotten her with child. "Tell me – would you 
really kill me if I had forced her?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you would.  I think you would kill anyone who hurt her, 
and I know enough about women to know someone has hurt her 
very badly.  Not Edward and his friend looking for a village girl to 
play with, but a grown man wanting to punish a prideful woman 
for scorning him." Fitz paused, watching Gwilym for any reaction.  

Gwilym blinked, and Fitz's stomach tightened. He had thought the 
old man was talking nonsense, Gwilym would laugh, and that 
would be that.

"I do not understand what you want from me."

"I want the same thing I have always wanted: for Duana to be 
happy and safe.  She says you make her happy.  Give me your 
word you will keep her safe."

"I give you my word," Gwilym responded, feeling a flicker of 
kinship. "I would trade my life for hers." 

"And swear to me on your honor you never harmed King John."

Caught off guard, Gwilym opened his mouth, then closed it again.  
"I swear I have never raised my sword against my king," he finally 
said.

Fitz stared at him, waiting for Gwilym to grin and announce in his 
bad French that this was some sort of joke. "The old king did not 
die by a sword, William," he said slowly.  

*~*~*~*
*~*~*~*

"You had cause to hate King John, but so did many men, myself 
included," Fitz said sympathetically, pacing the worn oak floor of 
Gwil's new caged world. "I assure you: I have no desire to take 
Eimile from you.  She is legally your daughter, regardless of who 
fathered her.  Nor am I eager to try you for treason, but you are not 
giving me a choice."  
 
Gwilym continued to silently stare out the small barred window, 
looking down at the ice beginning to form on the Thames River 
eighty feet below.  Fitz had ordered him moved from Duana's 
apartments to The Tower, keeping him in a comfortable corner 
high above the courtyard until this 'matter,' as Fitz called it, could 
be 'resolved' – meaning until a plausible reason could be devised 
for Gwil to stop drawing breath.

Someone should tell a man when he is about to do a thing for the 
last time – hold his son, make love to his wife, watch a sunrise – so 
he would know to pause and savor the moment.  Two of those 
moments had rushed past, but one remained, and Fitz insisted on 
interrupting it by chattering about minor details.  

"Did you know the Crown owns every swan in the Thames?" 
Gwilym finally said, speaking for the first time in hours as the sun 
peaked over the horizon.

"It is November – there are no swans," Fitz snapped, his head 
pounding in protest at his lack of sleep.  He was so tired he could 
feel his blood pulsing behind his eyes, and Gwilym was making 
observations about swans.

"I was just wondering: how does someone own a swan unless the 
swan agrees?  A cow, a pig, or a horse: those you can own, but not 
a swan.  It is like claiming to own a woman: perhaps it is the law, 
but it is not really worth the trouble unless she agrees."

"William, these charges: do you understand how serious they are? 
I have a man who says you killed King John, and Duana once told 
me you killed Eimile's father.  Now, Eimile's father was obviously 
King John."

"Yes, I understand.  And Duana cannot testify in court: we both 
know that."

"Answer the charge, William," FitzWalter demanded.  When 
Gwilym did not respond, he threatened, "My men found a 
crossbow in Duana's apartments, which she insists is hers, as 
laughable as that is.  It could easily become hers, if you do not 
cooperate – I will send Eimile away and keep Duana here as I 
please."

Gwilym tipped his chair back, balancing precariously on two legs. 
"Do you not want to torture me?  Surely you want to torture me, 
Fitz."

"All I want is the truth," Fitz responded, rapidly losing patience.  

"It does not matter what the truth is: I am a dead man regardless."

"It is beginning to look that way."
  
*~*~*~*
 
"What is it, breila?" Llewelyn muttered in response to the hand 
shaking his shoulder.  

Joanna thought it was a crisis each time their daughter sneezed, 
and whether they were speaking or not, she still insisted on waking 
him.  Gruffydd was the oldest of Llewelyn's seven children – nine 
children, if he was supposed to count Gwilym's two little ones – 
and Joanna's daughter was the youngest: he had learned not to 
panic at every case of the sniffles.

"Wake up, my lord," the woman pleaded in Welsh, continuing to 
jiggle him.  

Tang – it was his precious Tangwystl: he could see her hair 
through his half-open eyelids.  He sighed contentedly and went 
back to sleep, knowing he was dreaming: Tang, with her red curls, 
gentle laugh, and mysterious smiles, had been taken from him a 
few hours after Rhys had been born.  Marrying King John's 
illegitimate teenage daughter was supposed to heal that wound, but 
one woman could not replace another and it was unfair to insist she 
try.  The eye might believe all cats were gray in the dark, but the 
heart was no so easily fooled.  Poor Joanna: he loved her with all 
his heart, but only so much of it remained.

"It is Duana.  Please wake up, my lord."

"Duana?"  There was a name that did not belong in his 
bedchamber.

"Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she whispered, pulling him up to 
sitting and handing him his breeches.  The other men who had 
bedded down in the great hall stirred, grumbling at being 
awakened so early.  

The great hall – ah, he was at London Court.  Something about 
leaving a siege so he could ride with Gwil – who was not dead 
after all - and Fitz wanting to make a deal with Gwil, except that 
Duana – who was not with child after all - had died in a fire.  No, 
that was Diana who died in the fire, because word came that Duana 
was at Court, and Llewelyn had finally gotten Gwilym to get up, 
sober up, and go get her.  

Gwilym should get wives with names that did not sound so much 
alike.   

Christ, it was early.

Llewelyn stared alternately at his bare legs, his breeches, and 
Gwilym's wife, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. He 
ran his tongue over his teeth, swallowed, and asked sleepily, "Why 
are you here? Does Gwilym know you are here?"

"I told you: Fitz has arrested Gwilym.  I am here because my 
guards said this was where you were," she answered quickly as 
Llewelyn continued to stare at her.  "Wake up!" she ordered, and 
dodged as one of the other men threw a boot at her.

"Fitz has arrested Gwil?" he echoed, trying to focus through the 
one eye he had managed to open. "And you are here?  And I am 
not wearing any breeches?" 

No, something about that was not right: a pox on morning people.

"Fitz found the crossbow in my apartments, and he will not believe 
it is mine, not Gwilym's," Duana continued, pulling his shirt over 
his head efficiently. "Gwilym is in The Tower, and Fitz will not 
see me.  You have to talk to him."

"Talk to whom?" Llewelyn asked, waving her away as she started 
to help him with his breeches.  He was accustomed to servants 
dressing him, but it was first thing in the morning and this was his 
best friend's pretty young wife.  His possessive, hot-tempered best 
friend who knew exactly why Pembroke's widow had caught 
Llewelyn's eye at Court: he could manage his own breeches. "Talk 
to whom: FitzWalter or Gwil?"

"Talk to Fitz.  Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she repeated, holding out 
his boots. 

"All right. All right," he blinked, standing up and turning away as 
he tightened the laces on his breeches. 

"Put your boots on.  I have your tunic," Duana ordered, somehow 
forgetting she was addressing the Prince of Wales. "And hurry up."

"I am hurrying," Llewelyn promised, hopping on one foot as he 
jerked on his other knee boot. "What is it I am supposed to tell 
Fitz?"

"That the crossbow is mine."

He nodded, getting his facts straight. "I am to tell Fitz the 
crossbow is yours. And where is fitzWalter?"

"In The Tower with Gwilym! Jesus!" she said in exasperation, 
sounding like she wished she had been born a man, or at least 
something slightly more important than a royal lapdog.

*~*~*~* 

"Is Duana all right?" Gwil asked urgently as the guards escorted 
Llewelyn into The Tower, shoving him forward and bolting the 
door behind him.   

"She is fine," Llewelyn nodded, dragging a stool across the floor to 
sit beside Gwilym at the window. "You, however, seem to be 
having your monthly crisis, and, of course, you must have it in the 
middle of the night. I swear you are exactly like my wife." 

"Well, I am hairier and taller than Joanna, but perhaps if it were 
very dark…" he replied sarcastically, pursing his lips seductively.  
"Make my your wife, Llewel.  We cannot deny ourselves any 
longer."

"What is this about, Gwil? I have talked to Fitz until I am blue, but 
all he says is you have broken the king's law, and are being held 
for trial by jury.  I tried to explain the crossbow was a joke, and 
you are just odd like that, but he will not listen."

"I am just odd – that is a good defense."

"FitzWalter is saying 'treason,' and I do not understand how 
having a crossbow is treason.  Against the law, yes, but not 
treason.  You hunt in my woods, you 'forget' to show up to pay 
homage: if I tried to punish you every time you broke the law, I 
would never get anything done except punishing you."

"Ohh," Gwilym replied, feigning excitement and leaning closer. 
"Will there be spankings?  I have been a bad, bad boy."

"Stop it, Gwil: you are acting like a brat," Llewelyn snapped 
tiredly.  "What is this about?"

Gwilym stood, crossing to the ornate bed and lying back onto the 
mattress.  Llewelyn expected another bland innuendo, but instead, 
"It is the law that if your liege lord rapes your wife, a husband can 
demand justice, and the penalty for touching a noblewoman is 
death."   
      
"I have never touched Duana.  Or am I now supposed to say I 
have?  Jesus, your schemes are complicated."

"But the problem is," Gwil continued calmly, ignoring the 
interruption, "that a woman cannot testify to rape – there must be a 
male witness.  Without a man to speak for her, who can say she 
was raped and not seduced?  And what is the boundary between 
the two: how is what Duana is offering Fitz right now any less rape 
than her having to submit to me or to you, if you had wanted her?  
I do not ask my best mare if she wants to be bred, but I do expect 
her to comply because I own her, just as I own Duana.  And if I let 
her out in the pastures while she is in season, it is my own fault if 
she gets hurt. I have say over her, but I am also responsible for 
protecting her." 

"What are you telling me?" Llewelyn asked, befuddled by another 
of Gwil's peculiar notions.  "Owning a woman – you sound like a 
Norman.  Is someone a horse in this story?"

"A brood mare, actually."  Gwilym rolled, propping himself up on 
his elbow.  "Fitz thinks I killed King John.  He wants me to 
confess."

"That is laughable – you were in Ireland with Duana when the king 
died in his bed."  There were several seconds of silence, and 
Llewelyn swallowed, a very bad thought beginning to swirl in his 
belly as he asked, "You were in Ireland with Duana, were you 
not?"

"If anyone could swear John raped her, I would almost have just 
cause, but no one can.  And, the king is my liege lord through you 
– you are my lord, so I should have heeded your judgment."

"And I told you to send Duana and her baby back to King John," 
Llewelyn replied, wondering how he could have ever said that to 
his friend: his Dafydd was dead and his new wife needed to be 
annulled.  "Or to make Eimile vanish."

"Well, perhaps I did not care for your justice."

Llewelyn blinked several times, then cleared his throat.  There was 
no love lost between them, but King John had been his father-in-
law.  And he had been the King of England, for God's sake.  God, 
the Pope, the King of England, then the Prince of Wales: that was 
the order of the universe.

"I see."

"You cannot fight beside me this time, Llewel, and I do not expect 
you to."

"Ask for an ordeal," Llewelyn said desperately. "Perhaps God will 
judge you differently than men."    

Gwilym shook his head 'no.'  "If you can find Leuan, I would like 
to make my final confession to him; he was in the north country 
the last I heard.  And, if you can manage it, I would like to see 
Duana.  Then, get her and Eimile out of London and I will 
confess."

Llewelyn shook his head, not believing this. "I will lie – just tell 
me what to say and I will say it."

"Say you will take care of Duana."
 
*~*~*~*
   
"She is back here, my lord," the priest said, waddling ahead of Fitz 
through the aisles of Temple Church. "We are not sure what to do.  
Where is her husband?"

"I will see to her," Fitz dismissed the priest, watching Duana for a 
moment as she sat beside his father's effigy.  She looked hollow, 
as though life had drained away and she was dying inside.  
    
"It is time to go, Duana," he said softly.

