*~*~*~*

"You had cause to hate King John, but so did many men, myself 
included," Fitz said sympathetically, pacing the worn oak floor of 
Gwil's new caged world. "I assure you: I have no desire to take 
Eimile from you.  She is legally your daughter, regardless of who 
fathered her.  Nor am I eager to try you for treason, but you are not 
giving me a choice."  
 
Gwilym continued to silently stare out the small barred window, 
looking down at the ice beginning to form on the Thames River 
eighty feet below.  Fitz had ordered him moved from Duana's 
apartments to The Tower, keeping him in a comfortable corner 
high above the courtyard until this 'matter,' as Fitz called it, could 
be 'resolved' – meaning until a plausible reason could be devised 
for Gwil to stop drawing breath.

Someone should tell a man when he is about to do a thing for the 
last time – hold his son, make love to his wife, watch a sunrise – so 
he would know to pause and savor the moment.  Two of those 
moments had rushed past, but one remained, and Fitz insisted on 
interrupting it by chattering about minor details.  

"Did you know the Crown owns every swan in the Thames?" 
Gwilym finally said, speaking for the first time in hours as the sun 
peaked over the horizon.

"It is November – there are no swans," Fitz snapped, his head 
pounding in protest at his lack of sleep.  He was so tired he could 
feel his blood pulsing behind his eyes, and Gwilym was making 
observations about swans.

"I was just wondering: how does someone own a swan unless the 
swan agrees?  A cow, a pig, or a horse: those you can own, but not 
a swan.  It is like claiming to own a woman: perhaps it is the law, 
but it is not really worth the trouble unless she agrees."

"William, these charges: do you understand how serious they are? 
I have a man who says you killed King John, and Duana once told 
me you killed Eimile's father.  Now, Eimile's father was obviously 
King John."

"Yes, I understand.  And Duana cannot testify in court: we both 
know that."

"Answer the charge, William," FitzWalter demanded.  When 
Gwilym did not respond, he threatened, "My men found a 
crossbow in Duana's apartments, which she insists is hers, as 
laughable as that is.  It could easily become hers, if you do not 
cooperate – I will send Eimile away and keep Duana here as I 
please."

Gwilym tipped his chair back, balancing precariously on two legs. 
"Do you not want to torture me?  Surely you want to torture me, 
Fitz."

"All I want is the truth," Fitz responded, rapidly losing patience.  

"It does not matter what the truth is: I am a dead man regardless."

"It is beginning to look that way."
  
*~*~*~*
 
"What is it, breila?" Llewelyn muttered in response to the hand 
shaking his shoulder.  

Joanna thought it was a crisis each time their daughter sneezed, 
and whether they were speaking or not, she still insisted on waking 
him.  Gruffydd was the oldest of Llewelyn's seven children – nine 
children, if he was supposed to count Gwilym's two little ones – 
and Joanna's daughter was the youngest: he had learned not to 
panic at every case of the sniffles.

"Wake up, my lord," the woman pleaded in Welsh, continuing to 
jiggle him.  

Tang – it was his precious Tangwystl: he could see her hair 
through his half-open eyelids.  He sighed contentedly and went 
back to sleep, knowing he was dreaming: Tang, with her red curls, 
gentle laugh, and mysterious smiles, had been taken from him a 
few hours after Rhys had been born.  Marrying King John's 
illegitimate teenage daughter was supposed to heal that wound, but 
one woman could not replace another and it was unfair to insist she 
try.  The eye might believe all cats were gray in the dark, but the 
heart was no so easily fooled.  Poor Joanna: he loved her with all 
his heart, but only so much of it remained.

"It is Duana.  Please wake up, my lord."

"Duana?"  There was a name that did not belong in his 
bedchamber.

"Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she whispered, pulling him up to 
sitting and handing him his breeches.  The other men who had 
bedded down in the great hall stirred, grumbling at being 
awakened so early.  

The great hall – ah, he was at London Court.  Something about 
leaving a siege so he could ride with Gwil – who was not dead 
after all - and Fitz wanting to make a deal with Gwil, except that 
Duana – who was not with child after all - had died in a fire.  No, 
that was Diana who died in the fire, because word came that Duana 
was at Court, and Llewelyn had finally gotten Gwilym to get up, 
sober up, and go get her.  

Gwilym should get wives with names that did not sound so much 
alike.   

Christ, it was early.

Llewelyn stared alternately at his bare legs, his breeches, and 
Gwilym's wife, waiting for his brain to catch up with his body. He 
ran his tongue over his teeth, swallowed, and asked sleepily, "Why 
are you here? Does Gwilym know you are here?"

"I told you: Fitz has arrested Gwilym.  I am here because my 
guards said this was where you were," she answered quickly as 
Llewelyn continued to stare at her.  "Wake up!" she ordered, and 
dodged as one of the other men threw a boot at her.

"Fitz has arrested Gwil?" he echoed, trying to focus through the 
one eye he had managed to open. "And you are here?  And I am 
not wearing any breeches?" 

No, something about that was not right: a pox on morning people.

"Fitz found the crossbow in my apartments, and he will not believe 
it is mine, not Gwilym's," Duana continued, pulling his shirt over 
his head efficiently. "Gwilym is in The Tower, and Fitz will not 
see me.  You have to talk to him."

"Talk to whom?" Llewelyn asked, waving her away as she started 
to help him with his breeches.  He was accustomed to servants 
dressing him, but it was first thing in the morning and this was his 
best friend's pretty young wife.  His possessive, hot-tempered best 
friend who knew exactly why Pembroke's widow had caught 
Llewelyn's eye at Court: he could manage his own breeches. "Talk 
to whom: FitzWalter or Gwil?"

"Talk to Fitz.  Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she repeated, holding out 
his boots. 

"All right. All right," he blinked, standing up and turning away as 
he tightened the laces on his breeches. 

"Put your boots on.  I have your tunic," Duana ordered, somehow 
forgetting she was addressing the Prince of Wales. "And hurry up."

"I am hurrying," Llewelyn promised, hopping on one foot as he 
jerked on his other knee boot. "What is it I am supposed to tell 
Fitz?"

"That the crossbow is mine."

He nodded, getting his facts straight. "I am to tell Fitz the 
crossbow is yours. And where is fitzWalter?"

"In The Tower with Gwilym! Jesus!" she said in exasperation, 
sounding like she wished she had been born a man, or at least 
something slightly more important than a royal lapdog.

*~*~*~* 

"Is Duana all right?" Gwil asked urgently as the guards escorted 
Llewelyn into The Tower, shoving him forward and bolting the 
door behind him.   

"She is fine," Llewelyn nodded, dragging a stool across the floor to 
sit beside Gwilym at the window. "You, however, seem to be 
having your monthly crisis, and, of course, you must have it in the 
middle of the night. I swear you are exactly like my wife." 

"Well, I am hairier and taller than Joanna, but perhaps if it were 
very dark…" he replied sarcastically, pursing his lips seductively.  
"Make my your wife, Llewel.  We cannot deny ourselves any 
longer."

"What is this about, Gwil? I have talked to Fitz until I am blue, but 
all he says is you have broken the king's law, and are being held 
for trial by jury.  I tried to explain the crossbow was a joke, and 
you are just odd like that, but he will not listen."

"I am just odd – that is a good defense."

"FitzWalter is saying 'treason,' and I do not understand how 
having a crossbow is treason.  Against the law, yes, but not 
treason.  You hunt in my woods, you 'forget' to show up to pay 
homage: if I tried to punish you every time you broke the law, I 
would never get anything done except punishing you."

"Ohh," Gwilym replied, feigning excitement and leaning closer. 
"Will there be spankings?  I have been a bad, bad boy."

"Stop it, Gwil: you are acting like a brat," Llewelyn snapped 
tiredly.  "What is this about?"

Gwilym stood, crossing to the ornate bed and lying back onto the 
mattress.  Llewelyn expected another bland innuendo, but instead, 
"It is the law that if your liege lord rapes your wife, a husband can 
demand justice, and the penalty for touching a noblewoman is 
death."   
      
"I have never touched Duana.  Or am I now supposed to say I 
have?  Jesus, your schemes are complicated."

"But the problem is," Gwil continued calmly, ignoring the 
interruption, "that a woman cannot testify to rape – there must be a 
male witness.  Without a man to speak for her, who can say she 
was raped and not seduced?  And what is the boundary between 
the two: how is what Duana is offering Fitz right now any less rape 
than her having to submit to me or to you, if you had wanted her?  
I do not ask my best mare if she wants to be bred, but I do expect 
her to comply because I own her, just as I own Duana.  And if I let 
her out in the pastures while she is in season, it is my own fault if 
she gets hurt. I have say over her, but I am also responsible for 
protecting her." 

"What are you telling me?" Llewelyn asked, befuddled by another 
of Gwil's peculiar notions.  "Owning a woman – you sound like a 
Norman.  Is someone a horse in this story?"

"A brood mare, actually."  Gwilym rolled, propping himself up on 
his elbow.  "Fitz thinks I killed King John.  He wants me to 
confess."

"That is laughable – you were in Ireland with Duana when the king 
died in his bed."  There were several seconds of silence, and 
Llewelyn swallowed, a very bad thought beginning to swirl in his 
belly as he asked, "You were in Ireland with Duana, were you 
not?"

"If anyone could swear John raped her, I would almost have just 
cause, but no one can.  And, the king is my liege lord through you 
– you are my lord, so I should have heeded your judgment."

"And I told you to send Duana and her baby back to King John," 
Llewelyn replied, wondering how he could have ever said that to 
his friend: his Dafydd was dead and his new wife needed to be 
annulled.  "Or to make Eimile vanish."

"Well, perhaps I did not care for your justice."

Llewelyn blinked several times, then cleared his throat.  There was 
no love lost between them, but King John had been his father-in-
law.  And he had been the King of England, for God's sake.  God, 
the Pope, the King of England, then the Prince of Wales: that was 
the order of the universe.

"I see."

"You cannot fight beside me this time, Llewel, and I do not expect 
you to."

"Ask for an ordeal," Llewelyn said desperately. "Perhaps God will 
judge you differently than men."    

Gwilym shook his head 'no.'  "If you can find Leuan, I would like 
to make my final confession to him; he was in the north country 
the last I heard.  And, if you can manage it, I would like to see 
Duana.  Then, get her and Eimile out of London and I will 
confess."

Llewelyn shook his head, not believing this. "I will lie – just tell 
me what to say and I will say it."

"Say you will take care of Duana."
 
*~*~*~*
   
"She is back here, my lord," the priest said, waddling ahead of Fitz 
through the aisles of Temple Church. "We are not sure what to do.  
Where is her husband?"

"I will see to her," Fitz dismissed the priest, watching Duana for a 
moment as she sat beside his father's effigy.  She looked hollow, 
as though life had drained away and she was dying inside.  
    
"It is time to go, Duana," he said softly.

"William got me a tomb for New Years," she answered, not 
looking up, "Two years ago: after Eimile came and I seemed to cry 
half the day and yell the other half.  He got me a tomb to talk to 
just like he went and talked to his Dafydd, but I was so busy I 
never got to go.  And then I was carrying Mab, and then we had to 
come to London.  It did help, though: just knowing it was there."

Fitz nodded, trying to understand.  William had filled her head 
with these bizarre ideas until Fitz felt he barely knew her.  He had 
fallen in love with a beautiful, frightened fourteen-year-old girl in 
need of rescue - one who seemed like a weaker reflection of this 
woman.  She was still lovely, but she no longer needed or wanted 
him to rescue her, making him feel like an actor lacking a role.  

"Your father told me something, once, about when he was a boy.  
We were talking about you – he was so proud of you – and he said 
he had once been a hostage of King Stephen to ensure the 
Pembrokes were loyal to the crown, just as you were a hostage of 
King John's.  Walter's father did something – took a castle, or 
something else that displeased the king, and the king threatened to 
hang Walter.  Your grandfather yelled out from the castle 
battlements: 'hang him – I can make newer, better sons.'  King 
Stephen could not really kill a child, though, and Walter and the 
king spent the day playing knights in a nearby field."

