Title: Dechrau
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Summary: Bath, southwest Britain; summer, 1218
Keywords: historical au, msr, angst
Spoilers: I can't see how
Distribution: link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Homepage: www.geocities.com/purfrocks_love/prupage.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver Spoons: Jen – good, really (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – 
check, Angst-o-meter – up there: 8.76 out of 10, Snortameter 1.5

Dechrau
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

It was probably wishful thinking, not poor navigation, that Gwilym 
had guided them to Camelot.  

Not Camelot, really, but where bards liked to say Camelot had 
been.  Somewhere in this dense, misty forest was supposed to be 
the gateway to a land of heroes and legends: to a place where 
quests were always noble and love conquered all and the high king 
would return when his people needed him.  
 
Gwilym sighed, rolling his aching neck from side to side.  Camelot 
– it made for a nice story, anyway.

It would be dawn again soon – Gwilym could see the sky 
beginning to glide across the spectrum from the blue-black of night 
to the violet-black of sunrise.  Duana was too tired to keep her eyes 
open any longer, so they were riding double on his horse and 
leading hers.  Somewhere in the night, she had managed to fall 
asleep in the saddle behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around 
his waist as though life was normal.  Her head bobbed against his 
shoulder blade, but she did not stir as he stopped the horses.  

It was not far enough.  They had covered more than a hundred 
miles in barely twenty-four hours, but it was still not far or fast 
enough for Gwilym.  It did not matter that there was really 
nowhere to run to, a man still had the instinct to hurry to nowhere, 
to frantically search for 'it,' whatever 'it' was. 

"Where are we?" Duana asked sleepily as he helped her down, 
noticing for the first time the slight swell of her stomach under her 
dress and cloak.  They had simply fled, putting as much distance 
between them and London as possible, and not taking time for 
polite questions about marriage and children and futures.

"Near Glastonbury, I think," he answered, "I was trying for 
Glastonbury Abbey, but I do not think either you or the horses will 
make it that far.  This house looks empty; we can sleep here and 
rest the horses."

"And then?" she asked, looking around at the dark trees.

"And then it will be tomorrow," he responded, not knowing what 
else to say.  

She nodded, shrinking away from his touch and turning her back.

Wherever the hell Camelot was, it was a long way from here.   

*~*~*~*

By the time Gwilym saw to the horses, got a fire going, and carried 
in a bucket of water to rinse off, Duana had a bed made up near the 
hearth.  She got as far as taking off her shoes and veil, then decided 
actually undressing was not worth the effort and lay down – then 
scooted back to make a place for him.

"You are sure?" he asked, hesitant. 

She nodded, closing her eyes.  "You are my husband," she said, 
not realizing how those words stabbed his heart like a dull knife.  
She did not want him; she simply had no other choice.  Duana was 
very practical that way.

As he stretched out, keeping an ocean of unsaid things 
between them, she murmured, "William, what do you remember?
Do you remember that this child is yours?"

He rolled over, making a tangle of her neat blankets, "Of course I 
remember!  Did you think that was why I did not come?"

Duana nodded 'yes' again.

"Fitz told me you asked for sanctuary, Duana.  When I went after 
you, his sencha-something told me you were in Scotland.  That is 
where I have been; I never doubted you.  Whatever you did, you 
did because you had to."  He swallowed, fiddled with a hole in the 
blanket, sticking his finger through it like he was not supposed to, 
then asked, "Did you want a divorce, cariad?  I never assumed you 
wanted to be with me; only that you did not want to marry Fitz.  
That is why I came."

"I was upset, but I would not leave you or my children," she said 
quickly.  "Fitz assumed I would, or that I would change my mind, 
so he had his men take me out of London.  He thought you would 
be rough with me, too."

He opened his mouth, but she interrupted that she did not want to 
talk about it.  

"I would like to tell you I was not with that girl," Gwilym said 
after the silence became unbearable.  "But that does not seem to be 
the case.  I do not remember – there are still many things I do not 
recall or understand.  Yes, I have been with Muritta, but I do not 
know when. Not since before we married, I think.  I see other 
women in my mind as well, but I cannot tell you who they were or 
if they were even real.  I cannot promise you those nights did not 
happen, only that they will not happen again.  Cariad, is that 
enough?"

"Of course," she said softly, stroking his shoulder.

"No, do not do that.  Do not pull inside yourself and pretend you 
are fine.  For the rest of your life, every time another woman looks 
at you and smirks, you will wonder, and I will not be able to tell 
you because I do not remember.  I wondered as we walked through 
London Court for the first time, and I did not like it.  Do not tell 
me it does not sting."