"William got me a tomb for New Years," she answered, not 
looking up, "Two years ago: after Eimile came and I seemed to cry 
half the day and yell the other half.  He got me a tomb to talk to 
just like he went and talked to his Dafydd, but I was so busy I 
never got to go.  And then I was carrying Mab, and then we had to 
come to London.  It did help, though: just knowing it was there."

Fitz nodded, trying to understand.  William had filled her head 
with these bizarre ideas until Fitz felt he barely knew her.  He had 
fallen in love with a beautiful, frightened fourteen-year-old girl in 
need of rescue - one who seemed like a weaker reflection of this 
woman.  She was still lovely, but she no longer needed or wanted 
him to rescue her, making him feel like an actor lacking a role.  

"Your father told me something, once, about when he was a boy.  
We were talking about you – he was so proud of you – and he said 
he had once been a hostage of King Stephen to ensure the 
Pembrokes were loyal to the crown, just as you were a hostage of 
King John's.  Walter's father did something – took a castle, or 
something else that displeased the king, and the king threatened to 
hang Walter.  Your grandfather yelled out from the castle 
battlements: 'hang him – I can make newer, better sons.'  King 
Stephen could not really kill a child, though, and Walter and the 
king spent the day playing knights in a nearby field."

"Did that really happen, or was Father just teasing you?"

"It really happened, Fitz.  I always meant to tell William that story 
– about a king who did not have the heart to hang a boy.  It makes 
me angry: that you apologize to Llewelyn about Gruffydd, but you 
do not apologize to William.  He loved his first Dafydd as much as 
your father loved you."   

"I do not doubt that, Duana – and in his way, he cares for you very 
much as well.  I just spoke to him, and that is his only concern: 
what will happen to you and his children.  He says he will curse 
me from beyond the grave in this life and hunt me down in the next 
if I harm you."

"Do not doubt him.  He is very stubborn about not staying dead."

"Are you ready to come back to Court?  You are to gather your 
things and get ready to leave London."

"No," she responded, clenching her fists.

"No?"  Fitz was not accustomed to hearing that word.  He was just 
being polite by asking her – it was really a rhetorical question.  
William had insisted he would not confess until Duana and Eimile 
safely reached Wales.

"William says I can go wherever I please as long as I have an 
escort.  Those are his knights outside.  If you do not like my 
husband's rules, talk to my husband."

"Your –husband- is a traitor and a murderer."

"He is still my husband," she insisted, glaring at him.  "And you 
are not." 

"So I am supposed to let you sit on the cold floor and talk to my 
father's tomb in Gaelic all night?"

"Yes," Duana replied defiantly.

"Duana, King John married you to William as a joke.  The king 
wanted to humiliate you, and I suppose he thought giving you to a 
Welshmen was a step below just letting the troops have you.  I 
expect you to grieve him, but I will not permit this.  Get up this 
instant."

"Is that what it will be like being married to you, Fitz?" she 
retorted, staring up at him with swollen eyes but not budging from 
beside the marble tomb. "You telling me what I can and cannot 
feel; what I can and cannot think?  How proud your father would 
have been…"   

"You do not want to be my wife and I will not force you – you 
know that," he answered evenly. "If he confesses, he will be 
executed.  If he does not, William will be tried by the Counsel in 
the spring.  I will testify to what I know and they will judge him.  
Either way, you cannot help him.  Take your daughter and go back 
to Wales."   

"Why?" Duana stood, shaking the dust from her skirts and 
stepping so close to him she had to tilt her head back to look in his 
eyes. "Do you not want me?" She licked her lips, taking a deep 
breath and swearing to herself she could do this.  It was just flesh 
and William had certainly bled for her. "Me for William – is that 
not a fair deal?"

"Duana!" a man's voice said sharply, and she turned to see 
Llewelyn coming through the dim church.  She stepped back from 
Fitz, but not before Llewelyn saw her: she could tell by his 
expression.  "It is time to go, Duana," he ordered sternly.

She nodded, fastening her cloak against the sleet outside and 
pulling up her hood. 

"You obey him, but not me?" Fitz said in exasperation.  She just 
would not understand that he was not the villain in this story.  He 
did not hurt servant girls; he did not kill kings or forsake his oath 
of service to the Crown.  He did not beat her until she miscarried 
or take her among pagans or abandon her in the forest.  Perhaps if 
he did, she might defend him as blindly and determinedly as she 
defended William.   

"I trust him," she said icily.

*~*~*~*
 
Sprawled across the mattress on his belly, his head nested on his 
folded arms, Gwilym wandered the not-awake, not-asleep portion 
of consciousness where the mind roamed free.  Lost children lived 
there – dead mistresses – even a dog he had owned that had been 
kicked by a horse and died bleeding from its mouth.  The wind 
against the shutters whispered unintelligible secrets and the river 
below hummed a song he was sure he had known as a child, but 
could no longer recall.  It was where the deliberate world ended 
and the mapmakers simply wrote, 'Here be Dragons,' for fear of 
what that might be out there.

In truth, it was a comforting place: quietness without loneliness.  
Someone had told him that once.  No, written it, but he could not 
remember who it had been.  Gwilym looked around the edges of 
his soul, trying to see if that person was there, but instead felt the 
bed shift and a woman's hand guiding him back to reality.

"Duana," he murmured skeptically, seeing her face behind the 
flickering candle. "I am your husband?"

"For some time now," she responded, smiling sadly at his sleepy 
bewilderment.  "Which is either a great blessing or a great curse – 
it varies from week to week."

"I was just checking. There has been some confusion."  He 
yawned, scooting back on the bed and gesturing for her to lie down 
beside him in the furs.  Fitz had seen he had a very plush cage – 
including the well-dressed guards outside the barred door.  

Duana had been watching him, but looked away, wondering if he 
already knew about her offer to Fitz.  And even if Fitz accepted, 
Llewelyn was not letting her out of his sight.  Although he had not 
reproached her, the Prince of Wales even stood outside the door as 
she and her precious honor went to the privy.  

"What is it, cariad?"  He caught her sleeve and pulled her toward 
him. "Lay down and lecture me.  Savor it – it is your last chance."

"Do not say that," she implored as he spooned up behind her with a 
contented sigh.  

"Why? It is the truth.  All things have to end, and I am guilty as 
Cain."  He ran his hand down her arm, then pulled the covers over 
them both, resting his face close to hers. "Just pretend I have 
'wandered off,' as you say.  Not all who wander are lost.  Go home 
to Aber and perhaps one day I will come riding in with a ruined 
shirt, an empty stomach, and a few good lies about where I have 
been."

"No," she insisted. "I will not-"

He sighed again, draping his bare leg over her. "Just listen, cariad. 
Please.  There are some things I need to say.  I have waited long 
enough."  

She lay still as he took a deep breath, working up his courage and 
organizing his thoughts, his mind overflowing with all the things 
he wanted to tell her. "You will take Eimile and leave London with 
Llewelyn immediately before…  Just get out of London, cariad.  I 
have spoken to Llewelyn about you and the children – I think he 
understands."

"Understands what?"

"Just what you and I have already talked about," he said, trying to 
sound casual.  "Llewelyn will see you are safe as long as I am 
alive, and then that you are able to choose a husband who suits 
you."

"You suit me just fine."

"There may be some problems with being married to a dead man.  
The smell, for one thing.  Just tell Llewel what you want – he is a 
good listener – and he will see that it happens.  Of course, when all 
these men who moon over you discover you are not half as docile 
as you look, they may leave you at the side of the road, so perhaps 
you should consider becoming a nun."  

He hesitated, wondering how to approach the subject, then said 
bluntly, "Joanna has miscarried again: the messenger came this 
morning.  Llewelyn cares for his precious 'breila' – his wild rose - 
but she is never going to have another son and he knows it.  And 
even if she did, men would always whisper, with good reason, that 
the child was not his.  The king could not object if he divorced 
Joanna after what she has done.  If he would divorce her and marry 
you, that would ease Mab's claim to Wales, and you two are 
friends: it would work out well.  Once, he even told me he envied 
me: that you slept alone when I was away, patched my wounds, 
and laughed at my bad jokes.  Llewel has killed more men than I 
have even met and conquered all of Wales, yet he is jealous my 
wife laughs at my bad jokes.  We were both very drunk when he 
admitted that, so never tell him I told you.  Anyway, do not think I 
am pushing you, but that might be one option.  After…"

She did not answer, refusing to even discuss this lunacy.

"I only want to know you will be safe – you have been hurt so 
much.  When I found our house burned… I cannot sculpt words 
like the poets, so I cannot expect you to understand.  Cariad, I wish 
I had a sword, a dragon, and a great cause like the epic heroes so I 
could show you how much I care, but I am not likely to get them.  I 
love you more than I ever imagined I could. You are my anchor, 
and my morning after I thought the sun had gone."

She sniffed, cuddling closer. "You promised you would not leave 
me."

"I promised I would always come back," he corrected. "And I will 
have to find you in this next life we speak of sometimes." Trying 
to make a joke, Gwilym continued, "Just do not be reborn as a 
sheep or a man – I do not care for either.  Not that I have tried 
either," he added, starting to chatter to cover up his aching heart. "I 
just do not think that I would."
 
"Are you afraid, William?" Duana asked softly. "I am.  I am so 
afraid."  

"I am terrified," he whispered back, kissing her neck.

"Will you change your mind – about another baby?  It is time – if 
we would…."

"No," Gwilym said firmly, recovering his poise. "It is too soon."

"But I will be…" She rolled over, facing him. "…I will be so 
careful."

He shook his head, watching her tortured eyes as she tried not to 
cry.  "I will not have you die because of me.  We have a son: I am 
already immortal because of you." 

"Llewelyn bribed the guards," she finally murmured, still hoping 
she could persuade him. "We have an half an hour.  They think I 
am a prostitute."

"Will you do something for me?"

"Anything," Duana offered, running her finger down the center of 
his chest, over the coarse, dark hair and raised scars.

"Prove them wrong."
     
*~*~*~*
 
With a loud, watery sigh through his nose like on old dog bedding 
down for the night, the scribe put down his quill, leaning his chin 
on his fist in boredom.  Vespers had rung and two meals had been 
served and cleared away while he and the Earl of Pembroke waited 
for this bastard Welshmen to confess something worth writing.  
Servants had brought food for the two noblemen that sat untouched 
and congealing on the table, but scribes and guards seemed to be 
expected to live off their humps like those beasts in the Holy Land. 
 
"We seem to have reached what we ignorant Welshmen call 'an 
impasse,' William said after a long pause, looking very cocky for a 
man whose head would soon be decorating London Bridge.  

Everyone was talking about it: Fitzwalter Pembroke wanted this 
man's wife, so being merely her husband had become a dangerous 
occupation.  And being her Welsh husband in combination with a 
trumped up charge of high treason was a death sentence.  If the 
scribe was the one accused, he would rather confess and be 
summarily, nobly beheaded than face whatever slow death a jury 
of Norman noblemen could devise.

Fitz leaned back, folding his arms and trying not to look like he 
was enjoying himself.  He liked playing mind games with William, 
provided he played with loaded dice.  "October 18, 1216 – 
Nottinghamshire.  Newark Castle.  King John was ill and his men 
abandoned him there.  The next morning, he was found dead in his 
bed.  Tell me what happened," he prompted again. "And think 
carefully this time." 

William nodded seriously, seeming to be constructing deep, 
confession-like thoughts, and the scribe picked up his quill again in 
anticipation.  After a moment of concentrated effort, he said 
slowly, "It was a Thursday – cold and rainy, but that is nothing 
odd.  I wore gray.  Eggs for breakfast."

"Damn it!" Fitz barked, slamming his fist down on the table for 
emphasis, and making red wine and black ink spill and splatter like 
blood across the table. "Answer the question." 

"Really – I do think it was a Thursday.  I have a good memory for 
these things."

"I am about to jog your memory with a good lashing!  Enough of 
this!  How did King John die?  Did you kill him?"