"Did that really happen, or was Father just teasing you?"

"It really happened, Fitz.  I always meant to tell William that story 
– about a king who did not have the heart to hang a boy.  It makes 
me angry: that you apologize to Llewelyn about Gruffydd, but you 
do not apologize to William.  He loved his first Dafydd as much as 
your father loved you."   

"I do not doubt that, Duana – and in his way, he cares for you very 
much as well.  I just spoke to him, and that is his only concern: 
what will happen to you and his children.  He says he will curse 
me from beyond the grave in this life and hunt me down in the next 
if I harm you."

"Do not doubt him.  He is very stubborn about not staying dead."

"Are you ready to come back to Court?  You are to gather your 
things and get ready to leave London."

"No," she responded, clenching her fists.

"No?"  Fitz was not accustomed to hearing that word.  He was just 
being polite by asking her – it was really a rhetorical question.  
William had insisted he would not confess until Duana and Eimile 
safely reached Wales.

"William says I can go wherever I please as long as I have an 
escort.  Those are his knights outside.  If you do not like my 
husband's rules, talk to my husband."

"Your –husband- is a traitor and a murderer."

"He is still my husband," she insisted, glaring at him.  "And you 
are not." 

"So I am supposed to let you sit on the cold floor and talk to my 
father's tomb in Gaelic all night?"

"Yes," Duana replied defiantly.

"Duana, King John married you to William as a joke.  The king 
wanted to humiliate you, and I suppose he thought giving you to a 
Welshmen was a step below just letting the troops have you.  I 
expect you to grieve him, but I will not permit this.  Get up this 
instant."

"Is that what it will be like being married to you, Fitz?" she 
retorted, staring up at him with swollen eyes but not budging from 
beside the marble tomb. "You telling me what I can and cannot 
feel; what I can and cannot think?  How proud your father would 
have been…"   

"You do not want to be my wife and I will not force you – you 
know that," he answered evenly. "If he confesses, he will be 
executed.  If he does not, William will be tried by the Counsel in 
the spring.  I will testify to what I know and they will judge him.  
Either way, you cannot help him.  Take your daughter and go back 
to Wales."   

"Why?" Duana stood, shaking the dust from her skirts and 
stepping so close to him she had to tilt her head back to look in his 
eyes. "Do you not want me?" She licked her lips, taking a deep 
breath and swearing to herself she could do this.  It was just flesh 
and William had certainly bled for her. "Me for William – is that 
not a fair deal?"

"Duana!" a man's voice said sharply, and she turned to see 
Llewelyn coming through the dim church.  She stepped back from 
Fitz, but not before Llewelyn saw her: she could tell by his 
expression.  "It is time to go, Duana," he ordered sternly.

She nodded, fastening her cloak against the sleet outside and 
pulling up her hood. 

"You obey him, but not me?" Fitz said in exasperation.  She just 
would not understand that he was not the villain in this story.  He 
did not hurt servant girls; he did not kill kings or forsake his oath 
of service to the Crown.  He did not beat her until she miscarried 
or take her among pagans or abandon her in the forest.  Perhaps if 
he did, she might defend him as blindly and determinedly as she 
defended William.   

"I trust him," she said icily.

*~*~*~*
 
Sprawled across the mattress on his belly, his head nested on his 
folded arms, Gwilym wandered the not-awake, not-asleep portion 
of consciousness where the mind roamed free.  Lost children lived 
there – dead mistresses – even a dog he had owned that had been 
kicked by a horse and died bleeding from its mouth.  The wind 
against the shutters whispered unintelligible secrets and the river 
below hummed a song he was sure he had known as a child, but 
could no longer recall.  It was where the deliberate world ended 
and the mapmakers simply wrote, 'Here be Dragons,' for fear of 
what that might be out there.

In truth, it was a comforting place: quietness without loneliness.  
Someone had told him that once.  No, written it, but he could not 
remember who it had been.  Gwilym looked around the edges of 
his soul, trying to see if that person was there, but instead felt the 
bed shift and a woman's hand guiding him back to reality.

"Duana," he murmured skeptically, seeing her face behind the 
flickering candle. "I am your husband?"

"For some time now," she responded, smiling sadly at his sleepy 
bewilderment.  "Which is either a great blessing or a great curse – 
it varies from week to week."

"I was just checking. There has been some confusion."  He 
yawned, scooting back on the bed and gesturing for her to lie down 
beside him in the furs.  Fitz had seen he had a very plush cage – 
including the well-dressed guards outside the barred door.  

Duana had been watching him, but looked away, wondering if he 
already knew about her offer to Fitz.  And even if Fitz accepted, 
Llewelyn was not letting her out of his sight.  Although he had not 
reproached her, the Prince of Wales even stood outside the door as 
she and her precious honor went to the privy.  

"What is it, cariad?"  He caught her sleeve and pulled her toward 
him. "Lay down and lecture me.  Savor it – it is your last chance."

"Do not say that," she implored as he spooned up behind her with a 
contented sigh.  

"Why? It is the truth.  All things have to end, and I am guilty as 
Cain."  He ran his hand down her arm, then pulled the covers over 
them both, resting his face close to hers. "Just pretend I have 
'wandered off,' as you say.  Not all who wander are lost.  Go home 
to Aber and perhaps one day I will come riding in with a ruined 
shirt, an empty stomach, and a few good lies about where I have 
been."

"No," she insisted. "I will not-"

He sighed again, draping his bare leg over her. "Just listen, cariad. 
Please.  There are some things I need to say.  I have waited long 
enough."  

She lay still as he took a deep breath, working up his courage and 
organizing his thoughts, his mind overflowing with all the things 
he wanted to tell her. "You will take Eimile and leave London with 
Llewelyn immediately before…  Just get out of London, cariad.  I 
have spoken to Llewelyn about you and the children – I think he 
understands."

"Understands what?"

"Just what you and I have already talked about," he said, trying to 
sound casual.  "Llewelyn will see you are safe as long as I am 
alive, and then that you are able to choose a husband who suits 
you."

"You suit me just fine."

"There may be some problems with being married to a dead man.  
The smell, for one thing.  Just tell Llewel what you want – he is a 
good listener – and he will see that it happens.  Of course, when all 
these men who moon over you discover you are not half as docile 
as you look, they may leave you at the side of the road, so perhaps 
you should consider becoming a nun."  

He hesitated, wondering how to approach the subject, then said 
bluntly, "Joanna has miscarried again: the messenger came this 
morning.  Llewelyn cares for his precious 'breila' – his wild rose - 
but she is never going to have another son and he knows it.  And 
even if she did, men would always whisper, with good reason, that 
the child was not his.  The king could not object if he divorced 
Joanna after what she has done.  If he would divorce her and marry 
you, that would ease Mab's claim to Wales, and you two are 
friends: it would work out well.  Once, he even told me he envied 
me: that you slept alone when I was away, patched my wounds, 
and laughed at my bad jokes.  Llewel has killed more men than I 
have even met and conquered all of Wales, yet he is jealous my 
wife laughs at my bad jokes.  We were both very drunk when he 
admitted that, so never tell him I told you.  Anyway, do not think I 
am pushing you, but that might be one option.  After…"

She did not answer, refusing to even discuss this lunacy.

"I only want to know you will be safe – you have been hurt so 
much.  When I found our house burned… I cannot sculpt words 
like the poets, so I cannot expect you to understand.  Cariad, I wish 
I had a sword, a dragon, and a great cause like the epic heroes so I 
could show you how much I care, but I am not likely to get them.  I 
love you more than I ever imagined I could. You are my anchor, 
and my morning after I thought the sun had gone."

She sniffed, cuddling closer. "You promised you would not leave 
me."

"I promised I would always come back," he corrected. "And I will 
have to find you in this next life we speak of sometimes." Trying 
to make a joke, Gwilym continued, "Just do not be reborn as a 
sheep or a man – I do not care for either.  Not that I have tried 
either," he added, starting to chatter to cover up his aching heart. "I 
just do not think that I would."
 
"Are you afraid, William?" Duana asked softly. "I am.  I am so 
afraid."  

"I am terrified," he whispered back, kissing her neck.

"Will you change your mind – about another baby?  It is time – if 
we would…."

"No," Gwilym said firmly, recovering his poise. "It is too soon."

"But I will be…" She rolled over, facing him. "…I will be so 
careful."

He shook his head, watching her tortured eyes as she tried not to 
cry.  "I will not have you die because of me.  We have a son: I am 
already immortal because of you." 

"Llewelyn bribed the guards," she finally murmured, still hoping 
she could persuade him. "We have an half an hour.  They think I 
am a prostitute."

"Will you do something for me?"

"Anything," Duana offered, running her finger down the center of 
his chest, over the coarse, dark hair and raised scars.

"Prove them wrong."
     
*~*~*~*
 
With a loud, watery sigh through his nose like on old dog bedding 
down for the night, the scribe put down his quill, leaning his chin 
on his fist in boredom.  Vespers had rung and two meals had been 
served and cleared away while he and the Earl of Pembroke waited 
for this bastard Welshmen to confess something worth writing.  
Servants had brought food for the two noblemen that sat untouched 
and congealing on the table, but scribes and guards seemed to be 
expected to live off their humps like those beasts in the Holy Land. 
 
"We seem to have reached what we ignorant Welshmen call 'an 
impasse,' William said after a long pause, looking very cocky for a 
man whose head would soon be decorating London Bridge.  

Everyone was talking about it: Fitzwalter Pembroke wanted this 
man's wife, so being merely her husband had become a dangerous 
occupation.  And being her Welsh husband in combination with a 
trumped up charge of high treason was a death sentence.  If the 
scribe was the one accused, he would rather confess and be 
summarily, nobly beheaded than face whatever slow death a jury 
of Norman noblemen could devise.

Fitz leaned back, folding his arms and trying not to look like he 
was enjoying himself.  He liked playing mind games with William, 
provided he played with loaded dice.  "October 18, 1216 – 
Nottinghamshire.  Newark Castle.  King John was ill and his men 
abandoned him there.  The next morning, he was found dead in his 
bed.  Tell me what happened," he prompted again. "And think 
carefully this time." 

William nodded seriously, seeming to be constructing deep, 
confession-like thoughts, and the scribe picked up his quill again in 
anticipation.  After a moment of concentrated effort, he said 
slowly, "It was a Thursday – cold and rainy, but that is nothing 
odd.  I wore gray.  Eggs for breakfast."

"Damn it!" Fitz barked, slamming his fist down on the table for 
emphasis, and making red wine and black ink spill and splatter like 
blood across the table. "Answer the question." 

"Really – I do think it was a Thursday.  I have a good memory for 
these things."

"I am about to jog your memory with a good lashing!  Enough of 
this!  How did King John die?  Did you kill him?"

"What do you want, Fitz?" William shot back, his voice soft, but 
speaking as quickly as his command of French allowed. "Duana's 
freedom is contingent on my confession, so I will confess.  I boiled 
him in oil, I drowned him in brandy-wine, I smothered him in 
kisses – what does it matter?  Give Duana and Eimile safe passage 
to Wales and I will confess to whatever you want."     

"Duana and her daughter have already been provided safe passage 
to Wales," Fitz answered, hedging at the truth.  Llewelyn had tried 
to get Duana to leave London, but, unwilling to bind her wrists and 
ankles and throw her over his saddle like a spoil of war, the Prince 
of Wales had been unsuccessful.  Intervening in the struggle, Fitz 
had taken Duana's resistance as a sign she did not want to be 
Llewelyn's mistress, either, so, Duana stayed at Court with 
Llewelyn at her heels, until Fitz had put a stop to that.  The woman 
deserved some peace, for God's sake, and she should not be passed 
from one man to the next like a prostitute.

