Title: Hiraeth VI: Echen

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

Summary: sixth in the Hiraeth series.  Aber, North Wales; 
winter 1217

Keywords: long story, msr, angst, historical au

Spoilers: I can't see how

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

Website: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Silver spoons: Jen check – it will be fine, have faith (no cd & ends 
msr); Skinnerhead check – um, well, um; Spooning – and then 
some; angst-o-meter 6.64 out of 10; Snorkameter (distance coffee 
may spray from nose): 15 inches.


Echen
By prufrock's love
*~*~*~*

There were just times when a husband – as head of his family, lord 
of his castle, and slayer of dragons, invaders, and hairy black 
spiders – needed to guide his wife.  It was his duty, his 
responsibility, however distasteful it may be.  A woman could not 
be expected to know right from wrong the way a man did.

Gwilym had two years of practice with Duana, and he had tried to 
learn from his mistakes.  He found the most skillful approach was 
similar to driving a team of stubborn oxen: one carefully observed 
which way the animals wanted to go and then immediately called 
out that direction in a loud, commanding voice.  It made the driver 
feel better, fooled anyone who might be watching, and the oxen 
did not seem to mind too much.

He made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, put his 
hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders as he watched her put 
the baby to her breast.  Again.  He was going to have words with 
whichever servant had brought the baby to Duana.  Again.  
Probably Pyn Dral – that man thought the sun rose and set 
exclusively for her, which was not true.  The sun rose and set for 
Duana, Eimile, and his new son.  

"That is common," he pronounced, scowling at her from the 
doorway.  When she did not respond, he crossed his arms and 
pursed his lips for emphasis.  

"I am a commoner," she casually replied, pulling the coverlet up 
over the baby's head now that someone else was in the 
bedchamber.  Oh – so she wanted to suckle her child like a peasant 
woman, but she had to be modest about it.

He lay down on the mattress with the utmost care, still certain she 
would go to pieces if he jiggled her, propped his head up on his 
hand and pulled the furs and blankets back down.  He at least 
wanted to observe what he was scolding her for doing.

"You should be resting.  You are not even supposed to be sitting 
up.  Look – he is not really eating; he is almost asleep.  Give him 
here," Gwilym ordered, starting to take the baby from her.  "I will 
take him to the nursery," he lied.  Probably, Gwilym would get as 
far as the next room before he barred the door, sat on the sofa, laid 
the baby across his knees, and just stared at him.  It seemed so 
miraculous: to see his own eyes reflecting back at him.

Duana clutched the baby and turned away protectively.  "William, 
I would like to see my own son occasionally.  Between you and 
Mother and Melvin and Gwen and Father John all fawning and 
strutting around like peacocks with him, I seem to have been 
forgotten."  

"I do not strut," he answered haughtily, then added, "Although I 
am certain he is the smartest, strongest, most beautiful week-old 
child I have ever seen."

Her mouth twitched as she tried not to look amused.

"Go ahead – laugh at me.  No one else can hear and I am sure you 
will explode if you do not do it soon.  See," he brushed some milk 
off her nipple with his forefinger, "You are already leaking.  You 
had better laugh or you will burst."  

Gwilym touched his wet fingertip to the baby's mouth, and a 
curious little pink tongue emerged, trying to decide what to make 
of this newest food source.  When his son started to latch onto his 
fingertip to nurse, Gwilym leaned closer in awe, but then 
remembered himself, pulling his hand away and cleared his throat 
as he stood up.  As soon as his back was turned, he quickly brought 
his forefinger to his own lips, just out of curiosity.  

He stopped short, worrying the traces of milk around his mouth in 
wonder, then turned to look at the baby nestled contentedly against 
Duana's bare breasts.

Regaining his composure, he carried the cradle across the hall from 
the nursery and set it down softly beside the bed.  "There, now you 
will not have to get up – which I am sure you do not do every time 
I leave the room or fall asleep.  I will take him to his nurse when 
he is hungry and you will know just where he is at night."

"I do not sleep alone in this bed," Duana replied.  "So I doubt I am 
the only one who wants to check the baby at night."

Gwilym made what he hoped was a disinterested noise, and laid 
the baby in the cradle himself so she would not have to twist to do 
it.  Her mother had given very strict instructions: keep Duana flat 
as much as possible.  The bleeding had not been as bad this time, 
according to Duana – which gave Gwilym nightmares about what 
Eimile's birth must have been like – but Caithrin was still very 
concerned.  And she was not the only one.

"Lay down," he told her softly, closing the curtains against the 
afternoon sun and stretching out on the bed so they were eye to 
eye.   "Rest."  Gwilym pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and 
stroked her cheek, which was not as pale as it had been earlier this 
week.  "I want you to ask your mother before you keep feeding 
him.  When Eimile came, there was no choice, but I want to hear 
your mother say it is all right now.  And do not think she and I 
both do not know when you just pretend to translate what she says.  
My serfs on the Isle of Mon speak a Gaelic language, and neither 
Caithrin nor I are fools.  If she says it is fine, I will stop scolding 
you about doing it, no matter how inappropriate it is."

"Mother knows, William.  She wants him fed by the wet-nurse 
most of the time until I am stronger, but it is good for babies to 
have milk from their own mothers.  Especially at first: it makes 
them healthier.  But if you keep having the wet-nurse feed him 
constantly, I will not have any milk soon."

"Why is that?" he asked, scooting down so he could examine the 
two subjects of their discussion more closely.  "Is it like a cow that 
must be milked regularly?"  

That was a flattering analogy, but Duana, probably used to him, 
only nodded, and then laid her head against her forearm on the 
pillow. 

"Then it must hurt not to be able to nurse.  Cows make an awful 
racket if the milk maids are late – mooing and carrying on like they 
are dying."

It was a good she had little choice about becoming his wife – he 
would never be able to charm any woman into marrying him with 
flowery, romantic observations like that.

"It is uncomfortable," she mumbled, already partially asleep.  "But 
new babies eat often, so he will be hungry again soon."

He was quiet a moment, running his hand carefully over the swell 
of her breast and down over the softness of her waist.  "I do not get 
to tell you often that you are wrong – not and really mean it.  My 
father was the last Lord of Aber born in this castle, so, yes, 
everyone is celebrating my son, including me.  But I have not 
forgotten about you, either, so do not think I have."  He glanced up 
and saw her finally smiling as she dozed.  "Oh, do not look so 
smug, woman.  As though you do not know I absolutely adore you 
past the point of common sense."

Her breasts jiggled temptingly in front of his face as she chuckled, 
resting her hand lightly on his cheek.  He weighed the pros and 
cons for a moment, then decided he could not possible horrify her 
more than he had the night she conceived his son.  This would earn 
a mere raised eyebrow from her when compared to what they had 
done among the bonfires.  

As he took her nipple into his mouth, exploring the taste and 
fullness rather than suckling, she inhaled, pulling her shoulders 
back.

"I think I know why you like to feed that baby, cariad," he paused 
to say, licking his lips.  "Wanton."

"It is not the same thing at all.  I cannot believe you are jealous that 
your son gets to nurse, but you do not."

"Not nursing," he murmured, and instead nuzzling against her neck 
and closing his eyes.  "Appreciating."   

"Is that what you call it?"

"You have no idea."

*~*~*~*

Gwilym had sworn Merfyn to absolute secrecy before they left the 
castle, but there are still some things a gentleman just does not tell, 
especially knowing Merfyn's penchant for gossip.  

The sergeant, however, had no such modesty, and seemed to think 
any topic was suddenly open for discussion.

"You have actually waited the entire forty days?" Merfyn asked, 
forgetting to guide his horse as he stared at Gwilym in shock – or 
horror: it was hard to tell.  "I thought that was just one of those sins 
Leuan made up to torment his parishioners and no one actually did 
it.  So you waited seventy days after Eimile was born?  Seventy 
days – how many months is that?  More than one, I know."

"Seventy days is a little more than two months," Gwilym mumbled 
noncommittally.   

Merfyn considered a moment, cocking his head to the side with the 
effort.  "I would die," he decided.  "I would rather confess, do 
penance, and pay for indulgences.  I can understand a few weeks 
after a son or any child, really, but two months - a man is supposed 
to wait seventy days to lay with a woman after a daughter is born?  
I have so many daughters; if I waited two months after each one, I 
would be waiting…" He struggled with the math, then gave up and 
just said, "…a very long time."

"If you would wait, then you might not keep having to think up 
names for so many daughters.  How many is it now – eight?"

"Nine; three boys and nine girls," Merfyn said proudly.  "How 
long is that all together that I was supposed to abstain?"

"Almost two years," Gwilym answered, glad to have a new topic 
besides his relations with Duana.  "But you have two sets of twins 
and those new triplets, and I think Leuan would count days of 
abstinence after each birth, not by each child.  So a woman is never 
unclean for more than seventy days, regardless if she has one baby 
or a whole litter, as your wives seem to do."

"So how long it is really?  Perhaps I can do it all at once the next 
time we go to war and get some of my indulgence money back 
from Leuan.  I think I would be fine if I got to kill someone every 
so often, because, I swear, I have paid for the chapel's new altar 
myself.  That priest knows more ways to make something a sin-" 
Merfyn reined his gelding sharply and ducked to avoid a low tree 
branch.  

"Five hundred and seventy days," Gwilym figured, having had 
time to calculate since Goliath had sense enough to walk around a 
tree rather than into it. "Nineteen months – more than a year and a 
half," he added for Merfyn's benefit.  

Like most uneducated men, Merfyn judged time by the height of 
the sun, the phase of the moon, and the season of the year.  He 
could recognize his name, read scales enough to know how much 
he was being paid, and, not having owned more than fifty of 
anything in his life, had never needed to count any higher.    

The older man whistled under his breath, which Gwilym took to 
mean Leuan could rely on Merfyn continuing to buy indulgences 
and warm the confessional for many years to come.

"So, then, who is your mistress, if you are actually so moral all of a 
sudden?" he asked, feeling bold.  "There was Diana and Phoebe, 
though I never saw the appeal.  Of Phoebe," Merfyn quickly 
added, although he had been quite vocal about despising Diana as 
well at the time.  "Whores, of course, but that is not the same.  
When you came back from the Holy Land, there was the blonde, 
Murietta, in the tavern, but I have not seen you give her the time of 
day lately.  Really, Gwil, I do not know who it could be since Lady 
Duana came.  No woman in the castle, I am certain, or I would 
have heard of it.  That is polite, though, and as you were taught: 
there is no need to flaunt other women in front of your wife.  And, 
come to think of it, I have heard of no village girls, no prostitutes, 
– which do not count – no camp followers-"

"It is lovely to hear you chronicle my life.  You are not the only 
one with a good memory.  Would you like to hear my account of 
your mistakes?" Gwilym interrupted, wondering how he could 
explain how a prostitute 'did not count' to Duana, if she found out 
- or to himself, even if she did not..   

"Dear God in Heaven!" Merfyn exclaimed, spurring his mount to a 
trot so he was riding beside Gwilym, who had suddenly felt the 
need to pick up his pace.  "You are actually faithful to your wife!"

Gwilym ignored him, turning off the road and onto the snowy path 
to the alchemist's hut.

"That is it, is it not?  There is not only no mistress, there are no 
other women at all.  That is why you are so worried that Lady 
Dana might become pregnant again so soon.  The forty days have 
almost passed and you have not been with anyone else."

Gwilym flung him his nastiest look, but knew it would do no good: 
Merfyn had sniffed the wind and caught the scent of something to 
tease him about.  

"Interesting.  Well, you are not the only one hopelessly in love.  
Someone else we know has a new daughter – twin daughters, in 
fact."