"What do you want, Fitz?" William shot back, his voice soft, but 
speaking as quickly as his command of French allowed. "Duana's 
freedom is contingent on my confession, so I will confess.  I boiled 
him in oil, I drowned him in brandy-wine, I smothered him in 
kisses – what does it matter?  Give Duana and Eimile safe passage 
to Wales and I will confess to whatever you want."     

"Duana and her daughter have already been provided safe passage 
to Wales," Fitz answered, hedging at the truth.  Llewelyn had tried 
to get Duana to leave London, but, unwilling to bind her wrists and 
ankles and throw her over his saddle like a spoil of war, the Prince 
of Wales had been unsuccessful.  Intervening in the struggle, Fitz 
had taken Duana's resistance as a sign she did not want to be 
Llewelyn's mistress, either, so, Duana stayed at Court with 
Llewelyn at her heels, until Fitz had put a stop to that.  The woman 
deserved some peace, for God's sake, and she should not be passed 
from one man to the next like a prostitute.

"Then prove it to me."

"How can I prove she is not here?  If she is not in London, I cannot 
bring her and show you that she is not in London!"  

"And we have circled back to that same impasse again," William 
replied, raising his eyebrows doubtfully.  "It would be a pity for 
me to die without you ever learning the truth."  He scooted his 
chair back, propping his feet up on the long wooden table in his 
Tower room. "So what do you want, Fitz?  Surely hanging me like 
a common criminal is too boring for you.  A traitor's death: drawn 
and quartered - that is dramatic, but messy.  Perhaps a heretic's 
fate?  We Welsh blaze well, and crowds always turn out to cheer a 
good burning at the stake."

Fitz was watching closely, and saw William shiver slightly at the 
last words, belaying his nonchalant exterior at the thought of dying 
in flames. "What do you want?" he echoed calmly, playing on the 
moment of weakness.

"Make Duana and Eimile leave with Llewelyn – she will not go 
willingly: I understand that, but Llewelyn will not harm her, either.  
Once I am dead, let Duana remarry as she pleases, if she pleases 
and let her have say over Eimile and Mab.  Grant her widows' 
rights to my lands in Aber with Llewelyn speaking for her in court, 
if need be.  And do not touch her..."

Unless Fitz imagined it, William had poised his mouth to add 
'again,' and then decided against it.  "That is all?  I have sworn on 
my honor that no harm will come to her and she has already been 
offered safe passage from London.  Whether she accepts safe 
passage is up to her.  Do you think my word is worth nothing?"

"No," William answered quietly, picking up a goblet. "Only that 
you are still a young man who believes he can own swans."

Fitz pushed his eyebrows together, thinking either he had 
misunderstood or William was just insane. "You have my word.  
Within reason, she may go and do as she pleases, and no man will 
touch her without her consent."  

William shook his head from side to side, setting his wine glass 
down again, curiously watching his fingers curving around the 
delicate stem.  "That is not what I said.  I do not want you to touch 
her, regardless of whether she consents or not."    

"You cannot have it both ways," Fitz explained. "She is either free 
to do as she pleases or she is not.  If it pleases her to be my wife, I 
will not turn her away to sooth your vanity."

"I am not the one whose vanity needs soothing," William said, the 
corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-smile.  "She would agree 
to you and all two-hundred of your knights if she thought it might 
save me or our children – do you not understand that?  Tell me she 
has not already offered."

Under William's steady gaze, the kingmaker stiffened like a boy 
caught trying to look up a peasant woman's dress.  

"I have no quarrel with you," William continued. "If she wanted to 
be with you, I would step aside – I would probably even leave 
Eimile with you and Duana, knowing she would be well-cared for.  
But now you decide if I live or die, Fitz; whether Duana can ever 
see our son or me again; even whether she can remarry after I am 
dead or if she will be sent to a nunnery and my children and lands 
taken from her.  You control everything precious to her and she 
had nothing else to offer except herself.  How can you think she 
has a choice but to consent?  She will agree to you, and she will 
probably even manage to smile, but wake up and roll over one 
night, Fitz, and you will see she is crying."  

"Did you kill King John?" Fitz asked tensely, wanting to redirect 
this conversation. 

"Will you make Duana and Eimile go with Llewelyn?"

Fitz nodded tersely, folding his arms across his chest.

"Have Duana send me a message in her own hand when she 
reaches Wales and I will confess to killing King John."

"But did you really kill him?" Fitz was beginning to understand 
how this game was played, and that his dice were not so loaded 
after all. "Or are you buying Duana's freedom?"

"Let Duana go and I will confess," William repeated, his face now 
expressionless as he tilted his chair precariously backward.

"I have no desire to execute an innocent man.  I am not going to 
charge Duana for having that crossbow.  If that is why you are 
confessing, I was only bluffing.  It was just an ill-considered gift I 
took from her before she could hurt herself."     

Again, perhaps Fitz was imagining it, but William looked faintly 
amused, which infuriated him.   

"I know who I am and to whom I belong, although it has taken me 
a lifetime to figure it out.  I am content to die knowing that.  I hope 
you live long enough to do the same, but for now you are a still 
boy who believes he can own swans, Marshall FitzWalter."

Fitz threw his hands up in exasperation, having no idea what to 
make of that.  "Jesus Christ, William.  Answer the damn question!"

"He forced my wives, hanged my Dafydd, and tried to take my 
daughter.  Yes, I made sure King John Lackland spent eternity 
burning in Hell," William answered evenly.  "In fact, I hope the 
flames are singeing his ass this very moment."

*~*~*~*

When he was a boy, Leuan would return from trips with a treat for 
Gwilym – Llwynog, then – hidden somewhere.  Nothing large or 
expensive, but always something: a wooden toy in his saddlebags 
or an interesting rock tucked up the sleeve of his priests' robes.  
Wherever Leuan had been, it was proof he had thought of his 
charge while he was away.  Gwilym, as a lonely child unsure of 
why men whispered when he was around, had treasured those 
trinkets, and reinstated the custom thirty years later with Duana.   

It was very comforting: simply to not be forgotten.  To have a 
woman laugh at your stupid jokes, to know to whom you belong, 
and to not be forgotten – those were the important things in life. 

When he opened his eyes and saw the robed man in the shadowy 
room, Gwilym had the urge to pat him down to find his prize, 
which the ghostly figure would probably have found quite 
startling.  

"Leuan?" he whispered, but there was no response from the robed 
form.  As his mind awoke, he realized it was not a Templar priest 
after all, but a Druid, his face hidden underneath his white hood.

The Druid opened his palm, blew lightly, and a tiny red light 
appeared.  It escaped and flickered across the canopy above 
Gwilym's bed like one of the distant Beltane bonfires he and 
Duana had once seen in Aber.  It teased him, darting back and 
forth, then dancing down the stone wall and to the oak door.  
Curious, Gwilym pushed down the covers and sat up, surprised to 
find he was still fully dressed, and followed the beam.  The Druid 
nodded in approval, turned, and vanished into the closed door like 
a dissipating mist.  The fairy light lingered, though, playfully 
dancing in circles and taunting him to follow it and its secrets.

At his tentative push, the heavy door opened silently and easily, 
and Gwilym found he was standing on a frozen riverbank, looking 
out at the ice on the Thames River instead of in the hallway.  
Puzzled, he turned and looked back at The Tower, and was 
reassured to see yellow lights still glowing through the barred 
window of his prison.  If the candle was burning, he was probably 
still laying in bed reading at this very moment, so there was no 
need to worry about why he might think he was standing outside.  

The fairy light reappeared, shimmering crimson patterns across the 
moonlit drifts, and he pulled his fur cloak closer around him 
against the cold, not bothering to wonder where he had suddenly 
gotten an ermine mantle fit for a king.  He had probably won it 
playing dice, just as he had won Duana's crossbow.  

In the distance, the execution block waited, the handle of the axe 
blanketed by a fine line of snow.  He was dreaming of the future 
then, and he was to be beheaded as a traitor – that was far more 
pleasant than burning as a heretic.  It was not nearly as pleasant as 
going home to his wife and family, but a marked improvement, as 
deaths went.

He started to walk toward the block, to accept his fate with what 
honor he had left, but the light skittered in circles around him and 
back to the snow-covered Thames.  The Druid priest reappeared, 
blocking his path, nodding 'no' and sternly pointing at the middle 
of the river.

"Please – no," Gwilym said weakly, realizing this was his old 
dream after all.  Duana was trapped somewhere underneath the ice 
behind him: cold, afraid, alone, and he was supposed to try to find 
her in time. "This is not the future – not way it ends.  I die and she 
lives."
 
The Druid figure nodded 'no' again, and stepped closer.  
Frightened of seers, ghosts, or oracles or whatever this creature 
was, Gwilym stepped backward, his boots slipping down the 
riverbank and onto the glassy surface of the frozen river.  

This was just a nightmare, this was just a nightmare, he tried to 
assure himself, kneeling and frantically brushing the snow off the 
ice, desperately trying to finally find Duana before it was too late.  
The wind picked up, blowing snowflakes of tiny cold fire into his 
eyes so he had to squint to see.  As his bare hands began to grow 
numb from the cold, he revealed a woman's dead face staring up at 
him, her short red hair swirling around her head in the icy, murky 
water. 

He struck the ice with his palm, then fist, but got nothing except a 
few smears of blood. "Get me something to break the ice," 
Gwilym ordered urgently, as though he might save her at this 
point.  He had never saved her – not in a thousand dreams.  He had 
probably been having this nightmare for a thousand years, 
spending eons struggling and failing to change destiny.  The dream 
always ended with him on the ice, alone in the midst of a vast 
white nothing, holding a woman he could not find in time.

"She cannot swim: get me an axe!" he insisted illogically. "Get the 
executioner's axe.  What is wrong with you?  Help me!"

The Druid only shook his head 'no,' backing away.

In his dreams, the ice suddenly began to crack and shift, as it did 
now – breaking apart with loud moans.  As soon as there was 
room, Gwilym lay on his stomach and reached into the fissure, 
ignoring the gashes from the sharp edges and the precarious angle 
of the collapsing ice as he fished in the murky water.  The body 
began to drift away, and he lunged after it, falling head-over-heels 
into the frigid water, but succeeding in grasping her wrist.  It 
seemed like an eternity before he broke the surface again, gasping 
for air as the cold squeezed the breath from his lungs.  Coughing, 
he struggled to stay afloat and keep hold of her hand until he could 
drag her atop the drifting ice.

"Get a blanket; she is cold," he ordered the oracle, pulling off his 
own wet fur cloak and wrapping it around the nude body when the 
Druid and the red fairy light continued to merely watch from the 
riverbank.  "It is fine, cariad.  Everything is fine." He rocked the 
battered body against him, rubbing her blue-gray, bruised face and 
arms to warm them. "I am sorry – I know you do not like open 
water.  Wake up: stop fooling.  You are scaring me, Duana."
 
"She is so cold," he murmured, not able to conceive she was not 
going to awaken and he was.  Any moment this dream would end 
and he would wake in his warm Tower prison. "Help her: do not 
let this happen," he pleaded with the Druid, who just pointed to the 
woman's form on Gwilym's lap, her head shifting slightly as the 
ice float rose and fell with the waves. 

His chest constricting painfully, he looked at the body, touching 
the bruises around the neck and the bloody stubs where fingers had 
once been.  He could not imagine what man would do this – rape 
and kill a woman and then take her hair and fingers as trophies.  As 
the tears began to fall, he pushed what remained of her wet, red-
black curls back from her forehead.  Someone had hacked it off: 
even the hasty haircut Duana had given herself in Llangly's hut 
was better than this.  What a horrible, horrible way to die.  

"This is what happens?" he asked the Druid, running his numb 
fingertips over the woman's cold, narrow shoulders. "She dies and 
I live?"

Had she done what Gwilym had told her – submitted, thinking this 
monster would let her go afterward only to realize too late what 
was happening?  Had she waited, hurt and frightened, but sure 
Gwil would keep his promise – the man who hurt her would suffer 
until he prayed for death?   

The fairy light drifted down, darting randomly over her face and 
finally settling into a thin red line high on her forehead.  