"Then prove it to me."

"How can I prove she is not here?  If she is not in London, I cannot 
bring her and show you that she is not in London!"  

"And we have circled back to that same impasse again," William 
replied, raising his eyebrows doubtfully.  "It would be a pity for 
me to die without you ever learning the truth."  He scooted his 
chair back, propping his feet up on the long wooden table in his 
Tower room. "So what do you want, Fitz?  Surely hanging me like 
a common criminal is too boring for you.  A traitor's death: drawn 
and quartered - that is dramatic, but messy.  Perhaps a heretic's 
fate?  We Welsh blaze well, and crowds always turn out to cheer a 
good burning at the stake."

Fitz was watching closely, and saw William shiver slightly at the 
last words, belaying his nonchalant exterior at the thought of dying 
in flames. "What do you want?" he echoed calmly, playing on the 
moment of weakness.

"Make Duana and Eimile leave with Llewelyn – she will not go 
willingly: I understand that, but Llewelyn will not harm her, either.  
Once I am dead, let Duana remarry as she pleases, if she pleases 
and let her have say over Eimile and Mab.  Grant her widows' 
rights to my lands in Aber with Llewelyn speaking for her in court, 
if need be.  And do not touch her..."

Unless Fitz imagined it, William had poised his mouth to add 
'again,' and then decided against it.  "That is all?  I have sworn on 
my honor that no harm will come to her and she has already been 
offered safe passage from London.  Whether she accepts safe 
passage is up to her.  Do you think my word is worth nothing?"

"No," William answered quietly, picking up a goblet. "Only that 
you are still a young man who believes he can own swans."

Fitz pushed his eyebrows together, thinking either he had 
misunderstood or William was just insane. "You have my word.  
Within reason, she may go and do as she pleases, and no man will 
touch her without her consent."  

William shook his head from side to side, setting his wine glass 
down again, curiously watching his fingers curving around the 
delicate stem.  "That is not what I said.  I do not want you to touch 
her, regardless of whether she consents or not."    

"You cannot have it both ways," Fitz explained. "She is either free 
to do as she pleases or she is not.  If it pleases her to be my wife, I 
will not turn her away to sooth your vanity."

"I am not the one whose vanity needs soothing," William said, the 
corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-smile.  "She would agree 
to you and all two-hundred of your knights if she thought it might 
save me or our children – do you not understand that?  Tell me she 
has not already offered."

Under William's steady gaze, the kingmaker stiffened like a boy 
caught trying to look up a peasant woman's dress.  

"I have no quarrel with you," William continued. "If she wanted to 
be with you, I would step aside – I would probably even leave 
Eimile with you and Duana, knowing she would be well-cared for.  
But now you decide if I live or die, Fitz; whether Duana can ever 
see our son or me again; even whether she can remarry after I am 
dead or if she will be sent to a nunnery and my children and lands 
taken from her.  You control everything precious to her and she 
had nothing else to offer except herself.  How can you think she 
has a choice but to consent?  She will agree to you, and she will 
probably even manage to smile, but wake up and roll over one 
night, Fitz, and you will see she is crying."  

"Did you kill King John?" Fitz asked tensely, wanting to redirect 
this conversation. 

"Will you make Duana and Eimile go with Llewelyn?"

Fitz nodded tersely, folding his arms across his chest.

"Have Duana send me a message in her own hand when she 
reaches Wales and I will confess to killing King John."

"But did you really kill him?" Fitz was beginning to understand 
how this game was played, and that his dice were not so loaded 
after all. "Or are you buying Duana's freedom?"

"Let Duana go and I will confess," William repeated, his face now 
expressionless as he tilted his chair precariously backward.

"I have no desire to execute an innocent man.  I am not going to 
charge Duana for having that crossbow.  If that is why you are 
confessing, I was only bluffing.  It was just an ill-considered gift I 
took from her before she could hurt herself."     

Again, perhaps Fitz was imagining it, but William looked faintly 
amused, which infuriated him.   

"I know who I am and to whom I belong, although it has taken me 
a lifetime to figure it out.  I am content to die knowing that.  I hope 
you live long enough to do the same, but for now you are a still 
boy who believes he can own swans, Marshall FitzWalter."

Fitz threw his hands up in exasperation, having no idea what to 
make of that.  "Jesus Christ, William.  Answer the damn question!"

"He forced my wives, hanged my Dafydd, and tried to take my 
daughter.  Yes, I made sure King John Lackland spent eternity 
burning in Hell," William answered evenly.  "In fact, I hope the 
flames are singeing his ass this very moment."

*~*~*~*

When he was a boy, Leuan would return from trips with a treat for 
Gwilym – Llwynog, then – hidden somewhere.  Nothing large or 
expensive, but always something: a wooden toy in his saddlebags 
or an interesting rock tucked up the sleeve of his priests' robes.  
Wherever Leuan had been, it was proof he had thought of his 
charge while he was away.  Gwilym, as a lonely child unsure of 
why men whispered when he was around, had treasured those 
trinkets, and reinstated the custom thirty years later with Duana.   

It was very comforting: simply to not be forgotten.  To have a 
woman laugh at your stupid jokes, to know to whom you belong, 
and to not be forgotten – those were the important things in life. 

When he opened his eyes and saw the robed man in the shadowy 
room, Gwilym had the urge to pat him down to find his prize, 
which the ghostly figure would probably have found quite 
startling.  

"Leuan?" he whispered, but there was no response from the robed 
form.  As his mind awoke, he realized it was not a Templar priest 
after all, but a Druid, his face hidden underneath his white hood.

The Druid opened his palm, blew lightly, and a tiny red light 
appeared.  It escaped and flickered across the canopy above 
Gwilym's bed like one of the distant Beltane bonfires he and 
Duana had once seen in Aber.  It teased him, darting back and 
forth, then dancing down the stone wall and to the oak door.  
Curious, Gwilym pushed down the covers and sat up, surprised to 
find he was still fully dressed, and followed the beam.  The Druid 
nodded in approval, turned, and vanished into the closed door like 
a dissipating mist.  The fairy light lingered, though, playfully 
dancing in circles and taunting him to follow it and its secrets.

At his tentative push, the heavy door opened silently and easily, 
and Gwilym found he was standing on a frozen riverbank, looking 
out at the ice on the Thames River instead of in the hallway.  
Puzzled, he turned and looked back at The Tower, and was 
reassured to see yellow lights still glowing through the barred 
window of his prison.  If the candle was burning, he was probably 
still laying in bed reading at this very moment, so there was no 
need to worry about why he might think he was standing outside.  

The fairy light reappeared, shimmering crimson patterns across the 
moonlit drifts, and he pulled his fur cloak closer around him 
against the cold, not bothering to wonder where he had suddenly 
gotten an ermine mantle fit for a king.  He had probably won it 
playing dice, just as he had won Duana's crossbow.  

In the distance, the execution block waited, the handle of the axe 
blanketed by a fine line of snow.  He was dreaming of the future 
then, and he was to be beheaded as a traitor – that was far more 
pleasant than burning as a heretic.  It was not nearly as pleasant as 
going home to his wife and family, but a marked improvement, as 
deaths went.

He started to walk toward the block, to accept his fate with what 
honor he had left, but the light skittered in circles around him and 
back to the snow-covered Thames.  The Druid priest reappeared, 
blocking his path, nodding 'no' and sternly pointing at the middle 
of the river.

"Please – no," Gwilym said weakly, realizing this was his old 
dream after all.  Duana was trapped somewhere underneath the ice 
behind him: cold, afraid, alone, and he was supposed to try to find 
her in time. "This is not the future – not way it ends.  I die and she 
lives."
 
The Druid figure nodded 'no' again, and stepped closer.  
Frightened of seers, ghosts, or oracles or whatever this creature 
was, Gwilym stepped backward, his boots slipping down the 
riverbank and onto the glassy surface of the frozen river.  

This was just a nightmare, this was just a nightmare, he tried to 
assure himself, kneeling and frantically brushing the snow off the 
ice, desperately trying to finally find Duana before it was too late.  
The wind picked up, blowing snowflakes of tiny cold fire into his 
eyes so he had to squint to see.  As his bare hands began to grow 
numb from the cold, he revealed a woman's dead face staring up at 
him, her short red hair swirling around her head in the icy, murky 
water. 

He struck the ice with his palm, then fist, but got nothing except a 
few smears of blood. "Get me something to break the ice," 
Gwilym ordered urgently, as though he might save her at this 
point.  He had never saved her – not in a thousand dreams.  He had 
probably been having this nightmare for a thousand years, 
spending eons struggling and failing to change destiny.  The dream 
always ended with him on the ice, alone in the midst of a vast 
white nothing, holding a woman he could not find in time.

"She cannot swim: get me an axe!" he insisted illogically. "Get the 
executioner's axe.  What is wrong with you?  Help me!"

The Druid only shook his head 'no,' backing away.

In his dreams, the ice suddenly began to crack and shift, as it did 
now – breaking apart with loud moans.  As soon as there was 
room, Gwilym lay on his stomach and reached into the fissure, 
ignoring the gashes from the sharp edges and the precarious angle 
of the collapsing ice as he fished in the murky water.  The body 
began to drift away, and he lunged after it, falling head-over-heels 
into the frigid water, but succeeding in grasping her wrist.  It 
seemed like an eternity before he broke the surface again, gasping 
for air as the cold squeezed the breath from his lungs.  Coughing, 
he struggled to stay afloat and keep hold of her hand until he could 
drag her atop the drifting ice.

"Get a blanket; she is cold," he ordered the oracle, pulling off his 
own wet fur cloak and wrapping it around the nude body when the 
Druid and the red fairy light continued to merely watch from the 
riverbank.  "It is fine, cariad.  Everything is fine." He rocked the 
battered body against him, rubbing her blue-gray, bruised face and 
arms to warm them. "I am sorry – I know you do not like open 
water.  Wake up: stop fooling.  You are scaring me, Duana."
 
"She is so cold," he murmured, not able to conceive she was not 
going to awaken and he was.  Any moment this dream would end 
and he would wake in his warm Tower prison. "Help her: do not 
let this happen," he pleaded with the Druid, who just pointed to the 
woman's form on Gwilym's lap, her head shifting slightly as the 
ice float rose and fell with the waves. 

His chest constricting painfully, he looked at the body, touching 
the bruises around the neck and the bloody stubs where fingers had 
once been.  He could not imagine what man would do this – rape 
and kill a woman and then take her hair and fingers as trophies.  As 
the tears began to fall, he pushed what remained of her wet, red-
black curls back from her forehead.  Someone had hacked it off: 
even the hasty haircut Duana had given herself in Llangly's hut 
was better than this.  What a horrible, horrible way to die.  

"This is what happens?" he asked the Druid, running his numb 
fingertips over the woman's cold, narrow shoulders. "She dies and 
I live?"

Had she done what Gwilym had told her – submitted, thinking this 
monster would let her go afterward only to realize too late what 
was happening?  Had she waited, hurt and frightened, but sure 
Gwil would keep his promise – the man who hurt her would suffer 
until he prayed for death?   

The fairy light drifted down, darting randomly over her face and 
finally settling into a thin red line high on her forehead.  

The scar, Gwilym realized breathlessly, blinking so he could see 
clearly – the scar on her forehead where she fell from her horse: 
this body did not have it.  She was a small and slight with red hair, 
but whatever had killed this woman had beaten and mutilated her 
so she was almost unrecognizable.  His hands shaking with cold 
and fear, he pushed open her eyelids, finding they were green 
instead of lake-blue.          

"It is not Duana?" he asked through chattering teeth, shock 
beginning to set in from so long in the icy water.  It was not Duana 
– it could be Fitz's prostitute from the inn, or FitzWalter's 
mistress, or some other woman Gwilym had never met, but not 
Duana.  It was not her – not yet.

