Title: Hiraeth

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Aber, North Wales; Winter 1215

Keywords: Story, historical au, msr 

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.

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

Website: http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html
 
Spoilers: um, how?

Author's notes: Many nods to "Katherine of Ireland" by fanfic
author Jenna Tooms for the inspiration & Sharon Kay Penman for
doing such extensive research for her published novel.  

If the names & events have faded since European History class and
you'd like a refresher, a summary of Ms. Penman's novel "Here be
Dragons" featuring the same time period & locations is at:
http://www.sharonkaypenman.com/herebedragons.htm

There is a small historical inaccuracy, in case you decide to use 
this story as Cliff Notes for medieval Wales.  Joanna (Joan), 
wife of Llewelyn, was unfaithful, but not until 1228.  Llewelyn 
Fawr (Llewelyn the Great) forgave Joanna and took her back 
after exiling her to one of his castles for several months.  
They were happily married until her death in 1237.     

                     *~*~*~*
Hiraeth
by prufrock's love

Aber, North Wales
Winter, 1215

"I do not understand why everyone suddenly decided I had need of 
a wife."

Once, when Leuan was visiting London as a young man to pay
homage to King John, then Prince John Lackland, the fledgling
Templar priest had been indulged in a tour of The Tower.  The 
Old King, long dead now and dying then, had kept a collection of
rare animals to amuse himself after he walled away his faithless
Eleanor.  There had been a giant black cat there, he remembered,
pacing back and forth behind the bars, and watching eternally for
someone he had once loved and lost.  Leuan, in his idealistic 
youth, had decided it must have been Queen Eleanor that the 
animal had felt such hiraeth for - only a legendary woman could 
hold the gaze of such a powerful creature.

A panther, the keeper had called it.

Watching his lord prowl, that memory floated back after thirty
years.  A tense, dark animal pacing back and forth in the 
confines of The Tower, stopping to watch the snowy blur.  

"If you do not know why a man might have need of a wife, then
you have been alone much too long, Gwilym."

The man paused his restless gait to make a face at the priest,
indicating his last statement was stupid in the extreme and did 
not even justify the words necessary to rebuke it.

Leuan, having been engaged as his lord's tutor when Gwilym was
six and grown almost immune to his former student's dark moods,
merely shrugged. "I know you had only a wayward priest to teach
you these things, but really, I thought I did at least a fair 
job."

That got no response at all; there was no distracting him into a 
fight tonight.

"Maybe they lost their way, Leuan.  Maybe I should ride down to
meet them," Gwilym said, leaning out the small window into the
cold night, ignoring the servant's pleas to put the oiled linen 
screen in place to block out the icy winds.  He glanced over his 
shoulder at the priest for reassurance, hazel eyes looking less 
like Lord Gwilym and more like the boy Llwynog he remembered from 
decades ago.

"Merfyn is with them and sent word that all is well.  It is 
proper for you to wait here."

Waiting was not his nature and that was not the counsel his best 
friend had wanted.  The pacing resumed, punctuated by occasional 
pauses to stare out into white nothingness, searching for any 
answers that might float down with the heavy snowflakes.

"Tell me about her, Leuan."

"I have told you everything I know; some things twice.  Try to 
relax - Llwynog.  It is just a woman."

"Do not call me that!  Even my father called me Gwilym.  And you
only say I should relax because it is not your woman, Leuan."  

The panther had switched from circling the room to merely wearing 
a path through the rushes from the window to the hearth, so 
restless it made a man tired to watch.  "I do not like this 
Norman custom.  A man should not trust his priest to choose a 
wife the way one would choose a mare.  Check her teeth - make 
sure they do not lie about her age.  Her temperament should be 
docile, easily led.  Her gait should be smooth as silk - one 
wants a nice ride.  Oh, and be sure she will breed."

"The proxy marriage is done - it is too late for second
thoughts.  I will bless you tonight and that will be that."

"Yes, as you say. . ." the man tossed himself into a chair like a
sulking child  ". . . that will be that."  

"It does not have to be tonight, Llwynog.  It is a queer custom -
bedding a wife you have barely met, and King John is not going to
brave the heights of Wales to tour your bedchamber, much as he 
may envy you."

Leuan earned himself another withering look.  Not only had he 
used a three-decades-old nickname and the much bandied title of 
'Lord', he had said exactly what both men were thinking, but 
neither was supposed to say.

"Calm your mind - she -is- lovely, Gwilym.  Not like Diana, but
very fair.  I saw her at Court and she will make a good lady for 
your castle.  It has been too long since there was a woman's hand 
here and it could use a little gentling."

Looking at the seven fat dogs lounging around the room, who were
hoping for a crumb or a loving pat, the stacks of rare, and
therefore cherished books, and the bare walls which Gwilym never
seemed to notice, Leuan decided it had been more than ten years 
too long.  

"Does the King favor her because she is like his wife?"

That question had many levels, but Leuan purposely answered only
the obvious. "Queen Isabelle, when I have seen her, is 
fashionably beautiful and she revels in it - draws men to her 
like flies.  No, King John did not notice this woman because of 
that.  She is not so lush, not so showy as Isabelle, but I 
promise you will not be disappointed."

"Not what she looks like, Leuan - what is –she- like?"
 
"Isabelle?  Grown into a lovely woman, and -" 

Gwilym interrupted him, nervously picking at a string on his
breeches as he spoke:  "Queen Isabelle was a fool when the King
wedded and bedded her at twelve and I doubt she has grown any
interesting thoughts in fifteen years."

"But what a beauty," came an illicit thought supposedly arrested 
by priestly robes.  Even men sworn to the Church could not miss 
Queen Isabelle.

"Beautiful is only useful for the first few minutes, Leuan.  At 
some point a man must speak to his wife - tell her to get off his 
arm so he can leave, if nothing else.  If I have to spend a 
lifetime listening to this woman's mindless droning, King John 
can have her back.  Mwyaf trwst llestri gweigion."

