*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gwilym!" Merfyn said sharply, bringing his lord back
to the present as he spared with another soldier in
the inner bailey. "How is the arm?"

Merfyn was prowling in a circle around the two men,
looking worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough for today," Merfyn replied, turning away,
seeing no point in embarrassing Gwilym further.

"He is younger, faster," Gwilym protested, pointing
his practice sword at the young knight, who looked
like he truly sorry he had won this bout against the
Lord of Gwynedd. Given a second chance, he would be
pleased to lose.

"You are taller, your reach is longer, and you have
been in more wars than he has been in women,"
Merfyn shot back. "You know every trick I can teach
you, Llwynog, and you should have won easily."

"Again," Gwilym insisted, his blood still pounding
hot in his ears. "You and me, this time, Merfyn."

"Enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Llwynog-"

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

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

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

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

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

"Non," Duana answered in French, her eyes sad. "Je
regret."

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

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

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

"Gwilym? Lord William?"  Llewelyn responded, bored
with the festivities and focusing primarily on the
wine. "Yes, he probably always does."

"I do not like it." Joanna had encountered William a
few times before and, though he was handsome, the
intensity in his dark eyes unnerved her. And, just as
he had been doing since he and his wife arrived,
William always spoke bluntly and of the oddest
things. Joanna could not imagine what it must be like
to be married to him. "It seems... impolite. How he
watches her."

"Then be thankful you are my wife instead of his,"
the Prince of Wales replied tersely. "Hush. William
speaks French fairly well and he has sharp ears."

She gritted her teeth, but managed to say amicably,
"I am thankful to be your wife." Her husband did not
respond, but he gave their wine goblet a break,
setting it on the table. She picked it up, part
sipping, part toying with it. 

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

Joanna answered immediately, "Yes," then added, "But
shush me again as if I have not been the Princess of
Wales for a decade, and I may repay you later."

"If I visit your bed tonight, briela, I pray: please
do," the prince replied.

Thinking he was taunting her, Joanna said
sarcastically, "Oh, I will let down my hair and wait
breathlessly."

Llewelyn did not respond to that, but said instead,
"Call Lady Duana over if you are curious. I think
you will like her. She speaks French well. I asked
William to bring her so you could meet her."

Joanna watched the petite, auburn-haired woman, who
seemed to be trying to blend into the walls instead
of watching the acrobats or listening to the
minstrel. She was still attracting male attention,
though it was now more discreet. Lord William was
known as quite a warrior, and it was unwise to flirt
with his wife in his presence. The Welshmen knew
that, but a Norman lord had been sent sprawling
across the floor for some act of chivalry that
William deemed insulting. The wine had been flowing
and the cultures clashing for hours, so Lord William
and the Norman Marcher lord had been the seventeenth
of nine and twenty fights so far, by Joanna's count,
and, lacking swords or daggers, certainly had not
been the most exciting.

"She reminds me of another woman. A dead one. Was
that the only reason you asked Lord William to bring
her?" she asked, falsely casual. "To meet me?"

"Yes," the prince answered, just as casually. "To
meet you."

He could not tell if Joanna was appeased about Duana,
but she did not pursue the topic and asked instead,
"She was my father's mistress, yes?"

"No," Llewelyn replied, a little too quickly. "As I
understand it, Duana was taken from Dover as a spoil
of war. She is Irish, but her father was at Dover
Castle that year, and had her with him. Do you
remember Count Walter Pembroke? Your father's
adviser? His son, Marshall FitzWalter, is about your
age."

Joanna shook her head. She had left London too young
to know the political players at court, or to
understand how cruel King John could be. Even when
Llewelyn had told her that it was her father who
hanged the Welsh boys and caged Gruffydd, Joanna had
insisted there was some mistake. Her loving father
would not do that, just like he was not send his
fourteen-year-old illegitimate daughter to a Welsh
warlord's bed to seal a treaty. 

Llewelyn took a deep breath, feeling the alcohol
warming his face, and then told Joanna, "It is said
to have caused quite a scandal. Pembroke and his
stepson were both in love with her. Pembroke finally
banished the stepson, I think. I met Pembroke only a
few times, but he adored her. After he died, I saw
her at court and thought she would be a good match
for William. It seems she is. Lady Duana had a baby
girl last fall, and Will is hoping for a son soon."  

"She is Gaelic royalty, then?"

"No, she is a mason's daughter, William says."

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

"It is," he agreed. "But some things, even a nobleman
cannot buy. True devotion is a rare thing in a woman.
Perhaps at a certain age - or when we have had it and
lost it - we men began to appreciate it."

Thinking she understood, she said gently, "I should
not have said that a moment ago, about Griffith's
mother being gone. I am sorry. Do you still miss her?"

"I do, sometimes." Bolstered by wine, he put his hand
over hers, the gesture of a lover rather than a
husband. "But I would miss you, as well, briela," he
confessed, again using his old nickname for her.