"No, it does not sting, it aches," Duana whispered, rolling away 
from him. "I understand now why Isabelle hates me as she does.  It 
is one thing to wonder – to wake up at night and find you are not in 
our bed, or to deliver a peasant woman's baby and notice it has 
dark hair and eyes when her husband does not – but seeing the 
evidence is different.  To know a name or see a face is different.  
You are always asking me how I feel, William?  This makes me 
feel like I want to throw myself on the ground and kick and scream 
and cry that it is not fair.  But, you would hold up your index 
finger and tell me calmly that life is not fair, and you would be 
right."

Not sure what to make of all that, Gwilym moved closer to her 
back, close enough that he could feel the warmth from her body, 
but not touching. "What is not fair?" he asked quietly, neutrally.

"That you did not get what you agreed to," Duana sniffed. "You 
got a daughter you must lie about, a woman who seems to bring 
you nothing but trouble – though God knows what men see in me - 
and you are the one husband in the room who knows other men 
have touched your wife. And I do not help that by offering myself 
like some novice prostitute.  I am always with child, and I spend 
my days running a castle, and writing letters, and patching wounds 
and shirts… and, and," she sniffed again, beginning to cry in 
earnest. "And it is no wonder you feel cheated.  Some fairytale 
heroine I turned out to be."  

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, and then covered her 
face with her hand. "I am sorry – it is just the baby making me cry. 
It happens; it will pass."  

He stared at the shadows dancing on the wall, dumbfounded.  "I do 
not feel cheated," he managed.

"No, God forbid you ever feel anything," she shot back, still 
sobbing.  "You can chatter until the end of time, but you wear your 
armor around your heart as well as your body."  

Gwilym rubbed her back, then put his arm around her, resting his 
face near to hers. He worried his tongue against the roof of his 
mouth, trying to put together an intelligent sentence.

"Oh, William, I am so sorry.  I should not have said that and I 
know you hate it when I cry.  I am just tired and testy.  I will be 
better in a few hours, I promise."

"I do love you," he whispered quickly, abandoning the idea of 
composing something eloquent and just speaking. "Do you want 
love songs by moonlight?  I could not play a harp now if my life 
depended on it – once, I could, but now I would fumble and strike 
the wrong notes and just embarrass myself.  The link between my 
mind and my right hand is not the same as it once was, just as the 
link from my heart to my mouth is not after so many wounds.  That 
does not change my heart, and you are in my heart," he insisted. 
"As you say, how can you be so brilliant and so thick at the same 
time?  Jesus, how can you think I do not love or want you?  I 
certainly seem to get you with child often enough.  You are the 
most beautiful woman alive and still you sit in front of the mirror 
searching for flaws.  You are not trouble; you are a challenge, and 
I like a challenge: crusades, mysteries, and my wife.  You give me 
something to think about, to match wits with.  And the only time I 
feel cheated is when I open my eyes and find you are not beside 
me.  Really, I would like to shake some sense into you!"

He exhaled and added, "Jesus Christ!  What a stubborn woman! A 
mule is easier to convince than you are."

She continued silently shaking beside him, so Gwilym raised his 
head to see her face. "Are you still crying or are you laughing at 
me now?"

"Both," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Well, stop it," he ordered, not sounding very convincing. "I do 
not care for either."

"Yes, William." 

"Do not take that smart tone with me," he said lightly, trying to get 
his emotional bearings. He felt like he was laying there naked for 
her to examine as she pleased.

"Yes, William," Duana answered in that same 'tone.'

"Witch - I am warning you…"

"Your wanton witch," she whispered, rolling over, pulling the 
blankets over them, and cuddling up against him again.  

"Fitz should see you shaking with fear at your fierce husband," he 
commented, feeling her cold little nose against the center of his 
chest.  "I do not think we are even technically married anymore, 
wanton – not in the old way, anyway.  Imagine a man being able to 
sin with his own wife." 

"You are finished talking now," she murmured. "Go to sleep, 
William."

As she dozed, he watched the sunrise gleaming through the cracks 
in the old cottage wall while he did not sleep.  Turn about was fair 
play: he had said it; she had not.

*~*~*~*  

It was late afternoon when Duana finally awoke, giving Gwilym 
plenty of time to worry about what to say to her, time to rehearse 
how various scenarios might play out in his head.  He was not so 
idealistic as to think managing three little words was going to fix 
anything.  Managing to go back and live a few minutes over: that 
might fix something.    

She sat up slowly, blinking, and watched him doing nothing – 
although doing it very purposefully – in front of the hearth.