"Who?" Gwilym asked, very interested.  Probably one out of every 
ten women in Aber had given birth this winter, but there were no 
twins or triplets except for Merfyn's.  Duana generally delivered 
any local babies, so these girls must have come in the months since 
she fell from her horse.

And he was being baited somehow – he doubted his sergeant was 
going to let him off the hook about his wife so easily.

"I will tell you if you will say it: I, Llwynog ap Gwilym, have not 
been with a woman in almost forty days."

"You are being childish.  Tell me who has the new twins.  One of 
the kitchen maids, maybe?"

"Not until you admit that you are actually managing to be faithful 
to a woman.  Then pick me up after I faint and I will tell you."

Gwilym frowned – no deal.  Aber was not that large: he would 
know about the twins soon enough.  

"No, not really – no one?" Merfyn tried again.  "We were in the 
south of Wales for all those months…  How about while she is 
with child?  According to Leuan, that is a sin as well, yes?  She has 
been pregnant most of the time you have been married to her-"

"And that is why we are here," Gwilym snapped back.  "And I am 
not the only one who wanted to come, so either close your mouth 
and be helpful, or go home and pray your Elan lives through 
another set of triplets."

Merfyn's eyes narrowed, but he kept quiet the rest of the way 
through the snowy woods to Llangly's hovel.

*~*~*~*

"And one would do what with this?" Gwilym asked, peering 
suspiciously into the mixture of cedar gum, olive oil, rue, lead, and 
white pepper. 

"Inside," Merfyn reminded him, so puzzled he forgot he was not 
speaking to him.  
 
"No, I do not think so," Gwilym decided, wrinkling his nose at 
Llangly's latest suggestion.  "If my wife knows, then it is her sin as 
well.  This," he said, sticking his fingers into the repulsive 
concoction and then, regretting it, trying to flick it off and still 
maintain his dignity at the same time, "This, I think, she would 
notice."
 
"Do not worry – there are other choices," Llangly assured him.  
"Many things are said to prevent a child from forming."  
 
"I have heard of brake-root," Merfyn offered,  "One of my wives 
drank brake-root powdered in wine."

"And how many children did you say you had?" Llangly asked 
haughtily.  "Perhaps your science is a little questionable?"

"And how many times did you say you have been married that you 
think this-" he gestured to the alchemist's contraceptive offerings 
so far, "-is a valid option.  Let me count: never, I think it was.  Can 
you imagine what my wife would say if I told her she was to put 
this-"

"Better your wife do it than you.  I would have to sketch you a map 
for you to figure out where it goes," Llangly retorted, having 
disliked the grumpy old soldier at first sight.  "Tell me, do your 
children resemble any other man you know?"

"All right!" Gwilym intervened.  "Enough.  You said there were 
other choices.  What are they?  And do not suggest dung from
-any- animal applied to –any- part off mme or my wife again."

"Weasel testicles," Llangly replied, nodding enthusiastically.    

"I am sorry?" Gwilym responded, eyes wide.  He looked to Merfyn 
to see if he had heard correctly, and his sergeant's expression 
indicated he had.

"The Normans say to have a woman wear them," Llangly 
explained.

Merfyn quickly thought up a brilliant jibe about whether or not 
Lady Duana already did something similar, but Gwilym was 
wearing his sword and Merfyn preferred to keep his manhood.  
Gwilym always had the last word in his marriage, of course – as 
soon as he made sure that was all right with his wife.

Just like Merfyn did.

Llangly held up a sizable jar and assured them with great pride that 
he collected these himself, which worried Gwilym for several 
reasons.  "Weasel testicles worn as a necklace are said to be a sure 
guarantee against pregnancy," Llangly said, sounding like he was 
actually serious.

"Perhaps for female weasels," Gwilym said skeptically.  "I will put 
a jasper stone under the pillow like you suggested, but is there 
nothing else?"

"My Lord, wives have so many children for a reason – because it is 
God's will.  You are trying to prevent that, which is as unnatural as 
a woman speaking in Church or a court of law."

Gwilym was quiet for a moment, glancing at the cobwebbed 
crocks that lined the high shelves and the parchments on which the 
alchemist's experiments were carefully recorded.   
       
"You know, of course, that my wife had a child before Christmas? 
A son?"  

Llangly nodded – all of Aber had celebrated: Lady Duana was well 
liked, especially for a foreigner, and everyone breathed a sigh of 
relief to know there was again a male heir.  

"There was bleeding afterward," he continued. "Just like after our 
daughter was born.  Her mother was there and got it to stop, but I 
was with my wife when it happened.  Duana sent for me as soon as 
the baby came – they did not even have him bathed yet.  I did not 
want to leave her in the first place, but everyone insisted, so I made 
her promise I could come in as soon as possible after the birth.  I 
have seen men cut in two with axes in battle; I thought I could 
manage not to panic as she gave birth; that maybe it would make 
her feel better to know I was there.  The midwives are right, 
though – watching her suddenly start to bleed and not knowing any 
way to help was much worse than any war I have ever been in.  
One minute I was stroking her sweaty face, thinking how tired she 
looked and thanking God she was alive, and the next there was so 
much blood…" he trailed off, not wanting to discuss the details, 
but obviously upset.  "Do not tell me it is God's will that Duana 
die just because – because of me."

Merfyn shifted, feeling awkward, and decided the thatched roof 
and then the floor alternately needed to be stared at.  

"These are only folk remedies," Llangly responded in a 
sympathetic voice.  "I would not put much faith in them if so much 
is at stake.  Perhaps they work; perhaps they do not.  I am sure you 
already know what coitus interruptus is; either that or… or ask 
your wife.  She is very good with herbs.  I know metals and 
science, but the villagers say she is a skilled healer, for a woman. If 
there is another way, she will know it.  Perhaps-"

Gwilym was shaking his head from side to side.  "I have already 
asked her and she will not say."             

"But she might tell another woman," Merfyn piped up cheerfully.  
"And she is bound to be sympathetic to Elan: twins and then 
triplets within two years is just not reasonable.  I will have Elan 
ask Lady Duana and tell me, and then Llangly can give you 
whatever herbs Duana recommends.  Then it will be up to you, 
Gwil, to get your wife to take them."

"I do not think she will tell Elan," Gwilym replied, sounding 
doubtful.  Merfyn's young wife might be pretty and she might 
adore Merfyn, but she had about as much sense and tact as a rabbit.  
"The tan- another woman wanted herbs to end her pregnancy, and 
Duana would not even tell her what they were.  Elan is not going 
to convince my wife if this other woman did not."

The woman had been the tanner's wife last week – her husband had 
sent her and told her not to come home still pregnant with that 
Russian's child.  Not that the tanner did not love her; just that he 
could not look at her every day, remember what had happened, and 
stay sane.  

If ever a situation would play on Duana's soft heart, it was that 
woman.  Gwilym had accidentally overheard, via his ear pressed to 
the door, her desperate pleas to Duana.  The next day, Duana 
seemed to have acquired a new, completely inept, and suspiciously 
pudgy lady's maid for the duration of said 'pudginess.'  Then, he 
was betting, he was going to acquire a foster child.   

"If you have a better idea, feel free to share it, Gwil," Merfyn 
replied, frustrated that his idea was dismissed so easily.  "Perhaps 
you are not the only man fond of your wife."

Gwilym shrugged, defeated, thanked Llangly for his time, and 
walked outside, wanting to clear his head before Merfyn started 
picking at him again.  

"Leuan and the Norse woman," the sergeant said neutrally, the 
leather creaking as he swung into his saddle.  "She has returned to 
her homeland, but sent word that the two girls came safely.  That is 
where Leuan has been since he christened your son and my newest 
children – with his hearth wife in the North."

He had been busy checking Goliath's feet – his gait was off for 
some reason, but Gwilym glanced up, surprised.  "I thought you 
were going to make me say I loved only my wife before you would 
tell me."

Merfyn forced a grin – he delighted in secrets the way a glutton 
delighted in sweets, but he was in no mood to laugh at the moment.  
"I think you just did.  Do not worry – I will not tell anyone."  

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym tossed the summons across his desk so it slid over the 
edge and fluttered to the floor, and clenched his fists until the 
joints ached.  "Why did you not tell me?" he spat at Llewelyn.  
"Could you not have mentioned who my wife is?  I thought she 
was joking when she said her husband called her 'Countess'."

"Who your wife was," the prince corrected, puzzled by his friend's 
reaction.  Gwilym had put off swearing fealty to the new king to 
stay with Duana and his son, and the King had finally sent a 
summons for Llewelyn to bring him, and, oddly enough, Duana, to 
London Court.  "Why – would you have refused her?"

Gwilym whirled around, his temper and pride getting the best of 
him.  "As if I had a choice!  You sent Leuan back to Aber with a 
message: I had been married by proxy.  Not 'was to be married' – 
'married.'  Over, done, sight unseen.  By order of Prince Llewelyn, 
I had a new wife and you were in King John's good graces again.  
So do not pretend you were so considerate of my feelings."  

"You did not send Duana back, Gwil, and you know I would have 
let you if you did not want her.  Why does it matter now?  Next to 
my Joanna, you have the most beautiful wife in Wales and a new 
son as well.  And Eimile – I know you are proud of her, no matter 
what."  Llewelyn put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and 
Gwilym shrugged away.  "This is some sort of bad joke – someone 
put her old title on a summons to taunt you; nothing more.  You, as 
always, are over-reacting."     

"The Countess of Pembroke and Striguil, and Lady of Leister, 
Llewelyn – that is land in Ireland, Britain, south Wales and 
Normandy.  That must be half of the Crown's taxes.  There is quite 
a difference between that and the Lady of Aber."

Llewelyn, who had other things to do today besides listen to 
Gwilym be insecure, sighed and sunk into the sofa.  The Prince of 
Wales had never been troubled by a lack of self-confidence.  "If 
you are so curious about her past, ask her.  If you want a wife 
without a past, marry a twelve-year old virgin and raise her the 
way you want her.  Otherwise, come to London with me to pay 
homage to the new king, bring your wife with us, and stop 
dwelling on a dead man."

Gwilym exhaled noisily and changed the subject.  "Why would the 
brat-king summon Duana?  I do not like this."   

"Eimile and your son can stay at my Court while we are gone, just 
to be safe.  I do not see how the Crown could benefit by harming 
Duana, but I will not take any chances."  Gwilym had already lost 
enough by putting his faith in Llewelyn, but neither man would 
ever say that.  "I would rather face a trap knowingly, if that is what 
it is, Gwil, than to run blindly from one snare into another."

"All right.  We will be ready to ride tomorrow.  I will need to 
borrow a horse – Goliath has a swollen hock.  Pyn Dral can 
manage the castle well enough, but there is a woman, Duana's 
maid, who is with child.  I do not want Pyn to know the details, so 
I will send her with the children along with their wet-nurses, and 
Duana's mother, if she will go.  If the maid's baby comes before 
we return, I have already paid for Saint Mary's Abbey to take it.  I 
thought Duana would want to keep it, but she is adamant that she 
does not."  

Llewelyn was surprised - aghast, even.  Taking a wife's maid as a 
mistress might be convenient, but it was certainly unwise.  He had 
thought Gwilym would have been more sensitive to Duana's pride. 

"The abbot knows Duana, and promised the monks would keep the 
child until it is old enough to be pledged to the Templars or one of 
the nunneries.  My serf's wife was raped and this is the rapist's 
child, not mine.  The serf will take her back, but not the child," 
Gwilym explained, then, tilting his head to the side, asked, 
"Pembroke's son Alex – does he still live?"

"As far as I know, he did not have a son named Alex.  Not by his 
first wife, anyway, and I do not know of any others.  There is a son 
and a stepson, but neither is Alex."  Llewelyn, also not a fool, had 
no intention of telling Gwilym their names.  "Why?"
 