The scar, Gwilym realized breathlessly, blinking so he could see 
clearly – the scar on her forehead where she fell from her horse: 
this body did not have it.  She was a small and slight with red hair, 
but whatever had killed this woman had beaten and mutilated her 
so she was almost unrecognizable.  His hands shaking with cold 
and fear, he pushed open her eyelids, finding they were green 
instead of lake-blue.          

"It is not Duana?" he asked through chattering teeth, shock 
beginning to set in from so long in the icy water.  It was not Duana 
– it could be Fitz's prostitute from the inn, or FitzWalter's 
mistress, or some other woman Gwilym had never met, but not 
Duana.  It was not her – not yet.

The Druid smiled a familiar smile, bringing his index finger to his 
lips and murmuring, "Shush, Llwynog," before he vanished again 
like a fog at sunrise.     

"Leuan?" Gwil called after him, but the Druid had already gone.  
Gwilym stared into the blowing snow, not sure what he had just 
seen.

When he blinked, the woman's body vanished as well, replaced by 
the luxurious furs of his bed and the crackling fire in the hearth.  
The red fairy light drifted to the candle still burning low on the 
table, blended with the yellow flame, and then was gone as quickly 
and silently as it had arrived.        

"Am I awake?" Gwilym said, startled at how loud his voice 
sounded in the empty room.

"Lord William?" a guard asked in French, immediately peering 
through the small window of his cell door. "What is wrong?"

"Je suis bien," Gwilym answered, flexing his hands, realizing they 
still tingled with cold. "Tout un reve," he added. 'I am fine. All a 
dream.'

*~*~*~*

Fitz had forbidden communication with William – no notes, no 
messages, and certainly no visits.  Even Duana's pleas to let Eimile 
see her father before he died had gotten no response, although they 
must have bothered Fitz, because he refused to grant Duana an 
audience after that.  Once again, Duana was useless, even as a 
pawn: she was doing William no good sitting alone in her opulent 
rooms at Court, and she certainly would do him no good hidden 
away in Aber or Pembroke Castle.      

Fitz also had the bizarre notion she and Llewleyn were lovers, a 
notion William seemed to be encouraging, so the kingmaker had 
banned the Prince of Wales from Court.  Duana was supposed to 
sit in her cage and preen her pretty feathers, Llewelyn was 
supposed to slink back to Wales, and William, apparently, was just 
supposed to watch out his Tower window and wait to die.   

One thing kept Fitz from being a great leader: he failed to know 
both his enemies and his friends.  Llewelyn Fawr did not slink, he 
lurked like a hungry wolf and was twice as dogged.  William could 
not have waited for anything if his life depended on it – he started 
searching for his birthday gifts and choosing names for babies 
months before either arrived.  And Duana hated to be nullified, 
especially when men insisted it was for her own good.   

In the stories, there were always dank, secret alleys allowing lovers 
to meet and conspirators to slink unseen.  London had its share of 
both: lovers and conspirators, and a few, like Duana, who were 
both at once.  Plotting, stealth, and shadows were Welsh strengths, 
so she just kept a firm grip on her daughter's hand and kept 
walking down the main aisle of the church, having absolutely no 
plan except to escape.  Llewelyn claimed he had some plan, 
according to the servant he had bribed to bring her a message, but 
most of Llewelyn's plans were simply 'win' – he left the details to 
William. 

"Mathair?" Eimile asked, trotting to keep up with her mother's 
pace through the grand Templar church, taking in the marble 
effigies and dusty smell of old death. "Mathair, up!" she insisted in 
a plaintive voice, and Duana turned and picked her up, never 
missing a step as she settled the child on her hip.

"Mathair needs you to be very, very quiet.  We're going to run 
away so the men outside cannot find us," Duana whispered, 
glancing over her shoulder again nervously.  The knights were still 
outside and Mass was just starting: hopefully she could be safely 
away before anyone realized she was gone.

After receiving the message from Llewelyn, she had made one 
request of FitzWalter – if she and Eimile could pray at Temple 
Church, Duana would leave London without a fight and stay at 
Pembroke Castle.  She wanted to make her peace and let Eimile 
see the Pembroke burial vaults, she had added as a dramatic touch: 
let her daughter know Walter.  

Fitz had reluctantly agreed, and her escorts currently sat shivering 
on their horses in front of the church, cursing FitzWalter's 
indulgence.  With orders not to hurry her, the knights could only 
lurk, complain about missing supper, and throw disgruntled looks 
at the church doors.  The kingmaker was probably warming his 
feet at his hearth and his fingers between some red-haired harlot's 
thighs while they waited in the snow.  And Wales, where this latest 
woman was from, was even colder and full of Welshmen, someone 
muttered through chattering teeth.  The knights put their heads 
together, debating what they could have done to piss off FitzWalter 
to earn this assignment, and whether it was really true Welshmen 
could turn invisible.   

Llewelyn and perhaps a half-dozen of his men were following her 
– they had been since Duana left Court, but her escorts were 
trusted Court guards rather than veteran soldiers and did not notice.  
They expected opponents to approach head-on and politely 
announce their intention to kill them rather than blend in with the 
huddled, hurrying peasants.  They did not consider a noblewoman 
might have a motive besides piousness for going to church, just as 
they did not think to guard the side door.  It was safely locked - as 
though she could have lived with William for three years and not 
learned how to pick a lock. 

The seldom-used door protested, but opened to the dark, icy side 
street, and Duana shifted Eimile so her cloak covered the child 
against the cold wind.  "Llewelyn," she whispered, hesitant to 
attract attention, but there was no answer.    

"Mathair?" Eimile asked from underneath Duana's cloak, trying to 
push the fabric away.

"Hush," Duana ordered, stepping into the snow, knowing even her 
escorts could follow the single set of footprints she was leaving.  
She would have to get to a well-traveled area and then double 
back: she could not outrun mounted knights, only outsmart them.  
"Mathair is taking us someplace safe to meet Dehdeh's friend." 

'Mathair just has no idea where that might be,' she added to 
herself.  She had counted on Llewelyn to meet her as they planned, 
and now the Prince of Wales seemed to have wandered off.  Jesus, 
Llewelyn had the attention span of a gnat and William could get 
lost in his own bailey – it was miraculous the two men ever 
managed to win any battles at all. 

"Cold," Eimile protested, beginning to whimper.

"Sorry, sweet girl," Duana apologized, trying to tuck the cloak 
around her a little tighter as she turned onto another side street.  
Thankfully, this one was lined with taverns, so the snow was far 
from pristine.  Being neither a prostitute nor a drunkard, she was 
unfamiliar with this part of London, but the crowds and noise 
offered anonymity. 
    
"Give a fellow a tumble, love?" one man asked, stepping out of a 
doorway and leering down at her.

She ignored him and kept pushing her way through the stinking 
masses, hearing his footsteps following her as she turned another 
corner, making the beginning of a large horseshoe back to Temple 
Church.  Damn it, where was Llewelyn?  It was dark and wet and 
cold and she was not going to be able to keep Eimile quiet much 
longer.  With all these men milling around, searching for women, 
surely one of them had to be searching for her.          
  
*~*~*~*

"Is it time?" Gwilym asked sarcastically, tilting his head back 
slightly to offer his neck as Fitz stepped inside his Tower rooms. "I 
prefer not to die on a Monday, but I suppose it will have to do. At 
least the snow has stopped.  Let me just finish this page…"

"I need to know what you did to King John," Fitz said evenly, 
crossing his arms. "Now, William.  There is no scribe or jury, and 
if you are trying to protect Duana, you have failed.  Tell me what 
you did."

Blinking in surprise, Gwilym closed his book, set down the goblet 
of wine he had been holding, and straightened in his chair.

"I talked him to death.  What has happened to my wi-?"

Before the last word was out of his mouth, Fitz struck him, 
knocking Gwilym out of his chair and to the floor. "Enough, 
William," Fitz growled like a feral animal, putting a knife to 
Gwilym's throat. "What did you do that God has taken vengeance 
on Duana?" 

"What has happened to…" he started to repeat, but the look in 
FitzWalter's eyes changed his mind. "King John was dying.  He 
was confused, saw my robes, and thought I was a priest.  He 
wanted to make confession and I heard it – I even reminded him of 
a few sins he had forgotten.  He wanted absolution and Last Rites, 
which I cannot give." 

"So you killed him?"

"He was coughing and passing blood – there was no need for me to 
kill him."

"Then how did he die?"

"Alone in his own filth and begging for mercy, with the Devil 
waiting to take his unsanctified soul."

"But Duana told-"

"Duana told you what I told her.  I told you I made sure King John 
burned in Hell, and that is exactly what I did."    

There was a long pause before Fitz leaned back, getting to his feet 
and sheathing his dagger.  Gwilym tried to read his expression, but, 
for the first time, could not.  Something was stirring behind the 
young man's brown eyes, though, simmering just under the surface 
like a witch's brew.  Defeat, he finally realized – he was seeing the 
death of youthful ideals.  

"You will come with me," Fitz said sternly as the guards opened 
the door again.

"Come where?  You said there would be a trial.  I want to speak to 
a priest," Gwilym protested. "My priest, and he has not yet 
arrived!"

"A fisherman found the body in the Thames.  She is in the Chapel 
downstairs.  You will come with me," Fitz said, disappearing down 
the narrow spiral staircase.  

Stunned, Gwilym glanced at his guards, with whom he had become 
friendly in the last weeks, but they too refused to meet his gaze.  
Not knowing what else to do, Gwilym followed Fitz down the 
stone steps, the guards falling in behind him, reminding him there 
was no going back.       

*~*~*~*

Unnoticed by the chanting priests, Henry sat alone and sobbing in 
the corner of the Chapel, wrapping his arms around himself in 
some attempt at comfort and warmth.  His ten-year-old mind 
understood death, but his heart could not quite comprehend Duana 
was not going to awaken, even if the king ordered her to.  He was 
the king, after all, and he could not go to sleep without one of 
Duana's stories.  Of course, there was some mistake.  First, Fitz 
had said he and Duana were to be married, then they were not – 
then they were and again were not.  There was a baby, and then 
there was not.  The Welshman was dead, and then he was not, and 
now he was to die again.  Surely with so much confusion, either 
the servants were wrong and this was not Duana, or, if it was, she 
was going to open her eyes and sit up at any second.
 
The nuns had already prepared the body like all the others: washed 
it, wrapped it in fine white linen, and then shrouded her with a 
layer of transparent gauze as she lay in front of the Alter.  Henry 
had crept in and folded down the top sheet, wanting to put his hand 
in hers, and had been horrified to find the cold, gauze-covered 
palms tied across the corpse's chest had no fingers attached to 
them.  The King, struggling against the throbbing pain behind the 
back of his throat, had held his breath as he replaced the shroud, 
walked quickly to a corner of the stone chapel, and vomited.

As he cowered, terrified, in the damp corner, Fitz and William 
came down the spiral stairs from The Tower, talking in hushed 
voices; Fitz explaining that Duana's body had been found 
strangled and mutilated in the river.  As Henry watched, William 
ran his fingers over the fabric covering her face and neck, then 
started to pull the gauze away, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Do not," Fitz said quickly, stopping William's hand. "You do not 
want to see. You would rather remember her as she was."

"Do not tell me what I should want or remember.  Why should I 
even believe this is my wife and no some ruse?  How can you think 
I am such a fool?  Jesus, if you want to deceive me, try harder – 
this merely shows a lack of taste and imagination."                 

William turned away from The Alter and started toward the 
staircase, but the guards at the bottom stepped in front of him, 
blocking his path.

"Fitz…" William said tiredly, standing nose-to-nose with one of 
the tall, stern guards. "I am too old, tired, and guilty for this 
nonsense.  Tell him to let me pass."

"Someone or something has been killing women in London – 
cutting their hair, taking parts of their bodies.  I think it must be 
witchcraft.  Or the Jews."