"We have meat: I got a rabbit.  And there is fresh water if you are 
thirsty.  You are in a cottage in Bath," Gwilym said in response to 
her bleary-eyed, confused expression. "I thought last night we 
were closer to Glastonbury, but it is a few more miles.  I have 
looked around: this place seems safe enough.  The horses are too 
exhausted to ride for a few hours, so we will have to rest here."

"Why are you wearing a kilt?" Duana mumbled, yawning and 
stretching.  She always had difficulty prioritizing in those first few 
moments of consciousness.

"It is a long story and I do not like some parts of it.  It is not so 
bad once I got used to it – just a little breezy.  I thought the Crown 
would not be searching for a Highlander, so I kept it.  It feels 
barbaric, and so do I: it seemed appropriate.  And it is gray."  He 
was nervous – he always talked too much when he was nervous.  
"Come and eat: you must be famished," he added, telling himself 
that was the last thing he was saying for the next three minutes.  

"Nice legs." She scooted to the edge of the blankets, still eyeing 
him.  "That is my cross."

Gwilym blushed, suddenly finding an urgent reason to turn away 
and poke the fire with a stick.  "I found it.  In London.  I was just 
holding it for you. I did not want to lose it."  He fumbled with the 
knot in the ribbon with his left hand, and then jerked at it furiously, 
trying to get it off.  Of all the stupid things for her to see him 
doing: wearing a woman's necklace.

"Come here: I will help you with it," Duana offered, holding out 
her hands.  

"I can do it," he insisted, aggravated at himself and the world in 
general. This reunion was not going at all as he had planned it.  "I can 
cut the damn thing off, if nothing else."

"Perhaps it is not that you need my help, William; perhaps it is that 
I need to help you," she said softly. 

Without another word, he knelt in front of her, bowing his head so 
she could reach the knot.  Even after he felt the weight lift, 
Gwilym did not move except to roll his head as she massaged his 
neck and kissed the base of his throat.  He closed his eyes, letting 
her touch her lips to his eyelids, his cheekbones, and finally, 
carefully, his mouth.

"You have new scars," she murmured, stroking the one on his face 
from the Rosslyn castle guard.  "We both do."

"Did someone hurt you, cariad?" he asked, misunderstanding.  She 
had not explained how she had gotten the guard to open the castle 
gates – he hated to think what she might have offered in trade.  
And Fitz would not force her, but the kingmaker might be very 
persuasive.  And, again, if she had thought Gwilym was not going 
to claim her baby, Duana was very practical and Fitz was very 
smitten.

"Just my pride, and it will heal."

"Mine is still hemorrhaging." She smiled sympathetically, and he 
wanted to kiss her, to know that all was forgiven, but Gwilym was 
an optimist, not a fool. "Have I ever hurt you?" he finally asked. 
"Like that girl in Chester?  Just because I do not remember does 
not mean it has not happened."

"No.  No, I cannot imagine trusting anyone as much as I trusted 
you."

"Even now?"

"Whatever happened, I just want to go on with our lives."

"Cariad," he said, cupping her face in his hands. "Do you 
understand that we cannot go back?  I have refused service to the 
Crown, and I have something Fitz wants very much – you.  He will 
hunt me for the rest of my life."

"No, I do not think he will.  If we would just explain, he would 
understand," Duana insisted.

"Let me tell you something of your brilliant men, as you call us: 
we do not like to lose.  You knew I was outside the castle; why did 
you not just tell Fitz to let you out if you are so sure he would?"  
She swallowed, looking away, but he held her face still.  "There is 
no going back."

"But you have told me several times that English troops will never 
be able to take northern Wales – that they could not come over the 
mountains or make it through the narrow passes without being 
slaughtered.  Why can we not just go home to Aber?  London can 
scream 'traitor' all it wants, but…"

He shook his head. "If I am in Wales, then Llewelyn is harboring a 
fugitive.  No, I do not think the English could ever take Wales, but 
they can spend many years and lives trying.  Give them any excuse 
– say, a prince who will not hand over a traitor – and the peace that 
Llewelyn has worked so hard for will vanish.  There is no going 
back," Gwilym said again, "Not to what we had before.  Only to 
begin a new life – dechrau… if that is what you want."    

Not looking down, she found his hand and placed it on her belly, 
finally letting him feel.  "We have a new life."

*~*~*~*

"You did not get me another tomb, did you, William?" Duana 
asked, sitting on a fallen tree trunk as she watched him clear away 
the rubble from the ancient archway.  "I do not think I could stand 
the romance of receiving two tombs in one lifetime."