"No reason," Gwilym replied casually, toying with the hilt of his 
dagger.  "As you say, I like to know the trap I am walking into."

*~*~*~*

The sensation was like tiny flames licking her all over as sea foam 
caressed her skin, which made no sense at all, but she was not 
going to dwell on the disparity.  In the blackness of their 
bedchamber, Duana ran her hands across the smoothness of a 
man's shoulders as rough stubble scratched her face, then neck, 
then breasts, suckling gently.  She could not see anything in the 
darkness, but the scent of his skin, the sounds from deep in his 
throat, and the rhythm of his mouth and hands roaming over her 
body were familiar. 

"Do not wake," William whispered to her, moving further down 
her body and pushing her legs apart.  "All a dream."

She relaxed under him, letting her muscles go limp.  They had 
finally finished all the arrangements for their trip to London and 
fallen into bed long after midnight, barely speaking.  She was not 
at all happy about leaving the children because of one of her 
husband's whims and had told him so.  Making her accompany 
him was selfish – she was still nursing their son and this was just 
another way to try to make her stop, regardless of what he said.  
William had been in a foul mood all evening, refusing even to let 
her see the summons and barking orders at her like she was a fool, 
so perhaps this was his way of apologizing.  

Oh, sweet God – he must be very, very sorry.

The tension inside her began to build, and she moaned, shifting her 
hips, not sure if she wanted to press toward this sensation or away 
from it.  In a heartbeat, it did not matter, because the wave crested 
and broke, crashing over her and leaving the last of the sea foam 
effervescing on her skin.

Still half-asleep, when Duana could focus again, she found 
William kissing her deeply, mumbling endearments into her mouth 
that he would passionately deny if he ever thought she heard.  
There was pressure, and then a pleasant, familiar protest as her 
body began to open for his.  She gasped, and the forward 
movement immediately stopped.

"It is all right," she mumbled, kissing the base of his neck.  "Do 
not stop."

"Cariad?  Are you awake?"  

"Um," she answered.  "Very awake, thank you."

He pulled his hips back, leaving her.  "Sorry – I was dreaming.  Go 
back to sleep; I will not bother you."

He was lying, of course, but she had no idea why.  "All right – I 
will give you the next fifteen minutes or so to stop bothering me."  

William scooted away from her, pulling the furs over him as if he 
was going to sleep.  She followed him, sliding her palm down the 
front of his body and earning an unwilling moan before he pushed 
her away.  "Asleep?  You seem very awake to me.  It is all right; 
you were not hurting me.  Just go slow at first."

"No, stop.  It is too soon and we have to get up in a few hours.  I 
was having a dream and got carried away.  Another night, 
wanton." 

She considered trying to persuade him – she could be quite 
persuasive – but he rolled away, seeming annoyed.  Duana fished 
out a rock from under her shoulder, wondering how in the world it 
got there, cuddled up to his warm back, and closed her eyes again, 
still puzzled.

*~*~*~*

"William, I want to stop," Duana said, speaking to him for the first 
time that day.  

He reined his borrowed horse so quickly the knight riding behind 
him almost ran his mount nose-first into Lariat's haunches.  His 
wife was acknowledging his presence and he was not even 
bleeding to her satisfaction – something must be wrong.  If anyone 
else had asked, Gwilym would have replied curtly that they were 
almost at Court and this was not a good time to stop, but he instead 
passed the message up the line to Llewelyn, who signaled his guards.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, just out of habit and chivalry.  
When Duana did give her pat answer immediately, Gwilym 
dismounted, his boots splashing deep into the mud and muck of the 
London streets.  Holding his arms up to her, he said, "Come on, I 
will help you down."  To his surprise, she slid down from her mare 
without protest and let him set her on the steps of Temple Church, 
keeping her skirts clear of the filth of the open sewer.  

They had traveled at what seemed like a crawl to seasoned 
horsemen out of deference to her, seldom covering more than forty 
miles a day since leaving Aber a week ago, but that was still more 
than she was used to.  Eimile, much like Gwilym, had an irrational 
fear of being away from Duana, so in addition to having to leave 
the toddler and baby wailing at Llewelyn's castle – which bothered 
Gwilym far more than he would ever admit – Duana's breasts had 
swollen painfully since she was also not able to nurse.  And she 
had spent the last six nights sleeping in nasty, noisy taverns, eating 
food Gwen would have fed to the pigs, and listening to strangers 
tell stories that made Gwilym blink, and he could not understand 
French as well as she.  And, unless he was mistaken, her flux had 
come a few days ago to further compound her misery.  If she 
would have had a sword and weighed more than five stones, Duana 
would have been a dangerous woman by now.

She had not complained, but she also still thought he was dragging 
her to London just for company or spite, so Duana probably saw 
any protest or admission of discomfort as playing into Gwilym's 
maniacal plan to torment her.

If Duana wanted to rest, they were resting, damn it.  

He was opening his mouth to ask her if she needed anything when 
one of Llewelyn's knights yelled at him to catch his damn horse – 
Gwilym had forgotten that Lariat did not ground-tie like Goliath 
did, especially among all the temptations of London.  Always an 
optimist, he tried whistling, but only got a few stray dogs and a 
sow, so there was no choice except to chase the stupid animal, 
enlisting a few of Llewelyn's men as unwilling herdsmen.

By the time Gwilym pulled Lariat away from a cart of half-rotten 
cabbages, still chewing happily, attempted to compensate some 
red-faced English farmer, and, if he was not mistaken, been called 
"a baseborn Welsh son who laid with sheep," Duana had vanished.      
 
"She is in the church," Llewelyn told him, sprawling on the steps 
and offering him a drink.  The prince's knights stayed close, 
watching the crowds for any signs of trouble instead of relaxing 
and milling about as they would have in Wales.  In Aber, they said 
the only good Englishmen was a dead Englishmen – in London, 
they said the same, but about Welshmen.  

Gwilym, thinking Duana probably only wanted a little privacy, 
flopped beside Llewelyn, and watched in amusement as a maid, 
aiming for the sewer, emptied a bucket of wastewater out of a 
second-story window and directly onto a pedestrian below.  The 
poor man, spitting and sputtering, cursed at the maid, and she 
cursed right back, and then slammed the shutters closed.

"He should not complain – he probably smells better now," 
Llewelyn commented in a low voice, keeping his foreign accent 
from being overheard.

"I would think this city was nasty if I had not been to Paris one 
summer," Gwilym replied, restlessly getting to his feet.  "I wonder 
what is keeping my wife?"

"She is fine; just give her some time."  The Welsh knights, 
accustomed to following Gwilym in battle, watched him as he stood, 
but seeing Llewelyn stay seated, remained where they were.  
"Gwil, just wait.  Give Duana a minute.  She does not have to be 
within your sight every second of the day."  

Ignoring him, Gwilym pushed open the massive church doors and 
went to find Duana.  He expected to see her kneeling or perhaps 
even emerging from the confessional, since she probably would 
not want to tell Leuan about his aborted midnight "dream" last 
week.  He could certainly manage coitus interruptus, but he would 
die of humiliation if Duana thought he did it by accident.  And she 
would be praying for days if she was fully awake and thought he 
did it on purpose.  Even, well, whatever one would call what he 
had been doing to her with his mouth – even that would earn him a 
lecture from Leuan.  In fact, he would much rather she horrified 
some London priest by confessing here. 

Instead, after several minutes of searching, he found her among the 
effigies and mausoleums, sitting beside a low, marble coffin.

Gwilym hesitated, realizing he had stumbled onto something she 
would not want him to see.  Whoever this man was, he could easily 
come back later and find out – no need to ask her, since she would 
never tell him anyway.  The phantom 'Muldah' perhaps, that she 
asked for when she was so ill.  

Of course she had admirers; Pyn Dral's doe-eyed mooning was 
something of a castle joke.  It was not unreasonable to think that 
a young wife with a much older husband might have found some 
man to admire back in all of London.  Duana had never given 
Gwilym any reason to doubt her faithfulness to him – let her shed a 
few tears over a dead man.   

He had turned to walk away, trying to make as little noise as 
possible, since every sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling, when 
Duana sensed him and looked up.

"Come, William.  If you want to know so badly, come here."

She sounded more tired than anything else, and he started to 
mumble something about not meaning to disturb her, then stopped, 
knowing he was making a fool of himself.  If he had not wanted to 
disturb her, he should not have spent ten minutes searching for her.

"Pembroke," he read off the marble inscription, as though he did 
not know what her husband's name had been.  Then, seeing how 
the effigy was posed and dressed, added, "A Templar."

"A long time ago, William.  You would not have known him."

"No, I did not know him," Gwilym replied, needing something to 
say.  He ached to take Duana in his arms and try to make her pain 
go away, but if she had wanted that, she would have already been 
there, and she was not.  Like she said, some hurts were not about 
him.

"Do you know the term 'kingmaker'?  The nobleman who guides 
the prince of England, teaches the heir what he needs to know of 
statecraft and war?  He was Kingmaker and high counsel for Henry 
Plantagenet's sons: to Prince Henry before he died, and then to 
Richard the Lionheart, and then to John Lackland.  King John 
seized almost half his lands and took his son as a hostage, just like 
your David, and still he was loyal to the Crown.  He said he had 
pledged fealty to the Crown, not to any one man."

Gwilym, still standing beside her, rested his hand gently on her 
head and Duana leaned her cheek against his leg.  She raised one 
hand to take his, leaving the other on the marble statue of 
Pembroke.  

"Young King Henry – the brat-king, as you call him – I have 
kissed his scraped elbows and dried his tears while his own mother 
was too busy inspiring poems.  Every Plantagenet prince of 
England learned his lessons in our home, and King John had my 
husband tried and executed as a traitor without a second thought so 
he could bed me.  I was the one thing he was not willing to give to 
the Crown."  

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, fiddling with his tunic, 
his sword, his hair – anything at hand, then said, "I will be outside 
when you are ready."

Duana nodded, not looking up or seeming to notice as he walked 
away.

*~*~*~*  

She ached.  Not just her inner thighs from too many hours in the 
saddle or her eyes from too few hours of sleep, but in other places 
that Duana found more difficult to explain.  

Her breasts and heart ached from listening to her babies cry as she 
rode away.  She had looked back, seeing her mother's 
disapproving expression, and William reached over and took her 
horse's bridle, leading her out of Wales.  She had hated him at that 
moment.  How could he just leave their children so casually?  He 
had spent more time saying goodbye to his damn horse and dogs 
than his 'echen,' – his family, as he called it.

Her head ached from too much thinking: about the tomb in Temple 
Church, about feeling out of place in a city where she had lived for 
almost ten years, about – oh, just too many things for one female 
brain.  Perhaps the priests were right: that it was a woman's place 
to obey rather than to question.  It would certainly be easier if she 
could close her mind for a few hours, but if she let William think 
for her, she might end up on a horse bound for Camelot or the 
moon.

And there was a place in the small of her back that not only ached, 
it felt very dirty all of a sudden.  The further they walked into 
London Court, the sweatier and filthier that spot became until she 
felt certain it must be visible through her dress.  Sure enough, 
Duana felt William touching her there, probably wanting her to 
translate what the royal seneschal was saying to Prince Llewelyn.

"I will arrange an audience with the King for Prince Llewelyn and 
Lord Gwilym tomorrow," she repeated in Welsh for him and the 
knights.  "Until then, please enjoy the hospitality of Court.  
Countess Duana is to-" William's hand clenched the fabric of her 
dress, "Countess Duana is to come with him.  William, what does 
he want with me?  Why did you bring me here?"

Llewelyn's knights stepped in front of Duana, hands on their 
swords, as William pulled her a few steps backward, tensing as if 
he was prepared to take her and flee if necessary.   