The Druid smiled a familiar smile, bringing his index finger to his 
lips and murmuring, "Shush, Llwynog," before he vanished again 
like a fog at sunrise.     

"Leuan?" Gwil called after him, but the Druid had already gone.  
Gwilym stared into the blowing snow, not sure what he had just 
seen.

When he blinked, the woman's body vanished as well, replaced by 
the luxurious furs of his bed and the crackling fire in the hearth.  
The red fairy light drifted to the candle still burning low on the 
table, blended with the yellow flame, and then was gone as quickly 
and silently as it had arrived.        

"Am I awake?" Gwilym said, startled at how loud his voice 
sounded in the empty room.

"Lord William?" a guard asked in French, immediately peering 
through the small window of his cell door. "What is wrong?"

"Je suis bien," Gwilym answered, flexing his hands, realizing they 
still tingled with cold. "Tout un reve," he added. 'I am fine. All a 
dream.'

*~*~*~*

Fitz had forbidden communication with William – no notes, no 
messages, and certainly no visits.  Even Duana's pleas to let Eimile 
see her father before he died had gotten no response, although they 
must have bothered Fitz, because he refused to grant Duana an 
audience after that.  Once again, Duana was useless, even as a 
pawn: she was doing William no good sitting alone in her opulent 
rooms at Court, and she certainly would do him no good hidden 
away in Aber or Pembroke Castle.      

Fitz also had the bizarre notion she and Llewleyn were lovers, a 
notion William seemed to be encouraging, so the kingmaker had 
banned the Prince of Wales from Court.  Duana was supposed to 
sit in her cage and preen her pretty feathers, Llewelyn was 
supposed to slink back to Wales, and William, apparently, was just 
supposed to watch out his Tower window and wait to die.   

One thing kept Fitz from being a great leader: he failed to know 
both his enemies and his friends.  Llewelyn Fawr did not slink, he 
lurked like a hungry wolf and was twice as dogged.  William could 
not have waited for anything if his life depended on it – he started 
searching for his birthday gifts and choosing names for babies 
months before either arrived.  And Duana hated to be nullified, 
especially when men insisted it was for her own good.   

In the stories, there were always dank, secret alleys allowing lovers 
to meet and conspirators to slink unseen.  London had its share of 
both: lovers and conspirators, and a few, like Duana, who were 
both at once.  Plotting, stealth, and shadows were Welsh strengths, 
so she just kept a firm grip on her daughter's hand and kept 
walking down the main aisle of the church, having absolutely no 
plan except to escape.  Llewelyn claimed he had some plan, 
according to the servant he had bribed to bring her a message, but 
most of Llewelyn's plans were simply 'win' – he left the details to 
William. 

"Mathair?" Eimile asked, trotting to keep up with her mother's 
pace through the grand Templar church, taking in the marble 
effigies and dusty smell of old death. "Mathair, up!" she insisted in 
a plaintive voice, and Duana turned and picked her up, never 
missing a step as she settled the child on her hip.

"Mathair needs you to be very, very quiet.  We're going to run 
away so the men outside cannot find us," Duana whispered, 
glancing over her shoulder again nervously.  The knights were still 
outside and Mass was just starting: hopefully she could be safely 
away before anyone realized she was gone.

After receiving the message from Llewelyn, she had made one 
request of FitzWalter – if she and Eimile could pray at Temple 
Church, Duana would leave London without a fight and stay at 
Pembroke Castle.  She wanted to make her peace and let Eimile 
see the Pembroke burial vaults, she had added as a dramatic touch: 
let her daughter know Walter.  

Fitz had reluctantly agreed, and her escorts currently sat shivering 
on their horses in front of the church, cursing FitzWalter's 
indulgence.  With orders not to hurry her, the knights could only 
lurk, complain about missing supper, and throw disgruntled looks 
at the church doors.  The kingmaker was probably warming his 
feet at his hearth and his fingers between some red-haired harlot's 
thighs while they waited in the snow.  And Wales, where this latest 
woman was from, was even colder and full of Welshmen, someone 
muttered through chattering teeth.  The knights put their heads 
together, debating what they could have done to piss off FitzWalter 
to earn this assignment, and whether it was really true Welshmen 
could turn invisible.   

Llewelyn and perhaps a half-dozen of his men were following her 
– they had been since Duana left Court, but her escorts were 
trusted Court guards rather than veteran soldiers and did not notice.  
They expected opponents to approach head-on and politely 
announce their intention to kill them rather than blend in with the 
huddled, hurrying peasants.  They did not consider a noblewoman 
might have a motive besides piousness for going to church, just as 
they did not think to guard the side door.  It was safely locked - as 
though she could have lived with William for three years and not 
learned how to pick a lock. 

The seldom-used door protested, but opened to the dark, icy side 
street, and Duana shifted Eimile so her cloak covered the child 
against the cold wind.  "Llewelyn," she whispered, hesitant to 
attract attention, but there was no answer.    

"Mathair?" Eimile asked from underneath Duana's cloak, trying to 
push the fabric away.

"Hush," Duana ordered, stepping into the snow, knowing even her 
escorts could follow the single set of footprints she was leaving.  
She would have to get to a well-traveled area and then double 
back: she could not outrun mounted knights, only outsmart them.  
"Mathair is taking us someplace safe to meet Dehdeh's friend." 

'Mathair just has no idea where that might be,' she added to 
herself.  She had counted on Llewelyn to meet her as they planned, 
and now the Prince of Wales seemed to have wandered off.  Jesus, 
Llewelyn had the attention span of a gnat and William could get 
lost in his own bailey – it was miraculous the two men ever 
managed to win any battles at all. 

"Cold," Eimile protested, beginning to whimper.

"Sorry, sweet girl," Duana apologized, trying to tuck the cloak 
around her a little tighter as she turned onto another side street.  
Thankfully, this one was lined with taverns, so the snow was far 
from pristine.  Being neither a prostitute nor a drunkard, she was 
unfamiliar with this part of London, but the crowds and noise 
offered anonymity. 
    
"Give a fellow a tumble, love?" one man asked, stepping out of a 
doorway and leering down at her.

She ignored him and kept pushing her way through the stinking 
masses, hearing his footsteps following her as she turned another 
corner, making the beginning of a large horseshoe back to Temple 
Church.  Damn it, where was Llewelyn?  It was dark and wet and 
cold and she was not going to be able to keep Eimile quiet much 
longer.  With all these men milling around, searching for women, 
surely one of them had to be searching for her.          
  
*~*~*~*

"Is it time?" Gwilym asked sarcastically, tilting his head back 
slightly to offer his neck as Fitz stepped inside his Tower rooms. "I 
prefer not to die on a Monday, but I suppose it will have to do. At 
least the snow has stopped.  Let me just finish this page…"

"I need to know what you did to King John," Fitz said evenly, 
crossing his arms. "Now, William.  There is no scribe or jury, and 
if you are trying to protect Duana, you have failed.  Tell me what 
you did."

Blinking in surprise, Gwilym closed his book, set down the goblet 
of wine he had been holding, and straightened in his chair.

"I talked him to death.  What has happened to my wi-?"

Before the last word was out of his mouth, Fitz struck him, 
knocking Gwilym out of his chair and to the floor. "Enough, 
William," Fitz growled like a feral animal, putting a knife to 
Gwilym's throat. "What did you do that God has taken vengeance 
on Duana?" 

"What has happened to…" he started to repeat, but the look in 
FitzWalter's eyes changed his mind. "King John was dying.  He 
was confused, saw my robes, and thought I was a priest.  He 
wanted to make confession and I heard it – I even reminded him of 
a few sins he had forgotten.  He wanted absolution and Last Rites, 
which I cannot give." 

"So you killed him?"

"He was coughing and passing blood – there was no need for me to 
kill him."

"Then how did he die?"

"Alone in his own filth and begging for mercy, with the Devil 
waiting to take his unsanctified soul."

"But Duana told-"

"Duana told you what I told her.  I told you I made sure King John 
burned in Hell, and that is exactly what I did."    

There was a long pause before Fitz leaned back, getting to his feet 
and sheathing his dagger.  Gwilym tried to read his expression, but, 
for the first time, could not.  Something was stirring behind the 
young man's brown eyes, though, simmering just under the surface 
like a witch's brew.  Defeat, he finally realized – he was seeing the 
death of youthful ideals.  

"You will come with me," Fitz said sternly as the guards opened 
the door again.

"Come where?  You said there would be a trial.  I want to speak to 
a priest," Gwilym protested. "My priest, and he has not yet 
arrived!"

"A fisherman found the body in the Thames.  She is in the Chapel 
downstairs.  You will come with me," Fitz said, disappearing down 
the narrow spiral staircase.  

Stunned, Gwilym glanced at his guards, with whom he had become 
friendly in the last weeks, but they too refused to meet his gaze.  
Not knowing what else to do, Gwilym followed Fitz down the 
stone steps, the guards falling in behind him, reminding him there 
was no going back.       

*~*~*~*

Unnoticed by the chanting priests, Henry sat alone and sobbing in 
the corner of the Chapel, wrapping his arms around himself in 
some attempt at comfort and warmth.  His ten-year-old mind 
understood death, but his heart could not quite comprehend Duana 
was not going to awaken, even if the king ordered her to.  He was 
the king, after all, and he could not go to sleep without one of 
Duana's stories.  Of course, there was some mistake.  First, Fitz 
had said he and Duana were to be married, then they were not – 
then they were and again were not.  There was a baby, and then 
there was not.  The Welshman was dead, and then he was not, and 
now he was to die again.  Surely with so much confusion, either 
the servants were wrong and this was not Duana, or, if it was, she 
was going to open her eyes and sit up at any second.
 
The nuns had already prepared the body like all the others: washed 
it, wrapped it in fine white linen, and then shrouded her with a 
layer of transparent gauze as she lay in front of the Alter.  Henry 
had crept in and folded down the top sheet, wanting to put his hand 
in hers, and had been horrified to find the cold, gauze-covered 
palms tied across the corpse's chest had no fingers attached to 
them.  The King, struggling against the throbbing pain behind the 
back of his throat, had held his breath as he replaced the shroud, 
walked quickly to a corner of the stone chapel, and vomited.

As he cowered, terrified, in the damp corner, Fitz and William 
came down the spiral stairs from The Tower, talking in hushed 
voices; Fitz explaining that Duana's body had been found 
strangled and mutilated in the river.  As Henry watched, William 
ran his fingers over the fabric covering her face and neck, then 
started to pull the gauze away, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Do not," Fitz said quickly, stopping William's hand. "You do not 
want to see. You would rather remember her as she was."

"Do not tell me what I should want or remember.  Why should I 
even believe this is my wife and no some ruse?  How can you think 
I am such a fool?  Jesus, if you want to deceive me, try harder – 
this merely shows a lack of taste and imagination."                 

William turned away from The Alter and started toward the 
staircase, but the guards at the bottom stepped in front of him, 
blocking his path.

"Fitz…" William said tiredly, standing nose-to-nose with one of 
the tall, stern guards. "I am too old, tired, and guilty for this 
nonsense.  Tell him to let me pass."

"Someone or something has been killing women in London – 
cutting their hair, taking parts of their bodies.  I think it must be 
witchcraft.  Or the Jews."

"I am sure you do," he responded, addressing the guard's nose. 
"Witches and Jews: of course – anything you do not understand 
must be witchcraft or Jews.  As I said, you have a remarkable lack 
of imagination.  Go away, Fitz.  Just tell me when and where to 
die: I will show up to blaze and bleed splendidly, but I do not want 
to play these childish games."

"William, it is her.  I saw the body before they wrapped it."

"You are lying!" William shouted, seeming less certain. "This is 
another trick and you are lying!"

"I am not.  As you say, where would I get the imagination to lie?"

"H-how is it her?  She is not even in London.  What happened? " 
William asked shakily, his voice breaking as he turned back to the 
body. "You swore to me she agreed to go to Pembroke Castle – 
that she left days ago.  I told you she would not go willingly!  How 
could you be so careless?"