"Are you speaking to me, woman?" he said sarcastically, tossing 
the last stone out of the way. "And are you really expecting me to 
listen?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

Gwilym paused to grin at her, enjoying the easy banter.  It seemed 
so normal: him doing something crazy and Duana watching him 
with her arms crossed, telling him how he was doing it wrong. If 
he did not think too hard or look around, they could still be in 
Wales and the last months could never have happened.

He checked that the horses were securely tied, then held out his 
hand. "If you are finished mouthing, could you manage to come 
with me?  If this place is what I think it is, you are in for a 
surprise."

"A sacred spring where a Goddess lives?" she replied, not moving.  
"Or a ruined building that is going to collapse any moment?"

"Sulis Minerva," he reminded her. "A Roman Goddess."

"Of course," Duana replied, letting him help her over the rubble 
and through the archway. "No, really – what is this place?"

"The Romans built it.  They used to come here to bathe in the 
waters, hence the name Bath, but then the Romans left, Arthur 
died, and the Normans invaded, and so no one has bathed in 
several hundred years."  

"And you have spent an hour breaking into an old bathtub?"

This time he ignored her, letting the magnificence speak for itself: 
the arches along the four walls framing a large pool.  The room, 
except for a few cracks in the walls and some missing stones the 
locals had carted away, was exactly as the Romans had left it when 
they had fled Britain.  Without a roof, the calm water reflected the 
sunset and the first evening stars as perfectly as a mirror. 

"I saw these on Crusade," he explained, but Duana was busy 
staring at the mosaics, the marble statues, and finally bending 
down to dip her hand in the water. 

"It is warm."

"It is filled by a hot spring – it must flow through a dragon's lair.  
And, since the water is so clear, it is probably mineral water."

"I have never seen anything like this place…" she whispered in 
awe, slowly pivoting. "Is this where the Templars keep the Holy 
Grail?"

"No, that is a few miles away, but I am not supposed to tell you 
that.  You said you would like a bath," he said lightly, undressing 
as he surveyed the water – a nice excuse to avoid her eyes.  How 
amazingly stupid: for a man to be nervous about his own wife.  
"This is a bath, an old bath."  Slipping into the deep end, he 
continued, "The Romans had orgies here – dozens of men and 
women together at once – and the water is said to help a woman 
conceive."

"I do not think that will be necessary," Duana said skeptically, 
watching him moving easily through the water. 

Gwilym swam back to the side of the pool where she was, reaching 
up and tugging on the hem of her skirt.  "Come in, cariad. You will 
like it."

She hesitated, looking past him at the water.  "William, I do not 
swim well.  I do not swim at all, really."

"Oh – then walk around to the shallows." He pushed away from 
the edge, crossing the thirty feet to the other end, and stood up, 
showing her the water came only to his waist as he waded to meet 
her. "Come in: it is not deep here."

Duana still watched him, not the water. "I had forgotten… It does 
not matter so much for men, but Llewelyn is right: you are very 
pretty."

He smirked, flicking a few drops of water at her.  "Witch, strip off 
that dress and come here."

Duana sat down on a stone slab in the corner of the room, pulling 
off her shoes, stockings and veil, and unfastening her hair so it fell 
down on her shoulders.  "You are going to watch me?" she asked, 
standing up and starting to unlace the neck of her dress.

"I am going to watch you," Gwilym said hoarsely, folding his arms 
and waiting, trying to look nonchalant.  Duana managed to get her 
dress off, then fumbled with her chemise, blushing, glancing up at 
him every few seconds.  Perhaps it was just being true to her 
nature, but every garment had to be carefully folded before she 
finally turned, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"If you are too afraid, do not do this.  You do not always have to 
pretend to enjoy everything I do." Gwilym, never the master of 
subtlety, trailed his fingers across the surface of the water and 
added as though it had been his original topic: "I can swim; you 
cannot.  I would understand if you do not want this."

"I am willing to try."

"Well, that is all a man can ask," Gwilym replied, managing not to 
stutter. "Perhaps you would like me to come to you first?"

Duana nodded 'yes,' refusing to even stick her toe in until he was 
standing right in front of her.

"You are blushing all the way down to your breasts," he observed, 
drinking her in appreciatively.  "When did you get so modest?"

"The water is warm," she excused, gripping his hands tightly as 
she took a few tentative steps. "And you have never wanted me in 
a room with no roof or door.  Anyone could just walk in."

"There is no one around for miles," he assured her.  "And what 
makes you think I want you?  Such a wanton; do you think of 
nothing else…" When he pulled her toward him, her foot slipped 
on the mosaic tiles and she gasped, tightening her death grip on his 
hands.  "I have you.  The water is shallow here.  The pool deepens 
gradually, and there is barely any current – the other end is over 
my head, deep enough to dive, but here it is really just like a big 
bathtub. Duana, trust me."

