Hiraeth IV: Credu

*~*~*~*

The first hard winter storm passed over them, leaving
a white blanket of stillness. The mountain passes
were snowed closed, for the moment cutting Gwynedd
off from the rest of the world. Northern Wales was
temporarily immune to the Norman's endless political
strife; messages or cavalry soldiers could get
through, but not armies. If the King's summons did
not come by late fall, all bloodshed had to wait for
early spring. The work of the year was finished. The
harvest was stored, the cracks in the walls were
patched against the icy wind, and cords upon cords of
firewood were stacked in the inner bailey. It was
time to relax, to send messages to friends or invited
them to visit. To reminisce and boast. To sit beside
the fire drinking wine or reading, or to linger in
bed with his wife. To teach his children letters or
music or to sing them safely to sleep.

The castle was far too quiet, and Gwilym could feel
the cold in his bones. 

There has been no word from Prince Llewelyn: not
welcoming them home from Ireland, and not
congratulating Gwilym on having a daughter, and not
ordering him to make the child vanish. There was no
word from London Court, either, except a summons to
come and pay homage to the new Norman boy-king.

Gwilym's new wife was, once again, in the nursery
with the new baby. Months before Eimile was born,
they had stopped calling the room Duana's bedchamber
and started saying 'nursery.' There was still a bed
in it which usually held his wife these days; for all
intents and purposes, it was Duana's bedchamber
again. 

The dark hours were empty and seemed to stretch on
forever. 

The mason and his apprentices had arrived before the
snow, and begun work on his son's tomb in St. Mary's
Abbey. Gwilym supervised them for hours the previous
day, watching their chisels mercilessly chip away at
the marble.

Just as summer was the season of war, winter was the
season of death. 

'Have faith,' Father Leuan had counseled him earlier.

Gwilym could seldom sleep; when he did he had one
nightmare after another. He dreamed of Dafydd locked
with the other Welsh boys in a cold dungeon,
listening wide-eyed to the scaffold being built
outside. Gwilym was in the next cell, beaten and
broken and always helpless to help. Dafydd would ask
what he had done to deserve to die, and there was no
answer Gwilym could give. Then the King's men always
came and took Dafydd away. Gwilym dreamed of his
daughter, cold and frightened and wandering in the
snow as she cried for her father to find her. He
could hear wolves and make out sneering, hungry men
watching in the shadows, but there were no landmarks
to tell him where his little girl was. There was only
endless snow as far as he could see. He dreamed of
Diana giving the baby to little Dafydd and telling
him to run away as the flames engulfed the house. The
peasants would let Dafydd out, but not Diana. The
fire grew hotter, closer, and in his dreams Gwilym
could hear her voice screaming for him.

He could kill a man with his bare hands and he could
command an army of the most dangerous men alive, but
he could not save two innocent children or their
mother.

Sometimes the nightmares were of searching for Duana;
she was hidden inside a cave of ice, and he must get
to her before it was too late. In the dreams, it was
always too late when he found her: floating beneath
the surface of a frozen lake, her hair cropped off
and her face battered, with her dead blue eyes
staring up at him, silently pleading for help that
had not come in time.

This time, it was a dream of Dafydd as a little boy
again, running through the castle and calling for
Gwilym to leave the letters and figures for another
day and play with him. He could hear the boy's
laughter and his bare feet slapping against the
stones. In the dream, Gwilym left his desk and chased
after him, tripping lightly down the stairs. He would
catch Dafydd and tickle him and toss him into the air
and put his arms around him. When Gwilym reached the
great hall, though, it was empty. The hearth was
unlit, the long tables and benches bare, and most of
the torches and candles had burned out. There was no
one there.

"Find me, Daddy," a little voice called from the
shadows.

"Dafydd," Gwilym called, looking around the dark
room. "Dafy. Where are you?"

"Find me," the voice insisted playfully, sounding
surreal, like it was inside his mind rather than
outside his head.

"I cannot find you, son. You have to come back to me."

"I cannot come back, Daddy," the boy's voice
answered. "I can never come back," it informed him,
still laughing perversely until it faded away.

His breath caught in his throat and spread to an ache
that filled the inside of his chest.

The ache was there when Gwilym woke, fully dressed,
standing in the great hall of Aber Castle. Like in
his dream, the room was dark and empty, and the fire
was out. 

He must have sleepwalked down the stairs, he decided,
his heart pounding. Gwilym sat down heavily on one of
the benches, catching his breath and trying to clear
his head. It must be near midnight, when the spirits
began to chase each other from this world to the next.

"Daddy," the little boy's voice called again, in the
eerily silent room.

Gwilym whirled around and found only the empty dais.
He jerked the tablecloth away to check beneath the
table, sending a forgotten goblet crashing to the
floor, but found nothing. Behind him, Gwilym could
hear bare feet running across the room, and a child's
laughter. The little footsteps skipped past the cold
hearth and up the stairs to the bedchambers, and
disappeared to a place where he could not go.

He stared at the dark stone steps for a long time, as
if Dafydd might come back down if he just waited.