Empty vessels make the most noise.  

"No, she is not like that, Gwilym.  Prince Llewelyn and I know
you well.  She was attentive to her husband, Llewelyn said.  Very 
quiet, but most women know to be quiet in the presence of Queen
Isabelle.  It is not wise to draw attention away from the Queen,
especially when one is this woman.  I never saw her be cross, so
her temperament is probably quite good."  

The priest had earned another 'you are describing a mare,' look.  

"Eyes?"

"Blue.  Skin is very fair, so she must be blonde or maybe a
redhead."  He mumbled the last words - red hair was the sure sign
of a witch, and his lord had no need of another witch. 

"You do not know?"  The man was back to leaning out into the
night, now fiddling nervously with his tunic and his new haircut. 
Leuan fought the urge to tell his old charge first, to be still, 
and second, to not lean so far out the window for fear of 
falling.  He bit his tongue - Lord Gwilym was no longer in need 
of a nursemaid, but he could use a good wife, for once.

"At Court, all women wear veils and wimples.  I heard King John
say she was Irish, taken from the Scully clan while Dover castle 
was being built, so perhaps her hair is red."  The priest pushed 
the tall man gently to the side with a familiarity born only 
between old comrades and stared out into the night with him, 
keeping watch.  "Prince Llewelyn wants this, Llwynog, and the 
King will look favorably upon any lord willing to keep this woman 
happy and out of his sight until his conscience heals. If the 
Magna Carta fails, the Welsh will need friends."

The two men propped their chins on their fists like little boys
watching for their fathers to return from the hunt or the 
Crusades, hoping for trinkets, trophies, and war stories.  "Is 
she so fair, John?" The Lord asked, switching from Welsh to 
broken French so the hovering servants could not 
'accidentally' overhear their conversation.

"She is fair enough to draw the King's eye from his legendary
Isabelle and wise enough at four and twenty to avoid his bed.  
After her husband's head was accidentally separated from his 
shoulders by King John's executioner, she still refused, so he 
decided she should remarry quickly.  Prince Llewelyn and I saw
her at Court and thought of you, but there were many other 
offers of marriage.  So, yes, William - I would say she is 
truly fair."

"And sold to the highest bidder like a mare at Auction."  Back to
Welsh, which Gwilym found much easier than the stilted French.

"Your conscience pricks you more than any man I know.  Would you
rather she warmed the King's bed until he tired of her and turned 
her out?"

The restless man ignored that. "Four and twenty? I have a son
almost as old."

"You have a boy who looks to be the direct descendant of the 
Devil and who could use a mother when he returns.  Our future 
King John was in Wales in the months before his birth; perhaps 
he was sired by a Plantagenet prince with a few moments and 
coins to spare."

The panther recoiled, a boy's friend forgotten and an old priest
taking his place.  No matter what any man might say at his own
hearth, it was unwise to insult the memory of Gwilym's precious
Diana in front of him.  Leuan hurried to amend for his misstep – 
having not realized his jab would be taken so seriously. 

"Prince Llewelyn was a friend of her late husband's and has said
several times that she reminds him of his gentle Joanna at the
dinner table.  That was what gave him the idea to have you marry
her."

Joanna.  Another Saeson.  An English foreigner.  Joanna had
sinned against her husband in their own bed and it was the mark 
of either a great love or a great fool that Llewelyn took her 
back.  And Gwilym did not take his friend, and prince, for a fool.

The man's face relaxed a bit, lines and cheekbones softening.  
Leuan had finally said the correct words to ease the weeks of 
tension. 

"I have met Joanna several times and I like her.  Quiet, but 
there is more there than first meets the eye.  Is this woman 
really so similar?"  

The priest nodded reassuringly, fairly sure both his worldly and
heavenly Lord would quickly forgive so small a lie.  Gwilym had
only seen Joanna in public, so his perception of 'similar' was 
very narrow.  Leuan had heard her confession, and, yes, there was 
more than met the eye.  So perhaps it was only a lie of omission.

"I had thought I loved Diana until I saw the way Llewelyn
watched his Joanna."  Gwilym was a romantic at heart, as though
the entire kingdom did not know that secret.  "I did think I 
loved her, you know.  I was young, but I was not just bewitched, 
like they said.  And if I was, I do not want to know it."  

The priest rubbed a worn hand across the man's back.  Gwilym had
been returning from battle many years ago when he had found
Diana's little house smoldering outside the castle grounds, only 
a small boy holding a screaming baby and hiding in the woods.  

The villagers said Diana was a witch - that she had brought a 
plague on their crops - and she had to die before the harvest.  
More likely, a certain village trollop with an eye toward being 
the young Lord's mistress had set fire to the rumors until Diana 
had died in their flames.  That village girl was the only female 
Lord Gwilym had ever ordered executed in all his warring.  Leuan 
still remembered her odd name: Phoebe.

The young man, barely more than twenty, had blamed himself, 
saying he should have defied his father and brought her to live 
inside the castle walls.  Married her in the Church instead of 
what the Welsh referred to as hearth marriages - meaning a man 
and a woman shared the warmth of a fire and a bed, but either 
could later remarry.  Neither was possible, of course.  The 
villagers would have simply burned the castle in their panic, and 
lords married for political gain, not love or lust.

The boy, Dafydd, and the little girl came to live in the castle 
and Gwilym acknowledged them as his own, although many men,
including the Old Lord, had questioned the wisdom of that.  
Hearth marriages were valid as long as the man accepted the 
children, so Dafydd stood to inherit his lord's kingdom, despite 
his mother's sins.  Whatever his thoughts on the boy who was 
almost certainly not his son, after all these years, none knew 
but Gwilym.

"I see them!  I see the torches."  At his cries, servants,
unaccustomed to the late hour, scurried over each other to set 
lit candles in windows and bring fresh wine from the kitchen.  
They added wood to the fires and chased out the dogs as the 
parade of horses and small flames made their way up the mountain.