She exhaled, cautiously letting go of one hand and watching 
wondrously as her arm floated.

"You have never been in open water before, have you, cariad?"

"Not like this," she said shakily.  "I feel so light, like anything 
could sweep me away."

"Nice?"

"Nice. Just do not leave me."

"I will not leave you," he promised, kissing her forehead, the tip of 
her nose, and then slowly asking her mouth open for his.  She 
moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her 
breasts against his chest. Neither of them were children – she could 
have bathed before they left the cottage and they both knew it.  "I 
have you, wanton," he said huskily, moving to the deeper water. 
"If you want, I will show you why Romans liked their baths so 
much."

"Tell me of these orgies," Duana requested, letting her head fall 
back as he turned them, as though they were dancing, in slow 
circles in the water.
 
He cupped her breast, alternately massaging and teasing as he 
lazily explored the salty skin of her neck and shoulders with his 
tongue. "I would not want to corrupt you."

Gwilym said a few unintelligent things after that, forgetting what 
the question had been, and concentrating on the way the water 
shimmered silver on her skin and the little noises she was making.  
Guiding her to one edge of the pool, he pressed her against the 
side, pulling her leg up and over his hip, and sliding his hand 
between their bodies.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders and her breathing quickened 
in time with the pace of his fingers. "I think it is too late."

"For what?" Gwilym was quickly reaching the stage where all 
thoughts drained down out of his brain, leaving only the rush of 
need.  

"Too late to keep me from being corrupted."

"You have to relax, cariad," he murmured, realizing she was not 
nearly as ready as he was, perhaps because she seemed so 
distracted. It was as though she was trying a little too hard instead 
of just enjoying the moment. "You said you wanted this.  I am not 
going to hurt you."   

She pulled her face away, breathing heavily. "William, I do not 
think the baby likes this…"

"Is fine…" he replied, closing his eyes as he positioned her hips, 
already imagining the delicious sensation of entering her. "Be 
careful - slow," he promised.

"William – stop." 

He blinked, losing the dreamlike haze that had been enveloping 
him.  "I told you, it is just like a bath.  You bathe all the time when 
you are with child.  And, do not tell Father John, but we make love 
all the time as well.  Just relax." 

"No, really."  She loosened her grip on his neck and lowered her 
legs, seeing if she could touch bottom. "I want to get out.  The 
baby does not like this."

"The baby does not or you do not?" he said, sounding angrier than 
he had intended. "Perhaps the stars are rising too bright or the 
moon is too full for you?  Could the water be too wet?  If you do 
not want this, you need to just say. I understand if you do not, but I 
would like to hear you say it instead of making up excuses."

She tried to get free, but he kept his hands on the edge on either 
side of her head, pinning, but not touching her. "Something is 
wrong."

"Yes, many things are wrong, but I want to hear you say it: that 
you-"

"Really, William-" she interrupted, dropping one hand to her 
stomach. "He does not like this at all."

His focus shifted from his dented pride to her ashen face. "Cariad-" 

She started to sway, and he caught her quickly before she slipped 
beneath the water.  

"Jesus, what is wrong?"  When she did not answer, he picked her 
up, carrying her out and wrapping her in the cloak she had been 
wearing.  "Duana – what is happening?" 

Not knowing what else to do, he held her on his lap, stroking her 
wet hair and praying until he forgot which saint he was supposed 
to address.  She had fainted before when she was with child, but 
not like this.  He had told her the truth: there was no one – no 
doctor, no midwife – for five miles in any direction. Glastonbury 
Abbey was the closest, and there were only nuns there: no doctors, 
and she needed a doctor.

"Tell me you are only fooling me," he said desperately, rubbing 
her shoulders and hands to warm them in the cool air. "Please talk 
to me, Duana."

She opened her eyes, but it was a moment before she could focus 
on his face. "This happens - it will pass." She took a careful breath, 
keeping one hand on her abdomen. "I was only fooling." 

"Jesus, you certainly were.  Perhaps we should not be here – 
perhaps we are angering the Roman Goddess."

"Perhaps," Duana agreed shakily. 

"Do you think that is all it is?"

"Of course," she said automatically, then, paling again: "No, no I 
do not think so."

*~*~*~*

The nuns at the Glastonbury Abbey led a quiet life of prayer and 
penance and charity, and were not sure what to make of a tall, 
scruffy Highlander with a lovely unconscious noblewoman in his 
arms appearing at their door in the middle of the night.  The best 
the Sisters could figure was that Robert and Lyra, as he gave their 
names, were runaway lovers. Lyra was the lady of some Scottish 
castle and perhaps Robert was a knight who had gotten her with 
child.  