"I will find out who or what did this.  They will not go unpunished.  
My knights are already searching."

"The same knights you assigned to escort her out of London? 
Forgive me if I do not fall at your feet in gratitude."  

"Eimile is safe," Fitz said instead of answering, covering his face 
with his right hand as though he were massaging his temples 
instead hiding his eyes. "The monks of Temple Church had been 
taking care of her – they thought she was an orphan left with them.  
If you ask her, she will tell you what she told me: someone 'made 
Mommy go away'." 

"Eimile is safe," William repeated hollowly, sounding more 
convinced, but not consoled.  Putting his hands on his hips, he 
dropped his head and turned away. "Duana would not leave her, 
not willingly; she would die first.  Eimile is safe?" he echoed 
again.

"She is. The nuns will bring her to see the tomb after the body is 
interred, if you want."

"Duana has a tomb in Wales – if this is her, I want her body sent 
home to Aber."   

"In Temple Church, she will rest beside my father, among kings 
and bishops…"

"Wales!" William yelled suddenly, whirling around and making 
Henry jump. "All she has wanted for the last year was to go home, 
and now you say she is dead and you still will not even let her do 
that!  You have caused this!  Why will you not just leave her 
alone?  Just let her go!"

"I did not do this!  Some monster did this – something I cannot 
even fathom!" Fitz insisted, bracing his hands on his hips and 
looking away as William had.  Noticing Henry huddled in the 
corner, he barked, "Henry, I told you to stay in your rooms.  Get 
back to Court!"

Instead of obeying, Henry pulled himself into a tighter ball and 
whimpered miserably, sniffing and wiping his nose on his fur-
trimmed cuff.  

"Henry, now!"

"Perhaps it is not her," Henry managed in a tiny voice. "Not 
Duana, but another woman. The servants said they could barely tell 
– perhaps you are wrong again."

"I am not wrong.  Henry, you should not be here," Fitz said more 
gently. "Go back to Court."  

"I cannot," the King of England managed, trembling. "I cannot 
leave her.  It is so cold here.  She should have a blanket."

Immediately, Henry felt strong arms encircling him, and he let 
himself go limp, certain he was safe again and Fitz would fix 
everything.  He rested his head safely on Fitz's broad chest, and 
looked up to see the Welshman's tender eyes watching him as both 
men crouched down.  

"You are not leave her," William said softly, stroking Henry's wet 
cheeks. "This is a body.  Duana is with God – she is no pain, no 
sick.  She watch you, so be good, and you to see her again in 
Heaven.  And if you to pray, she listen."

"How could God allow this?  How could He let someone hurt her? 
She is like, like, like sunlight."

"Sometimes, darkness seeks light as moth seeks flame.  The 
alchemists say it is the nature of things: to pull to opposite.  Like 
England, beautiful thing have no peace, but Duana has peace now.  
She is Camelot, like the story: such beauty cannot dead, she only 
sleep, rest, until her time again."
        
Confused, Henry let Fitz help him to his feet and clean his face 
with a handkerchief. "Did you understand Lord William?" Fitz 
asked, and the boy nodded again, knowing the answer that was 
expected of him. "Go back to Court – I will come for you when it 
is time for the funeral mass and we will go together."

"You will get a blanket for her?  So Duana will not be cold?"

"I will," the kingmaker promised, cupping the boy's face in his 
palm.  Henry had not cried for a father he barely knew, nor asked 
for Isabelle after she left for France – Duana was perhaps the first 
thing he had wanted and could not have: a mother who cared for 
him.

"Her hands: someone has hurt her hands," Henry said, feeling like 
the rest of the world was continuing around him, but he was 
strangely separate from it. "She needs a doctor."

Fitz exhaled as though he had been punched in the stomach and 
broke eye contact, his big hand still cradling Henry's jaw.  It was 
William who finally answered softly,  "I know, son.  Something 
very evil did this, and we stop it, but we cannot help Duana body 
now; only pray for her soul."  

"She will hear me?" Henry asked the dark-haired man, looking 
into his sad, hazel eyes.  When William nodded reassuringly, the 
boy-king murmured, "You are a nice man, for a Welsh barbarian.  
I am sure my father was like you, except he was not a Welsh 
barbarian."    

"Even kings allowed one flaw," William told him quietly.

Henry wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds, then realized he 
was being teased, which was a novel situation.  Blinking and 
sniffing again, he smiled uncertainly, and the corners of William's 
mouth turned upward unenthusiastically before his hunted, haunted 
expression returned.   

"Go with the Abbot and I will see you in a little bit."  Fitz gestured 
for one of the priests to walk a stunned Henry across the courtyard, 
then looked sadly at William, blinking a few times. "Thank you.  
He must have found out and slipped away from his tutors.  I had no 
idea how to tell him.  What an awful thing for a boy to see…"

"I once had the same conversation with another little boy.  After he 
watched his mother burn to death."

"Your son?" Fitz replied, turning to look at the woman's shrouded 
body again. "Your older son.  Duana told me of him."

"My Dafydd – King John's son." 

Fitz opened his mouth to ask, but William knelt at the Alter, 
bowing his head, his lips moving in prayer.  Fitz stepped back, 
giving him some time.  He had said his goodbyes earlier, spending 
hours beside the cold body before he could pull himself together 
enough to tell William.  Even now, he was not sure this was really 
happening.  He felt so hollow he would not be surprised of 
someone walked through him as though his flesh had become fog.  
The color had drained from the world, leaving it a gradient of gray 
and black, and the bustling sounds of London were muted and far 
away.  For the moment, life outside the chapel did not directly 
affect Fitz, but life inside its walls was surreal.    

"Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand," 
he heard William whisper in Gaelic, repeating a blessing Duana 
must have taught him.  Fitz vaguely recalled it: she had, at his 
father's urging, once tried to teach it to him as well.  As a sixteen-
year-old boy, he would have practiced bleeding in order to spend 
time with her, but he had been more interested in Duana than 
anything she had to say, and the lessons had been titillating 
failures. 
       
"William," Fitz said in a hoarse voice as William fell silent, 
clearing his throat when there was no response. "William, how was 
King John David's-"

"King John is dead," William interrupted, slowly getting to his feet 
and dragging his hand across his eyes before crossing himself. "As 
are my father, Diana, Dafydd, Tyna, and Duana.  I cannot be far 
behind."  

Before Fitz could move, William snatched Fitz's dagger from its 
sheath on Fitz's belt, turned it around, and handed it back to him. 
As Fitz stared at it in disbelief, wondering how it suddenly 
appeared in the Welshman's hand, William said tiredly, "They call 
to me.  They bid me take my place among them in the Halls of 
Valhalla - where the brave may live forever."

"What?"      

"Enough," William said wearily, exhaling. "Stop pissing around 
and just slit my throat, Fitz.  Yes, I am guilty of crimes against 
King John and the Church.  Yes, I have been among the Druids.  
Yes, I have taken my wife among them and gotten her with child.  
Yes, I had the poison in my boot: I would have killed John if he 
had not died by morning.  He was the king – he had the right to 
any woman he wanted – but not like that.  Not to hurt and 
humiliate her like that.  King John killed your father to get Duana, 
and then killed my Dafydd to get her back."  William paused, and 
swallowed, as though there was something in his throat he was 
trying to get to go down. "Henry is right: she was like the sun, and 
I was willing to die to keep that light inside her from being snuffed 
out.  I still am, so if you want me dead, act like a man and do it 
yourself.  Stop hiding behind counsels and laws. Here, now…  
Duana was smart woman and I trust her judgment – today must be 
a good day to die."

Fitz took the jeweled dagger in disbelief, staring at William's 
weary, tear-stained face.  That was what happened then: King John 
had murdered Fitz's father because he would not give up Duana – 
because Duana had refused.  

His father had a soft spot labeled 'Duana' on his heart and had 
known how much she wanted a child: if she had been even vaguely 
interested in taking a younger, virile lover, he would have simply 
looked the other way.  In fact, even if she had been hesitant at the 
king's advances, any other man, knowing John could turn on 
friends as quickly as a rabid dog, would have still sent his wife for 
the night and counted himself lucky to have earned such royal 
favor.  John was known for lavishing his mistresses with gifts and 
his mistress's husbands with royal favor.  And rumor had it John 
had preferred the unwilling women to the willing ones. 

His father had died trying to protect her, just as William was 
willing to do.  There was something about that woman: men got in 
line to fall in love with her and die for her.  In a world of 
dangerous men, she was a very dangerous woman to love.    

He exhaled, shoving the knife back into the leather scabbard.  "Go 
back to Wales," he said finally. "Take Eimile and Duana – 
Duana's body, and go back to Wales.  I will see you in the spring, 
as we agreed."  
 
"But I have-"

"In your place, I might have done the same.  I should have done 
the same.  Perhaps justice takes many forms.  This," He gestured to 
the shrouded body, "I suppose, is yours.  And perhaps mine."

"I take Eimile and go to Wales?" William asked in disbelief, 
sounding as though he thought he had misunderstood.  

Fitz nodded, still staring at the slim, shrouded body on The Alter.  
Hearing the order, the men guarding the stairs moved aside to 
allow William to descend to freedom.  

"I did love her," he finally whispered, hearing William's footfalls 
fading down the stairs, not sure if the Welshman had heard him or 
not.   

*~*~*~*

That was the problem with keeping a grip on another man's wife – 
women were slippery, tricky creatures and there was no proper 
place to get a decent handhold.  Moving quickly, Llewelyn caught 
Duana around the waist as she tried to dodge past him, then lost his 
balance and tumbled them both into an improper tangle of arms 
and legs in the snow.  He shied away as his forearm pressed 
against the underside of her breasts, an opportunity Duana seized 
to twist away, get to her feet, kick him in the face, and keep 
running through the forest.    

"Stop her!" Llewelyn yelled at one of his knights, who stared at the 
frozen ground and pretended he had not heard.  Even on orders 
from their prince, no Welshman with any sense was manhandling 
Lord Gwilym's wife until he was certain Lord Gwilym was dead.  

Cursing, Llewelyn got to his feet and chased after her himself, 
catching up to Duana before she made it to the horses.  He grabbed 
for the back of her dress, then caught one of her wrists, jerking her 
in back to him.    

"I said stop!" he yelled at her, expecting her to cower.  "Enough!"

"I am not a nun!" she yelled back at him again, looking for another 
way to escape.     

"Of course you are not," he insisted tersely as she tried to writhe 
and twist away. "But you should not be sleeping in an old hayshed 
with my men.  Go inside the Abby for the night and I will come for 
you in the morning."

"You will leave me there, just as you left my daughter!" she 
accused him, struggling so hard he knew he was leaving new 
bruises on her wrist.  The skin was already raw from having to tie 
her to keep her on her horse and from running away at night.  As 
humiliating as that was to do to a noblewoman, it was less 
shameful than having her ride double with him and less dangerous 
than having to track her down when she disappeared.

"I did not leave your daughter and I will not leave you.  Eimile is 
safe in London with three of my best men watching over her.  I 
will send for her as soon as I can," he explained again, getting the 
same response as he had for three days - she continued to fight, 
swinging around to verbally attack his unprotected flank.   

"You left William!  How could you?  After all he has done for you, 
how could you just abandon him?  How can you call yourself his 
friend?"

"Stop it!" he barked at her in frustration. "Enough!  William may 
tolerate this, but I will not.  You will stop this instant!"          

To his surprise, she stopped struggling, loosing her defiant gaze as 
he felt the muscles of her arms go slack.  She was exhausted – she 
would not rest.  And she had to be hungry – she would not eat, 
either.  Duana had a single-minded cause: get back to London, get 
Eimile, and get to Gwilym by any means necessary.

