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