"Her apartments are ready," the seneschal said, addressing Prince 
Llewelyn instead of her or William.  "Did you expect the countess 
to sleep among your men?"  

Llewelyn glanced back at William as she translated, her heart still 
pounding, and William relaxed his grip on her.  It was fine.   

The seneschal seemed puzzled as William followed Duana and the 
two knights Llewelyn assigned to guard her through the maze-like 
halls.  "I go with my wife," William said in his broken 
French, looking like it would not be wise to offer any argument.  

It was one of his odd quirks that she had gotten used to and then 
grown to like: if possible, William slept with her, whether they 
made love or not.  Her rooms in Aber Castle had sat empty so long 
they had finally turned them into a nursery.  If she was away at 
night for any reason – if a woman was in labor or someone was 
sick, William slept on the sofa and the dogs got the bed.  He had 
not slept alone in his bed since she had known him, nor, to her 
knowledge, had he ever slept there with any other woman, which 
was more than many wives could say.  Perhaps she did not hate 
him after all; she just did not like him very much this week.

"Geoffrey!" she said sharply, recalling the seneschal's name after 
some thought.  

In spite of her poor, over-burdened brain, it amused her to see 
Geoffrey still jump after all this time.  He always had been a 
nervous little weasel.

"I am Lady Duana of Aber," she continued, speaking forcefully, 
but slowly enough that William could understand.  "My husband is 
Lord William of Aber.  You will remember that."

"Yes, my lady," Geoffrey replied, then thankfully turning in the 
opposite direction of where her apartments had briefly been two 
years ago, said, "This way, Lady Duana.  My Lord," he added, 
admirably managing not to sneer.

*~*~*~*

"Better?" Gwilym asked, as Duana emerged from the bedchamber 
wearing a fresh dress with her face and hands scrubbed clean.  

"I will be better still after a real bath," she replied, surveying the 
lush sitting room that had been assigned to 'Countess Duana.' 
"But, yes, I do not feel like a street urchin now."   

"You do not look like a street urchin, either – you are not tall 
enough.  Are you going to leave your neck bare?" he asked.  She 
had adopted the Welsh custom of wearing only a veil over her hair, 
no wimple to cover her throat, but she would look out of place in 
London.  Unmarried women might leave their heads and necks 
uncovered, but Duana looked all of seventeen now: more than old 
enough to be married.  With his clean-shaven face, dark skin, and 
poor command of French, no one was going to mistake Gwilym for 
a Norman, but there was no need for Duana to be scorned.

"Does it bother you?"  She sounded like she was spoiling for 
another fight.

"I am used to looking at you," Gwilym answered nonchalantly, 
deciding his boots were as clean as they were going to get and 
pulling them back on.  "Other men are not.  Wear whatever you 
want."  
 
There were footsteps coming down the hall, swords clanking 
against armor: soldiers.  They were coming.  He had not expected 
it to happen so fast.  Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could 
already hear the gallows being built outside.

Gwilym stood, stepped close to her, and whispered quickly, 
"Llewelyn received a summons to bring you to Court – I do not 
know why, but your old titles were on the letter.  If anything goes 
wrong or if anything happens to me, get to any church; the Templars
will get you out of Britain.  It is all arranged.  No one is going to
force you into marrying against your will again – that is all I can think:
that the King would grant you widow's rights to Pembroke's lands and 
find a more politically useful husband for you.  That is why no one 
from Aber came with us – I will not have anyone else die because 
of my beliefs."  

The footsteps stopped outside the oak door and he heard a man 
speaking in French to the guards.  Gwilym had faced Death many 
times before, but never just stood and waited for it to find him.

"If I am dead, Llewelyn will claim Eimile and Mab as his.  Do you 
know what primae noctis is?"  

Duana nodded; she knew very well what a feudal lord's right to 
'first night' was, but she seemed too stunned to speak.  

"No one actually does it – it is a barbaric custom; everyone pays a 
fee to his liege lord instead, but it is still the law.  Duana, I never 
paid the fee; I was furious at Llewelyn for arranging my marriage 
and I refused.  If anything happens, you say Eimile is his child by 
that first night here in London and that Mab is his because you are 
his mistress.  Until there is some record of me paying the fee, he 
has every right to you, and he is in Aber often enough that people 
would believe that Mab is his as well.  The King might execute my 
son for spite, but not Llewelyn's.  Llewelyn will confirm your 
story; he and I have already spoken.  And our marriage is legal: 
Llewelyn will see that my estate passes to whoever your next 
husband is, but you will need to remarry to hold lands in Wales.  
You will be wealthy enough to choose whatever husband you like, 
so just pick a man who will be good to the children and will not 
bother you too much.  Do you understand?"       

She stared at him, her eyes wide as she tried to absorb so 
information much at once.  "We have to run," she whispered back, 
reaching for his hand.

"This is not like King John wanting you and Eimile back.  If King 
Henry wants to charge me as a heretic, he has just cause.  If 
Llewelyn or I disobey the summons – refuse to come or to bring 
you - we are guilty of a felony and our lands, all of north Wales, 
revert to the Crown.  I cannot take you and run this time, but Leuan 
made me learn all that damn English law and I can still out think 
that joke of boy-king.  You and the children will be safe.  Cariad, 
tell me you understand!"

Duana swallowed, nodding her head and gripping his hand as the 
door opened.

*~*~*~*

Gwilym could not decide if he needed his sword or not as the 
wooden door squeaked open on its hinges.  It was like taking a 
drink from a jug and swallowing something entirely different from 
what one was expecting – getting milk instead of tart wine – it is 
hard to decide whether or not the taste is offensive for that first 
second.  

Duana paled and he thought for a moment that she had seen a 
ghost, but then her face changed, softened.  Of course, this man in 
the doorway might be an old friend, but he seldom saw his wife 
look at another adult with such open affection.  Their children, yes; 
Gwilym, if he was fortunate; but never another man.  

"Duana?" the tall man said, sounding like he was not sure if he was 
correct or not.

Duana smiled – one of those rare, relaxed smiles like she had after 
their son had come or when she had caught him singing and 
dancing around with Eimile in only his braies one morning.  "My 
Fitz," she said in French, going to the knight and tiptoeing to wrap 
her arms around his neck.  "I was so afraid.  I was sure you were 
dead as well.  I am so sorry, Fitz."

'Fitz' hugged her, then, seeming to remember himself, kissed her 
forehead chastely.  Gwilym sucked in a noisy, disapproving breath, 
but he seemed to have been forgotten.  

It was difficult for Gwilym to make out what the man was saying: 
his French was more colloquial than Duana's and he spoke 
quickly, but he seemed to be apologizing.  "You never would have 
been married to a Welshman if I had been here," – that he 
understood quite clearly.  "This is not your fault.  You did not do 
anything wrong, Duana," he said, resting his big hands on her 
shoulders and looking down at her with warm, brown eyes.  "You 
did not, did you?"

"Do not question me, Fitz," she responded coolly, stepping back.  

"I am sorry," Fitz quickly apologized, looking chastised.  "It is so 
good to see you again.  I did not know if he would really let you 
come, even with the summons."

"You sent the summons?  Boy, you scared us half to death.  Can 
you not write a polite letter if you want to see me?"

Gwilym raised an eyebrow at that.  This 'boy' was probably almost 
thirty, about three fingers taller, and probably a stone heavier than 
Gwilym, which made him an imposing figure.

Fitz did not seem to mind.  He grinned at her, perhaps even 
looking bashful.  "Duana!" he said, seeming delighted to even say 
her name.  "My God – you are finally not such a skinny little thing. 
You look like a woman instead of a girl."

All right!  Gwilym had been lounging in the shadows looking 
morose, but at that last observation, he straightened and walked 
toward the happy couple.  He was still all wound up to kill 
someone and now seemed like a good time.

"You are rude to mention it, but I just had a baby.  We have two 
now: a boy and a girl."   

The man's face grimaced, looking pained.  "Duana – no."

"I am happy, Fitz," she assured him.  "It is very different from my 
life before, but I am happy.  Come, meet my husband."

Fitz shook his head 'no,' wrinkling his nose. 

Duana ignored him, gesturing for Gwilym, which made him 
breathe a little easier.  "This is who sent the summons for me, 
William.  It is fine," she said in Welsh, then in French, "Fitz - Lord 
William of Aber.  William speaks French, just speak slowly."  

Gwilym offered his hand, trusting Duana not to embarrass him, but 
Fitz looked skeptical, which was enough for Gwilym's overloaded 
brain and hot temper.    
   
"Welsh does not rub off," he said in French.

Fitz exhaled and took his hand, gripping harder than necessary.  "I 
have heard much of you, Lord William."

"And yet I have heard nothing of you," he replied sarcastically.

"My stepson, William," Duana explained, still speaking French.  
Gwilym's expression hardened, but she added, "No – Fitz was only 
a squire when his father and I married.  And that father would be 
quite ashamed of him right now because he is acting like a child."

Fitz grinned good-naturedly.  Gwilym had the feeling Duana had 
the same affect on Fitz that Leuan had on him – reducing a grown 
man to a teenaged boy in seconds.  "I have missed hearing you 
scold me, Duana." 

"Come visit us in Wales, Fitz – she does it all the time," Gwilym 
offered, draping a possessive arm over Duana's shoulders.  "Some 
days in four different languages."

"I may do that."  He offered his hand again, speaking more slowly 
and clearly for Gwilym's benefit.  "Let us start over: William of 
Aber, I am fitzWalter, Earl of Pembroke, although I still look for 
my father if someone says 'Walter' or 'Earl.'  I think I was 
'Marshall fitzWalter' at birth, but Duana christened me 'Fitz,' 
saying I was the very image of my father, when I was sixteen and 
it has been 'Fitz' ever since."

Gwilym tilted his head toward her fondly.  "I am surprised she 
managed to name a boy.  Girls, she does well with, but we have 
had a 'Mab' – a 'male child of' for almost two months now.  
'Samer,' Cariad?" he suggested.

"Artur," she countered, which meant she had moved on from 
'Adam' – her decision the last time he had checked.  Perhaps she 
was going through the alphabet, although there was going to be a 
problem when they got to the J's: French had a J and Welsh did 
not.

"Cariad?" Fitz asked.

"Beloved," Gwilym explained, trying his best to be friendly, out of 
curiosity if nothing else.  "Fitz, this son will probably be 'Mab' all 
his life.  Soon we will have another to try to name and poor Mab 
will still be Mab."  He slipped his arm from Duana's shoulders to 
her waist for emphasis, purposely taunting him.  "I see a pattern – 
'Mab,' 'Fitz.'  The next boy will be only 'Ap:'  'Ap ap Gwilym.'  
'Son of son of William.'  After that, I do not know what we will 
do." 

"I once met a Fitz fitzWilliam, so it must be a common problem," 
he replied, but Fitz's eyes changed for an instant as Gwilym 
touched her stomach, answering Gwilym's unspoken question.  
Duana might not be aware of it, but her stepson was in love with 
her.

*~*~*~*

Duana wanted to wait for William to return before she got out of 
the bath, thinking it would be easier – and far more pleasant – to 
share with him rather than to try to convince the Court 
chambermaids to heat more bathwater for him.  Once the worst of 
her aches and the heaviest of her thoughts had floated away and 
her skin began to shrivel, she finally got out, but did not call the 
maids to empty the tub. William could have a cold bath whenever 
he came back from The Tower tonight rather than no bath tonight.

She had dried off and slipped on her chemise when there were 
noises: someone entering the next room.  "William, come see this 
– quick before it vanishes," she teased, wanting to make amends 
for being so hateful to him this last week.  He had been prepared to 
die for her the whole time she was acting like a spoiled, sullen 
child.  "I have found a bathtub in London Court!  It has water and 
everything, though I traded my honor for soap.  I hope you do not 
mind – it was quite a bit of soap."