The words was barely out of Llewelyn's mouth before
he glanced around to see who was using his voice. Not
finding anyone, he worried his tongue against his
teeth as he pressed his lips firmly together,
silently perplexed.

She looked at him, then at his hand, then at him
again, as if trying to decide what to make of this.
Joanna liked the chivalry of the French and then the
London court, but chivalrous the Prince of Wales was
not. Their marriage had been a practical arrangement,
and that was how Llewelyn treated her: politely,
honorably, fondly, but practically. Always. Joanna
had been an awkward teenage girl, all elbows and
romantic notions. She had quickly realized her
intimidating new husband, a decade her senior,
already had a family with a beautiful, auburn-haired
woman in the next village. He had waited several
years to bed her, and then, to her humiliation, done
so only when her father had threaten an annulment.
She loved him, but practically, Joanna should not
expect Prince Llewelyn to love her. Wales was his
great love, and she had told herself she had made her
peace with that. 

As many times as Joanna had sworn to Llewelyn that
the knight had not been invited to her bedchamber,
she had not called for the guards when she had
discovered him there. She had let the man stay,
flattering her, speaking fondly of her father and
telling her of London and Paris. Making her feel
pretty and wanted rather than the end result of a bad
trade. Llewelyn had been off somewhere: conquering
something or praying at Tangwystl's tomb or counting
his bastard sons. She'd lost track of time and
cups of wine. The knight had been unlacing her dress
when Llewleyn walked in, and had been dangling from a
rope, dead, thirty minutes later. 

Practically, Llewelyn should have hanged her too, but
he had not.

"I could send a messenger to my brother," she
offered, finally thinking of something to say in
return. "I could ask young King Henry if he will
release Griffith. Or perhaps let you see him. Perhaps
he will consider it. May I do that?"

Mentioning his children with Tangwystl was a tricky
thing. Despite the fact that they were running around
the castle, competing with her daughters for his
attention, Llewelyn acted as if she was not supposed
to notice them. Joanna wondered sometimes who her
husband thought assigned nurses and tutors, bandaged
scrapes, mended broken hearts, and watched over them.
Even before their mother's death, before they had
come to live in the castle, there was no not noticing
them. Llewelyn never chastised her, but each time
Joanna gave him a daughter, or worse, no child at
all, someone was bound to comfort her with 'Well,
there is Griffith.'

In the past, he would have told her that it was not
her place to meddle in politics, but this time, he
nodded once, curtly, as if she was one of his
knights. "You may send a messenger."

She nodded in return. "All right."

Joanna resumed watching Lady Duana across the room,
and so Llewelyn watched along with her, his hand
still warm over hers. 

"You did not come to me because you watched
Tangwistel die," she realized after several minutes
of silence, and announced it aloud before she
thought. She understood why he did not sleep with her
now, but years ago, after Rhys was born: Joanna had
miscarried shortly after Tangwystl had died, and been
dangerously fevered for a week. When the physicians
had agreed Llewelyn could come to her again, he
simply had not. Not for months and months. Then,
perhaps only if he had been drinking or it was late
and something was weighing on his mind. Each time,
each pregnancy, the result had been the same. And
then it would be months and months again. Joanna had
thought it was that Llewelyn did not want her, when
perhaps it was that he had wanted her very much.

Llewelyn turned his head to look at her, perhaps
surprised, but his expression otherwise unreadable.
After an uncomfortable moment, without speaking, he
resumed watching the jugglers, seeming bored again.

His hand remained on hers, though.

Even if she had guessed the truth, he would never
admit it. She was surprised at him even saying he
would miss her if she died. Llewelyn did not falter
or wince or apologize. Battlefield injuries - he might
conceded discomfort if the gash was large enough,
but not in public. She had seen him hold a stillborn
son, expressionlessly examining the body before he
gave it back to the midwife. His face was the same
when he had married her as when he had found her with
another man as when he had finally let her return to
Dolwyddelan Castle. He seemed so invincible that it
was easy to forget that he was not.

He was woundable, and she had wounded him. She wished
so much she could undo all the things that had been
done, but since she could not and he did not care to
let her try, in the interest of peace, she just let
the subject go. 

"Covet," she said, as if talking to herself. "That is
the word for how he looks at her. Lord William covets
his own wife."

"Yes, I think you are correct."

"Whatever for? She is his wife. He can have her
whenever he wants."

"You are my wife; I can have your body if I want,
whenever I want," Llewelyn answered evenly. "That
does not mean I do not covet your affection."

Joanna turned and stared at him, her mouth hanging
open. He was either very drunk, suddenly insane, or
possessed tonight, she decided.

"My affection is always at your disposal, my lord
husband," Joanna promised, blushing. "Immediately, if
you like."

Llewelyn's heavy wooden chair squeaked backward
against stone floor as he stood, and, holding his
wife's hand, and bid their guests goodnight.