"I am sure you do," he responded, addressing the guard's nose. 
"Witches and Jews: of course – anything you do not understand 
must be witchcraft or Jews.  As I said, you have a remarkable lack 
of imagination.  Go away, Fitz.  Just tell me when and where to 
die: I will show up to blaze and bleed splendidly, but I do not want 
to play these childish games."

"William, it is her.  I saw the body before they wrapped it."

"You are lying!" William shouted, seeming less certain. "This is 
another trick and you are lying!"

"I am not.  As you say, where would I get the imagination to lie?"

"H-how is it her?  She is not even in London.  What happened? " 
William asked shakily, his voice breaking as he turned back to the 
body. "You swore to me she agreed to go to Pembroke Castle – 
that she left days ago.  I told you she would not go willingly!  How 
could you be so careless?"

"I will find out who or what did this.  They will not go unpunished.  
My knights are already searching."

"The same knights you assigned to escort her out of London? 
Forgive me if I do not fall at your feet in gratitude."  

"Eimile is safe," Fitz said instead of answering, covering his face 
with his right hand as though he were massaging his temples 
instead hiding his eyes. "The monks of Temple Church had been 
taking care of her – they thought she was an orphan left with them.  
If you ask her, she will tell you what she told me: someone 'made 
Mommy go away'." 

"Eimile is safe," William repeated hollowly, sounding more 
convinced, but not consoled.  Putting his hands on his hips, he 
dropped his head and turned away. "Duana would not leave her, 
not willingly; she would die first.  Eimile is safe?" he echoed 
again.

"She is. The nuns will bring her to see the tomb after the body is 
interred, if you want."

"Duana has a tomb in Wales – if this is her, I want her body sent 
home to Aber."   

"In Temple Church, she will rest beside my father, among kings 
and bishops…"

"Wales!" William yelled suddenly, whirling around and making 
Henry jump. "All she has wanted for the last year was to go home, 
and now you say she is dead and you still will not even let her do 
that!  You have caused this!  Why will you not just leave her 
alone?  Just let her go!"

"I did not do this!  Some monster did this – something I cannot 
even fathom!" Fitz insisted, bracing his hands on his hips and 
looking away as William had.  Noticing Henry huddled in the 
corner, he barked, "Henry, I told you to stay in your rooms.  Get 
back to Court!"

Instead of obeying, Henry pulled himself into a tighter ball and 
whimpered miserably, sniffing and wiping his nose on his fur-
trimmed cuff.  

"Henry, now!"

"Perhaps it is not her," Henry managed in a tiny voice. "Not 
Duana, but another woman. The servants said they could barely tell 
– perhaps you are wrong again."

"I am not wrong.  Henry, you should not be here," Fitz said more 
gently. "Go back to Court."  

"I cannot," the King of England managed, trembling. "I cannot 
leave her.  It is so cold here.  She should have a blanket."

Immediately, Henry felt strong arms encircling him, and he let 
himself go limp, certain he was safe again and Fitz would fix 
everything.  He rested his head safely on Fitz's broad chest, and 
looked up to see the Welshman's tender eyes watching him as both 
men crouched down.  

"You are not leave her," William said softly, stroking Henry's wet 
cheeks. "This is a body.  Duana is with God – she is no pain, no 
sick.  She watch you, so be good, and you to see her again in 
Heaven.  And if you to pray, she listen."

"How could God allow this?  How could He let someone hurt her? 
She is like, like, like sunlight."

"Sometimes, darkness seeks light as moth seeks flame.  The 
alchemists say it is the nature of things: to pull to opposite.  Like 
England, beautiful thing have no peace, but Duana has peace now.  
She is Camelot, like the story: such beauty cannot dead, she only 
sleep, rest, until her time again."
        
Confused, Henry let Fitz help him to his feet and clean his face 
with a handkerchief. "Did you understand Lord William?" Fitz 
asked, and the boy nodded again, knowing the answer that was 
expected of him. "Go back to Court – I will come for you when it 
is time for the funeral mass and we will go together."

"You will get a blanket for her?  So Duana will not be cold?"

"I will," the kingmaker promised, cupping the boy's face in his 
palm.  Henry had not cried for a father he barely knew, nor asked 
for Isabelle after she left for France – Duana was perhaps the first 
thing he had wanted and could not have: a mother who cared for 
him.

"Her hands: someone has hurt her hands," Henry said, feeling like 
the rest of the world was continuing around him, but he was 
strangely separate from it. "She needs a doctor."

Fitz exhaled as though he had been punched in the stomach and 
broke eye contact, his big hand still cradling Henry's jaw.  It was 
William who finally answered softly,  "I know, son.  Something 
very evil did this, and we stop it, but we cannot help Duana body 
now; only pray for her soul."  

"She will hear me?" Henry asked the dark-haired man, looking 
into his sad, hazel eyes.  When William nodded reassuringly, the 
boy-king murmured, "You are a nice man, for a Welsh barbarian.  
I am sure my father was like you, except he was not a Welsh 
barbarian."    

"Even kings allowed one flaw," William told him quietly.

Henry wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds, then realized he 
was being teased, which was a novel situation.  Blinking and 
sniffing again, he smiled uncertainly, and the corners of William's 
mouth turned upward unenthusiastically before his hunted, haunted 
expression returned.   

"Go with the Abbot and I will see you in a little bit."  Fitz gestured 
for one of the priests to walk a stunned Henry across the courtyard, 
then looked sadly at William, blinking a few times. "Thank you.  
He must have found out and slipped away from his tutors.  I had no 
idea how to tell him.  What an awful thing for a boy to see…"

"I once had the same conversation with another little boy.  After he 
watched his mother burn to death."

"Your son?" Fitz replied, turning to look at the woman's shrouded 
body again. "Your older son.  Duana told me of him."

"My Dafydd – King John's son." 

Fitz opened his mouth to ask, but William knelt at the Alter, 
bowing his head, his lips moving in prayer.  Fitz stepped back, 
giving him some time.  He had said his goodbyes earlier, spending 
hours beside the cold body before he could pull himself together 
enough to tell William.  Even now, he was not sure this was really 
happening.  He felt so hollow he would not be surprised of 
someone walked through him as though his flesh had become fog.  
The color had drained from the world, leaving it a gradient of gray 
and black, and the bustling sounds of London were muted and far 
away.  For the moment, life outside the chapel did not directly 
affect Fitz, but life inside its walls was surreal.    

"Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand," 
he heard William whisper in Gaelic, repeating a blessing Duana 
must have taught him.  Fitz vaguely recalled it: she had, at his 
father's urging, once tried to teach it to him as well.  As a sixteen-
year-old boy, he would have practiced bleeding in order to spend 
time with her, but he had been more interested in Duana than 
anything she had to say, and the lessons had been titillating 
failures. 
       
"William," Fitz said in a hoarse voice as William fell silent, 
clearing his throat when there was no response. "William, how was 
King John David's-"

"King John is dead," William interrupted, slowly getting to his feet 
and dragging his hand across his eyes before crossing himself. "As 
are my father, Diana, Dafydd, Tyna, and Duana.  I cannot be far 
behind."  

Before Fitz could move, William snatched Fitz's dagger from its 
sheath on Fitz's belt, turned it around, and handed it back to him. 
As Fitz stared at it in disbelief, wondering how it suddenly 
appeared in the Welshman's hand, William said tiredly, "They call 
to me.  They bid me take my place among them in the Halls of 
Valhalla - where the brave may live forever."

"What?"      

"Enough," William said wearily, exhaling. "Stop pissing around 
and just slit my throat, Fitz.  Yes, I am guilty of crimes against 
King John and the Church.  Yes, I have been among the Druids.  
Yes, I have taken my wife among them and gotten her with child.  
Yes, I had the poison in my boot: I would have killed John if he 
had not died by morning.  He was the king – he had the right to 
any woman he wanted – but not like that.  Not to hurt and 
humiliate her like that.  King John killed your father to get Duana, 
and then killed my Dafydd to get her back."  William paused, and 
swallowed, as though there was something in his throat he was 
trying to get to go down. "Henry is right: she was like the sun, and 
I was willing to die to keep that light inside her from being snuffed 
out.  I still am, so if you want me dead, act like a man and do it 
yourself.  Stop hiding behind counsels and laws. Here, now…  
Duana was smart woman and I trust her judgment – today must be 
a good day to die."

Fitz took the jeweled dagger in disbelief, staring at William's 
weary, tear-stained face.  That was what happened then: King John 
had murdered Fitz's father because he would not give up Duana – 
because Duana had refused.  

His father had a soft spot labeled 'Duana' on his heart and had 
known how much she wanted a child: if she had been even vaguely 
interested in taking a younger, virile lover, he would have simply 
looked the other way.  In fact, even if she had been hesitant at the 
king's advances, any other man, knowing John could turn on 
friends as quickly as a rabid dog, would have still sent his wife for 
the night and counted himself lucky to have earned such royal 
favor.  John was known for lavishing his mistresses with gifts and 
his mistress's husbands with royal favor.  And rumor had it John 
had preferred the unwilling women to the willing ones. 

His father had died trying to protect her, just as William was 
willing to do.  There was something about that woman: men got in 
line to fall in love with her and die for her.  In a world of 
dangerous men, she was a very dangerous woman to love.    

He exhaled, shoving the knife back into the leather scabbard.  "Go 
back to Wales," he said finally. "Take Eimile and Duana – 
Duana's body, and go back to Wales.  I will see you in the spring, 
as we agreed."  
 
"But I have-"

"In your place, I might have done the same.  I should have done 
the same.  Perhaps justice takes many forms.  This," He gestured to 
the shrouded body, "I suppose, is yours.  And perhaps mine."

"I take Eimile and go to Wales?" William asked in disbelief, 
sounding as though he thought he had misunderstood.  

Fitz nodded, still staring at the slim, shrouded body on The Alter.  
Hearing the order, the men guarding the stairs moved aside to 
allow William to descend to freedom.  

"I did love her," he finally whispered, hearing William's footfalls 
fading down the stairs, not sure if the Welshman had heard him or 
not.   

*~*~*~*

That was the problem with keeping a grip on another man's wife – 
women were slippery, tricky creatures and there was no proper 
place to get a decent handhold.  Moving quickly, Llewelyn caught 
Duana around the waist as she tried to dodge past him, then lost his 
balance and tumbled them both into an improper tangle of arms 
and legs in the snow.  He shied away as his forearm pressed 
against the underside of her breasts, an opportunity Duana seized 
to twist away, get to her feet, kick him in the face, and keep 
running through the forest.    

"Stop her!" Llewelyn yelled at one of his knights, who stared at the 
frozen ground and pretended he had not heard.  Even on orders 
from their prince, no Welshman with any sense was manhandling 
Lord Gwilym's wife until he was certain Lord Gwilym was dead.  

Cursing, Llewelyn got to his feet and chased after her himself, 
catching up to Duana before she made it to the horses.  He grabbed 
for the back of her dress, then caught one of her wrists, jerking her 
in back to him.    

"I said stop!" he yelled at her, expecting her to cower.  "Enough!"

"I am not a nun!" she yelled back at him again, looking for another 
way to escape.     

"Of course you are not," he insisted tersely as she tried to writhe 
and twist away. "But you should not be sleeping in an old hayshed 
with my men.  Go inside the Abby for the night and I will come for 
you in the morning."

"You will leave me there, just as you left my daughter!" she 
accused him, struggling so hard he knew he was leaving new 
bruises on her wrist.  The skin was already raw from having to tie 
her to keep her on her horse and from running away at night.  As 
humiliating as that was to do to a noblewoman, it was less 
shameful than having her ride double with him and less dangerous 
than having to track her down when she disappeared.

"I did not leave your daughter and I will not leave you.  Eimile is 
safe in London with three of my best men watching over her.  I 
will send for her as soon as I can," he explained again, getting the 
same response as he had for three days - she continued to fight, 
swinging around to verbally attack his unprotected flank.   

"You left William!  How could you?  After all he has done for you, 
how could you just abandon him?  How can you call yourself his 
friend?"

"Stop it!" he barked at her in frustration. "Enough!  William may 
tolerate this, but I will not.  You will stop this instant!"          