Leuan said a quiet prayer, knowing God had bigger concerns than
one minor Welsh lord, like the infidels in the Holy Land, or
freedom for Wales, or the lack of a suitable prince for the 
British Empire.  But, Lord, if you could just lend me your ear 
for one moment - this is a good man.  A little odd, maybe, with 
his books and his philosophy and his solitude, but good to his 
people, children, and Church.  If you could just see your way to 
send a little happiness up this mountain. . . 

"What else, Leuan?  What have I forgotten?"

"Perhaps to breathe?"

With obedience learned in childhood, hazel eyes closed for a
moment and his chest rose and fell.  "I just want her to be 
happy.  It must be awful to have no say over your future."

Leuan smiled indulgently at the deep current of worry God
permitted to run through men over such a simple a matter as a
woman.  Some nights the old priest thought he had long forgotten
what the corners of his mouth were intended for, but watching a
glimpse of his favorite student surface in his friend reminded 
him.  "Maybe a bath?  She's been riding for weeks.  And if you're 
not planning on her sharing your bed tonight, then she will need 
chambers of her own."

There was another flurry of yelling and scurrying as sleepy 
servants flew for hot water and curtains and a down mattress - 
not straw, they were cautioned - for a bed.  Alone in the din, as 
his custom was, Gwilym pulled a chair to the window and watched 
the torches snake up the mountain, now only minutes away.  "What 
do I say to her, Leuan?"

"Gwil, I love you as if you were my own son, but this is 
getting ridiculous.  Having dragged you drunk from a whorehouse 
on your fifteenth birthday, I can personally vouch that you know 
your way around a few women.  This one is no different."

"She is a lady, Leuan, accustom to the King's Court, and I am 
just…"
 
"You are your father's son, Gwilym.  He acknowledged you as his
own and no man will question you.  You are the lord of this 
castle and she could do much worse."  

The King had sent a large escort to ensure she arrived safely -
would not want to have her raped by a mere commoner -  but the
men waited safely outside the castle gates while only two horses
entered, riding abreast.  King John had finally relented and 
signed the Magna Carta, but most Normans still viewed the only 
good Welshman to be a dead Welshman and the sentiment was 
returned.  Gwilym's sentries quietly readied bows and checked 
swords, should there be one false move; most men of Aber had lost 
a son or a father or a limb or an unfortunate woman to soldiers 
like these and no gentle words from a priest would stop the 
bloodshed if there was one imagined slight.   

"When you were a boy, Gwilym, we called you 'Llwynog' because
you were clever and adept at getting yourself out of tight spots 
like the wild fox.  This woman is not like that.  Clever - yes, 
handsome - certainly, but always a captive.  This fox has been 
kept and hunted to amuse great men, and she will think you are no 
different."

A priest was not entirely ignorant of the ways of the world.

Gwilym's hand rubbed his freshly shaven face as he watched his
new wife enter the bailey, trying to glean some clue about her 
from his high window as he nervously eyed the King's men.  He had
attempted the Norman custom of a beard for her, but given up the
idea after a few days of itching, although Leuan's ginger-brown 
and gray beard was coming along nicely.  The old cook, who had 
been his father's mistress, but that was not spoken of, had cut 
his hair this morning and shaved him, as she claimed, 'close 
enough to kiss.'        
    
"What are they doing, Leuan?  Are they just leaving her?"  

A big man with flaming red hair rode into the bailey beside a
woman swaddled on a fine-boned mare.  Merfyn trailed behind, 
stargazing, most likely.  The man patted her hand and turned 
to leave, the King's escort not even bothering to dismount.  
She looked back at the Irishman as Merfyn was helping her down, 
saying something Gwilym could not hear, and he circled his horse 
once, nodding to her, then hurried to catch up with the guards.  
Gwilym saw in the dim light that she was barely as tall as his 
sergeant, which was not saying much, and that she stumbled when 
her feet touched the snow.

The priest looked out, squinting old eyes into the frigid night.  
"It would appear so, my lord.  She has been delivered; the deal 
is done.  There is nothing more to speak about."

"The King promised her brother could travel with her.  Does he 
not want to meet me?"

"No - since there is no choice, probably he does not want to 
meet you.  If she was my sister, I would rather not know."
 
The King's escort and the red-haired man were already pinpoints 
in the distance and the extra castle guards were trailing across 
the bailey, headed home to their families for the night.  Perhaps 
Wales and England could find peace, providing they met at the 
border, traded goods, and left without speaking.

The poor dogs, now exiled to the great hall, raised a racket as 
their master hurried through, disappointed he did not stop 
his long strides for their usual pats and treats.

"Get her inside, Merfyn," he ordered, holding open the door.  
Lost under her hood and furs, the woman stepped over the 
threshold and into the great hall without raising her eyes.  
After she passed, Gwilym looked out the door, waiting for her 
maids, then remembered that he had not seen any.  Only a very 
cold mare and Merfyn's gelding were in the bailey, being led away 
by one of the stable boys.  "Merfyn - did her ladies get 
separated? Are they waiting in the valley until morning?"  The 
trek up the mountain could take a man's breath, so it was 
probable that her maids, having no fear of being returned to 
London if they displeased him by being late, were waiting in a 
warm tavern until morning.

The little man pulled off his layers of wool and leaned back into
the blazing hearth, probably singeing himself in unmentionable
areas.  "Just her, Gwil.  Her ladies would not cross the 
border for fear of being raped by the Welsh devils."

"Merfyn!"   

"She does not speak Welsh, Gwilym.  I have not heard a word out 
of her that I understood since we left London.  Her brother did 
most of the talking and I am glad to be rid of him."  The old 
soldier was a little too proud of himself for accomplishing his 
assigned task - bringing a woman back safely over the mountains 
in the Welsh winter before the King changed his mind - and did 
not notice his friend's mouth was hanging open.  "Well, you 
have your bride, but I also have mine waiting for me.  Let me 
know how it goes.  I get the feeling she could set fire to a 
mattress, this one."  