He loosened his hold on one of her wrists, turning it to examine the 
broken, purple skin. Running his thumb over it, he said guiltily, 
"Jesus, you have to stop fighting me, Duana.  What would Gwil 
think of me for doing this to you?  I am supposed to take care of 
you."

"Is that what you want?" she asked hesitantly, sounding ready to 
cry. "Is that why you took me out of London?"

"Yes.  I want to take care of you – of you and Eimile and Dafy, but 
you have to stop trying to run away.  If you keep fighting, you are 
going to get hurt."

"You are going to hurt me?" she asked, glancing up, then looking 
at his strong fingers encircling her wrist.  Seeing her expression, he 
let go, watching her carefully in case she ran again.   

"No.  William asked me to take care of you, and that is what I am 
going to do.  Whether you like it or not, Madam Hardhead," he 
teased her tiredly, trying to get her to smile. "We are friends, 
Duana – all you have to do is trust me."

"I do trust you," she murmured softly, stepping closer to him, her 
feet covered to the ankle in the powdery snow.  "I am so tired.  
And afraid.  I am afraid, Llewel," Duana whispered, her voice 
shaky and her body trembling inches from his. "Do you really care 
for me so much?"

"Do not bother," Llewelyn said, stepping back, ignoring the animal 
in the back of his brain that told him to put his arms around her.  
'Comfort her,' it urged, trying to sound like his conscience. 

"You do not want me?" she whispered, trailing her finger lightly 
over his shoulder and down his chest. "That is not what William 
told me.  He said you look at me and see someone you lost a long 
time ago.  He gave me to you.  He wants you to have me.  Are you 
sure you do not want me, Llewel?"

"Want is a very complex and expensive thing, especially for a 
prince." He caught her wrist again, holding her hand in midair, 
trying to continue breathing evenly. "As I said, Duana – do not 
bother.  Want or not, I have no desire to awake to a knife in my 
throat and you halfway back to London.  That is not what I 
promised Gwil."    

"Llewel…" she murmured, leaving her lips parted for a half-kiss 
after she finished caressing the last syllable.  She licked them, her 
tongue darting through the pink opening.

For less than a heartbeat, he imagined what it would be like: to slip 
under the blankets on a cold night, to slip into the forgiving 
darkness, close his eyes, and know his wife wanted him.  Only 
him.  It seemed like such a minor luxury in a great man's life – 
trusting a woman  – but it left such a void when it had come and 
gone.  He loved Joanna, but he would never touch her again 
without wondering who had been in her bed.  In the darkest part of 
his brain, he almost believed, just for an instant, Duana could fill 
that empty expanse.

"Stop it!" he snapped at her, gripping her wrist tighter and shaking 
it in frustration. "Do not do this!  Tang is dead; nothing I can do 
will bring her back!  Gwil is dead!  Nothing you can do will bring 
him back, either!"  

"He is not!"  She tried to twist away, desperately trying to pry his 
fingers off her wrist.

"He confessed the moment you were out of London.  It was all 
arranged.  He has been dead for days now."

"He is not!" she screamed again, the look in her eyes beginning to 
frighten him.

"I am sorry.  I did not mean to tell you like that.  Duana-" he 
caught her other hand as she tried to hit him and flipped her 
around, crossing her arms in front of her and holding her against 
his chest as she struggled. "I am sorry," Llewelyn repeated 
hoarsely, his voice breaking.  She kicked backward, punishing his 
shins mercilessly until he lifted her off the ground and she could 
not get leverage to do any more real harm. "There was nothing I 
could do.  This is what he planned, what he wanted.  I did exactly 
what he told me to do." 
  
"He is not dead!  Let me – you let me go.  Do not.  You le-let me-" 
she sobbed, fighting like a trapped animal and seeming to have 
trouble breathing, although he was not holding her that tightly.  
Gwil had warned him about this several times: not to hold her 
against her will, but there was no other option.

After a few frantic seconds, he felt her body go limp in his arms.  
Terrified he had accidentally hurt her, Llewelyn lowered her to the 
cold ground, holding his palm near her mouth until he was certain 
she was still breathing and then pressing his finger to her throat to 
check for the heartbeat.  It was there, still warm and strong under 
the skin.  

She had just finally passed out.

Swallowing, he picked her up and carried her inside the hayshed, 
laying her on a blanket near the fire.  The two knights ducked 
inside after him, eyeing Duana curiously.  Yes, Gwil's wife was 
beautiful. And she had a beautiful, healthy son already attributed to 
the Prince of Wales and showed every sign of being able to 
produce another.  And she was heiress to half of Wales.   And she 
was also in love with a dead man.  And, according word from 
London, she was somehow dead herself and did not yet know it.

Maybe that was for the best.
 
He sat down a few feet away to keep watch, exhaling his last 
breath of optimism.  

*~*~*~*

As the saddle slid off his back, Goliath's chest rumbled 
contentedly like the warning of approaching thunder, and the dark 
skin of his haunches rippled in pleasure.  The other horses opened 
their eyes and perked their ears, but they knew him.  There was no 
cause for alarm.  They breathed a quiet greeting, the air from their 
nostrils forming twin puffs of vapor among the snowflakes.  The 
night sky was littered with the white crystals, as though pieces of 
the full moon had chipped away and were falling softly to Earth.

Emily was asleep in her little fur world, sheltered by fox and rabbit 
skin against the cold.  For a long time, he stood unseen in the 
doorway holding her and watching Llewelyn and Duana in the 
glow from the fire.  The snow was hitting the old thatched roof in 
waves, the wind slapping the shed again and again.  Llewelyn 
looked up at the ceiling, listening to the storm, then moved a little 
closer to Duana as she slept.  Every few minutes, he would stoke 
the orange coals, then lean over her, checking that she was still 
breathing.  Then, without touching her, he would adjust her 
blanket, then sit back and stare at her face until it was time to look 
at the roof again. 
 
"She is beautiful," Gwil agreed softly, catching Llewelyn off-
guard.  

Llewelyn paled as though he saw a ghost, which was not far from 
the truth.  Terrified, he scrambled backward, fumbling for a 
weapon.  Finding someone's dagger, he held it up, his hand 
shaking so badly he almost dropped it. "Are you flesh?" he asked 
breathlessly. 

"Are you?" Gwilym answered casually. 

Ignoring Llewelyn, who continued kneeling beside the fire, gaping 
and waving his knife, he laid his Eimile bundle in front of Duana 
and unwrapped it to reveal the warm little girl inside.  The child 
opened her eyes, only half-awake, blinking sleepily and reaching 
up for Gwil. "We are here, sweet girl," he told her, and Eimile 
rolled, cuddled against her mother's chest, and slipped back into 
innocent dreams.  Reassured there was still something right in the 
world, Gwil pulled the blanket to cover them both, then ran his 
fingers down Duana's cheek as though it was precious fabric. 
"You are beautiful, cariad," he told her again. "I have missed you."

"Hail Mary, fu-full of, full of grace…  Bless, blessed, blessed…"

"Blessed art thou among women," Gwil supplied, and the prince 
nodded in agreement, his mouth still hanging open. "Really, you 
should get some new guards, Llewel.  Yours are sound asleep."

"Among women," he echoed fervently, crossing himself. 

He stared at Duana, who was lost in the peaceful oblivion of 
unconsciousness.  In his mind, he picked her up and swung her 
around for the world to see, victoriously proclaiming she was his.  
In his mind, he stripped off her dress, pushed her back on some 
soft bed, and blended his body with hers until they were one 
person and she could never be taken from him again.  In his mind, 
he swung down from his horse, his armor shining, grinned 
sarcastically and opened his arms as she ran to him.  

She was alive, she was safe and warm, and she was his; he was 
content.

Assuming nonchalance as though it was a shirt he slipped on, Gwil 
twisted his lips into a cocky half-smile and sat down beside Duana, 
stretching his boots toward the fire and sighing in satisfaction.  
Llewelyn continued holding the knife in mid-air, although he was 
pointing rather than wielding.
     
"Is she well?"

"She is asleep," Llewelyn answered warily, starting to lower the 
dagger and then changing his mind. "She is just asleep.  She was 
tired."

"I see she is asleep.  Is she well?"

"She is as well as any woman can be when her husband is dead."  
He blinked several times, then decided, "I am dreaming.  I was 
awake and I was keeping watch, but I have fallen asleep.  This is a 
dream.  I am dreaming."

Poor Llewel; in his world, there was always a proper cause and a 
simple answer, even if he had to close his eyes to see it.

Gwilym pulled a leftover chunk of venison off the spit, tossing it 
into the air and catching it in his mouth. "Piss; you will wake."

"You are not a ghost; ghosts do not eat." 

"Do not be so sure; my castle ghost reads my books."  Gwil paused 
to lick his fingers, then went back to chewing. "Really, Llewel, 
how is my wife?  She looked too pale."

Some color finally returned to his face, but Llewel's lips were not 
working as well as usual. "She m-misses you.  Is it really you, 
Gwil?  Am I awake?  Are you flesh?"

"I am," he responded smugly, but the prince did not seem 
convinced.  

"Prove you are flesh.  Prove you are not dead."

Exhaling, Gwil leaned back and pushed his cloak and tunic out of 
the way, pretending to untie the laces of his breeches. "How much 
proof do you want?  I was saving myself for my wife.  If I must…"

"Dear God in Heaven, it is you.  You must have been too rotten to 
be an angel and too damn pretty to be allowed into Hell."

Gwil dropped his tunic back over his lap and shrugged. "Of course 
it is me.  Who else would it be at this time of night?"

"You are supposed to be dead by now."

"I am sorry to disappoint you yet again." He tilted his chin toward 
Duana, who slept on, not moving except to breathe. "Why is she 
still here?  She should be in France by now."

"She is here because she will not leave.  She will not leave you and 
she thinks I abandoned Eimile in London.  I have not even 
mentioned France to her; I suppose she thinks I am taking her to 
Wales.  The boat is ready and there is a ship waiting just off shore.  
These men," he nodded at the sleeping knights beside the door, 
who did were hopefully better sailors than guards, "have crossed 
the Channel a dozen times, but I was afraid she would jump over 
the side and swim back to England if I let go of her."

"She cannot swim." Gwilym pushed down the blankets, picking up 
a lock of the red hair that now hung just past her shoulders. "She 
would try, though.  Did you tell her I was dead?"

"I did; it made no difference.  Speaking of such minor matters, 
what of you and King John?  What about Fitz and the trial?"

"FitzWalter came down with a sudden, severe case of conscience, 
but he will probably recover, especially if he was to discover his 
prize is still alive.  I am to go back to Wales and return to win his 
wars in the spring."      

"Did you do it, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked, stoking the fire again and 
avoiding eye contact.

He smirked, pursed his lips thoughtfully, then finally answered, 
"When I was a child, my father used to tell me something, but I 
never understood until Daffydd…until Duana came and King John 
hanged those boys.  Year after year Father would ride on Crusade, 
even though I pleaded with him to stay in Aber.  I would sit on his 
bed and watch the servants dressing him in his armor, dreading the 
loneliness and silence after he was gone.  Before he rode away, he 
would look down at me from atop his horse like some warrior god 
and say, 'I am sorry, but I would rather be the hammer than the 
nail, son.'  I would rather be the hammer, Llewel."

"You killed King John?"

The snow blew harder, wailing as it shook the roof.  Gwil shifted, 
moving back and pulling Duana's head and shoulders on his lap 
and holding her protectively. "The doctor; did you find him?"

Llewelyn looked up, but did not pursue his original question, 
meaning he did not really want to know. 

"I did.  He tried to grab her in London and I sent him to Hell cut 
into small pieces.  If they strain the river, they might find enough 
of him to bury.  How did you know it was the doctor and that he 
would be waiting for her?"

"A little Druid told me." Gwil looked down, stroking the hollow of 
Duana's throat and smoothing her hair back from her face. "That 
doctor was a monster.  There are so many monsters out there, 
Llewel.  How could I ever protect her from all of them?"    