She was drying her hair with a towel and he had his back to her as 
she entered the dim sitting room assigned to them.  Fitz had 
assigned several servants to them as well, but Duana had sent them 
away before her bath, thinking William would return soon and she 
wanted to thank him properly.  And privately.  "What is the news 
of Prince Llewelyn's son?  Did you get to see him?"  

He did not answer, so she put down the damp towel, pushing her 
hair off her face and thinking something must have gone wrong: 
the boy was dead or they had not been allowed into the Tower, 
even after Fitz had promised to go with them.  "Did they not let 
you in to see Gruffydd, William?"

"Do you actually believe your husband and the other Welshmen 
are visiting the prisons tonight?  They are sampling the Southwark 
whores – it is a tradition they have.  That man is not worthy of you, 
Duana."

It was not until he spoke in fluent French that she realized it was 
Edward, not William, in the dim light.  She had forgotten how 
similar the two men looked, except for the eyes: William's eyes 
were warm and alive, and Edward's had always been dead.

"If you get out now, I will not yell for the guards and you will not 
be dead by sunrise, Edward," she said icily. "How dare you come 
in here!  What were you thinking?"

"Now Mother – is that any way to greet me?  I am sure you were a 
little warmer to Fitz.  He still dreams about you, you know.  It is 
our tradition: all fathers, sons, and stepsons must be in love with 
you."   

Obviously Edward had not gotten any saner since her first 
husband had finally ordered him out of London years ago.  She 
made good on her threat to yell for the guards, but there was no 
response from outside the door.

"They should be more careful of what they drink; it is so easy to 
bribe a servant," Edward said flatly, stepping closer to her, and an 
invisible hand began to tighten around her stomach.  "No one is 
going to come, Duana.  My stepfather is dead, thanks to you.  Your 
bastard husband and my darling stepbrother are probably 
scrutinizing some slut by now, and your guards will wake up in a 
few hours.  You and I need to talk, Duana."

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, buying herself some 
time.  He was between her and the door to the hallway, and she 
was not sure she could outrun him to make it to the bedchamber 
and bolt that door.   

"That I still love you.  Come home."

"I am not going to come back to London, Edward.  My husband is 
here to pay homage tomorrow and then we will leave.  My home is 
in Wales now."

"But I love you, Duana," he insisted in his slow, deliberate voice, 
his face completely expressionless.  "I have always loved you.  In 
time, you will learn to love me."

"You watched your friend rape me for sport, Edward.  Even if you 
can convince yourself that I ever wanted you to touch me or to 
make me leave Dover, how can you have allowed that to happen 
and still say you care for me?"
 
Edward shrugged – her argument did not even seem to register in 
his mind.  "I kept him from hurting you again, and I always will.  
You would have learned to love me if Father had not interfered.  
Stay here at Court; let us start over.  No Alex this time, no 
Pembroke-"

"Alex is dead – he has been dead for months.  You always 
underestimate my husbands, Edward.  You always underestimate 
me."  

She saw his hand moving out of the corner of her eye, but before 
she could dodge, his open hand struck her, sending her sprawling 
back.  The room swirled a dark gray, and several seconds passed 
before she could see clearly again; it had been so long since any 
man had hit her that she had almost forgotten how much it hurt. 

"Show some respect, woman," he hissed at her.  "I am not some 
unwanted stepchild now; I am a friend of the King.  Fitz thinks he 
can become his father as Kingmaker – he cannot, of course, but it is 
amusing to see him failing.  He is very simple, this King Henry, 
very lonely for friends and very suggestible.  I want you, and 
Father is not going to make that disapproving face and take you 
away from me this time.  Do not underestimate me, Duana."  

Think, think, think!  Help was not coming and there was nowhere 
to run.  William had left his sword on the table, knowing he would 
not be allowed to bring it into The Tower, and she grabbed it 
impulsively, holding it in front of her with both hands as she 
turned back to face Edward.

"Silly girl – put that down before you hurt yourself."  His mood 
shifted again as though it were made of mercury: his emotions 
splattering, shifting, and re-forming instantly.  "You look foolish.  
That sword is bigger than you are and I can take it away from you 
before you can blink."

"Yes, you can.  You can force me to do whatever you want, just 
like you have before… but you will sleep sometime.  And what 
you say is true: men should be careful what they eat and drink.  So 
many poisons cannot be tasted.  Foxglove is very sweet, and you 
like sweets, if I recall.  And my husband tells me it is possible to 
cut a man's throat while he sleeps and he will never wake or feel it 
as he bleeds to death.  It is a Welsh trick – to sneak into the enemy 
camp at night and start slitting throats.  Is that so, Ed?"  

He took another step toward her and she raise the sword slightly, 
keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

"Stupid bitch!  That Welsh bastard you married is as good as dead.  
Accidents often happen in battle: very tragic, completely 
unforeseen errors that will conveniently leave you a widow.  If not, 
there was a doctor at Court a few months past that told me the most 
interesting stories of this William of Aber.  Druids, Duana?  Pagan 
ceremonies and changeling babies?  That is heresy - witchcraft.  
How can I allow that?  What would Father say about me for 
allowing that?"

Her arms were beginning to tremble and ache now, and she shifted 
her grip in the hilt.  Aside from small knives, Duana had never 
touched a weapon in her life. 

"He would say the same thing he always did: nothing.  He would 
try to right whatever you had done, Edward; to compensate 
whoever you had hurt.  He would grit his teeth and square his 
shoulders and try to fix it because he promised your mother Siron 
he would take care of you.  And when the mess was cleaned up 
and the door was closed, he would grieve that the boy he had 
raised as his own had no more honor than an animal." 

She stepped forward so the tip of the sword was inches from his 
neck, and Edward stepped back toward the door.  

"You were a plaything, Duana.  You still are," he growled at her, 
putting his hand on the door.  "A pretty little witch that charmed 
me and then charmed my stepfather.  You have done quite well for 
yourself, Countess – climbed quite high on your back - but you are 
still nothing but an Irish peasant."

"Of course I am.  Get out, Ed."

"You will be sorry," he promised.

By the grace of God, she managed to hold onto the sword until she 
heard his footsteps fading away down the end of the hallway.  
Then she simply dropped it, letting it clang into the rushes, threw 
the bolt on the door to the hallway, ran for the bedchamber, and 
bolted that sturdy door after her as well.

*~*~*~*

"What did you do?" Llewelyn asked tiredly as Gwilym pounded on 
the door again.  Servants were beginning to raise their eyebrows at 
the ruckus he was causing and all the Prince of Wales wanted to do 
was not think for a few hours.  And maybe shed a few tears if no 
one was looking.

"Where have you been the last few days?  Pick something."

Llewelyn folded his arms disapprovingly.  He understood why 
Gwilym had tolerated Duana's moodiness this week, but barring 
him from their apartments was a bit much.  

"Do you have any idea what is wrong with my wife?" Gwilym 
asked Jacques, the Welsh guard, who nodded 'no,' looking 
miserable.  "Are you ill?  You are green.  And where is the other 
guard?"

"Something we ate," Jacques mumbled, leaning against the wall 
instead of standing at attention, which was not a wise thing to do in 
front of Llewelyn.  "He went to get someone else to guard Lady 
Duana.  My Lord, I think I may have passed out at some point; I 
am so sorry.  I have been vomiting out the window and I have not 
left for a second, but I do not remember all of this evening."

"Maybe she is sick, Gwil," Llewelyn said.  "I will get an axe."

Gwilym pounded on the door one last time, and heard footsteps 
inside.  "That is her – wait.  Duana?" he said hesitantly, as she 
opened the door wearing only her chemise, her cheek red and her 
hair loose and wildly tousled.  Just out of basic decency, 
Llewelyn and Jacques quickly found something else to look at, 
although Jacques peaked.  "Are you all right?"

"I was sleeping," she murmured.  "I am sorry."

"I will send new guards for tonight, Gwilym," Llewelyn said, 
quickly turning to leave.  "And I will see you at Westminster in the 
morning."

"Are you really all right?" he asked, slipping into the darkened 
sitting room and noting she bolted the door behind him.  "What 
happened to your face?"  There was an ugly red mark beginning to 
turn purple and black on her left cheekbone.

"I- I fell.  Against the table.  And I knocked your sword to the 
floor."

He glanced at in lying in the rushes.  "It looks to be in one piece, 
but I am not so sure about you.  Look up at me – how hard did you 
fall?"  Gwilym tilted her face toward the torches on the wall so he 
could see the mark.  "I do not like that you have been sleepy after 
you hit your head; that is not good.  Did you faint?  You cannot 
possibly be with child again.  Llewelyn thinks maybe the guards 
ate something that made them ill – have you been feeling nauseated?"  

"I am just too tired, William."

"Well, I wonder why.  I have only dragged you across Wales and 
Britain and then scared you half to death over some silly summons.  
And there is that baby you just had barely six weeks ago.  Come 
lay down."

"If Llewelyn's knights are ill, I should see if I can help them," she 
protested, although she did not sound very convincing.

"They can vomit with or without you.  Back to bed."   

She let him lead her to the bedchamber, turn down the covers, and 
pull her chemise over her head – which he only did to see if there 
were any other marks on her.  She stumbled against him, jumping 
back and almost falling when her warm skin made contact with his 
cold chain-link armor.

Gwilym caught her and guided her onto bed, pulling the blankets 
up to her chin.  "I am getting a doctor."

"No!" she said so urgently he flinched.  Then in a smaller voice, 
"Just stay with me.  I am just too tired.  Stay with me and tell me 
about Llewelyn's son.  Did you get to see him?"

He sat down on the mattress beside her, watching her suspiciously.  
"You promise me you are fine? Really fine – not your usual vague 
'fine'?"

She nodded, reaching up to stroke his face.  "I am better – seeing 
everyone again, being at Court again – I want to talk about 
something else.  Rinse off while you tell me of Gruffydd."

Gwilym eyed her for a few more seconds, and then stood up, 
beginning the laborious process of taking off his layers of armor 
and clothing.  "We saw him.  Your Fitz let us walk right into The 
Tower, and Llewelyn brought him some new clothes and books 
and a few other things.  Gruffydd is not good, cariad.  Physically, 
he is thin and pale, but something else is different about him – like 
he is hollow inside now.  I think perhaps he has been beaten one 
too many times or maybe just been in that cell too long.  His death 
warrant was signed before Eimile was born, so he has lived each 
day since then waiting to die, and that is too much for a boy to 
bear.  Llewelyn – he is upset.  This, by Norman standards, is his 
only vaguely legitimate son, and even if King Henry relents and 
lets him out one day, I do not think Gruffydd will ever be able to 
rule Wales."

"Come here.  I will untie you," Duana offered, sitting up.  

Gwilym had long since abandoned any pretense about his right 
hand being as dexterous as it once was, so he went to the side of 
the bed to let her unfastened his belt, then the drawstrings on his 
breeches and braies.  He could manage it, but she could do it 
quicker.  She finished, kissing his stomach lightly before she lay 
back down, probably her way of making peace for every cross 
word they had hurled at each other since the summons came.

"What will he do?  What about the son you want Eimile to marry?"

"Rhys' mother was Llewelyn's mistress, never anything more.  
Gruffydd's mother was his hearth wife – Norman's hear the word 
'wife' and think 'legitimate' and hear 'mistress' and think 
'bastard.'  Wales is too Norman now to be ruled by a bastard.  And 
Rhys has been raised as a second son, raised to be a knight, not a 
prince.  He is almost twelve now: perhaps too old to go back and 
learn statecraft.  I do not know what Llewelyn will do.  What 
would your Pembroke say, cariad?  Could he have taught a boy of 
twelve to be a prince?"