It was probably a blessing that Gwilym was not wearing his sword,
but Merfyn got a cuff to his ear that caused him to hear bells 
for the next few days.  

Then it was just the little woman shivering by the fire, the old
priest examining the floor rushes for lack of anything proper to 
look at, and Gwilym lurking in the doorway.

"What does she understand, Leuan?  I speak very little Gaelic. 
French from Court?  Or maybe English?  The only thing I know
how to ask for in English is a whore," came a terse whisper.

For the second time that night, the old priest smiled, probably
remembering a teenaged boy, a newly-titled sergeant,  and a 
foolish, errant priest who had snuck out many nights and 
had plenty to atone for besides their hangovers the next morning.

"French, Llwynog.  I'm going to go roust the cook. Since she 
did not bring any maids, Gwenllian will probably be best to 
attend her tonight.  And I will see about some supper for 
her."

How cruel could the English be - to barter a woman because she
refused to share a king's bed, then abandon her alone in a 
strange land, not even able to speak the language?  Another 
reason that Wales would never lay down on her back for King John 
- not as long as Prince Llewelyn Fawr liiived.  That was not the 
way to treat a Welsh woman.  And this was now a Welsh woman.  By 
marriage.

"I am Lord Llwynog ap Gwilym, my lady, but most call me
Gwilym.  I am glad you have arrived safely," he said slowly,
knowing he was butchering the proper French he had not spoken in
years.

She turned, her hood falling back from her face, revealing blue
eyes that snapped like lightning across the tops of the mountains
and made his heart leap, and his stomach pitch.  Perhaps the 
docile Joanna had not been a good comparison.  Perhaps a cornered 
fox was much more appropriate.
 
"You are Duana?"

Fool - of course she is Duana.  It is not like there could be some
mistake.  He and Leuan had practiced her name so they could say 
it clearly, but she flinched, indicating he was still not saying 
it with the correct inflection.

"Gwilym," she said slowly, more to herself than him, trying to 
wrap her tongue around the bizarre syllables as she warmed her 
frozen hands.

"Try 'William' - that's the English - Fox, son of William."  He 
stood near, but not so close as to frighten her, taking her 
measure.  Of course, if this woman faced down a king notorious 
for his wenching, she probably would not give a second thought to 
a reclusive, awkward Welshman.

"William.  My lord."  She sank into the appropriate curtsy, a 
little unsteady on her feet, then stood waiting.

He pointed to his favorite chair beside the fire, not willing to 
risk the "ch" sound to say the right word for it, and she sat 
down, trying not to show how tired she was.  Her hands trembled 
slightly as she accepted the cup of wine, and he hoped it was 
just because she was cold and exhausted.   

No, she was afraid.  Angry and alone and afraid, like a hunted
animal.

In her silly wimple and veil, he could only see her face from
eyebrows to chin, but she was indeed lovely.  Hopefully not 
lovely enough that King John would change his mind and steal
her back to London, but he said a silent prayer of thanks 
for a foolish king's conscience that caused her to end up on 
his mountain.

She just sat and stared at the fire while he cursed himself for
spending his youth avoiding Leuan's lessons instead of learning
something that would be useful at this moment.  Like the correct
way to explain he did not have horns, as the Normans thought all
the Welsh did.  That there was a hot bath and a soft bed waiting 
for her upstairs and he had no expectations of sharing either. 

Tonight.  Thinking of her hands shaking again - maybe not for many
nights.

Chaud.  'Hot' was chaud.  Show.  Maybe he could demonstrate
scrubbing - that should impress her.  Bed - what was bed?  

"My lady. . ." 

His lady was sound asleep, dwarfed in the big chair, looking much
younger than four and twenty when one could not see her eyes.  

He was surprised at how heavy she was when he went to lift her,
but then he realized she was wearing layers and layers of soaking
wet wool and fur.  He peaked carefully under each garment before
he pulled it off, not sure exactly what underclothes the ladies 
of the Court wore and not wanting to shuck off one too many 
chemises or capes and find skin underneath just yet.  Gwilym made 
it as far as a blue silk gown that seemed dry enough and stopped, 
heaps of clothes steaming in front of the hearth for the servants 
to gossip about the next morning.

Gwenllian appeared from the kitchen, smiling as she waddled in.
"Is this the bride, Llwynog?"

No, Gwen, it is my newest hunting dog.  Sometimes he could only
wonder at his father's taste in women.

"The sleepy bride."  

"Bring her upstairs, then, and I will get her bathed.  She looks
like a sweet little thing."

He scooped her up, easily this time, and followed Gwen's wide
hips up the stairs.  "Hard to tell, Gwenllian – I have only heard 
four words so far."

"You are probably the only man in the Empire that would complain 
about a woman not chattering your ear off with her ideas."  She
gestured to the freshly made bed, then pulled the curtains back 
so he could set her down.  "You want me to bring her to you when
she is ready?"

"No, let her sleep, Gwen."

He ignored her shocked look as he pulled the heavy door closed
behind him and went to find Leuan for more enunciation lessons. 
By morning, he was going to be able to say her name and
something besides 'I would like to buy some cheese' clearly in
French.

                     *~*~*~*

The last time Leuan had drilled these phrases, the answering 
voice had been changing awkwardly and its owner had been much 
more interested in warring and whoring.  That was almost 
twenty-five years, countless border skirmishes, a sullen son, 
a daughter who had vanished, a fallen father, and a faithless 
hearth wife ago. Who could have know his lord would have more 
than his fill of death and empty women in such a short span of 
time?

"Je suis.  Tu es.  Il est-"  

"Nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont - I remember this part, Leuan. 
Move on."

"Je m'appelle William.  Comment vous-"

"We already know each other's names, Leuan. Teach me to say
something useful, like how to say 'you have eyes like a placid 
blue lake as lightning strikes the water,' and 'no king is ever 
going to force you again'."