Finally, he took a deep breath, then, closing his
eyes for a second, exhaled. He was truly awake now.
It had only been a dream. He was not eager to return
upstairs to sleep alone, though. If Duana had been in
their bed, he would have gone to her, but she was not
and so he did not.

A bard had played at supper for the last few days,
and the man's lute was propped against the edge of
the dais. Gwilym picked it up, idly trying to play it
as he waited for his body to relax. He played
proficiently, as did his kinsmen; music and poetry
were part of every Welshman's blood. He had taught
Dafydd to play, and begun teaching his daughter. They
were always to practice while he was on Crusade, and
each time he was away Gwilym had made sure to learn a
new style, Spanish, Italian, even Bulgar and Moorish,
and then to teach it to the children when he
returned. He remembered helping position little
fingers around the neck of the instrument, showing
them once, and then marveling at how quickly they
learned.

His left hand still moved easily over the frets,
forming the cords learned as a boy, but his right
hand would not cooperate to pluck the strings. He
tried for several minutes, getting increasingly angry
as he produced noise rather than music.

Two dogs wandered downstairs and sat watching him,
looking puzzled.

He had to be able to play. He would need to teach
Eimile, and Duana would probably like to learn, as
well. Perhaps a little wine and a little lute with
Duana, and he might once again have a son to teach
music and poetry and sparing and horseback riding.
Gwilym could teach the boy to be brave and cunning
and fair and strong and all the things a Welsh
nobleman should be, so the new Norman king could
send his son off to die on a whim. The King would
claim it was his royal right.

Suddenly anger flooded his veins, and he bashed the
uncooperative lute against a table, splintering the
wood and then, cursing, threw what remained across
the room.

Instantly, guards and sleepy servants came running to
see what had happened. He had even succeeded in
getting Duana's attention: she appeared at the base
of the steps barefooted, in her chemise, and looking
frightened.

Still angry and now embarrassed, Gwilym yelled at
everyone to get the hell away from him and stalked
outside, into the cold November night. He got as far
as the inner castle gate before his temper cooled and
he realized that, even if he did order the gate
opened, there were two feet of snow on the ground and
plenty more in the sky. There was nowhere to go. The
entire world was a nightmare, albeit it a more
familiar one than in his dreams.

He stood in the inner bailey in his shirt and
breeches and the darkness, shivering as the knowledge
settled over him. He could never go back. Dafydd was
dead and his daughter was gone and he had broken his
oath to the King. He could never go back to the man
he was, and he did not much care for the man he had
become.

'Have faith,' Father Leuan had counseled, but he was
not sure what was left in his world to have faith in.

He returned inside, quaking with cold, to find Duana
still on the bottom step, watching for him worriedly.
A servant had brought her a robe, but she was holding
it rather than wearing it.

"Un cauchemar?" she asked he approached.

"A what?" he snapped, not recognizing the French word.

"A nightmare," she said softly, in Welsh. "Did you
have a nightmare?"

'You did this,' he wanted to yell at her, his heart
still pounding, even though he knew that was not the
case. He had done this. Father Leuan had warned him,
and Llewelyn had given him the opportunity to undo
the marriage, but he had not. He had charged blindly
forward. 'Besotted,' was the word Leuan had used last
winter.

"I do not want any more lute players here," he
ordered.

"All right," she agreed, though he knew he was acting
like a crazy man. "I will send him away in the
morning."

"I will deal with him."

"All right," she repeated cautiously. 

After a few seconds, she took his cold hand, and he
let her lead him up the steps and to the sofa in his
office. He sat down, feeling empty, and watched as
she fed a few logs to the hearth, getting the fire
going again. He could see the silhouette of her legs
through the fabric of her chemise.

Seventy days, he reminded himself, as if that truly
made a difference. If she had invited, he would have
paid the indulgences and listened to Leuan's half-
hearted lecture about restraint and women being
unclean after the birth of a child. It was only forty
day of abstinence after a son, and that had passed,
at least. Almost.

Duana sat down and positioned his head on her lap,
and then covered him with his old robe and began to
pet his hair. Her fingers were warm and soft, and he
could hear her heartbeat and smell her skin. It was
familiar, comforting. 

"I heard Dafydd," he confessed as he watched the fire.

"He hears you, as well," she assured him. "He is with
his mother and sister. They are at peace."

The fire warmed his face, and Gwilym closed his eyes,
beginning to relax.

"Do not send the bard away," he conceded. "And see
about a new lute for him. I tripped over his in the
dark, and it is probably broken."

He could not tell if she believed that, but what she
said was, "He should not be so careless with it."

She continued to toy with his hair and stroke the
stubble on his jaw. As he approached the edge of
sleep, feeling bone-tired, he confessed, "I miss you."

Across the hall, he heard Eimile start to whimper,
settle down briefly, and then, committing herself,
begin to cry in earnest. Duana started to get up, but
then stopped and resumed stroking his hair. There
were footsteps: the baby's nurse. Then, a moment later,
there was angry wailing while Eimile got a dry backside
rather than a warm breast.

