Title: Hiraeth IV: Credu

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

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

Spoilers: I can't see how

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

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

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

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nice?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you been drinking, William?"  

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you not want me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You loved her."

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

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

"Then she was a fool, William."   

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

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

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

He nodded, vaguely comprehending.

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Llwynog-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even now.

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Duana?" came a surprised whisper from behind her.  She turned, 
making out William standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the 
dim torch on the wall behind him.  "Duana! Come out of there 
right now!"

Relieved, she made her way through the sprawling, snoring men on 
the floor, trying not to tread on anyone.

As soon as he could reach her, William took her by her shoulder 
and steered her into the hallway, being so rough she winced.
"What do you think you are doing?  You cannot just go for a midnight 
stroll among strange men!  There are Normans in there - Marcher 
Lords – actors - did you not see them watching you this evening?  I 
could shake you!  How could you be so foolish?"

"Prince Llewelyn-" she started to explain, but he continued 
angrily:

"You think I am a barbarian? These are barbarians!  You do not 
even have your veil on.  You cannot go prancing around like some 
wanton and expect me to protect you from every man in the 
castle!"

Duana ran her hands over her hair self-consciously, suddenly angry 
at herself.  Although she had managed to wash the dye out, it did 
not even reach her shoulders now.  It did not seem worthwhile to 
braid it for bed, but she had not thought of the signal that would 
send to any man who might see her.

"I am sorry – I did not mean to embarrass you.  Prince Llewelyn-"  

William had never hit her, but this was as angry as she had ever 
seen him.  Frightened, she pressed back against the cold stone wall 
as he leaned down so they were eye to eye.  "You will not find 
Llewelyn here," he said icily.  "If you want him, go to his 
bedchamber, but do not make a laughingstock of me in front of all 
these men."

*~*~*~*

To Gwilym's absolute horror, Duana slid down the wall, wrapped 
her arms around her knees, pulling herself into an impossibly tiny 
ball, and began to sob silently.

He stood frozen over her, shocked as much at himself for making 
such an unfounded accusation as her uncharacteristic reaction. 

She had been miserable since they arrived: too many men, too 
many strangers.  Probably the very idea of Christmas Court has 
been what was making her nauseated last week.  Gwilym had 
considered making excuses and taking her home – it was only a 
few hours ride – but then the snowstorm had started.  The best he 
could do was to have Duana sleep with the other noblewomen in 
Joanna's bedchamber rather than in the communal great room with 
him.  Besides Gwilym and Leuan, who was fawning over some 
Norse woman again, Prince Llewelyn was the only person she 
knew.  Of course if something was wrong and she could not find 
Gwilym, she would look for Llewelyn.   

A guard passed through, pausing to appraise the situation.  "My 
Lord – is there anything…"

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' and the sentry averted his eyes and 
continued walking.  There was a fine for beating a woman, but it 
was the wife's family's place to object to her treatment, not a 
guard's.   

Now feeling like a complete fool, not to mention a brute, Gwilym 
squatted down, facing her, trying to catch her eye.  "Duana, get up, 
for pity's sake," he whispered.  "I did not mean that.  I did not 
really think…  I am not going to hurt you.  I was just upset – afraid 
for you.  For God's sake, at least look at me."

Her face stayed buried in her skirt as her shoulders shook.  

"I do not understand, cariad.  I have seen you make men's knees 
quiver just by looking at them, including me.  I am just being a 
jealous ass.  Raise your eyebrow, cross your arms, laugh at me, and 
tell me to go to Hell.  Christ, Merfyn has even stopped picking his 
teeth with his knife at the table out of fear of your temper."  He 
lowered his volume still more.  "What happened?  Why were you 
looking for me?  Did you have a bad dream?  Did one of the men 
bother you?"

She still did not move, and the people passed out in the hallway 
were beginning to stir, so Gwilym pulled her to her feet and guided 
her into the vast, empty kitchens.  As soon as he let her go, Duana 
slumped into a chair beside the hearth, covering her face again.

Gwilym found a cup that did not look too dirty and brought her a 
drink, which she ignored as though he was not even there.

"What is wrong, cariad?  Please do not do this.  Just yell at me 
and feel better.  Please?  You have been so much happier in the last 
few weeks.  Is this because your – your flux came?  Duana, I do 
not want you to have another baby just yet.  It is too soon.  I know 
you do, but…"  

He took her hands, and she moved as obediently as a sleepy child 
as he looked for marks.  No, no bruises on her wrists or face.  Her 
dress, from what he could see, was not torn.  Llewelyn had quietly 
increased the number of sentries patrolling during Christmas 
Court, and touching another's wife would cost a man his head: it 
could still happen, though.  Gwilym had not dreamed she would 
leave Joanna's bedchamber without an escort, although he should 
have known.  Satan himself had better not stand in Duana's way 
when she wanted something.