Llewelyn, earnest soul that he was, was quiet while he tried to 
think of an answer, as if there was one.

"How is Mab?  How is my…  How is the boy?"

"He is well, Gwil.  We call your son Dafy.  Dafydd, Prince of 
Wales, but for now, Dafy."   

Gwil smiled, a little more light creeping back into his eyes.  "Dafy.  
I still remember how he smells after his bath," he murmured.  He 
slid his hand under the blanket, caressing Duana's shoulder. 
"Dafy," he repeated softly to her.  Hearing his voice, she smiled 
and slept on under his hand like a contented kitten.

"Joanna writes that he has the entire castle wrapped around his 
finger."

"What of the girl?" Gwil asked, not needing to elaborate any 
further.  Obviously he did not mean Eimile.

"She is well; there was no child.  Fitz provided a dowry for her, 
should she want to marry.  She is living with a nice family in 
Lincolnshire; I paid Chester the price he quoted you, so she is a 
freewoman now."

"Did you…"

"She said the Lord of Aber passed the night with her and promised 
he would buy her from Chester in the morning.  She describes you, 
Gwil, right down to you talking nonsense twice as fast as the rest 
of us can think.  She said you kissed her goodbye and promised 
you would see her the following night, but never returned.  She is 
very beautiful, Gwil.  Tall, slim, dark eyes, dark hair; if she were a 
few years older, I could see how she would have caught your eye."

"Did you ask her if I…?"

"She says you did."

Gwil looked down at Duana, watching the tiny movements of her 
face as she dreamed. "I cannot imagine-"

"Neither can I," Llewelyn said quickly.  He found various things in 
the dark shed to stare at, then announced, "There is still no word of 
Leuan.  They checked every church in the North Country but my 
men have found no sign of him."

"I doubt you will.  Not where you are looking." 

"No, I thought he would come, regardless of where he is or what 
he is doing.  I have heard the rumor he left the Church, but you are 
like a son to him.  He would not abandon you."

"He did come," he answered easily. "He came to me.  You just did 
not see him."

"Oh.  Well then."  

Llewelyn nodded his head purposefully, but drew his brows 
together.  It was his perplexed look, but it would have passed for 
constipated.  His universe did not extend past what his five senses, 
so Gwil trying to explain how he had seen Leuan would be 
fruitless.  Llewelyn was one of those men who needed pictures of 
Heaven and Hell painted on the church walls so he could imagine 
how they looked.  He probably thought an actual road forked 
somewhere near the Holy Land – good Christians went right to 
Heaven and sinners went left to Hell.  Llewel was brave and loyal 
and honorable to a fault and everything a good man and a good 
prince should be, but he did not believe any worlds existed that he 
could not hold in his hand. 

And Gwil did. 

Gwilym caressed her face again, leaving his palm on her cheek. "I 
cannot protect her, Llewel; no matter how hard I try."  He looked 
down at Duana's head in his lap. "Once she reaches Fontevraund 
Abbey, she will be safe.  Fitz will never look for her as long as he 
believes she is dead.  The nuns there read, they play music and 
write verse and…  As long as she is with me, she is in danger, and 
as long as she is there and no one thinks to look for her, she is safe.  
I wondered if I should even see her again, if it would be easier to 
just let her think I was dead.  I could not help myself, though."

"You still want to send her away?  Why did you come, then?"

"Because I had to." 

Llewelyn shook his head, not understanding.  "It will be dawn 
soon.  She should sail before sunrise.  You should say your 
goodbyes now."

"I know," he breathed, still staring at her peaceful face.

"I will wake the knights and we will go…  We will go see to the 
horses. Outside," Llewelyn decided, getting up. "We will be 
outside.  It should take at least fifteen minutes or so." 

"Do not bother.  I will not risk sending her away with child.  And 
if I touch her, I will never be able to make her leave me."

"Then you should go and let me deal with her.  Once she sees you 
alive, she will not leave you, Gwil."  
 
"She will."

Gwilym slid her head and shoulders carefully off his lap, stood, 
then gestured for Llewelyn to come to him. "Lie down," he asked, 
gesturing to the space on the blanket behind Duana.  Llewelyn 
lowered himself slowly, not touching her and looking at Gwil like 
he was insane. "Here," Gwil said, picking up Llewelyn's hand and 
putting it on Duana's hipbone.  "Stay there."

Duana, sensing the presence, nestled back against Llewelyn, who 
continued to stare at his friend in horror.  A willing peasant girl or 
a whore was one thing, but this was outrageous.  They were no 
longer boys competing for the prettiest mistress.  One man did not 
touch another's lawful wife unless her life was at stake and 
perhaps, depending on her husband, not even then.             

Gwil leaned down to kiss her, pulling away while her mouth was 
still pursed for his.  He picked up Eimile, wrapped her loosely in 
her fur cocoon, and went back to the doorway of the hayshed. 
 
*~*~*~*

Although he was already standing inside the shed, Gwil opened 
and then slammed the door, waking everyone and making 
Llewelyn jump a foot in the air.  "You do not waste time, Duana," 
he said icily.

At the sound of his voice, Duana startled under Llewelyn's hand.  
She opened her eyes and, seeing Gwil, pushed up on her elbow. 
"William?" she murmured. "Is that you?  Am I awake?"

He glared at her from across the room, then squatted down and set 
Eimile, barely awake, on her feet. "Go to your mother," he 
commanded sternly.

"Oh my God."  Duana sat up and held her arms out for the 
stumbling child, then closed her eyes and encircled the little girl in 
her arms and legs. "My baby girl," she murmured into Eimile's 
blonde curls, kissing her head. "Oh, thank God.  Mathair was so 
afraid that doctor got her baby girl."

As Llewelyn watched, Gwil's face and rigid posture softened, then 
hardened again as though he was carved of stone.

The two knights stretched and stumbled outside for morning 
business, greeting Lord William timidly as they passed him.  
Noticing Prince Llewelyn on the floor, their eyes widened when 
they saw how close he was to Lady Duana.  Looking back at Lord 
William's face, they quickened their pace and closed the door, 
probably pressing their ears to the other side.  Prince Llewelyn, 
Lord William, and Lady Duana – that was a dangerous triangle.      

"William?" she asked, her arms still around Eimile. "William, are 
you really there?" 

When he did not respond, continuing to stare past her, Duana 
turned to see Llewelyn still lying on the blanket behind her.  
Horrified, she stared at the prince, then at her skirts, which had 
ridden up and twisted as she slept, baring her legs to the thigh.  
Duana touched her wild, tangled hair – her veil had been lost in a 
struggle just outside London's city gates and braiding had not been 
a priority in the last few days.  Letting Eimile go, she looked down 
at her wrists, turning them over to study the fresh bruises.  On the 
left one there was a clear imprint of four fingers and a thumb from 
a large man's hand. 

"I understand you are ambitious, and it does have a nice ring to it: 
Duana, Princess of Wales, but I doubt it will happen.  Llewel loves 
his breila, regardless of her faults.  You would do better warming 
FitzWalter's bed and scheming to become Queen Mother.  Or was 
this just a diversion?"

"William?" she said again, starting to tremble.

"Yes, dear wife?" he responded coldly.  Then, to Llewelyn, asked, 
"So how did you find her?  Better or worse than Diana?"

Llewelyn gulped and did not answer.  He had not known Gwil 
knew about that.  He had been sixteen years old and it was just a 
single casual encounter.  When Gwil took Diana, already carrying 
a child, as his hearth wife years later, Llewelyn had not seen fit to 
mention it.   

"I do not understand what happened," Duana managed, clutching 
her daughter and scooting away from the prince, who continued 
lying where Gwil had put him. "Llewelyn?  You told me he was 
dead."

"I am sorry I am not.  Well, Llewelyn?" Gwil asked, crossing his 
arms. "She says she does not understand."

"She offered," he responded casually, beginning to understand the 
rules of this game.  He shrugged, using their old code for women 
who made for a nice ride: "She has a fine trot." 

"I did no-" she began, then stopped when she realized she had 
offered.

"Get up," Gwilym ordered angrily. "Right now."

Duana glanced back at Llewelyn again, then got to her feet 
unsteadily and pushed her hair back from her face.      

"Go outside, wash, and do something with your hair.  You look 
like a whore," Gwil spat venomously.

She stepped forward and Gwil raised his hands in the air as though 
he were surrendering, telling her not to touch him.  Ignoring that 
order, she put her arms around his waist, resting her head against 
his shoulder.  For less than the blink of an eye, his hands lowered 
to touch her, to hold her, but then stopped.

"Do not touch me," he repeated in a tone that threatened harm. 
"Fine, then you can go as you are."

He grabbed her poor wrist and pulled her outside into the cold, 
dark morning, surprising the knights, and walked quickly for the 
boat dock.  Llewelyn got up and bundled Eimile warmly, grabbed 
Duana's cloak, then followed them.

"She is leaving," Gwil ordered, and the knights scurried to obey, 
stumbling over tree roots and rocks the purple pre-dawn light.     

"I am leaving?" she echoed, jogging to keep up. "Where am I 
going?

"Away from me."

She stopped, digging her heels into the snow and refusing. "I will 
not.  William, I am sorry.  I do not remember what happened with 
Llewel.  Please listen."

"It is 'Llewel' now?" he snapped. "Just as it is 'Fitz'?  Listen to 
me, Duana.  I do not want you.  I have the son I wanted and you 
are nothing but trouble.  You are an embarrassment – Fitz was one 
thing but seducing my best friend…  How could you?  How dare 
you?  Our year has long passed.  Get on the boat."  

When she did not move, he grabbed her around her waist and 
tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her down the wooden dock 
to the small boat and then setting her down roughly.

"William, please…  What are you doing?"

"Ridding myself of a useless wife.  How could you think I love 
you?  My Dafydd is dead, and Eimile and Mab are gone because of 
you.  You cannot even manage to give me another child, although 
how would I know he was mine if you did?  Why would I want 
you?"

"Jesus, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered, interfering for the first time. 

"Where are you sending me?" she asked breathlessly, beginning to 
shiver violently in the wet darkness.

"Fontevraund Abbey.  That is what you said you wanted.   I will do 
that for you, although it is more than you deserve."

"I did not say I wanted to go there; I said I wanted Eimile to go."

Gwil spun around, biting his lip as he walked back to Llewelyn 
and took Eimile from him.  Turning back a second time, he took 
Duana's cloak from Llewel as though it was an afterthought and 
threw it at her.

"Fine.  She can go," he barked, stalking past Duana and handing 
Eimile down to one of the knights in the small boat.  "Hold her; do 
not let her fall over the side," Llewelyn heard him say softly to the 
confused knight.

"How can you do this?" Duana asked, tears beginning to drip down 
her face.  The lush fur and velvet cloak Fitz's tailors had made for 
her at Court lay crumpled and forgotten in the snow at her feet.

"Why would I want King John's bastard under my roof?  You 
tricked me – you went to bed with me so I could not have you 
annulled when you already knew you were with child.  Did you 
think I was a fool?  Did you really think I would ever believe she 
was mine?  I should have sent both of you back to John when I had 
a chance.  Dry up!  Stop crying!"

"That is not what happened," she pleaded, trying her best to stop 
crying.

"I told you to stop crying!  Do not bother with tears because they 
will not help.  Are you going with Eimile or is she going alone?"

"No," Duana yelled back, crossing her arms defiantly.

Eimile, unaccustomed to boats, wanting to sleep, discomforted by 
the knight's death grip, and frightened by all the shouting, started 
to sob.  

Gwilym looked down at her, then at Duana, and shouted, "Get on 
the boat!  I do not want you!  I do not love you!  I have never loved 
you!  Get on the Goddamned boat before I beat you senseless!" 

"No," she repeated.

"I swear to God I will," he warned.

"I have been beaten by a king; I am not afraid of you!  And you 
could never send her away."  
  