He tested the round tub of water that had miraculously appeared in 
the bedchamber and found it still tolerably tepid, so Gwilym 
stepped in and began to scrub off a week's worth of grime.

"His name was Walter, William.  You can call him Walter."

"What did you call him?" he asked, picking up the soap and 
doubting she would answer.  

She was quiet for a moment.  He looked over at her and saw she 
was smiling slightly.  "For the longest time, I called him Sir
I was fourteen years old and so intimidated I kept forgetting 
his titles.  That was the one word I knew in French: monsieur.  
He spoke Gaelic, but he was very sick and I did not know that.  
I told you he had been wounded: maybe a horse stepped on his 
lower back after he fell in battle – he did not remember – 
and there were many other injuries as well.  After I had been 
in London for a month or so and was… doing better, as was he, 
he told me it seemed a little pretentious to call him 'The 
Earl Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Leister' when he was 
laying in bed and I was changing his bandages.  He said that 
when he could walk again, I could call him that, but until then, 
I should find another name for him.  And that if I would bring him 
paper and a quill, he would show me how to write down and read 
his name so I could remember it until then."

Gwilym had been so caught up in her story that he forgot not only 
to wash, but momentarily what his first question had been.  

"Yes, he would have said twelve was too old, William.  He 
believed kings are ordained by God, but honed by man, and a 
twelve-year old will never think like a king.  That was one of the 
problems with King John, he said, but do not repeat that.  Henry 
Plantagenet had always expected one of his older sons to rule, so 
John, years younger, was all but forgotten.  Then, with both heirs 
dead with no sons, that left only John Lackland.  How could my 
husband suddenly teach a grown man to be a king?  King John 
understood how to wield power, but never the responsibility that 
came with it."
 
"Jesus, you do pay attention, Duana."
  
"I have had a few brilliant men to listen to," she responded, 
nestling down among the pillows as she watched him bathing by 
candlelight.  "Of course, one of them is not you," Duana added 
sarcastically.

"Witch," he replied, glad she seemed to be feeling better.

"A wanton witch.  Tell me of Fitz, William."

Gwilym stuttered, still focused on her first statement.  "W-what of 
Fitz, cariad?  Aside from his fairly open adoration of you?"

"Yes, aside from that.  It was hard for me to judge while he was 
staring at me like a forlorn puppy dog and you were wrapping 
yourself around me like a second skin.  What kind of man has he 
grown to be?"

He considered for a moment, then answered, "A good man.  
Honorable, not afraid to admit when he makes a mistake.  He was 
tolerant, even friendly to Llewelyn and me, which is more than 
many Normans would have been.  I would say his father – your 
Walter – was a great man and that Fitz is trying too hard to be his 
father instead of himself."

"I would say the same, I just wondered what you thought."

"Well, now that we agree on that, do you want to try to name our 
son again?" he asked, standing up and drying off.

"He has a name – your name."

"Which I am still using.  A given name, like Leuan calls me 
'Llwynog.'  I was not christened Llwynog; that is just what 
everyone thought I should be called.  By the time I was seven I had 
forgiven them and by the time I was eleven, I had learned not to 
answer to 'Fox'.  Mab cannot be Llwynog and he cannot be some 
name I cannot say: no j or c-h sounds.  And, until I get used to the 
idea that you had a life before we married, please do not call him 
Walter.  Aside from that, just pick."

"Another night," she said as he blew out the candles and slid under 
the blankets.

"Are you sure you are all right?  Something seems… I do not 
know… is something bothering you?  Something besides what I 
already know of?"

She turned so they were laying face to face, although he could not 
see her in the darkness.  "Not yet, William.  I will tell you, but not 
yet.  Being here is not easy for me."

"I know that.  Are these the same rooms, cariad?"

"No.  I do not want to think about that right now.  I want to think 
about you," she whispered.

Shit – maybe he should have taken Fitz up on his offer to go 
carouse the taverns.  It had been too long and having her nude 
beside him got an immediate, instinctive response.  He kept finding 
and picking up jasper stones and Duana kept throwing them out, 
wanting to know why he had taken to collecting rocks all of a 
sudden.  Gwilym had told her they were dragon droppings, which 
proved to be a mistake: now she was horrified when she found one 
under her pillow.  Regardless, he did not have any jasper now and 
there did not seem to be any way to save face.

"Ummm.  Perhaps I can give you something else to think about, 
cariad, but I want to ask you a question."  She shifted closer, 
pressing against him.  "Joanna has not conceived in several years 
and Llewelyn needs another son.  How would he do that?"

She laughed softly.  "William, I know you have this fixation on 
Llewelyn and me, but if he does not know how to do that by now, I 
have no intention of teaching him."

Gwilym growled playfully at her, tickling her so she squirmed.  
"Witch – that is not what I meant.  Let me be more direct: I want 
you to conceive again, to have another child.  When should I be 
sure to be home at night?"   

"So soon?" she asked, probably before she thought.

"Yes," he bluffed.  "Tell me."

He heard her swallow.  "Most babies seem to be conceived a little 
more than a week after a woman's flux comes.  Not right before 
and not right after and almost never during.  Since I have stopped 
nursing, that will help as well.  It is not an exact science, though."

"Is that why you want to nurse the babies, cariad?" he asked.

"No.  No, William," she insisted, as though he was accusing her of 
actually doing something wrong instead of just socially 
questionable.  "But that is why noblewomen have so many – are 
blessed with so many," she corrected, "children, and sometimes 
poorer wives do not: while you nurse your own child – or another's 
child – it is harder to conceive.  No, I just liked feeling Eimile and 
then Mab still close to me.  They had spent so long growing inside 
me and the milk was there; why give them to another women when 
I can nurse them just as easily?"

"But your flux just passed, so you could not conceive tonight?  
Next week, perhaps, but not tonight?"

"No, probably not tonight.  I am sorry.  You are not going to stop, 
are you?"  Her voice had a slightly desperate edge, which affected 
him in ways she would never know.

He sighed, trying to sound disappointed.  "All right.  Just for you, I 
will make this sacrifice.  Only this once, though.  I suppose this is 
one of the burdens of having a pretty young wife."

"Oh," she said, using her so-sorry-little-girl voice, "I should not 
bother you.  My –older- husband needs his sleep."  Duana started
to get up.  "I will just leave and let you rest."

He moved like lightening, hooking his arm around her waist and, 
mindful that she had just had a baby seven weeks ago, pulling her 
carefully back down.  "Do not dare," Gwilym laughed.
   
*~*~*~*

"What is wrong?" Duana mumbled sleepily as Gwilym slid back 
under the blankets, blending the front of his body into the softness 
of the back of hers.  "Sick?"

"No – go back to sleep. I was just confused."  

"Why?" she asked, shifting closer to him.

"Thought I was at home," he murmured.

"Did you get up to check on the children?"

"No," Gwilym said defensively, as though he had not been doing it 
every night since they left Wales.  "And I did not get as far as the 
hallway before I figured out I was in London, either."

She made a contented sound, rubbing her fingertips lightly over his 
forearm.  "Of course you did not.  We will be back in Aber in a 
week."

"I thought it was probably three or so – time for the baby to nurse, 
and I was going to bring him so you would not have to get up.  
Imagine the stories Llewelyn's guards will have to tell around the 
campfire: Lord Gwilym opened the door stark naked to see who 
wanted to come play with his wife's breasts."

Her shoulders moved as she chuckled, still not really awake.  "I do 
love you, William.  And you do make me happy.  Do not doubt it."

"I do not doubt it," he whispered, drifting off to sleep before it 
even occurred to him that she had never heard those words back.

*~*~*~*

Duana must have been exhausted. It was at least half an hour past 
dawn and she had not stirred yet; had not even moved as he pulled 
back the blankets to check for other marks, and finding none, 
simply stared at her while he tried to decide what to do.  

Eventually, she opened her eyes, blinking sleepily and trying to 
figure out what was wrong as she found him looming over her.

"Did the table grow fingers?" he asked, trying not to sound as 
furious and frightened as he felt.  "And rings?"

She shifted her shoulders, stretching her arms and yawning.  
"William?" she began, and then stopped mid-yawn as she realized 
her face ached.

"Who hit you?" he snapped.  "Damnit, Duana – how could you not 
tell me that!  Someone drugged the guards and came in here and 
struck you! I swear to God I will-"

"What, William?  What will you do?  Start hanging men as you 
please?  This is not Wales; you will end up in The Tower or 
dangling from the end of a rope yourself.  Will you challenge a 
man younger and quicker with a sword and get yourself killed?  It 
is just a bruise – I will live, and I would prefer you did as well."

She started to sit up and turn her back to him and he pushed her 
down on the mattress, so livid he was having trouble breathing.  
"You are -my- wife.  As long as we are in England, you are my 
property.  Not in Wales, but here you are the same as a horse or 
a plot of land under the law.  If you do something wrong, it is my 
place to correct you, no one else's.  I could beat you senseless in 
the middle of Westminster and men would nod and say what a 
good husband I was, but no one would interfere or touch you 
without my consent.  Never!  Not for any reason.  I do not care 
what you did or said.  Goddamn it!" He picked up some knickknack
from the table beside the bed and threw it at the wall, feeling 
slightly satisfied as it shattered against the whitewashed stones.  
"How dare you not tell me!"

Duana closed her eyes again, turning her face away from him.  As 
he watched, a tear appeared on her cheek.

"Damn it, cariad-" Gwilym said, trying not to cry himself and 
mostly succeeding.  "Just tell me who did this.  That is all you have 
to do."

She shook her head 'no.'  "I will stay here.  No one will think you 
hit me.  No one will see me."

"Piss on people seeing you.  I am going to drag you up on the 
king's dais and demand to know who did this if you do not tell 
me."

Her head continued to move 'no.'  "I am sorry, William."

He was afraid he would lose his temper completely and 
accidentally hurt or frighten her if they kept arguing, so he stood 
up, putting some air between them until he cooled down.  "I have 
to go swear homage to the brat-king," he said, using his distant, 
authoritative tone to conceal that he felt the way a woman must 
when a stranger rapes her.  "Do not leave here or open the door 
until I return."

Pivoting on his toes, he stalked out, slamming the bedchamber 
door behind him.  "Get up and bar the damn door!" he yelled, and 
heard her footsteps hurrying across the floor.

Gwilym picked up his sword and sheathed it before opening the 
door to the hallway, his teeth clenched so hard he could actually 
hear his heart pounding in his ears.

One of Llewelyn's guards immediately fell in step behind him, but 
Gwilym stopped.  "Stay with my wife.  If you let anyone in that 
door or let her out before I get back, you answer to me, not 
Llewelyn this time," he ordered.

"You do not want an escort to Westminster?  Prince Llewelyn said 
to escort you to Westminster," the young knight said, still dazzled 
by his first trip to London.  "What if there is trouble?  What if 
someone sees that you are Welsh and-"

Gwilym spun around, his dark eyes snapping dangerously, and the 
knight decided this was the wrong morning for any foolish Norman 
to pick a brawl with the lord of Aber.

Without another word, the guard resumed his post on the left side 
of the door to the apartments, swallowing nervously and watching 
warily as Lord Gwilym walked away.

*~*~*~*
 
Llewelyn was already pacing outside the church, watching 
anxiously for Gwilym to arrive.  Gwil was famous for telling 
Llewelyn, as his liege lord, to piss off and showing up to pay 
homage as he felt the need.  He was always there when called on to 
fight and there was no question of his loyalty, so Llewelyn just 
overlooked the absences as one of Gwilym's many quirks.  It 
would not do to ignore the summons, though – even if they both 
had sons older than the new king.