*~*~*~*   

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

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

At his own castle, William was very private. Prince
Llewelyn's men might get drunk and boisterous with
their women in the great hall at Aber, but her
husband did not. The dogs were allowed in the
bedchamber with her at night, but no one else,
except William, of course. William bathed first,
rinsed his mouth, and bolted the door. And asked; she
was always still surprised that he asked. He never
sent for her, never ordered her: he came to her
himself and he asked.
 
William had told her he planned to sleep near the
hearth with the other men and catch up on the gossip
and boasting, but she was having a difficult time
identifying her particular man among the huddled,
drunken masses.  So far, Duana had interrupted seven
couples, including a flustered Father John and a tall
blonde woman, but she had not found William.

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

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

He had always done it: she would wake in the morning
and he would be gone. There would be a message saying
he had to settle a dispute between his serfs or gone
hunting or that a girl who might be his daughter had
been found.  Until lately, William had been away so
often he had given her his signet ring; she could
handle his correspondence and accounts, signing his
name as she saw fit.  His kingdom was large, she told
herself. Wherever he went, sometimes it was more than
a day's ride. Perhaps deer were scarce this winter.
Sir Melvin and the other men found plenty of
venison and rabbit and fowl, but William came home 
from 'hunting' empty-handed. She had asked him to 
come home at night, and, for the last month, if he 
was in Aber, he had been home by supper. He had
stayed and slept with her, making love only a few
times, but always keeping watch.

No Christian soul would not go out in the blizzard
that was raging. There was no place else to be except
inside Prince Llewelyn's castle, and so there was no
excuse she could make herself believe tonight.

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

Duana told herself it was better this way: some
servant or peasant girl whose name she would never
know. Even so, her face burned with shame. This was
because of her: he had said he wanted no woman except
her, and William did not tell his secrets lightly.
Duana knew she had hurt him after Eimile came, hurt
his pride rather than his body by her hesitance. She
had left him without really leaving him, and now she
did not know how to make it right.  

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

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

Her Walter and thirty little boys, when all Duana
had to do was consent to King John until he became
bored with her and found another trinket.  William
had said it was the King's right, but Walter had not
told her that, and so she had not known. Her first
husband had died because of her pride, and William
had killed his king. How could he possibly want her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

He stood frozen over her, shocked as much at himself
for making such an unfounded accusation as her
reaction. Sometimes it seemed the wind blowing from
the wrong direction could make her cry, but she was
sobbing uncontrollably now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prince Llewelyn is with Princess Joanna; I did not
want to stay."

"Ah. Really?" 

She nodded.

He had seen Llewelyn holding Joanna's hand earlier,
talking with her, but he had not anticipated the
Prince would want to share her bed. Closed bed
curtains were more privacy than many couples were
afforded, but Duana would have been embarrassed. "So
you came to find me."

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

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

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

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

He had said it lightly, teasing her, but she replied,
"Always," very seriously.   
 
*~*~*~*  

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

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

"Hmm?"

"Go to Hell."

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

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

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

"Where is here?" she asked, pushing back her hood and
appraising the white landscape, the long stone wall,
and the closed gate.  

"Saint Mary's Abby. Slide down."

The abbot hurried out to greet them, opening the gate
and then embracing his favorite 'Master Scully.'
Duana must have made quite an impression on the
monks. To William, as an afterthought, he added,
"Everything is ready, my lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As you say, cariad, 'I am fine.' Dafydd has heard me
for several months now. I tell him the silliest
things, things he cannot possibly care about.  He
knows you are still nursing Eimile - which you do not
think I know - even though the baby has a wet nurse,
and that I cannot bear to make you stop. Dafydd had
discovered the London brothels, so I had even told
him of my renewed acquaintance with my sofa.  He was
probably disappointed to learn how little I knew
about making love to a woman I care about, given how
many women there have been that I cared little for.
Sometimes, my conscience gets the better of me, and
I tell Dafydd how I leave messages for my wife saying
I am off to do manly things while I am usually
sitting right on this bench."

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

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

"You got me a tomb?"  

He nodded 'yes.'

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

"It is empty."

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

"Duana, this is your gift."

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

Her forehead creased and those arms crossed as she
scrutinized him.  He could hear the lecture about to
begin, so he hurried to explain: "You need a tomb. It
does not need to have a body or a name: just a tomb.
As long as you have a tomb, no one cares why you
really cry or what you say to it," he told her. "You
have so much sorrow, but no bodies. It would be self-
indulgent to be angry or to cry without a tomb and I
would not approve of that. I thought, maybe, perhaps-" 
he mumbled, starting to feel foolish, "If you had 
your own, when I come to Dafydd's tomb, you could 
come with me to talk to yours." 

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

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

"Hush."

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

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

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

He glanced up, thinking there might be some hope.

"It is a big tomb; that is good," she added. "Well-
made, and of good stone."

Gwilym nodded eagerly. He was glad her father would
have approved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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