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 protιgι 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