"Jesus, Llewelyn - you smell like you spent last night rolling
around the bottom of a bottle of mead with some woman," Gwilym 
informed him, swinging down from his saddle. 

Llewelyn glared at him.  Any other man would have politely 
overlooked his hangover, but Gwilym was speaking as a friend 
rather than a subject.  "My son - you saw him.  You cannot 
possibly understand."

"Perhaps I can," Gwilym shot back, still eager to pick a fight with 
someone.  He and Llewelyn had never discussed Dafydd again 
after the day the Prince of Wales had come to tell Gwilym he was 
dead.  It was as though the boy – the young man – had never 
existed, nor had Llewelyn ever given his word that Dafydd would 
be well treated in London.  He was sending his own son Gruffydd: 
what better assurance could there be that King John would never 
harm the hostages he demanded?  

Not that tearing out Llewelyn's heart would bring back Dafydd.  
Gwilym added more calmly, "I am not judging you – I am just 
saying you smell as though you did not sleep alone."

"I did not sleep, so it does not really matter whether I was alone or 
not.  Let us go and get this over with."

"I need to speak with you after.  About my wife."

"What about her?  Besides that she needs to learn some manners.  
Really, Gwil – there is no excuse for her locking you out last 
night."

"It seems someone already tried to teach her some manners," 
Gwilym replied as the doors to Westminster opened and their 
names were announced to the King.  Llewelyn gave him a puzzled 
look, but there was no more time for private discussions.

They approached the dais as commanded, waiting for the King, a 
slim, dark-haired boy of ten or so, to acknowledge them.  A few 
feet to Henry's right stood Fitz, acting as regent, kingmaker – in 
reality, the true ruler of England.

"Your majesty, Prince Llewelyn of Wales and Lord William of 
Aber.  You have requested Lord William pay homage to you," Fitz 
supplied for the boy, who nodded.

"Louis – Louiselen," he tried, then started over.  "Lewelin?" He 
glanced at Fitz, who mouthed 'Llewelyn' again.  "How is my sister 
Joanna, Llewelyn?"

The Prince of Wales shifted uncomfortably.  Gwilym was not the 
only one who had settled down with age – Llewelyn was generally 
faithful to his wife, provided it was convenient at all.  Wherever he 
had been last night and whomever he had been with, he would not 
be bragging about his conquests.

"She is well, your majesty."

"And Lord William," Henry said eagerly, "You have married Earl 
Pembroke's widow, yes?  The Countess has become the Lady of 
Aber?"

"Yes – oui," Gwilym replied, remembering he was expected to 
speak instead of just understand French.

"I hear she is well and that you have a daughter now."  Young 
Henry seemed to have very fond memories of Duana.

"Yes – Eimile.  And a son.  He is only a few weeks old."  He felt 
like a fool explaining this to a boy who should be out playing 
crusader and searching for imaginary dragons instead of sitting on 
a throne.  And the idea that Eimile and Dafydd and this King 
Henry shared a father was just too odd, even for Gwilym.

Henry said something quickly in French, getting exited, but Fitz 
shook his head, reminding him that Gwilym's French was not 
good.  "His name?" he asked, shortening his sentences.  "What is 
your son's name?"

"We have not chosen a given name, your majesty.  He is 'ap 
Gwilym of Aber,' of course, but we call him 'Mab.'  It means 'the 
male child of', much like 'fitz."

"David is a good Welsh name – a saint's name," Henry suggested.  
"David, son of William of Aber: that has a nice sound to it.  Mark 
that down," he ordered the scribe, who scribbled away.

"Your majesty…" Fitz began.

"You said David was the patron saint of Wales, Fitz!" Henry 
protested, not understanding what he was doing wrong.  "He has 
not yet named his son and I have helped him."

Gwilym opened his mouth to protest and Llewelyn gave him a 
none-too-subtle nudge.

"Lord William had a baseborn son named David – that is why you 
know the name," Fitz whispered to Henry.  "Remember? We spoke 
of it this morning."

"So he has a bastard son and a legitimate son sharing the same 
name.  How many bastard Henries did my father have?"  

'One too many,' Gwilym thought, but managed not to say through 
some sort of God-like effort.

"It is a Norman custom; naming sons alike," Henry continued, 
"And you also said this morning that Lord William could use a 
little Norman civilizing if he was going to be married to the 
Countess.  Really, Fitz, I do not understand you sometimes.  Lord 
William, is your wife with you?"

"Yes… your majesty," he remembered to add, not sure if he 
should be amused by this joke of a boy or furious.  He could call 
Mab whatever he wanted, but in London, the young lord of Aber 
would always be 'Dafydd.'  There was a poetic justice to that, 
somehow.

"Then swear your oath and let us go see her.  This is all I have to 
do this morning, yes, Fitz?  After the Welshmen, I can go play, 
right?"

Fitz nodded.

"She is not well this morning," Gwilym said quickly.

"You will not interrupt me!  You will not argue with me!  I am the 
King!  I want to see the Countess and you will take me to her!" 
Henry yelled at Gwilym.

"And you need your ass warmed until you can learn some respect, 
King or no!" Gwilym shot back, luckily in Welsh, and luckily in 
the almost-empty hall of Westminster.  Very few nobles were at 
Court in February, although Llewelyn looked horrified just the 
same.  Gwilym swallowed, and answered more politely in French, 
"Of course.  My wife speaks very fondly of you, your majesty.  
She recalls when you were just a boy."

That had the desired effect, and Henry relaxed, puffing up a bit.  
"Swear, and then I have a prop- a prop- I have an offer for you and 
Llewelyn.  Do you want my scribe to read the oath first?"

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' quickly knelt, and recited: "By the 
Lord God, I will be to King Henry faithful and true, and love all 
that he loves and shun all that he shuns, according to God's law 
and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by 
force, by word or by work, do ought of what is hateful to him; and 
on condition that he keep me as I am and willing to deserve, I, 
Lord Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber swear fealty and service."

There – it was done.  And, as Duana would say, the world had not 
ended.

"That is much to remember, especially when you do not speak 
French very well," Henry said in awe.  "Oaths and the Roman Kings – 
Caesars – those are most difficult to keep straight."
 
Gwilym's mouth twitched.  He was a little calmer now that it was 
over and he had not felt like a complete idiot.  His oath was to the 
Crown, not so much this simple child.

Fitz cleared his throat and mouthed 'proposition.'

"Yes – the prop-po-sition," Henry remembered.  "Wales and Dover
and France and the Welsh boy in The Tower.  Fitz, I do not 
remember.  Can I go play?"

Fitz shook his head, but took over for the boy.  "First, Llewelyn – 
the King will conditionally release your son.  Wales has been loyal 
for a year now, and the King believes you have learned your lesson.  
The sentence of execution has been repealed and you, if you agree, 
may stay in London with him until the King gives you leave to return 
to Wales.  Or you may return for him later.  Regardless, he will be 
released from The Tower."

"Thank you, your majesty," Llewelyn said, remembering to 
address Henry instead of Fitz.  Henry was busy trying to scratch an 
itch deep in his ear and did not seem to notice.

"But," Fitz continued, "The Welsh cannot have nothing else to do 
except think up ways to rebel against England.  The lands that 
should have passed to Countess – Lady Duana – the King will 
restore the estates in the south of Wales to her on the condition that 
Lord William can manage to rid England of the Frenchmen in 
Kent and Dover.  You figure out a way for the Crown to take back 
Dover, William, and the King will give you the lands in south 
Wales as her dowry.  As your liege lord, Llewelyn would hold all 
of north and south Wales."

"You cannot manage to keep peace in the south anyway," 
Llewelyn said.  "You give me back my son but you assure that I 
will be too busy trying to subdue the Marcher Lords in south 
Wales to rebel again."

"Yes," Fitz replied.  "You are very quick.  The King does not have 
money to keep pouring into fighting in south Wales, so he will 
give it to you and let you deal it.  As long as Wales is loyal to you 
and you are loyal to the Crown, it is a good trade.  And he cannot 
fight wars against every country around him.  Lord William is said 
to be quite the military strategist; if he can figure out a way to get 
the French out of England, which is no small task, the Crown does 
not have to worry about Wales or France."

"The west and the south coasts of England would be secure," 
Gwilym supplied, already plotting.    

"Leaving only Ireland and Scotland in rebellion," Fitz finished for 
him.  "In addition to your army, the King will supply you with 
knights and ships and whatever else you need.  And if your army 
fights more than forty days, the Crown will pay you for it," he said, 
knowing Gwilym's current sticking point: King John had simply 
ordered the Welsh to war almost constantly for years, always 
swearing he would reimburse them, but never did.  "There is no 
catch, William – it is a bona fide offer.  The King of England is a 
boy.  He needs as little war, and, in truth, as little expense, as 
possible for the next few years.  He cannot have the French army 
camped ten miles outside of London."

"There is always a catch, Fitz.  I have received gifts from the King 
before," Gwilym said.

"I am not – the King is not- a fool.  I will not put the entire British 
Army at the disposal of you, a Welshmen, without accompanying 
you, William.  And Duana will stay here at Court, of course, just in 
case you decide England needs liberated from the English as well 
as the French.  Your first son did not seem to be a powerful enough 
incentive to keep you in line, but I think Duana would be."

"No," Gwilym replied immediately.

"Not like Gruffydd, William.  Not even like the other Welsh boys 
as noble foster sons who had the run of the Court.  Duana stays 
here as a royal guest.  She was the Countess of Pembroke and my 
stepmother; I will see she is treated properly.  You have my word."

"I have had the king's word before, thank you."

"Gwil-" Llewelyn hissed at him.  "All of Wales, damn it.  My son!  
Yes, Lord William accepts your offer," Llewelyn answered Fitz, 
by now completely forgetting about Henry.

"No!  We have two small children at home.  She had awful 
nightmares last night just being here again and someone came into 
our apartments and attacked her!  Struck her!" Gwilym argued in his
stilted French.

"Who attacked her?" Fitz asked, squaring his shoulders.  "I mean 
it, William – on my honor, she will not be harmed at Court.  
Henry!" he said sharply.  The King looked up, distracted from a 
bug he had been watching.  "You are finished – you may go see 
Lady Duana now."

"Who?" Henry asked.

"Pembroke's wife."

"Oh!" the boy replied happily, scrambling down from the dais.  
"Do you think there will be plums? I would like a plum."

*~*~*~*

"What is this?" Gwilym asked sharply, pointing to a tray of 
untouched food sitting on a table outside Duana's apartments.

"Breakfast," the guard answered.  

"Breakfast?  Why is it out here?  It is very difficult for my wife to 
eat food which is in the hallway."

The poor young knight, who had been guarding the door since he 
replaced Jacques last night, blinked, terrified of Lord Gwilym's 
temper, but numb from his lack of sleep.  "I have let no one past 
this door, my lord.  Not in or out.  Not a soul."

Gwilym, already furious, actually started to see red.  "I did not 
mean the damn maid you idiot!  How could you think I would 
order you not to let my wife eat?  Do I look like a Norman to 
you?"

He had his sword halfway out of the sheath when Llewelyn 
grabbed his upper arm, ordering him to stop.  Old King John had 
starved a few prisoners to death; if Fitz or Henry understood 
enough Welsh to realize Gwilym was talking about Normans and 
starving women, there could be trouble.

"I am going to kill someone very soon, and I am out of practice 
with executions – I think I will warm up on this fool!"    

"Gwil!  Stop it!" Llewelyn demanded, then to the knight, "I would 
get out of his sight, boy."

No one needed to tell him twice.  The guard hurried down the 
hallway, then, glancing back at Gwilym, actually broke into a 
trot in his haste.