It was a very romantic tale, at least the way the girls made it up.

Mother Superior donned her disapproving face and accepted the 
money the man offered, while the younger women put their heads 
together and gossiped about the scandal, sneaking peeks through 
the curtain to see the red-haired woman.  The Highlander, not 
allowed in the abbey at night, waited at the gate, hands on the bars, 
and watched the main house with dark, intense eyes.  When 
Mother Superior finally let him in at dawn, he paced the hall 
outside the sickroom, making the novice nuns scatter like 
frightened hens each time he passed.

Someone whispered that the man had gone to the Lady's Chapel to 
pray, so a half-dozen novices gathered around the curtain to take a 
good look, taking turns peeking around the edge and speculating.  

"Sin will always out," a sharp voice said behind them, and the girls 
whirled to find themselves being scrutinized by the Mother 
Superior.  "Women are only vessels of lust and this is what lust can 
bring."

"Yes, Mother," they replied in unison, already envisioning what 
their penance would be this idle gossip.

"The wages of sin are death.  If your mouths are so busy, go to the 
chapel and pray for her child's soul."

"Yes, Mother," again.
  
As they turned, glad to have an excuse to flee, the girls discovered 
the Highlander had returned, and, from his expression, was not 
having much trouble following their conversation in French.  

"My wife?" he asked tersely, looking very fierce and foreign.

The girls squeezed each other's hands excitedly.  Perhaps this 
couple had been married in secret – made a lover's pact and stolen 
away to find a priest.  

"You may see her," Mother Superior answered.  

Instead of hurrying into the room, he hesitated. "She will live?"

"She should," she promised him, then, thinking someone should 
tell him, stared at the floor and began, "The child…"

"The bleeding has stopped?" he asked nervously, for the first time 
seeming like a vulnerable little boy instead of a warrior.

"The child…she has miscarried."

He shook his head, not seeming to care. "The bleeding has stopped?" 

"It has stopped," Mother Superior assured him, stepping to the side 
to let him pass.

*~*~*~*

"There is my sleepy girl," he murmured, tenderly pushing her hair 
back off her face as she began to stir. "I thought you would sleep 
for days."

Duana's hand slid across the blankets to her abdomen, trying to 
figure out what had happened.

"Just rest, cariad. It is all over.  The Mother Superior said you 
would be fine."

"Baby?" she whispered.

He shook his head 'no,' stroking her face.  

"Oh, William – I am so sorry." She looked away, blinking.

"Please do not cry," he stammered. "You are fine: that is all that 
matters. If you cry, I will cry and there will be a big scene which I 
will have to lie about later."

Duana sniffed, watching the candlelight flicker on the wall. "You 
said you wanted another baby."

"Not as much as I want my wife." She opened her mouth again, 
but he interrupted, "No – do not apologize.  You did not fail 
anyone.  I am the one who dragged you across Britain, again, and I 
am the one who thought we should play in that silly bath.  I am not 
a king, a Druid, or a Roman: perhaps I should listen to Father 
Leuan before I go angering Goddesses."

She turned her head back toward him and managed a sad smile. "Not 
a Goddess; you can be so silly, William."

"I like that smile. I was not sure I was going to see it again."  He 
took her hand, stroking her thumb over hers.

"Did the nuns baptize the baby?  I do not remember."

Gwilym nodded reassuringly, actually having no idea. 

"What did they say about another child?" Duana asked, her eyes 
darting over his face.

"I do not know… I would rather you rest and not worry about it 
just yet."  

Gwilym would thank the Heavens if she never became pregnant 
again.  This was the third time he had watched her almost bleed to 
death: after she fell from her horse, after Mab came, and then last 
night.  That was three times in less than three years and three 
times too many.  He shivered, thinking of her joke about the 
Roman bath being her tomb.

"The nuns will not let me in the abbey at night, and you need to 
rest," Gwilym said, needlessly adjusting her blankets, "So I will 
see you in the morning; I will be just outside in the forest.  And, if 
anyone asks, you are Lyra and I am Robert.  The younger nuns 
have concocted quite a romantic story about us."

"That would depend on your definition of romance," Duana 
murmured, getting tired. 

"You are mine," he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "I do 
love you – just rest and get better."

She closed her eyes, keeping hold of his hand. "You are getting 
better at saying that."

"I have been practicing," he said lightly, giving her a moment to 
respond, but she seemed to be dozing. "On the horse," he added. "I 
will see you in the morning, cariad."

Duana nodded slightly, releasing his hand as she fell asleep.