The priest had about this much success twenty-five years ago.  

"Try her name again.  Say it as if it were two words, then put 
them together."

Running long fingers through his hair, which was now going in
several directions at once, Gwilym tried again, knowing he was 
not even close.  It did not help that the closest translation of 
her name in Welsh combined with those blue eyes made his mind 
wander.

"It is a hopeless quest, my lord.  You either learn a second 
tongue in youth or you will always speak it roughly," his 
unwilling tutor sighed, smothering a yawn and glancing tiredly at 
the mark on the candle to gauge the hour.  Perhaps nine o'clock - 
far past his normal bedtime.  Except for Gwilym, the castle slept 
and arose with the chickens.

Gwilym flopped undignified onto the mattress, becoming half-
eaten up by the high tick.  "I had not thought I was so close to
Death's fingers that I could not say her name properly.  I can 
read and write it - why can I not speak it?  If I could just see 
it, Leuan.  If I could see how to say it, I could remember, but 
these silly drills just make my head hurt."

"Perhaps you should sleep, and see if you are more motivated to 
learn when you see her in the morning."

His words were wasted. Another of King John's unwilling subjects
had finally surrendered to the night.  Gwilym was either sound asleep
or he was ignoring Leuan by pretending to be.

There was the sound of soft snores from deep in the down and fur
coverlets, and the dogs hurried to claim the best spots in the 
big bed with their master.  His face looked so young in sleep, 
like the mysteries of life and death paused for him to rest a 
moment.  A big dog circled, matting down a place beside Gwilym to 
spend the night, and his hand moved in response to the motion of 
the bed.  Finding only soft, floppy ears, and a cold nose, his 
old student rubbed out of habit and shifted still deeper into the 
furs without opening his eyes or pulling off his tall boots.  

Leuan would feel much better when that hand reached out and
found a woman again - preferably the fiery one asleep across the
hall, but he probably could not arrange that tonight.  Taking one
candle and snuffing the rest, he made his way out quietly through
the adjoining study, careful not to disturb the man's rare 
moments of rest.

For all his tiptoeing and faith, Leuan was still a mortal man, 
and mortal men scream bloody murder when they see a ghost sitting
behind their lord's desk in the moonlight.  His screams rousted
Gwilym from sleep in time to see a newly acquired book hit the
floor with leaves flying, pale legs fleeing quickly under a huge 
white chemise, and red hair flowing like blood as their "ghost" 
ran for her chamber.

"What did you say to her?" Gwilym demanded, hurriedly rubbing a
few moments of sleep from his eyes.

"I did not say a thing.  She knows she should not be playing 
with your books."

A door slammed across the hallway as Leuan gathered up the
priceless pages, each a work of art, and cursed a woman's
foolishness.  

"Give me the book, Leuan.  If she wants to look at it, she can."

"But Llwynog," the priest gaped, switching back to a boyhood
nickname out of shock, "she was married ten years with no
children - she should not be looking at books."

Gwilym took the text and wrinkled his nose at the cup of warm
wine he had been considering.  "As you say, Leuan, I know my way
around a few women, and books do not have much to do with
begetting sons.  Not unless the illustrations are very well done.  
Go to bed, old man."

Rebuked into silence, the priest shuffled off to his own quarters
above the kitchens, leaving his student to his books and woman
and oddness.

He knocked once, and the door came ajar.  Looking down at the
floor, he saw the bolt laying in the rushes; the servants had 
taken the lock off her door so it could not be barred.  Certainly 
a kind gesture - sure to make a woman feel safe.

"Duana," he called softly, trying not to wake the whole castle at 
this hour.  "Duana, I have the… shit!"  What was the damn thing
called?  Llyfir - how was that said?  Not lives.  Not livers.  
Curse all Normans and their damn tongue-tying language.  The 
world would be much happier if all men were Welsh.  Livre!  
"Book.  I have the book."

He repeated that to himself silently, trying to make sure he'd 
said the right thing and not some obscure insult.  When he 
knocked again, the door swung open, and books were long 
forgotten.

Whatever the quick words were in Gaelic, they did not sound like 
a gentle invitation to her bed, but he was impressed that she 
did not cower.  Her borrowed chemise, probably Gwen's, fell 
in puddles at her feet, and that hair could be the Devil's 
breath wrapping around her.  He had the urge to touch her 
to make sure she was real and not one of the visions that 
creeps into a man's bed when he sleeps alone for too many nights.
 
"I did not mean to drop the book.  He frightened me."  Her French
was heavily accented, but quite good; far better than his, had he
been capable of intelligent speech.  "I will not bother your 
books again."  

Bother the damn books.  Rip out the pages and roll in them, just
do not run away.  

Her hair must be down because she was expecting him.  Otherwise
it would be braided for the night.  That thought made him swallow
dryly.

"I am fine."  No, that was not the right phrase.  Stupid, stupid!  
"The book is fine."  No better.  Tell her how the sheep, the 
horses and the cheese are all fine.

He held up one finger, indicating he wanted her to wait, and laid
the book on the floor inside her door as though he was trying to
entice a frightened animal.  It took exactly ten long steps to 
his own chamber and ten back to hers, and she was still standing 
right where he left her, except now she was holding the heavy 
book against her chest and her glare had softened a bit.
     
He held up his bed robe for her, wondering if she would actually 
come, even if she was shivering.  "Do you want to see the pages?  
I can read the words for you," he offered, slipping the heavy 
robe on her.  She picked up the book again like a shield, but 
could not manage to carry it and hold up her too long clothes to 
walk without tripping, although she spent several moments trying.  
He expected temper or tears, but saw only a quick smile at 
herself as she finally relinquished the book and gathered up 
Gwen's huge chemise and his bed robe in folds to find her bare 
feet.

"Feet," he told her, taking and settling the text on his hip, and
showing off his few French words.  "Toes."