In response, Gwil dug a knife out of the side of his boot and began 
sawing through the rope holding the boat to the docks.  He could 
have just untied it, but cutting was more dramatic.  "I am going 
back to Wales – Muritta must be very lonely by now.  She can 
remember how to keep her legs together while I am away; perhaps 
you should have taken lessons.  Eimile can go to Fontevraund 
Abbey alone and you, dear wife, can go to Hell.  "

She scrutinized him, wiping her eyes and watching his face. "You 
are bluffing."

"Am I?  Do I look like I am bluffing?   

"Yes."

"Get on the Goddamned boat!" he roared, towering over her. 

"No," she answered evenly. "Tell me why you want me to go." 

"Because I do not want you!"

"Then why do you keep coming for me?"

"Dear GOD!" he bellowed in defeat. "No woman should ask as 
many questions as you do.  Fine!  There is a dead body in London 
with your name attached to its form.  That doctor has been cutting 
up red haired women and Fitz mistook one of them for you.  As 
long as he and Henry believe you are dead, you are safe.  And my 
head stays attached to my body," he added angrily. "Even if Fitz 
will leave you alone, that does not mean Henry will.  He is a dull, 
spoiled child and he will grow into a dull, spoiled man who wants 
you, one way or another.  I cannot keep you safe if anyone knows 
you are alive, now get on the boat!  There is a ship just offshore 
waiting to take you across to France.  And if you want Eimile, you, 
you can take her."

"Why can I not be dead in Aber as easily as I can be dead in 
France?"      

"Beca – beca- because, because…"

"That is a good question, Gwil," Llewelyn noted.

"Shut up, Llewel.  Why can you not be dead in Aber?  Because 
messengers ride between Wales and London all the time.  Because 
sooner or later, someone would tell.  Because that is insane."

"So you take a red haired mistress to comfort you after your poor 
wife's death," the prince offered. "You would not be the first man 
to do that."

"Shut up, Llewel.  What would I say if we have another child?  I 
cannot say it is my dead wife's.  What if I die?  What would 
happen to you?  There could be no widow's rights to my estate 
because my wife is already dead.  How long do you think we could 
fool the Crown?"

"I do not know," Duana answered calmly. "How long do you think 
we have?"

Gwil had been gesturing wildly as he tried to make his point, but 
dropped his hands and looked up at the violet sky.  "Jesus Christ, 
cariad – your gentle, passive temperament would make whole team 
of mules green with envy."

She smiled.

And she stayed.

And Gwil leaned over to pick up Eimile out of the boat, much to 
the relief of the poor knight who thought he was going to have to 
hold the screaming child all the way to France.

*~*~*~*

"Tell it once more, Gwil," Merfyn requested, motioning for 
Gwilym to turn around as he checked the armor one last time.  "I 
will get it this time."

"I am a strange creature, for I satisfy women," Gwilym repeated 
slowly, and Merfyn nodded, hanging on every word. "I grow very 
tall, erect in a bed.  I am hairy underneath.  From time to time-"

Duana entered carrying his sword, and cleared her throat in 
disapproval.  She had already heard this riddle, and Eimile and 
Dafy were playing with the dogs at their father's feet and listening 
to every word.  

Gwilym grinned mischievously, and raised his arms for her to 
fasten his sword as he continued, "From time to time, a beautiful 
girl dares to hold me, grips my reddish skin, robs me of my head, 
and puts me inside.  And once that girl who has confined me 
remembers our meeting, her eye moistens."

Merfyn shook his head, squinting as he tried to think. "Again, 
Gwil."

"No, not again," Duana interceded, straightening Gwilym's 
shirtsleeves and pronouncing him ready for service. "Enough 
riddles.  The king's men are almost at the gates."   

He looked out the window to see the knights winding up the 
mountain. From April to October, Gwilym guided the English 
armies: those were the terms of having his lands and titles returned.  
Fitz had sent a royal escort, just in case Gwilym forgot to appear at 
Court this spring as he frequently 'forgot' to pay homage.  
Grieving his 'dead' wife was no excuse to escape service to the 
king.     

Merfyn shifted awkwardly, knowing they wanted privacy, and then 
vanished on the pretense of checking that Goliath was ready. 

"You promise to be careful?" Duana asked again, looking around 
the bedchamber to see if he had missed packing anything.

"I promise to be careful," Gwilym repeated obediently, squatting 
down to gather up a child in each arm.  Eimile came eagerly, but 
Dafy was a little more hesitant, not sure if it was really his father 
under all the armor. "It is just me, Dafy.  Dehdeh has to go win 
wars for the Normans: that is the deal.  It is a very long, exciting 
story, and I will tell it to you someday, little prince."

"And me," Eimile chimed in, wrapping her arms around his neck 
possessively.   

"Yes, you too, sweet girl.  You are in the story almost from the 
very beginning."

"And Mathair?" she demanded, still showing no signs of having 
mastered feminine submissiveness.

"Oh, and Mommy too," Gwilym assured her, and Eimile 
scrambled down, hurrying off to find important two-going-on-
three-year-old things to do.

"Are you going to tell me goodbye?" he asked Dafy, and the 
toddler looked at him warily, big hazel eyes taking in every 
nuance. "All right, then." Gwilym kissed the little boy's forehead, 
ruffling his messy brown curls affectionately.

"Bye-bye," Dafy finally decided, folding and unfolding his chubby 
hand.

"Bye-bye, little prince," Gwilym said quietly, standing up, hearing 
the gates squeal as the soldiers entered the bailey. 

"You have your maps? And a spare shirt?" Duana asked, 
needlessly fussing over him. "And that collection of gray patches 
you call a cape?"

"I have everything," he said, resting his forearms on her shoulders 
and watching her eyes watching his.  "I will see you in six months. 
Until we meet again…"

He kissed her, then pulled away, knowing he was not good at 
farewells and hoping that was eloquent enough.

"William – yes.  I am almost certain."

"Yes?" he echoed, blinking in surprise.

"I thought you would want to know before you left, since I cannot 
write to you from beyond the grave." Duana hesitated, now 
needlessly readjusting his shirt so it lay smooth under his chain-
mesh shirt of armor. "Perhaps a little girl this time – would you 
like that?  Or another boy?"

"I thought we were being careful," he mumbled, breathing a little 
quicker. "I thought we were going to wait a bit longer before 
another baby."

"Dafy is more than a year old, and it has been more than six 
months since…" She looked up, searching his face.  "I thought you 
would be happy."

"Of course I am happy." Gwilym stroked her cheek, producing a 
smile for her benefit. "Just surprised.  I love you.  Take good care 
of yourself, cariad.  Wait here: do not let the soldiers see you.  I 
like to keep the ghost of Aber Castle only for myself."  

She nodded, still watching as he turned away.  On impulse, he 
stopped, stepping back inside the room. 

"What, William?"

"The Gauls – the people who first lived in England – had no way 
to say 'retreat' or 'surrender' until the Normans came.  The closest 
word was 'lose.' When they went into battle, they either won or 
fought to the death: there was nothing else."

"You would have made a good Gaul," she responded, a little vague 
on her history. "Is this another riddle?"  

"No, I was just thinking about it: if there is no concept of 
something, then there is no need to have a word for it."

"I suppose that is true."

"That is why we have words in Welsh that other languages do not: 
because we think differently and we need a way to say it.  Like 
'hiraeth' – there is no French or English word for that."

"Longing," Duana supplied. "Homesickness."

"No, not just longing.  Hiraeth – to feel you only belong to a 
certain time, or place, or person, and that you are away.  To feel 
incomplete until you can return.  Truly belonging: it is a concept 
known only to y Cymry: the lost people."

She nodded. "You cannot be lost if you have never had a home."

"And you cannot be adrift if you have never had an anchor.  And 
you cannot explain it to others: only those who have been y Cymry 
can understand.  I thought you would understand," he added, 
feeling sheepish. "Or am I being foolish?"

"No, I understand this hiraeth very well.  I love you," she 
murmured, squeezing his hand and then letting him go, closing the 
bedchamber door behind him. 
 
Gwilym trudged down the stone steps, through the great hall, and 
into the bailey, pausing to admire Aber awakening with the first 
breath of spring.  The snow still tipped the blue peaks, creating an 
untouchable beauty that seemed foreboding to outsiders.  Among 
the Welsh Mountains though, husbands quietly stepped out of their 
homes, stretched their broad shoulders, and prepared to take on 
another year.  Wives carried new babies with them as they returned 
to the fields, and young men looked toward the sea and dreamed of 
adventure and immortality.  Aber was reborn as life hummed 
through the fertile valleys and the blood of its people with an 
intensity that made one whisper with awe.    
 
"Lord William – greetings from the king," an old man leading the 
knights said in courtly French, stiffly remounting his horse. "I am 
Richard fitzMatthew.  My men and I will see you safely to 
London."

"Greetings," Gwilym answered cordially, swinging into the high 
saddle in a single practiced move. "How did you get assigned as 
my nursemaid?"

"I requested it, actually.  My condolences on your wife's death.  I 
met her in London; spoke to her at Pembroke Castle – such a 
lovely woman.  Very tragic."

"Yes, I recall.  Thank you," he said politely, picking up the reins 
and turning Goliath toward the gates. 
 
"That horse is a little long in the tooth," Richard observed, feeling 
awkward and not knowing what else to say. "Although he must 
have been something in his prime.  Are you planning to ride him 
all the way to London?"   

"I think we have one more adventure in us. What do you think, old 
boy?" he asked Goliath, who having finally conceded to learn 
French, snorted in agreement and tossed his head.    

"An onion – the riddle: it is an onion," Merfyn announced 
victoriously, emerging from the castle with Dafy on his hip.  

For the first time, Merfyn would not be riding beside him to war, 
choosing to remain in Aber with his family as he edged toward his 
sixtieth winter.  Leuan, who also would be reaching his twilight 
years, had never returned except in dreams.  Father Leuan had 
vanished into the mists with his Norse wife and his twin girls.  The 
Beltaine fires would come soon and, if Gwil had been in Aber, he 
would have gone among the Druids and searched for a ginger-gray 
beard.  He was certain his old friend was not so far away; Leuan 
never let Gwil out of his sight for very long.    

Perhaps Leuan had been the Druid Priest who married him and 
Duana.  Perhaps his father and grandfather, who allowed the Old 
Rites on their lands, had also gone among the rituals.  Gwil would 
remember Leuan telling him how the Welsh blended the old and 
the new religions and lived happily, and Gwil would think perhaps, 
perhaps, perhaps, until in his mind, his childhood tutor said tiredly, 
'Oh hush, Llwynog; you do not have to question the meaning of 
every moment of life.  Just try to find some peace in it, and if you 
are luck enough to find it, hold it tightly so it does not escape.'

"It is an onion," Gwilym conceded, circling the horse and kneeing 
Goliath sideways so he could lean down to rub noses with the 
toddler.  

"This is your son?" Richard asked, taking stock of how many years 
had passed.  "The Welsh heir, I mean – Dafydd ap Llewelyn?"

"My little prince," Gwilym answered, grinning as Dafy pursed his 
lips in distaste at the silliness, looking exactly like Duana.

"I knew your grandfather, little prince," Richard informed the 
child, who watched him curiously. "And your father when he was 
about your age."

Gwilym raised his eyebrows as he straightened up in the saddle, 
but did not ask, thinking Richard was speaking of Llewelyn.  He 
waved bye-bye to Dafy again and glanced up at the window of his 
bedchamber.  Richard followed his gaze, seeing only shadows, but 
then, he did not know what he was looking for.  Gwilym certainly 
seemed to see something.

"Are you ready, then?" Richard asked. "You Welsh travel very 
lightly: do you have everything?"

"More than you know," Gwilym replied, tightening his calves 
against Goliath's sides.

*~*~*~*

End: Diwedd
End: The Hiraeth Series