There were no marks on her, she would not talk, and she would 
not listen to him.  After stoking the kitchen fire so she would not 
freeze, he sat down on the floor beside her chair and waited, not 
knowing what else to do.

"I am so sorry, William.  I – I will stop."  She took a few shuddery 
breaths, trying to regain control.  "What is wrong with me?  I think 
I am fine one minute, and the next-" Duana raised her hands 
helplessly.  "I feel so weak."

"I know that feeling," he replied cupping her cheek into the palm 
of his right hand.  

"Prince Llewelyn is with Joanna – I did not want to stay…"

"Ah."  Gwilym understood.  Llewelyn and his wife must have 
reconciled.  Closed bed curtains were more privacy than many 
couples were afforded, but Duana would have been embarrassed.  
"So you came to find me…"

"And you were not there . . . I was only looking for you, I swear it."

"I know you were, cariad.  I do not doubt you.  I could not sleep, 
so I got up to see if I could find someone to talk to in the witching 
hour.  I should have thought to go bother my favorite witch."

"You can always come bother me," she said, still shaking.            

He unfastened his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, kissing 
her damp cheek before he sat back.  "Always? Always is a long 
time and I can be quite bothersome.  Be careful how you issue that 
invitation."

He had said it lightly, trying to tease her into talking to him, but 
she replied, "Always," very seriously.   
 
*~*~*~*  

"Are you sure you are not lost?" Duana asked through chattering 
teeth for the eighth time, trying to pull her cloak closer around her 
against the cold.  "When are you going to tell me where we are 
going?  William, what will the other vassals think when they find 
we are not at Prince Llewelyn's Court?  It is Christmas day!"
 
"Cariad, have you ever heard that there are wives who do not 
second-guess their husbands?  Go see if you can find me one."

She nudged her mare up so they were riding side-by-side and 
leaned toward him.  "William?"

"Hmm?"

"Go to Hell."

He smiled – that sounded more like his Duana.  "Witch, I have 
been to Hell, I think, and lived to tell about it.  And so have you."

Duana was quiet after that, probably too cold and frustrated to 
argue.  He had told her that her New Year's gift was just over the 
hill from Llewelyn's castle – to bundle up and they would ride out 
and see it.  That had been two frigid hours ago.

Gwilym stopped Goliath, reaching out to grab her mare's bridle.  
"If you are not frozen solid, get down.  We are here."

"Where is here?" she asked, pushing back her hood and appraising 
the white landscape.  

"Saint Mary's Abby in Aberconwy.  Slide down."

The abbot hurried out to greet them, embracing his favorite 
'Master Scully.'  Duana must have made quite an impression on 
the monks.  "Everything is ready, my lord."

Duana looked from the abbot to Gwilym and back, trying to find 
some clue as to what the surprise was.  Neither man gave any sign 
as they guided her into the chapel, the abbot waiting inside the 
door as Gwilym and Duana made their way to the far left corner 
behind the altar.

"This is your family vault," she observed.  They had been here that 
awful night before he sent her into hiding in Ireland.

"You are a very quick woman," he said casually, but his posture 
was tense, nervous, as he reached out for her hand.  "Dafydd," 
Gwilym told her quietly, inclining his head toward the fourth stone 
tomb.  The sculptor had modeled the effigy on Gwilym, assuming 
Dafydd had looked like him, so the marble figure atop it had 
Gwilym's dark, angular face and long limbs.

"I come here often – sometimes for the afternoon, sometimes for 
the night.  I pray, I talk to Dafydd: tell him I am sorry.  I tell him I 
am still looking for his sister, but I hope she is safe with him and 
their mother.  The monks do not bother me.  Even when others 
come: Llewelyn, Leuan, they respect my tears.  This is my Dafydd 
– the boy I raised as my son: I am allowed to cry."

Gwilym paused, making an effort to keep his voice steady and 
trying not to stutter.  "I tell him other things: about my fears for 
you and Eimile.  About what could happen if someone thinks to 
count closely the time between you leaving the London Court and 
Eimile being born.  Or questions where I was when the Old King 
died.  Or, if Wales ever falls under English rule, how it will 
suddenly be very important that my parents were not married and 
that I do not know whom my mother was.  Dafydd knows that 
somewhere in the world is an English soldier who still gives my 
wife nightmares because of what he did ten years ago and I would 
not know that man to see him.  That, for the first time, when spring 
comes, I will have to send my soldiers into battle while I watch 
like a Caesar from the hilltop because I cannot keep a grip on my 
sword.  I have even told him that you desperately want another 
child, but I am so afraid I will lose you to bleeding or milk 
fever or any of the other thousand things that could go wrong."     

She leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around him and 
trying to offer some comfort.

"As you say, cariad, 'I am fine.'  Dafydd has heard me for several 
months now.  I tell him the silliest things, things he cannot possibly 
care about.  He knows you are still nursing Eimile – which you do 
not think I know – even though the baby has a wet nurse, and that I 
cannot bear to try and make you stop.  Dafydd had discovered the 
London brothels, so I had even told him of my close acquaintance 
with my sofa.  He was probably very disappointed to learn how 
little I knew about making love to a woman I care about, given 
how many women there have been that I cared nothing for.  
Sometimes, my conscience gets the better of me, and I tell Dafydd 
how I leave notes for my wife saying I am off to do manly things 
while I am actually usually sitting right on this bench."

Gwilym rested his chin on top of her head for a minute, hugged, 
and then released her.  Duana looked up at him with teary blue 
eyes, her bottom lip trembling.  "This is why you brought me 
here?"

"Oh, no – your present."  He pointed to the last stone box in the 
vault.  The others were marked: Gwilym's father, grandfather, 
great-grandfather, and Dafydd, but the last was smooth and there 
was no effigy.

"You got me a tomb?"  

He nodded 'yes.'

She wiped her eyes, sounding perplexed and perhaps a little 
amused.  "You got me a tomb for New Year's.  William, you are 
the romantic."  

"It is empty."

"That is good.  I would be truly worried if you gave me a corpse as 
well."  She brushed the last of the tears away, trying not to laugh at 
him.  "A tomb.  Am I supposed to hunt for my real gift?  Is it 
hidden somewhere?"

"Duana, this is your gift."

"Tell me you did not drag me out in the snow just to play a joke on 
me."

Gwilym saw a forehead crease and those arms crossed as she 
scrutinized him.  He could hear the lecture about to begin, so he 
hurried:

"You need a tomb.  It does not need to have a body or a name – 
just a tomb.  As long as you have a tomb, no one cares why you 
really cry or what you say to it," he told her.  "You have so much 
sorrow, but no bodies.  It would be self-indulgent to be angry or to 
cry without a tomb and I would not approve of that.  I thought, 
maybe – perhaps," he mumbled, starting to feel foolish, "if you had 
your own, when I come to Dafydd's tomb, you could come with 
me to talk to yours." 

She was still looking at him with those bottomless eyes and his 
stomach tightened.  

"I do not have a tomb for my daughter, so, inside my head, I put 
her in Dafydd's.  You can put anyone in your tomb that you like."  
He swallowed nervously, running his fingers through his hair and 
starting to fidget.  He had thought Duana would understand, but 
she did not seem to.  "Anyone you want – King John, that soldier 
who hurt you, maybe me, I do not know.  Just like that chest in our 
bedchamber.  I put any frivolous thing I like in there and I lock it.  
Those things are my memories, and no one else cares to see them.  
If-"

"Hush."

"There is a very pretty sapphire ring Gwen helped choose," he 
blurted, hanging his head and nervously tapping his toe against the 
corner of Dafydd's tomb.  "That is your gift.  It is in the desk in 
Aber - I forgot to bring it," Gwilym lied, miserable and furious at 
himself.

"Hush," she hissed.  "There is no ring."

The seconds seemed to stretch painfully into hours before she 
spoke: "I like my tomb just fine." 

He glanced up, thinking there might be some hope.

"It is a big tomb – that is good," she added.

Gwilym nodded eagerly.

"I would prefer to visit my tomb alone, just as you do."

"Merfyn can escort you."  He would have promised just about 
anything at that moment.  "Anytime you want to come."

"I wanted to tell you we were going to have a child for your New 
Year's gift.  I was so certain, I did not even think to get you 
anything else."

"Next year," he assured her.  "Next year you can tell me you are 
with child, if God blesses us, and I will really have that sapphire 
ring for you instead of a tomb."

"Next year," Duana replied. "If God blesses us, I will not need a 
tomb."  She turned to face him, pulling her hood up and fastening 
her cloak, indicating she was ready to leave.  "William," Duana 
asked as she followed him out of the chapel, "Did no one think it 
odd that you had a tomb built without a body?  What in the world 
did you tell the monks you were going to put in it?"  

"Credu," he answered.  "It does not matter – the monks and the 
sculptor think I am half-insane anyway.  They blame it on grief, 
and I let them."

"Credu?"  Mass was said in Latin, regardless of the 
country.  Duana was not certain of the Welsh word.

"Faith."
 
*~*~*~*
 
End: Hiraeth IV: Credu