To his surprise, she stopped struggling, loosing her defiant gaze as 
he felt the muscles of her arms go slack.  She was exhausted – she 
would not rest.  And she had to be hungry – she would not eat, 
either.  Duana had a single-minded cause: get back to London, get 
Eimile, and get to Gwilym by any means necessary.

He loosened his hold on one of her wrists, turning it to examine the 
broken, purple skin. Running his thumb over it, he said guiltily, 
"Jesus, you have to stop fighting me, Duana.  What would Gwil 
think of me for doing this to you?  I am supposed to take care of 
you."

"Is that what you want?" she asked hesitantly, sounding ready to 
cry. "Is that why you took me out of London?"

"Yes.  I want to take care of you – of you and Eimile and Dafy, but 
you have to stop trying to run away.  If you keep fighting, you are 
going to get hurt."

"You are going to hurt me?" she asked, glancing up, then looking 
at his strong fingers encircling her wrist.  Seeing her expression, he 
let go, watching her carefully in case she ran again.   

"No.  William asked me to take care of you, and that is what I am 
going to do.  Whether you like it or not, Madam Hardhead," he 
teased her tiredly, trying to get her to smile. "We are friends, 
Duana – all you have to do is trust me."

"I do trust you," she murmured softly, stepping closer to him, her 
feet covered to the ankle in the powdery snow.  "I am so tired.  
And afraid.  I am afraid, Llewel," Duana whispered, her voice 
shaky and her body trembling inches from his. "Do you really care 
for me so much?"

"Do not bother," Llewelyn said, stepping back, ignoring the animal 
in the back of his brain that told him to put his arms around her.  
'Comfort her,' it urged, trying to sound like his conscience. 

"You do not want me?" she whispered, trailing her finger lightly 
over his shoulder and down his chest. "That is not what William 
told me.  He said you look at me and see someone you lost a long 
time ago.  He gave me to you.  He wants you to have me.  Are you 
sure you do not want me, Llewel?"

"Want is a very complex and expensive thing, especially for a 
prince." He caught her wrist again, holding her hand in midair, 
trying to continue breathing evenly. "As I said, Duana – do not 
bother.  Want or not, I have no desire to awake to a knife in my 
throat and you halfway back to London.  That is not what I 
promised Gwil."    

"Llewel…" she murmured, leaving her lips parted for a half-kiss 
after she finished caressing the last syllable.  She licked them, her 
tongue darting through the pink opening.

For less than a heartbeat, he imagined what it would be like: to slip 
under the blankets on a cold night, to slip into the forgiving 
darkness, close his eyes, and know his wife wanted him.  Only 
him.  It seemed like such a minor luxury in a great man's life – 
trusting a woman  – but it left such a void when it had come and 
gone.  He loved Joanna, but he would never touch her again 
without wondering who had been in her bed.  In the darkest part of 
his brain, he almost believed, just for an instant, Duana could fill 
that empty expanse.

"Stop it!" he snapped at her, gripping her wrist tighter and shaking 
it in frustration. "Do not do this!  Tang is dead; nothing I can do 
will bring her back!  Gwil is dead!  Nothing you can do will bring 
him back, either!"  

"He is not!"  She tried to twist away, desperately trying to pry his 
fingers off her wrist.

"He confessed the moment you were out of London.  It was all 
arranged.  He has been dead for days now."

"He is not!" she screamed again, the look in her eyes beginning to 
frighten him.

"I am sorry.  I did not mean to tell you like that.  Duana-" he 
caught her other hand as she tried to hit him and flipped her 
around, crossing her arms in front of her and holding her against 
his chest as she struggled. "I am sorry," Llewelyn repeated 
hoarsely, his voice breaking.  She kicked backward, punishing his 
shins mercilessly until he lifted her off the ground and she could 
not get leverage to do any more real harm. "There was nothing I 
could do.  This is what he planned, what he wanted.  I did exactly 
what he told me to do." 
  
"He is not dead!  Let me – you let me go.  Do not.  You le-let me-" 
she sobbed, fighting like a trapped animal and seeming to have 
trouble breathing, although he was not holding her that tightly.  
Gwil had warned him about this several times: not to hold her 
against her will, but there was no other option.

After a few frantic seconds, he felt her body go limp in his arms.  
Terrified he had accidentally hurt her, Llewelyn lowered her to the 
cold ground, holding his palm near her mouth until he was certain 
she was still breathing and then pressing his finger to her throat to 
check for the heartbeat.  It was there, still warm and strong under 
the skin.  

She had just finally passed out.

Swallowing, he picked her up and carried her inside the hayshed, 
laying her on a blanket near the fire.  The two knights ducked 
inside after him, eyeing Duana curiously.  Yes, Gwil's wife was 
beautiful. And she had a beautiful, healthy son already attributed to 
the Prince of Wales and showed every sign of being able to 
produce another.  And she was heiress to half of Wales.   And she 
was also in love with a dead man.  And, according word from 
London, she was somehow dead herself and did not yet know it.

Maybe that was for the best.
 
He sat down a few feet away to keep watch, exhaling his last 
breath of optimism.  

*~*~*~*

As the saddle slid off his back, Goliath's chest rumbled 
contentedly like the warning of approaching thunder, and the dark 
skin of his haunches rippled in pleasure.  The other horses opened 
their eyes and perked their ears, but they knew him.  There was no 
cause for alarm.  They breathed a quiet greeting, the air from their 
nostrils forming twin puffs of vapor among the snowflakes.  The 
night sky was littered with the white crystals, as though pieces of 
the full moon had chipped away and were falling softly to Earth.

Emily was asleep in her little fur world, sheltered by fox and rabbit 
skin against the cold.  For a long time, he stood unseen in the 
doorway holding her and watching Llewelyn and Duana in the 
glow from the fire.  The snow was hitting the old thatched roof in 
waves, the wind slapping the shed again and again.  Llewelyn 
looked up at the ceiling, listening to the storm, then moved a little 
closer to Duana as she slept.  Every few minutes, he would stoke 
the orange coals, then lean over her, checking that she was still 
breathing.  Then, without touching her, he would adjust her 
blanket, then sit back and stare at her face until it was time to look 
at the roof again. 
 
"She is beautiful," Gwil agreed softly, catching Llewelyn off-
guard.  

Llewelyn paled as though he saw a ghost, which was not far from 
the truth.  Terrified, he scrambled backward, fumbling for a 
weapon.  Finding someone's dagger, he held it up, his hand 
shaking so badly he almost dropped it. "Are you flesh?" he asked 
breathlessly. 

"Are you?" Gwilym answered casually. 

Ignoring Llewelyn, who continued kneeling beside the fire, gaping 
and waving his knife, he laid his Eimile bundle in front of Duana 
and unwrapped it to reveal the warm little girl inside.  The child 
opened her eyes, only half-awake, blinking sleepily and reaching 
up for Gwil. "We are here, sweet girl," he told her, and Eimile 
rolled, cuddled against her mother's chest, and slipped back into 
innocent dreams.  Reassured there was still something right in the 
world, Gwil pulled the blanket to cover them both, then ran his 
fingers down Duana's cheek as though it was precious fabric. 
"You are beautiful, cariad," he told her again. "I have missed you."

"Hail Mary, fu-full of, full of grace…  Bless, blessed, blessed…"

"Blessed art thou among women," Gwil supplied, and the prince 
nodded in agreement, his mouth still hanging open. "Really, you 
should get some new guards, Llewel.  Yours are sound asleep."

"Among women," he echoed fervently, crossing himself. 

He stared at Duana, who was lost in the peaceful oblivion of 
unconsciousness.  In his mind, he picked her up and swung her 
around for the world to see, victoriously proclaiming she was his.  
In his mind, he stripped off her dress, pushed her back on some 
soft bed, and blended his body with hers until they were one 
person and she could never be taken from him again.  In his mind, 
he swung down from his horse, his armor shining, grinned 
sarcastically and opened his arms as she ran to him.  

She was alive, she was safe and warm, and she was his; he was 
content.

Assuming nonchalance as though it was a shirt he slipped on, Gwil 
twisted his lips into a cocky half-smile and sat down beside Duana, 
stretching his boots toward the fire and sighing in satisfaction.  
Llewelyn continued holding the knife in mid-air, although he was 
pointing rather than wielding.
     
"Is she well?"

"She is asleep," Llewelyn answered warily, starting to lower the 
dagger and then changing his mind. "She is just asleep.  She was 
tired."

"I see she is asleep.  Is she well?"

"She is as well as any woman can be when her husband is dead."  
He blinked several times, then decided, "I am dreaming.  I was 
awake and I was keeping watch, but I have fallen asleep.  This is a 
dream.  I am dreaming."

Poor Llewel; in his world, there was always a proper cause and a 
simple answer, even if he had to close his eyes to see it.

Gwilym pulled a leftover chunk of venison off the spit, tossing it 
into the air and catching it in his mouth. "Piss; you will wake."

"You are not a ghost; ghosts do not eat." 

"Do not be so sure; my castle ghost reads my books."  Gwil paused 
to lick his fingers, then went back to chewing. "Really, Llewel, 
how is my wife?  She looked too pale."

Some color finally returned to his face, but Llewel's lips were not 
working as well as usual. "She m-misses you.  Is it really you, 
Gwil?  Am I awake?  Are you flesh?"

"I am," he responded smugly, but the prince did not seem 
convinced.  

"Prove you are flesh.  Prove you are not dead."

Exhaling, Gwil leaned back and pushed his cloak and tunic out of 
the way, pretending to untie the laces of his breeches. "How much 
proof do you want?  I was saving myself for my wife.  If I must…"

"Dear God in Heaven, it is you.  You must have been too rotten to 
be an angel and too damn pretty to be allowed into Hell."

Gwil dropped his tunic back over his lap and shrugged. "Of course 
it is me.  Who else would it be at this time of night?"

"You are supposed to be dead by now."

"I am sorry to disappoint you yet again." He tilted his chin toward 
Duana, who slept on, not moving except to breathe. "Why is she 
still here?  She should be in France by now."

"She is here because she will not leave.  She will not leave you and 
she thinks I abandoned Eimile in London.  I have not even 
mentioned France to her; I suppose she thinks I am taking her to 
Wales.  The boat is ready and there is a ship waiting just off shore.  
These men," he nodded at the sleeping knights beside the door, 
who did were hopefully better sailors than guards, "have crossed 
the Channel a dozen times, but I was afraid she would jump over 
the side and swim back to England if I let go of her."

"She cannot swim." Gwilym pushed down the blankets, picking up 
a lock of the red hair that now hung just past her shoulders. "She 
would try, though.  Did you tell her I was dead?"

"I did; it made no difference.  Speaking of such minor matters, 
what of you and King John?  What about Fitz and the trial?"

"FitzWalter came down with a sudden, severe case of conscience, 
but he will probably recover, especially if he was to discover his 
prize is still alive.  I am to go back to Wales and return to win his 
wars in the spring."      

"Did you do it, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked, stoking the fire again and 
avoiding eye contact.

He smirked, pursed his lips thoughtfully, then finally answered, 
"When I was a child, my father used to tell me something, but I 
never understood until Daffydd…until Duana came and King John 
hanged those boys.  Year after year Father would ride on Crusade, 
even though I pleaded with him to stay in Aber.  I would sit on his 
bed and watch the servants dressing him in his armor, dreading the 
loneliness and silence after he was gone.  Before he rode away, he 
would look down at me from atop his horse like some warrior god 
and say, 'I am sorry, but I would rather be the hammer than the 
nail, son.'  I would rather be the hammer, Llewel."

"You killed King John?"

The snow blew harder, wailing as it shook the roof.  Gwil shifted, 
moving back and pulling Duana's head and shoulders on his lap 
and holding her protectively. "The doctor; did you find him?"

Llewelyn looked up, but did not pursue his original question, 
meaning he did not really want to know. 

"I did.  He tried to grab her in London and I sent him to Hell cut 
into small pieces.  If they strain the river, they might find enough 
of him to bury.  How did you know it was the doctor and that he 
would be waiting for her?"