*~*~*~*

Since his Uncle Rhonald had been a full Templar monk – sworn 
never to marry or have children - Gwilym had been raised with the 
certainty of being the only son of an only son.  At the time, Welsh
estates were divided between brothers, but Gwilym had been the only 
heir, so there had been no question of the succession.  As long as 
he could remember, he had been deferred to and treated differently: 
one day expected to govern his father and grandfather's vast lands.  
Even Llewelyn, as a grandson of a great warlord, had not been so sure 
of his inheritance. 

Privileges, power, and comforts had always been there.  Wales did 
not share the Norman custom of providing a woman to a noble 
guest, but he had seldom slept alone in his journeys as a young 
man.  Diana had been the first girl he could not simply smile at, 
casually mention his title, and have her start fawning.  She was 
the first woman he had to work to bed – which explained quite a 
bit when he considered it almost two decades later.

His name and handshake were collateral enough for unlimited 
credit at any tavern or inn.  In Aber, his word was law – whether 
he settled a dispute over a cow or judged a murderer – and he was 
accustomed to having his lightest utterances obeyed.  And, being 
both Gwen's darling and Merfyn's and Leuan's protégée, he was 
also accustomed to being doted on.  Finally, there was the warm 
completion Duana had brought to his life: she created a sanctuary 
of home and children and soft flesh in the darkness that he had 
somehow also come to think he deserved as his birthright.  

There had been great certainty of his world and his place in it: a 
clear line between right and wrong, truths and lies.  And that had 
all begun to change the afternoon Llewelyn had told him Dafydd 
was dead.  That a king he had fought and bled for had not only 
raped his wife, but executed his Dafydd and was coming to take 
Duana and her child.  

For the first time, Gwilym had questioned his universe, questioned 
what was faith and duty and what was blind stupidity.  It was like 
looking at the world with his eyes open for the first time, and it 
was impossible to ever close them again and pretend.  His 
questioning had ended in his turning his back on Fitz and walking 
away not only from his oath of fealty, but from his faith in his way 
of life.
 
It was remarkable how quickly comforts could be stripped away – 
and even more remarkable what a man will do to keep what 
remained.  

"Robert," the sister called Karin said for the second time before 
Gwilym realized she was addressing him and scrambled up from 
his seat against a tree trunk.   

He approached the gate, which she kept between them as though it 
could actually keep him out.  The nuns had been willing to offer 
shelter to Duana without asking any questions, so he had followed 
their rules: seeing her only briefly each morning and sleeping 
outside the walls like a stray dog at night.  And he had tried to be 
useful by chopping firewood and helping with their harvest, but the 
women preferred to be self-sufficient.  Gwilym understood: it was 
a matter of pride.  Duana would fit in here very nicely.

Many of the nuns were kind, careful to speak slowly and slipping 
away from their duties several times during the day to come assure 
him his 'Lyra' was well.  The novices – young girls and teenagers 
who had been given to the Church – seemed sure he was starving 
and smuggled loaves of bread out to him, leaving them at the gate, 
hissing his assumed name, and then running for cover.  He 
responded by keeping the abbey supplied with venison and fowl, 
using that same hiss and run delivery method.  He had even found 
a pair of breeches waiting for him in his makeshift camp yesterday: 
someone had taken pity on him and his kilt.  

Even Mother Superior had finally thawed a bit, but this woman, 
this Karin – Gwilym had discovered she could be trouble, although 
he was probably more sensitive about it than necessary.  She was 
not a nun, but a wife put away by her husband, and she did not 
appreciate having her awkward flirtations ignored by Gwilym.  She 
was harmless, just lonely, but he would never give Duana any 
reason to question him again.  Still, he had tried his best not
to hurt Karin's feelings, but her affection for him had turned
to cool distaste – which he actually preferred. 

"You may not bring weapons in, Robert.  You have been told 
before."

Trying not to take offense, to get used to being addressed as a 
commoner, he unrolled the blue fabric he carried to show her it 
was only a plain woman's dress.  "I thought D-Lyra would need 
something to wear."

"And did you steal that?" she asked, turning up her nose. "She can 
wear a habit – perhaps it would help her learn a little chastity."

"I bought it from a peddler," Gwilym said through clenched teeth. 
"And Lyra is my wife."   

"So you claim.  Mother Superior says you may come in now." She 
lifted the latch of the gate, then turned her back. "You will follow 
me."

Gwilym swallowed, his temper and his pride, and followed her 
across the courtyard and into the main house.  "Half an hour," 
Karin reminded him, lifting the curtain to the sickroom.  Christ, 
she always made it sound like he had paid for a prostitute instead 
of just wanting to check on his own wife. 

Duana was up: standing at the window with a blanket wrapped 
around her pale shoulders.