*~*~*~*

"Do not touch her," Gwilym reminded Llewelyn as the prince 
surveyed the mark on her cheek.  "She does not like it."   

Llewelyn gestured for Duana to tilt her head and pull back her veil 
so he could see.  "Yes, that is a handprint.  Who hit her?  Who hit 
you, Duana?" he said softly, "Is that all he did?"

"She will not say, but there are no other marks on her," Gwilym 
supplied.

"Well, make her say, Gwil."  Llewelyn was extremely 
sympathetic, but he also wanted to go get his son out of The 
Tower.  And he was hung over as hell.  Trust Gwilym to have a 
crisis on this of all mornings.

"Llewelyn, this is Lady Duana," Gwilym introduced sarcastically.  
"Cariad, Prince Llewelyn.  Obviously you have not met my wife, 
Llewelyn."

"It does not matter," Fitz intervened, finally looking away from the 
unmade bed in the next room and shaking off the images it brought 
to mind.  "I know who did this.  I have already sent for him."  

"Please do not do this, Fitz," Duana pleaded, speaking for the first 
time since she opened the door and found three men, the boy-king, 
and a dozen guards waiting in the hallway.  King Henry had 
planted himself on her lap on the sofa and she patted the boy's 
back out of habit, avoiding everyone's gaze.

"My father never allowed Edward to harm you again, never to 
even see you.  How can I say I am my father's son if I allow this?"

Gwilym's chin shot up.  He finally had a name.  "Edward?"

"Please, Fitz," she tried one last time.

"Edward is my stepbrother.  He is… not sane; possessed maybe.  
My mother's first husband's son – there is no blood relation 
between us.  I am sorry, Duana; I did not think he would dare 
do something so bold.  Ah, there he is," Fitz said, as the royal
guards appeared with Edward.  

"I did nothing to her, Fitz," Edward said, not even waiting to be 
asked why he had been brought to Duana's apartments.  "I give 
you my word, brother."
 
"Your word will hold no more water than a sieve, brother."

"It is still my word – my word against a Welshman's that I struck 
her and not he."

Gwilym, pacing behind Duana, was considering the merits of 
simply attacking this Edward with his bare hands, since Llewelyn 
had commandeered his dagger and sword.  The Welsh guards were 
keeping him corralled to one end of the sitting room, keeping the 
sofa and a line of knights between Gwilym and Edward. 

"You seem to know quite a bit about what you are accused of for 
an innocent man," Gwilym said, feeling his chest rising and falling 
as he breathed faster.  "Duana, is this who was here last night?"  

She ignored him, so Fitz said tersely, "Either get your wife to tell 
the truth, Lord William, or I will hold you in contempt of the 
Crown and you can rot in prison until she learns how to answer a 
simple question."

The bluff, if that was what it was, worked.  Duana focused on the 
wall behind Fitz, but she finally said, "I thought it was William, 
but Edward said he was a friend of the King, that if I did not do 
what he wanted, he would see that William had an accident in 
battle."

"He is no friend of Henry, Duana; that is just another of his false 
beliefs, one of his voices talking to him," Fitz answered, as 
Gwilym's stomach churned.  "What did you do?  Did you…do 
what he wanted?"

"No – I picked up William's sword and I made him leave.  Then I 
bolted the door."

The three men looked at each other in shock as Edward glared at 
her.  "He tried to rape you and you picked up William's sword and 
you – all five foot nothing of you - made this man – this knight – 
leave?" Llewelyn echoed, not sure he believed his ears.  "Gwil, 
remind me never to cross your wife."

"It does not matter," Edward hissed, his face red with rage.  "She 
cannot speak against me!  You have no man that can bear witness 
against me.  That is the law and you know it!"

Fitz shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  That was indeed 
the law.  "I want you out of Britain.  No, not just out of Britain: out 
of Europe.  I will have you escorted to the border – do not return 
this time."

Gwilym's face flushed, and Llewelyn, anticipating his friend's 
reaction, quickly grabbed one arm while one of the Welsh guards 
held the other.  "That is it?  We all know he struck her, and you are 
just going to banish him?  You think that is justice, Fitz?"

"It is the law," Fitz replied miserably.  "I cannot teach Henry to be 
just if I also teach him to put aside the law as he pleases."

"You are as good as dead, Edward!" Gwilym assured him, as 
Duana whispered to Henry to get down from her lap.  "They can 
hang me, but you will never see another sunrise!  And you will 
never force another woman!"

"Your French is good, for a bastard Welshman," Edward replied, 
laboring under some false delusion that Llewelyn could actually 
keep Gwilym from killing him for very long.  "You should teach a 
few words to your Celtic women so they know how to be more 
appreciative of an English soldier's attention."

"They do teach us one French phrase," Duana replied softly, 
standing and stepping close to Edward.  "They teach us to ask 'is it 
in' so we can tell the difference.  It would be rude not to notice."

The guards, both Welsh and English, were focused on Gwilym's 
struggling, so no one had time to intervene before Edward lashed 
out, hitting Duana hard enough to knock her to the floor.

"Goddamn it!" Gwilym yelled, managing to get one arm free.  
"Goddamn it - stop that!  I will rip your throat out, you 
son-of-a-bitch!"

Duana stayed down, dazed, and by the time her head cleared, the 
guards had released Gwilym and seized Edward.  Llewelyn passed 
Gwilym a handkerchief, which he pressed to her bleeding nose, his 
hands shaking.

"Dead man," Gwilym said to Edward, cradling Duana against him.

"No need for that," Fitz said.  "We have at least a dozen witnesses.  
Henry, what is the penalty for striking another man's wife?"

"Prison," Henry answered, twisting his fingers together anxiously.  
Henry had seen his father strike his mother Isabelle plenty of 
times, and it made his stomach hurt.  He had never seen Pembroke 
hit Countess Duana though, even when she would tease or disagree 
with her husband, and Henry had always liked staying in their 
home much better.

"And if he tried to rape her?" Fitz asked.

"Death," Henry replied, making himself a very small target in the 
corner of the sofa.  "Was he going to rape her just now, Fitz?" he 
asked, still not sure exactly what that entailed.

Fitz nodded yes, ordering the guards to take Edward to The Tower.

"Wait," Henry remembered.  "Did she insult him?  It is not a crime 
of she insults his manhood.  Did she do that?"  He glanced 
nervously at Duana and Lord William still sitting in the floor, 
William lifting the cloth briefly to see if her nose had stopped 
bleeding, which it had not.

Fitz looked from Duana to Edward's defiant expression and back 
to Henry.  "No – she did not insult him."

"Good.  Well, then he can be executed, then," Henry said happily, 
thinking maybe Duana would like a drink of water to help her feel 
better.

"Goodbye, Mother," Edward said, his eyes as lifeless as a dead 
fish's as he stared at her.  "I love you, Mother.  And I have loved 
you, whether you liked it or not.  I have, Father had – sort of.  Poor 
Fitz; when will it ever be your turn?"

"Take him away," Fitz ordered.

*~*~*~*

"Come," Gwilym said, looking up from the maps and lists, and 
seeing Duana finally awake in the doorway of the bedchamber.  
"How are you feeling, sleepyhead?"

She opened her mouth, getting as far as "fi-" when he held up one 
finger.  "Like some lunatic hit me in the face.  Twice.  And like I 
have just had a baby and then ridden across Britain in the snow.  
And my brain is full.  And my stomach is empty."

"That is better.  There is soup for you – I did not think you would 
want to chew.  Come, eat and make me feel better."

"Is he-"

"Dead?  Very.  Fitz had him hanged by noon and you slept through 
it all.  Eat – then we will talk."  Gwilym admirably waited until she 
had sat down on the sofa and taken a single sip of the chicken 
broth before he observed, "You look as though you lost a fight."

"I was supposed to lose a fight, William," she replied calmly.  
"That was the idea.  And you should see my opponent."

"This is true." He furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes, "I still 
do not like that you did that."

"I never thought you would.  What are you doing?  Why do you 
have all these maps?"

He considered whether or not it would be possible to extract any 
information about Edward from her, and decided it was about as 
likely as men flying to the moon.

"I am playing a very large game of chess with real pawns and 
castles and knights.  And you are the queen of hearts."    

He brought the largest map with him, sitting on the floor in front of 
the sofa so she could see over his shoulder.  

"War?" she asked.

"Just a little one," Gwilym lied.  "You will stay at Court until I 
return."

He pretended to study the parchment until the silence from behind 
him was unbearable.  

"Welsh Court? With Llewelyn?"

"No, here in London."

"And, and Mab?  And Eimile?" she asked, her voice making his 
throat tighten.  Duana did not need one more thing piled on her 
narrow shoulders this week.

"They will stay with your mother and Joanna in Wales.  I will not risk 
bringing them through the mountains in February.  Perhaps in 
the spring, cariad."

"London spring in April or," Her voice kept getting smaller and 
smaller, "Aber spring in late May, William?"

"Watch – the King wants the French out of Dover here in the 
south.  My troops are here," he indicated to the middle of Wales, 
"and the Norman armies are here just above London. If I-" he began 
before Gwilym heard something suspiciously like a sob.

"Do not cry.  I absolutely forbid you to cry." he ordered, and 
discovered he was talking to her back as she walked quickly to the 
bedchamber.  

Abandoning his maps, Gwilym followed her, finding her face 
down among the pillows.  

"Go away," she ordered him, which he ignored, climbing onto the 
bed, boots and all, and sitting beside her.  "How can you do this?"

He reached his hand out several times before he finally settled it on 
her back, rubbing gently.  "I did not do this.  We would leave 
tomorrow if I had my way.  The King wants me to help him win a 
war, and he plans to hold you here until I do it.  If I win, Llewelyn 
can take his son home and the King will give him most of the land 
in south Wales."

"That does not even make sense, William," she said, her words 
muffled by the pillow.  "And do not say 'the King' when you mean 
'Fitz.'  Fitz will keep me here while he sends you off to die."

"No," he insisted, turning her over.  "No – I tell them what to do, 
nothing more.  The generals will lead the armies.  I will never ride 
into battle, I promise."

She sniffed, looking up at him with her red-rimmed eyes and a poor, 
swollen cheek.  "That promise is like that gray cloak I cannot peel 
off your back: so thin that I can hold it up to the sun and see light 
through it.  You told me once you had been too busy saving the 
world to take care of your family, your echen.  You said you would 
never let that happen again.  And that is exactly what you are doing 
now.  That was one of the first Welsh words I learned because you 
said it so much – talked about your family.  Your 'echen' and your 
'cariad.'  I am always 'cariad' – you must make that distinction to 
everyone, including me: I am cared for indirectly, casually, 
conveniently.  It is not the same word, William.  Beloved, because 
you had no choice in marrying me, but not loved."  

"You are too tired; you know that is not true."  Gwilym wrapped 
his arms around her, pulling a stiff, unwilling Duana against him.  
"This war is a game of strategy, just like I said.  What happened 
the first time we played chess?  What did I do?"  She buried her 
face in his shoulder, not wanting to answer.  "No, Duana – what 
did I do?"

"You – you lured me.  You attacked and then retreated until I was 
sure I could beat you, so I attacked.  Then you surrounded me and 
moved in from all directions."

"And do I ever lose?"

"No, William," she sniffed, reaching up to stroke his face, "You 
never lose.  No matter what it costs, you never lose."

He watched her damp eyes in the candlelight, trying to think up 
something brilliant to say to make this better, but words did not 
come.  

"Do not lose, William. Our year is not yet up."

"What year?"

"For a year and a day nothing can come between us.  The Druids – 
the ceremony.  Our year has not ended.  Do not break that vow to 
me."

"I will not," he promised.  

*~*~*~*
 
End: Echen