"Cold," she responded, and he hurried back to the hearth in his
study, adding a few logs to the dying fire before he joined her 
on the sofa.  

"This is the Book of Deer.  Do you know of it?"  

He tilted the cover so she could see the distinctive
illustrations, trying to focus his attention on the book and not 
that she smelled like soap and clean linens.

"I have heard of it.  This must be very expensive; I am sorry I
dropped it."

He could see her as a young child, watching over her bothers'
shoulders as they read, wondered what they were learning that she
was not.

"The Gospels are in Latin, but this  - this is Gaelic, the monk 
that copied the book."  She followed his finger as he read: "This
 says, 'May it be on the conscience of everyone with whom this 
splendid little book shall be, that he should give his blessing 
on the soul of the poor monk who had written it,'" he translated 
slowly, mentally rewriting the words from Gaelic to Latin, and then to 
bad French.

"Wench.  That word is 'wench,' not 'monk."  She pointed, her 
little finger close to his, indicating the correct line.

His brain had not rested in weeks, years maybe, so her words took 
a few seconds to flow from French to Welsh and make their meaning
into his head.  She was quiet beside him, waiting for his 
reaction to her having corrected him and given away her secret.  
 
"You read?"  No response, just big blue eyes, almost daring him. 
"It is good that you read, it is just a rare skill in a woman and 
I am surprised.  Who taught you?"

Some fathers had their son's tutors spare a few minutes on the
daughters, but not usually unless the girls were high born and
expected to make political marriages.  If not for her face and 
eyes and that hair cascading down her back, this woman would 
probably have been left in peace to her Ireland.

"My husband."

Gwilym was intrigued - what husband would take the time to teach
such a skill to a young wife?  She had obviously been a spoil of
war, so why teach a bed mate to spend hours with her nose in
books?

And when she spoke of 'her husband', she did not mean Gwilym.

He waited, listening to the fire crackle and the wolves howl in 
the distance, but she did not offer.  Her silence seemed to be as 
heavy as his own.  Another soul with burdens no priest could 
absolve.

"The book is yours as long as you are here."  He handed it to
her and she took it like a child with a new present, then tensed.  
He had clumsily said the wrong thing again.

"Are you going to send me back to London, my Lord?  I do not
want to go back.  My husband could tell you; I am a good wife."

She brought a quick tear which he blinked away before Leuan
could hear of it and tease him mercilessly for crying over a 
woman. 

"That is why you are awake - you thought I…" he stopped to
search for the right French words, "that I would come to you
tonight?"

She nodded 'yes,' smoothing the cover of the book with hands that
no longer shook and casting down her eyes.    

"I am not going back, my lord - not to him.  I will not become 
yet another rich man's trinket once I agree to King John for an 
hour.  Or less."  

Her bluntness made him smile, forgetting how pitiful he had found
her a few seconds before.  He liked the look in her eyes when she
glanced up, poorly practiced flirtation often forgotten and 
replaced by keen intelligence.  "Then you have found a good 
husband.  We have only snow and sheep, and no one calls me 'Lord' 
except Leuan and Merfyn - John and Melvin, and then because they 
know I dislike it.  And, should he tax himself with the trek 
through these mountains, King John will find little love in 
Aber."

"I can stay?"

"As you like.  Under Welsh law, you can stay or leave as you 
like, Duana.  We are not Normans; you are not chattel."  He hoped 
he said the right word - the one meaning property and not cows.

"My name is not Donna, William.  It is Duana."

"My apologies - that does not translate well into Welsh.   It 
might be wise to chose another before you become 'Lady Dana' to 
the servants."

She considered a moment, her forehead wrinkling.  "Is there a
Welsh for 'Duana?'"

" 'Dan' is 'tan', and 'danas' are deer.  There is no word for a
woman's name."

"What does Dana translate to?"

He blushed for the first time in recent memory, hoping she 
could not see him clearly in the candlelight, and did not answer.  
"What did your late husband call you?"

"Countess."  

He couldn't tell if she was jesting or not, but Gwilym could not 
see himself calling her 'Lady' in bed.  'Duana' – 'Dana' would 
hopefully be much more appropriate, but not in public. 

"Catherine?  Is there a Catherine? That was my mother's name."

"Catrin."  The word did sound like a dog trying to clear a bone 
from its throat.  She raised an eyebrow at him - obviously not 
suitable.  "What about 'Scully?'  That is your father's name, 
yes?  There is no word like that in Welsh and there would be no 
confusion."
 
"My brothers are the O'Scullys - the sons of Scully.  There is no
word for a daughter."  It was his turn to wait in silence.  "You
expect me to come when you call for 'Scully'?"

"I would be delighted if you came at all, whatever I called you."

She folded slim arms across her chest, considering.

"I can write, too."

Gwilym had not realized they were playing 'confessional', but he 
had never see a woman write and he desperately needed a 
distraction from those blue eyes.  It spoke to years of struggle 
on Leuan's part that Gwilym himself did not need a scribe.  He 
handed her a quill and found the ink after a few tries, then took 
his turn, since they were telling secrets.  

"I have a son- no, there is a boy, Dafydd, who is fourteen and 
knows all and is probably not speaking to me this year.  He is at 
Court, so he will not trouble you until he can recover from the 
madness of youth.  And I had a daughter who disappeared.  The 
villagers say her mother was a witch that came from the dead to 
take her back to Hell, but regardless, she is gone.  I know you 
have no children - why you were not married to a man with more 
wealth or power instead of me - but I do not expect any more.  I 
could not stand to lose another."

He said it all in one breath, before he lost his courage.  

She was concentrating on her careful strokes - she had not 
learned to write as a child - and stopped to respond.  "My 
husband's stepson brought me back to London and gave me to his 
stepfather when he tired of me.  Men do not tire as quickly as 
youths, and we were married happily for almost ten years until 
the King unfortunately discovered a new itch and misplaced my 
husband's head."