"A little Druid told me." Gwil looked down, stroking the hollow of 
Duana's throat and smoothing her hair back from her face. "That 
doctor was a monster.  There are so many monsters out there, 
Llewel.  How could I ever protect her from all of them?"    

Llewelyn, earnest soul that he was, was quiet while he tried to 
think of an answer, as if there was one.

"How is Mab?  How is my…  How is the boy?"

"He is well, Gwil.  We call your son Dafy.  Dafydd, Prince of 
Wales, but for now, Dafy."   

Gwil smiled, a little more light creeping back into his eyes.  "Dafy.  
I still remember how he smells after his bath," he murmured.  He 
slid his hand under the blanket, caressing Duana's shoulder. 
"Dafy," he repeated softly to her.  Hearing his voice, she smiled 
and slept on under his hand like a contented kitten.

"Joanna writes that he has the entire castle wrapped around his 
finger."

"What of the girl?" Gwil asked, not needing to elaborate any 
further.  Obviously he did not mean Eimile.

"She is well; there was no child.  Fitz provided a dowry for her, 
should she want to marry.  She is living with a nice family in 
Lincolnshire; I paid Chester the price he quoted you, so she is a 
freewoman now."

"Did you…"

"She said the Lord of Aber passed the night with her and promised 
he would buy her from Chester in the morning.  She describes you, 
Gwil, right down to you talking nonsense twice as fast as the rest 
of us can think.  She said you kissed her goodbye and promised 
you would see her the following night, but never returned.  She is 
very beautiful, Gwil.  Tall, slim, dark eyes, dark hair; if she were a 
few years older, I could see how she would have caught your eye."

"Did you ask her if I…?"

"She says you did."

Gwil looked down at Duana, watching the tiny movements of her 
face as she dreamed. "I cannot imagine-"

"Neither can I," Llewelyn said quickly.  He found various things in 
the dark shed to stare at, then announced, "There is still no word of 
Leuan.  They checked every church in the North Country but my 
men have found no sign of him."

"I doubt you will.  Not where you are looking." 

"No, I thought he would come, regardless of where he is or what 
he is doing.  I have heard the rumor he left the Church, but you are 
like a son to him.  He would not abandon you."

"He did come," he answered easily. "He came to me.  You just did 
not see him."

"Oh.  Well then."  

Llewelyn nodded his head purposefully, but drew his brows 
together.  It was his perplexed look, but it would have passed for 
constipated.  His universe did not extend past what his five senses, 
so Gwil trying to explain how he had seen Leuan would be 
fruitless.  Llewelyn was one of those men who needed pictures of 
Heaven and Hell painted on the church walls so he could imagine 
how they looked.  He probably thought an actual road forked 
somewhere near the Holy Land – good Christians went right to 
Heaven and sinners went left to Hell.  Llewel was brave and loyal 
and honorable to a fault and everything a good man and a good 
prince should be, but he did not believe any worlds existed that he 
could not hold in his hand. 

And Gwil did. 

Gwilym caressed her face again, leaving his palm on her cheek. "I 
cannot protect her, Llewel; no matter how hard I try."  He looked 
down at Duana's head in his lap. "Once she reaches Fontevraund 
Abbey, she will be safe.  Fitz will never look for her as long as he 
believes she is dead.  The nuns there read, they play music and 
write verse and…  As long as she is with me, she is in danger, and 
as long as she is there and no one thinks to look for her, she is safe.  
I wondered if I should even see her again, if it would be easier to 
just let her think I was dead.  I could not help myself, though."

"You still want to send her away?  Why did you come, then?"

"Because I had to." 

Llewelyn shook his head, not understanding.  "It will be dawn 
soon.  She should sail before sunrise.  You should say your 
goodbyes now."

"I know," he breathed, still staring at her peaceful face.

"I will wake the knights and we will go…  We will go see to the 
horses. Outside," Llewelyn decided, getting up. "We will be 
outside.  It should take at least fifteen minutes or so." 

"Do not bother.  I will not risk sending her away with child.  And 
if I touch her, I will never be able to make her leave me."

"Then you should go and let me deal with her.  Once she sees you 
alive, she will not leave you, Gwil."  
 
"She will."

Gwilym slid her head and shoulders carefully off his lap, stood, 
then gestured for Llewelyn to come to him. "Lie down," he asked, 
gesturing to the space on the blanket behind Duana.  Llewelyn 
lowered himself slowly, not touching her and looking at Gwil like 
he was insane. "Here," Gwil said, picking up Llewelyn's hand and 
putting it on Duana's hipbone.  "Stay there."

Duana, sensing the presence, nestled back against Llewelyn, who 
continued to stare at his friend in horror.  A willing peasant girl or 
a whore was one thing, but this was outrageous.  They were no 
longer boys competing for the prettiest mistress.  One man did not 
touch another's lawful wife unless her life was at stake and 
perhaps, depending on her husband, not even then.             

Gwil leaned down to kiss her, pulling away while her mouth was 
still pursed for his.  He picked up Eimile, wrapped her loosely in 
her fur cocoon, and went back to the doorway of the hayshed. 
 
*~*~*~*

Although he was already standing inside the shed, Gwil opened 
and then slammed the door, waking everyone and making 
Llewelyn jump a foot in the air.  "You do not waste time, Duana," 
he said icily.

At the sound of his voice, Duana startled under Llewelyn's hand.  
She opened her eyes and, seeing Gwil, pushed up on her elbow. 
"William?" she murmured. "Is that you?  Am I awake?"

He glared at her from across the room, then squatted down and set 
Eimile, barely awake, on her feet. "Go to your mother," he 
commanded sternly.

"Oh my God."  Duana sat up and held her arms out for the 
stumbling child, then closed her eyes and encircled the little girl in 
her arms and legs. "My baby girl," she murmured into Eimile's 
blonde curls, kissing her head. "Oh, thank God.  Mathair was so 
afraid that doctor got her baby girl."

As Llewelyn watched, Gwil's face and rigid posture softened, then 
hardened again as though he was carved of stone.

The two knights stretched and stumbled outside for morning 
business, greeting Lord William timidly as they passed him.  
Noticing Prince Llewelyn on the floor, their eyes widened when 
they saw how close he was to Lady Duana.  Looking back at Lord 
William's face, they quickened their pace and closed the door, 
probably pressing their ears to the other side.  Prince Llewelyn, 
Lord William, and Lady Duana – that was a dangerous triangle.      

"William?" she asked, her arms still around Eimile. "William, are 
you really there?" 

When he did not respond, continuing to stare past her, Duana 
turned to see Llewelyn still lying on the blanket behind her.  
Horrified, she stared at the prince, then at her skirts, which had 
ridden up and twisted as she slept, baring her legs to the thigh.  
Duana touched her wild, tangled hair – her veil had been lost in a 
struggle just outside London's city gates and braiding had not been 
a priority in the last few days.  Letting Eimile go, she looked down 
at her wrists, turning them over to study the fresh bruises.  On the 
left one there was a clear imprint of four fingers and a thumb from 
a large man's hand. 

"I understand you are ambitious, and it does have a nice ring to it: 
Duana, Princess of Wales, but I doubt it will happen.  Llewel loves 
his breila, regardless of her faults.  You would do better warming 
FitzWalter's bed and scheming to become Queen Mother.  Or was 
this just a diversion?"

"William?" she said again, starting to tremble.

"Yes, dear wife?" he responded coldly.  Then, to Llewelyn, asked, 
"So how did you find her?  Better or worse than Diana?"

Llewelyn gulped and did not answer.  He had not known Gwil 
knew about that.  He had been sixteen years old and it was just a 
single casual encounter.  When Gwil took Diana, already carrying 
a child, as his hearth wife years later, Llewelyn had not seen fit to 
mention it.   

"I do not understand what happened," Duana managed, clutching 
her daughter and scooting away from the prince, who continued 
lying where Gwil had put him. "Llewelyn?  You told me he was 
dead."

"I am sorry I am not.  Well, Llewelyn?" Gwil asked, crossing his 
arms. "She says she does not understand."

"She offered," he responded casually, beginning to understand the 
rules of this game.  He shrugged, using their old code for women 
who made for a nice ride: "She has a fine trot." 

"I did no-" she began, then stopped when she realized she had 
offered.

"Get up," Gwilym ordered angrily. "Right now."

Duana glanced back at Llewelyn again, then got to her feet 
unsteadily and pushed her hair back from her face.      

"Go outside, wash, and do something with your hair.  You look 
like a whore," Gwil spat venomously.

She stepped forward and Gwil raised his hands in the air as though 
he were surrendering, telling her not to touch him.  Ignoring that 
order, she put her arms around his waist, resting her head against 
his shoulder.  For less than the blink of an eye, his hands lowered 
to touch her, to hold her, but then stopped.

"Do not touch me," he repeated in a tone that threatened harm. 
"Fine, then you can go as you are."

He grabbed her poor wrist and pulled her outside into the cold, 
dark morning, surprising the knights, and walked quickly for the 
boat dock.  Llewelyn got up and bundled Eimile warmly, grabbed 
Duana's cloak, then followed them.

"She is leaving," Gwil ordered, and the knights scurried to obey, 
stumbling over tree roots and rocks the purple pre-dawn light.     

"I am leaving?" she echoed, jogging to keep up. "Where am I 
going?

"Away from me."

She stopped, digging her heels into the snow and refusing. "I will 
not.  William, I am sorry.  I do not remember what happened with 
Llewel.  Please listen."

"It is 'Llewel' now?" he snapped. "Just as it is 'Fitz'?  Listen to 
me, Duana.  I do not want you.  I have the son I wanted and you 
are nothing but trouble.  You are an embarrassment – Fitz was one 
thing but seducing my best friend…  How could you?  How dare 
you?  Our year has long passed.  Get on the boat."  

When she did not move, he grabbed her around her waist and 
tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her down the wooden dock 
to the small boat and then setting her down roughly.

"William, please…  What are you doing?"

"Ridding myself of a useless wife.  How could you think I love 
you?  My Dafydd is dead, and Eimile and Mab are gone because of 
you.  You cannot even manage to give me another child, although 
how would I know he was mine if you did?  Why would I want 
you?"

"Jesus, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered, interfering for the first time. 

"Where are you sending me?" she asked breathlessly, beginning to 
shiver violently in the wet darkness.

"Fontevraund Abbey.  That is what you said you wanted.   I will do 
that for you, although it is more than you deserve."

"I did not say I wanted to go there; I said I wanted Eimile to go."

Gwil spun around, biting his lip as he walked back to Llewelyn 
and took Eimile from him.  Turning back a second time, he took 
Duana's cloak from Llewel as though it was an afterthought and 
threw it at her.

"Fine.  She can go," he barked, stalking past Duana and handing 
Eimile down to one of the knights in the small boat.  "Hold her; do 
not let her fall over the side," Llewelyn heard him say softly to the 
confused knight.

"How can you do this?" Duana asked, tears beginning to drip down 
her face.  The lush fur and velvet cloak Fitz's tailors had made for 
her at Court lay crumpled and forgotten in the snow at her feet.

"Why would I want King John's bastard under my roof?  You 
tricked me – you went to bed with me so I could not have you 
annulled when you already knew you were with child.  Did you 
think I was a fool?  Did you really think I would ever believe she 
was mine?  I should have sent both of you back to John when I had 
a chance.  Dry up!  Stop crying!"

"That is not what happened," she pleaded, trying her best to stop 
crying.

"I told you to stop crying!  Do not bother with tears because they 
will not help.  Are you going with Eimile or is she going alone?"

"No," Duana yelled back, crossing her arms defiantly.

Eimile, unaccustomed to boats, wanting to sleep, discomforted by 
the knight's death grip, and frightened by all the shouting, started 
to sob.  

Gwilym looked down at her, then at Duana, and shouted, "Get on 
the boat!  I do not want you!  I do not love you!  I have never loved 
you!  Get on the Goddamned boat before I beat you senseless!" 