"How is my Lyra this morning?" he asked softly. 

"Caged," she replied, turning to greet him. "I feel like I have spent 
most of the past six months watching life from a window.  It is not 
as nice as the poets make it sound."

"Would you like to go outside?" he asked, unrolling the dress he 
had brought her.   

Duana nodded eagerly, and he found something interesting to 
watch through the open window while she slipped it over her head.  
Turning back around as she tied the belt around her waist, he 
commented, "I suppose I am used to seeing you with child.  I 
forget how tiny you are when you are not."

She dropped her eyes: it was still a sensitive topic, no matter how 
many times he told her not to worry about it.  A wife's two 
primary functions were to have children and satisfy her husband, 
and Duana had doubts about her ability to do either.  

"Do you think you can manage a walk?  I would like to talk to you 
without a dozen girls," he raised his voice slightly and said in 
French, "listening outside the room."

From the other side of the curtain, there was a flurry of giggling 
and scurrying, which made Duana's eyes light up a little. "They 
really do think we are quite the pair," she commented, smoothing 
her hair.   

"Who is to say that we are not?" Gwilym teased back, relaxing a 
bit and reaching for her hand.      

They walked for a while around the perimeter of the grounds, 
Gwilym trailing his fingers along the stone wall and saying nothing 
of particular interest.  When they reached the front gate, Duana 
paused, looking out at the forest.   

"You are sure you want to leave, Cariad?  I thought you might 
want to stay here.  It would be much safer and the sisters seem 
very nice."
 
"I am not a nun," she answered, not looking at him. "Are you 
saying you do not want me?"

"No," he said quickly, squeezing her hand. "Of course I want you.  
You can leave whenever you are ready."

"I am ready now."

He chewed his lip and rearranged his shaggy hair, trying to figure 
out how to say it.

"William, I am sorry about the baby," she said, a desperate edge 
creeping into her voice.  "Please do not make me stay here. You 
said you would take me wherever I wanted and I want to be with 
you."   

In Britain, divorce was seldom an option, so, like Karin, many 
unwanted Norman wives were sent to convents.  That technically 
preserved the marriage: letting the husband keep the dowry, but 
ridding him of an inconvenient or unpleasant wife.  Under Welsh
law, either husband or wife could just walk away, but they were 
not in Wales.

"Will that happen again, do you think? With the next child?"

"I pray not."

"No, answer me."  He dropped her hand, leaning against the gate 
and watching her. "Llewelyn's Johanna almost died having their 
daughter when she was sixteen, and then she miscarried again and 
again.  Is that what will happen?"

"Perhaps not.  Perhaps it was just this baby. Yes, it was very soon 
after Mab for me to have another child, but other women do it.  
And, I know you do not remember, but you wanted another baby 
so much."  Gwilym, who did remember, looked away, and she 
reached up to stroke his scruffy cheek.  "Sometimes it only 
happens once and then every other baby is fine, but no, I cannot 
promise."

"I am older than you," he said, avoiding her eyes.  "Most men do 
not live past forty, which is not far away for me."

"I think you look healthy enough.  Perhaps in need of a haircut and 
a shave, but healthy," Duana said lightly, knowing what he was 
getting at.  He did not want to leave her with small children and no 
way to provide for them.  It was not an issue when he owned half 
of north Wales, but now any sons would have no inheritance and 
any daughters would have no dowry.  

"I understand the risks, William, but I am not content to sit at the 
window and watch life pass me by.  If I wanted that, I would have 
stayed with Fitz.  And I understand all the hurt I have caused you.  
You told me once that you wanted no more children because 
you could not stand to lose another.  Now, you have lost not 
only this baby and your David, but really, Eimile and Mab as well.
If you do not want me, you do not need to make excuses."

He swallowed, chipping some rust off the bars with his thumbnail.  
Gwilym had worked out a very nice speech in which he calmly 
explained why they should have no more children and why she 
should stay here, but somehow he had forgotten every word of it.

"You are much better, but you still need to rest and winter is 
coming," he said nervously. "The cottage where we stayed last 
month – I can make it livable with a little work and it is very 
secluded.  We could live there, at least until spring."  

Damn it: his mouth just kept moving and this was not what he was 
supposed to be saying.  She was supposed to stay at Glastonbury 
Abbey where she was safe and in no danger of getting pregnant 
again: that had been his plan from the beginning.   

"If you still want me – knowing what you know of the girl in 
Chester and that I will spend my life running from the Crown – 
Jesus, the least I can do is let you run with me."

Ah, damn it all to Hell: she was smiling.  He was always sunk 
when she smiled at him.

*~*~*~*
  
End: Dechrau