Dear Lord, how should he respond to that?  She dropped her eyes
again, one hand pulling back her long hair to keep it from 
dragging in the ink as though she just accepted her lot in life, 
so long as it was not King John.

No, she was no more accepting than he - just too tired to fight
after so many battles.  Or perhaps she chose to fight only the
battles she could possibly win with the weapons she had at
hand.

"My father brought me back from King Richard's coronation for
our cook, Gwen, who had no children by him.  He said I was his
son by a hearth wife, but that is probably untrue.  The London
ghettos were burned and the Jews massacred when Lionheart
was crowned, so it is likely he just found me wandering in the
ruins and, having no children, claimed me as his own.  That is one
theory, anyway."

He had never told that to another soul, but she did not even look 
up.  "Your father was a kind man to love your Gwen and to find a
child for her to love.  It is very empty to have no children of 
one's own." 

Perhaps she did not understand.  Had his father ever known
his mother at all, she was most likely one of the Jews or a 
prostitute.  Leuan knew, and many men suspected, but Gwilym had 
earned his father's name with his sword, and none questioned.

"I may have no more Welsh blood than you, my lady.  I have 
only learned to become one of the Welsh - y Cymry; the lost people."

She finished her sentence and blotted the ink to dry it. "Then 
we are both in need of an anchor, William, not Fox.  Perhaps it 
is in Wales."  She wisely gathered up her robes before she tried 
to stand, and made her way to the door, looking back to see if he 
was following.  

"Is that is an invitation, Duana of the Scully's?"  

"I would never be so bold," she said, eyes promising, indicating
every word was a lie.  "I only was considering how best to learn
a few useful words in Welsh."

And to ensure you can stay in Wales, he thought.  An 
unconsummated marriage by proxy was still easily annulled.  Not 
that he had any qualm about claiming her as his wife.  Not that a 
man would not exchange his kingdom and soul. . .  

"What did you say earlier - when I knocked on your door?  What
did you say in Gaelic?"

She dropped her eyes, her bold posturing vanishing.  "I said 
that I had been beaten by a king and so I was not afraid of you."

He leaned his hands on either side of his doorway as she faced 
him outside her bedchamber. "Maybe after your long journey, you 
could sleep alone, just until you find it lonely, and then we 
can see about a few lessons." 

He finally earned the smile that must have melted the hearts of
kings and commoners alike, and her door closed.

                     *~*~*~*

Gwilym hoped with all his heart and soul that she had gotten 
lonely.  Gotten lonely in her chamber and come back to pursue her 
studies of Welsh and Welshmen.

She had been to bed - her hair had been plaited so it would not
tangle and she yawned as she shuffled in wearing his bed robe,
holding the hem high enough for him to see knees in the flicker
from the candle she carried.  When she noticed him draped over 
the sofa, staring out the open window at nothing, she dropped the
heavy material, looking puzzled.  

"Do you not sleep, William?"

As though she was not roaming the castle in the witching hour.  
He stood, stretching, and went to the desk, gesturing for her to 
sit where he had been laying.

"No.  Not anymore.  Do you not sleep?" he replied. 

She folded her bare legs modestly under her on the sofa, pushing
the plain cushions to the other end and wrapping the yards of 
fabric around her against the cold.  Gwilym had let the fire die, 
not noticing just for his own sake.  

"I have dreams," she said quietly.

He leaned back in his chair, glad to have a willing partner to
discuss the creatures that can walk in dreams.  "I dream often of 
my daughter.  I watch for her to come home some nights."

"Was she taken by soldiers?"  She arranged herself comfortably, 
as though they had spent many hours like this - she among the
cushions of the sofa and he at his desk.  "My brothers found me,
although I was content to stay after so long, but perhaps you 
could find your daughter and bring her back."

"No, she was only nine.  I hope the soldiers would not bother 
her.  Two summers ago, she was just gone.  Perhaps she wandered 
too far and got lost.  Perhaps wolves or gypsies.  Or perhaps 
witches, as the villagers say." 

"So you do not sleep while you watch for her?  While you watch
for her to come home?"  He nodded his head, knowing he would
stumble if he tried to explain.  "I watch for King John or his 
soldiers to come again.  Or my husband's stepson.  I still remember 
him."

Restless, nervous at the images her words brought, Gwilym went to
the window.  

"From this window, you can see the pass through the valley - that 
is the only road to this mountain.  To our backs is the sea, so 
anyone who enters or leaves my lands on foot can be seen from 
this corner of the castle."  He heard movement and felt her 
behind him, so he moved to the side to let her look out.  "No one 
is going to hurt you here.  All those fires you see - those are 
families; people ignorant of kings and books and charters.  
People who marry for love and lust and close their eyes at night, 
trusting that I will keep them safe.  They know there are things 
in this world that they do not know, and they trust me to face 
those words and men and monsters in their place."  He braved a 
hand on the small of her back and she did not move away as he 
caressed the heavy fabric of his robe.  "I worry that I will fail 
- that they expect more than I can give,,, but now I have another 
reason to keep watch.  You can sleep, my lady.  Alone or in my 
bed - no one is going to hurt you."

He felt his mouth over hers, very careful, just for an instant 
before she pulled back.  "My God, you are a lovely woman.  Do not 
be afraid.  Or do you want to wait until the priest blesses us?" 
he asked, thinking he would rouse Leuan right this moment if
necessary.  

"William, I do not understand.  You have to speak French," she
whispered, as though another soul was awake to hear.

He floundered for a moment, then grinned to himself, stepping
back.  "How long have I been speaking Welsh?"

"Since King John and my husband's stepson.  It was beautiful, though. 
What did you say?"

His battlefield courage failed him.  "I told you it was a cold 
night."  

She crossed her arms, peering at him in the light from the single
candle on the desk.  "That is not what it sounded like."

"What do you think I said?"

"I think you kissed me."  That was not the question.  "I am your
wife, William.  And I want to be your wife.  You can kiss me." 