"No," she repeated.

"I swear to God I will," he warned.

"I have been beaten by a king; I am not afraid of you!  And you 
could never send her away."  
  
In response, Gwil dug a knife out of the side of his boot and began 
sawing through the rope holding the boat to the docks.  He could 
have just untied it, but cutting was more dramatic.  "I am going 
back to Wales – Muritta must be very lonely by now.  She can 
remember how to keep her legs together while I am away; perhaps 
you should have taken lessons.  Eimile can go to Fontevraund 
Abbey alone and you, dear wife, can go to Hell.  "

She scrutinized him, wiping her eyes and watching his face. "You 
are bluffing."

"Am I?  Do I look like I am bluffing?   

"Yes."

"Get on the Goddamned boat!" he roared, towering over her. 

"No," she answered evenly. "Tell me why you want me to go." 

"Because I do not want you!"

"Then why do you keep coming for me?"

"Dear GOD!" he bellowed in defeat. "No woman should ask as 
many questions as you do.  Fine!  There is a dead body in London 
with your name attached to its form.  That doctor has been cutting 
up red haired women and Fitz mistook one of them for you.  As 
long as he and Henry believe you are dead, you are safe.  And my 
head stays attached to my body," he added angrily. "Even if Fitz 
will leave you alone, that does not mean Henry will.  He is a dull, 
spoiled child and he will grow into a dull, spoiled man who wants 
you, one way or another.  I cannot keep you safe if anyone knows 
you are alive, now get on the boat!  There is a ship just offshore 
waiting to take you across to France.  And if you want Eimile, you, 
you can take her."

"Why can I not be dead in Aber as easily as I can be dead in 
France?"      

"Beca – beca- because, because…"

"That is a good question, Gwil," Llewelyn noted.

"Shut up, Llewel.  Why can you not be dead in Aber?  Because 
messengers ride between Wales and London all the time.  Because 
sooner or later, someone would tell.  Because that is insane."

"So you take a red haired mistress to comfort you after your poor 
wife's death," the prince offered. "You would not be the first man 
to do that."

"Shut up, Llewel.  What would I say if we have another child?  I 
cannot say it is my dead wife's.  What if I die?  What would 
happen to you?  There could be no widow's rights to my estate 
because my wife is already dead.  How long do you think we could 
fool the Crown?"

"I do not know," Duana answered calmly. "How long do you think 
we have?"

Gwil had been gesturing wildly as he tried to make his point, but 
dropped his hands and looked up at the violet sky.  "Jesus Christ, 
cariad – your gentle, passive temperament would make whole team 
of mules green with envy."

She smiled.

And she stayed.

And Gwil leaned over to pick up Eimile out of the boat, much to 
the relief of the poor knight who thought he was going to have to 
hold the screaming child all the way to France.

*~*~*~*

"Tell it once more, Gwil," Merfyn requested, motioning for 
Gwilym to turn around as he checked the armor one last time.  "I 
will get it this time."

"I am a strange creature, for I satisfy women," Gwilym repeated 
slowly, and Merfyn nodded, hanging on every word. "I grow very 
tall, erect in a bed.  I am hairy underneath.  From time to time-"

Duana entered carrying his sword, and cleared her throat in 
disapproval.  She had already heard this riddle, and Eimile and 
Dafy were playing with the dogs at their father's feet and listening 
to every word.  

Gwilym grinned mischievously, and raised his arms for her to 
fasten his sword as he continued, "From time to time, a beautiful 
girl dares to hold me, grips my reddish skin, robs me of my head, 
and puts me inside.  And once that girl who has confined me 
remembers our meeting, her eye moistens."

Merfyn shook his head, squinting as he tried to think. "Again, 
Gwil."

"No, not again," Duana interceded, straightening Gwilym's 
shirtsleeves and pronouncing him ready for service. "Enough 
riddles.  The king's men are almost at the gates."   

He looked out the window to see the knights winding up the 
mountain. From April to October, Gwilym guided the English 
armies: those were the terms of having his lands and titles returned.  
Fitz had sent a royal escort, just in case Gwilym forgot to appear at 
Court this spring as he frequently 'forgot' to pay homage.  
Grieving his 'dead' wife was no excuse to escape service to the 
king.     

Merfyn shifted awkwardly, knowing they wanted privacy, and then 
vanished on the pretense of checking that Goliath was ready. 

"You promise to be careful?" Duana asked again, looking around 
the bedchamber to see if he had missed packing anything.

"I promise to be careful," Gwilym repeated obediently, squatting 
down to gather up a child in each arm.  Eimile came eagerly, but 
Dafy was a little more hesitant, not sure if it was really his father 
under all the armor. "It is just me, Dafy.  Dehdeh has to go win 
wars for the Normans: that is the deal.  It is a very long, exciting 
story, and I will tell it to you someday, little prince."

"And me," Eimile chimed in, wrapping her arms around his neck 
possessively.   

"Yes, you too, sweet girl.  You are in the story almost from the 
very beginning."

"And Mathair?" she demanded, still showing no signs of having 
mastered feminine submissiveness.

"Oh, and Mommy too," Gwilym assured her, and Eimile 
scrambled down, hurrying off to find important two-going-on-
three-year-old things to do.

"Are you going to tell me goodbye?" he asked Dafy, and the 
toddler looked at him warily, big hazel eyes taking in every 
nuance. "All right, then." Gwilym kissed the little boy's forehead, 
ruffling his messy brown curls affectionately.

"Bye-bye," Dafy finally decided, folding and unfolding his chubby 
hand.

"Bye-bye, little prince," Gwilym said quietly, standing up, hearing 
the gates squeal as the soldiers entered the bailey. 

"You have your maps? And a spare shirt?" Duana asked, 
needlessly fussing over him. "And that collection of gray patches 
you call a cape?"

"I have everything," he said, resting his forearms on her shoulders 
and watching her eyes watching his.  "I will see you in six months. 
Until we meet again…"

He kissed her, then pulled away, knowing he was not good at 
farewells and hoping that was eloquent enough.

"William – yes.  I am almost certain."

"Yes?" he echoed, blinking in surprise.

"I thought you would want to know before you left, since I cannot 
write to you from beyond the grave." Duana hesitated, now 
needlessly readjusting his shirt so it lay smooth under his chain-
mesh shirt of armor. "Perhaps a little girl this time – would you 
like that?  Or another boy?"

"I thought we were being careful," he mumbled, breathing a little 
quicker. "I thought we were going to wait a bit longer before 
another baby."

"Dafy is more than a year old, and it has been more than six 
months since…" She looked up, searching his face.  "I thought you 
would be happy."

"Of course I am happy." Gwilym stroked her cheek, producing a 
smile for her benefit. "Just surprised.  I love you.  Take good care 
of yourself, cariad.  Wait here: do not let the soldiers see you.  I 
like to keep the ghost of Aber Castle only for myself."  

She nodded, still watching as he turned away.  On impulse, he 
stopped, stepping back inside the room. 

"What, William?"

"The Gauls – the people who first lived in England – had no way 
to say 'retreat' or 'surrender' until the Normans came.  The closest 
word was 'lose.' When they went into battle, they either won or 
fought to the death: there was nothing else."

"You would have made a good Gaul," she responded, a little vague 
on her history. "Is this another riddle?"  

"No, I was just thinking about it: if there is no concept of 
something, then there is no need to have a word for it."

"I suppose that is true."

"That is why we have words in Welsh that other languages do not: 
because we think differently and we need a way to say it.  Like 
'hiraeth' – there is no French or English word for that."

"Longing," Duana supplied. "Homesickness."

"No, not just longing.  Hiraeth – to feel you only belong to a 
certain time, or place, or person, and that you are away.  To feel 
incomplete until you can return.  Truly belonging: it is a concept 
known only to y Cymry: the lost people."

She nodded. "You cannot be lost if you have never had a home."

"And you cannot be adrift if you have never had an anchor.  And 
you cannot explain it to others: only those who have been y Cymry 
can understand.  I thought you would understand," he added, 
feeling sheepish. "Or am I being foolish?"

"No, I understand this hiraeth very well.  I love you," she 
murmured, squeezing his hand and then letting him go, closing the 
bedchamber door behind him. 
 
Gwilym trudged down the stone steps, through the great hall, and 
into the bailey, pausing to admire Aber awakening with the first 
breath of spring.  The snow still tipped the blue peaks, creating an 
untouchable beauty that seemed foreboding to outsiders.  Among 
the Welsh Mountains though, husbands quietly stepped out of their 
homes, stretched their broad shoulders, and prepared to take on 
another year.  Wives carried new babies with them as they returned 
to the fields, and young men looked toward the sea and dreamed of 
adventure and immortality.  Aber was reborn as life hummed 
through the fertile valleys and the blood of its people with an 
intensity that made one whisper with awe.    
 
"Lord William – greetings from the king," an old man leading the 
knights said in courtly French, stiffly remounting his horse. "I am 
Richard fitzMatthew.  My men and I will see you safely to 
London."

"Greetings," Gwilym answered cordially, swinging into the high 
saddle in a single practiced move. "How did you get assigned as 
my nursemaid?"

"I requested it, actually.  My condolences on your wife's death.  I 
met her in London; spoke to her at Pembroke Castle – such a 
lovely woman.  Very tragic."

"Yes, I recall.  Thank you," he said politely, picking up the reins 
and turning Goliath toward the gates. 
 
"That horse is a little long in the tooth," Richard observed, feeling 
awkward and not knowing what else to say. "Although he must 
have been something in his prime.  Are you planning to ride him 
all the way to London?"   

"I think we have one more adventure in us. What do you think, old 
boy?" he asked Goliath, who having finally conceded to learn 
French, snorted in agreement and tossed his head.    

"An onion – the riddle: it is an onion," Merfyn announced 
victoriously, emerging from the castle with Dafy on his hip.  

For the first time, Merfyn would not be riding beside him to war, 
choosing to remain in Aber with his family as he edged toward his 
sixtieth winter.  Leuan, who also would be reaching his twilight 
years, had never returned except in dreams.  Father Leuan had 
vanished into the mists with his Norse wife and his twin girls.  The 
Beltaine fires would come soon and, if Gwil had been in Aber, he 
would have gone among the Druids and searched for a ginger-gray 
beard.  He was certain his old friend was not so far away; Leuan 
never let Gwil out of his sight for very long.    

Perhaps Leuan had been the Druid Priest who married him and 
Duana.  Perhaps his father and grandfather, who allowed the Old 
Rites on their lands, had also gone among the rituals.  Gwil would 
remember Leuan telling him how the Welsh blended the old and 
the new religions and lived happily, and Gwil would think perhaps, 
perhaps, perhaps, until in his mind, his childhood tutor said tiredly, 
'Oh hush, Llwynog; you do not have to question the meaning of 
every moment of life.  Just try to find some peace in it, and if you 
are luck enough to find it, hold it tightly so it does not escape.'

"It is an onion," Gwilym conceded, circling the horse and kneeing 
Goliath sideways so he could lean down to rub noses with the 
toddler.  

"This is your son?" Richard asked, taking stock of how many years 
had passed.  "The Welsh heir, I mean – Dafydd ap Llewelyn?"

"My little prince," Gwilym answered, grinning as Dafy pursed his 
lips in distaste at the silliness, looking exactly like Duana.

"I knew your grandfather, little prince," Richard informed the 
child, who watched him curiously. "And your father when he was 
about your age."

Gwilym raised his eyebrows as he straightened up in the saddle, 
but did not ask, thinking Richard was speaking of Llewelyn.  He 
waved bye-bye to Dafy again and glanced up at the window of his 
bedchamber.  Richard followed his gaze, seeing only shadows, but 
then, he did not know what he was looking for.  Gwilym certainly 
seemed to see something.

"Are you ready, then?" Richard asked. "You Welsh travel very 
lightly: do you have everything?"

"More than you know," Gwilym replied, tightening his calves 
against Goliath's sides.

*~*~*~*

End: Diwedd
End: The Hiraeth Series