And he would thank God, fasting and on bended knee, for that.  

First thing in the morning.

"I lied.  I can sleep.  I just cannot sleep alone in my bed 
without bad dreams. Perhaps if I were not alone. . . "  

"French, please, William."

Shit!  He'd never be able to bring himself to say that again.

"I am teasing.  You said that in French."

"Which part?" he asked, leaning back on the edge of his desk,
watching the moon framing her head through the window.

"Which do you think?" She pushed her long braid back over her
shoulder and casually tucked a few stray strands behind her ear 
as though they were discussing the likelihood of rain.

King John was a fool for two reasons - for not appreciating this
woman as something other than a trinket, and for not moving
Heaven and Hell to keep her.  Stop stealing and beating and 
raping her for a few moments and a man could find something even
more interesting just under that pretty surface.  Just as he 
suspected her late husband had.

"I think I have met my match."  There was that smile again.  The
one that probably made men ride their horses into low branches as
they watched her.  "I never thought I would find my match in my 
own study, wearing my robe and little else at midnight, but I can 
not imagine where else I had hoped to find her.  Perhaps you are 
right, perhaps this 'anchor' you speak of is in Wales."

She took the hand he offered, and followed him when he picked up
the candle, but did not respond.  "Do not dare say that was in 
Welsh, because I know it was not."

"No, I believe that was Spanish."   

"Now I know you are teasing me - I do not speak Spanish."  He
stopped at the door to his chamber, still holding her hand,
hesitating.  "Are there certain words you want to learn in Welsh? 
Like how to say yes - 'do' or no - 'na'?"

"Perhaps you should first teach me to say 'I only came to get my
book,' and we can see what else becomes necessary."  

He laughed, tension vanishing.  "Llyfr is book."  

The dogs perked up their ears at the sound of his voice, ready to 
sound the alarm if anything was amiss.  No, for the first time in 
years, nothing was amiss.  "I should teach you to say 'get out of 
my bed' - that will be necessary."  

He pushed open the door to his chamber, holding it open as she 
walked through and indicating he wanted her to sleep there.  She 
waited while he retrieved her book, then they stood facing each 
other beside the high bed.  Duana had been smiling before, but her 
face was a bit paler now.  Again, his words had not translated 
well.  "The dogs.  They like to sleep in the bed, since it is 
often empty.  Do not allow them to sleep with you unless you get 
cold and want them.  Say 'oddi gwely'."

She didn't move away as he kissed her again, still tentative, 
still careful, still keeping the book between them like a shield.  

"That is a good lesson in Welsh.  To say 'yes' and 'no', to ask 
for my book, and to say who is welcome in my bed should I wake up 
cold and alone and want him. In time, I want to learn more."  Her 
lips were even with his ear, and he heard another soft whisper: 
"What does my name mean in Welsh?  Why do you not say it?"

His breath, already quickened, caught in his throat.  "Under.  
'Dana' means 'under' or 'beneath' something or someone.  I will 
gladly say it as often as possible."

He had pushed too far - Gwilym felt the change in her body.  Too
soon.  She would do this if he insisted, but it would not be what 
he wanted.  Better to let her ask when she wanted to learn more.  
One last caress of her cheek and he stepped back, composing 
himself.

Afraid he would also lose the magic that blew in through the open
window, or, more likely, just make a fool of himself, Gwilym just
pointed to the sofa in the next room, indicating that was where 
he would be if she woke up cold and alone again.  

"You will keep watch while I sleep?"  He nodded, lighting the
candle bedside the bed for her with his.   

She disappeared behind the bed curtains, several spoiled hunting 
dogs bounding in after her, unaware that she was the fox they 
were bred to chase.  He left the door open as he went out, and 
the dogs were not told to leave.

Gwilym settled himself deep in the sofa cushions and resumed
staring out the window at the snow, on guard to intercept any bad
dreams that might try to make their way up his mountain.  The
candle sat burning on the desk near his head, flickering in the 
cold breeze.  The notch indicated one o'clock and then two and 
three came; the witching hour had long passed as he kept watch 
and listened to the soft breathing from the next room.  

It seemed he had been bewitched again, but he did not mind. 
Everyone knew women with red hair were witches who could
change into animals and haunt a man's dreams.  Familiars, they
were called, masquerading as a man's wife.  As he drifted into 
the watchful, light sleep of a soldier, there was the rustling of 
little feet against the floor and a flash of red hair as his eyes 
closed.  A fox was haunting his dreams; he was bewitched, after 
all. 

                    *~*~*~*
The snow had stopped and the sun was considering rising from its
nightly bed when Leuan found his friend already at his desk, 
going over ledgers before morning Mass.  

"What is 'anchor,' Leuan?"  Gwilym asked as the priest settled
himself in his usual place, old bones protesting at the early 
hour.

"Anchor?  Angor - what keeps a ship from drifting, you land-
loving fool.  You locate where you want to be and drop anchor -
angori -  and that is where you will stay."  Leuan pulled his 
chair closer to the big desk, hoping for some wedding night 
gossip.  "So how did you find the bride?  Just between old 
friends, Llwynog - and remember - I live vicariously now and let 
you have that blonde in the tavern that you wanted two summer's 
past."

"Yes, and you let me have Phoebe, and both were mistakes," came
the reply, eyes not looking up from the household accounts and
correspondence, indicating that manly boasting was not
forthcoming.  

No matter - Merfyn's observations of any woman could heat a
man's blood.  Hopefully the sergeant would have enough sense 
to observe the new wife outside of her husband's hearing.

"What is this, Gwilym?  Why are you wasting parchment scribbling
Gaelic?  Would you be trying to impress that pretty little thing
still asleep in your bed?"

Eyes raised, but the face was blank.  "Can you read it, Leuan?"

"Of course - ciunas gan vaigneas.  Your writing is getting
dreadful, but it says 'quietness without loneliness'."

"Yes, it does, Leuan."

                     *~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth – part I