He could feel Duana tensing, and, when he opened his
eyes, she was watching the open doorway. Eimile's
nurse peered in, holding the unhappy baby and
assessing the situation in the office. Clearly,
Eimile was hungry, but the nursemaid was hesitating
before she nursed the baby herself. Gwilym frowned.
Duana was not supposed to be doing that; the birth
had been difficult, and the midwives had advised her
to rest and save her strength. They were home, and
there was no more need for her to nurse. It was
common.

He sighed. "Go to her," he conceded unhappily, and
sat up.

Instead, Duana motioned for the nursemaid to bring
Eimile to her, and to close the office door in the
way out.

"Go ahead: yell at me again," she muttered
irritably, as she untied the front of her chemise. 

He looked at her, his teeth gritted, then stood up,
towering over her.

Duana stepped back, and Gwilym realized he was
frightening her.

Eimile was still crying loudly, and the front of
Duana's chemise was open, revealing the tops of full,
bare breasts.

"Bring the baby to our bedchamber. I will get her
cradle. Lie down with me. Sleep." He trailed his
forefinger down her breast. She watched his hand,
doing nothing to stop or to encourage him. Seeing her
hesitancy, he added, "Or she may sleep with us, so I
know both of you are safe."

"I cannot sleep until I feed my child."

"Our child," he corrected her sternly, and followed
her to their bedchamber.

*~*~*~*

"I think, dear husband," she said, stumbling backward
into their bedchamber the next night and giggling
stupidly, "You have gotten me drunk on brandywine and
are planning to seduce me."

Pulling her dress over her head and tossing it on the
floor, Gwilym replied, "No. You are so suspicious.
Damn it! Untie this. I have made a knot of the laces."

Duana fumbled with the ribbons at the neck of her
chemise while Gwilym got in the way by kissing the
hollow of her throat. She kept trying to bat him
aside so she could undress, but the laces were tied
tight and now wet from his mouth. 

"Leave it on. I am still fat," she decided.

"I would like to see where you keep this fat. Be
still," he ordered, and there was a tug at her neck
as he cut the laces with his dagger. "Every man in
Aber seems to be keeping track of my wife, and none
of us can find anything to object to, though there is
much speculation. So let me see, cariad... Is it, hum,
here?"  He kissed the slope of her shoulder as her
chemise joined her dress on the floor.  "No, no... Not
there. Perhaps here?" A lovely breast. "No, I cannot
find it. Lie back; I will look further. Merfyn wants
a full report, but I doubt he will get it."

"I think, my lord, that you may be drunk yourself,"
she replied seriously before falling back onto the
furs of their bed with a little 'ooph' sound and
sending the dogs scampering to the floor. "Perhaps I
am not the only one who is nervous?"

"I am not nervous, witch," came a stern voice from
somewhere above her in the darkness as he quickly
undressed. "How dare you say such a thing? Me,
nervous about a woman."  

The down mattress shifted as Gwilym joined her,
playfully nuzzling her ear with his his nose. She
squirmed, still giggling like a teenage girl.

"Drunk, drunk, drunk," he teased between kisses. "My
wife is a sot."

"You are the sot, as of late. The sad sot," Duana
informed him, and, finding that humorous, collapsed
into another giggling fit. She rolled, then started
to crawl away. "This bed is spinning and I am leaving
it before I fall."

"No- No nursery for you tonight. You promised. Stay
with your lord husband tonight and make me wake with
a smile tomorrow."

He put his arm around her waist, effortlessly
thwarting her escape and tossing her to her back.
Kneeling in front of her, he ran his hand up her bare
thigh, anticipating.

Immediately, the drunken twittering and squirming
stopped, and she looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"It is all right," he assured her quickly, laying
down with her. "It is just your Gwilym, who perhaps
has had too much brandywine as well. Relax," he said,
his voice much softer as he put his arms around her.
"Relax," he repeated, and felt the muscles of her
shoulders soften as she exhaled. "I will go slowly,
carefully. Or would you rather I appreciate another
of your talents?"

"No." Duana paused to hiccup, then, like a sincere,
thoughtful child, said, "Father John says you must
have another son."

Gwilym would have to speak to Leuan about his counsel
to his wife. The priest had told Gwilym earlier, in
confidence, that Duana still worried he would send
Eimile away. Gwilym had poured her a cup of strong
brandywine after supper and talked with her alone,
assuring Duana that was not the case. That had seemed
to comfort her. She had lingered with him, even
staying while she nursed the baby, and then, once
Eimile was asleep and Duana did not go to her own
bed, he had appraised the situation and poured them
more brandywine. And he had kissed her, and moved
them from the sofa to the fur rug in front of the
hearth. More brandywine, more kisses, and when he had
asked her to his bed, she had agreed. She had barely
been able to stand on her feet, but she had agreed,
surprising him. 

He recalled wondering, midway through the second cup
of brandywine, about her sudden change of heart. She
had declined the previous night and seemed to have
barely noticed him at all since they returned from
Ireland. The mystery was solved: Duana was not always
an obedient wife, but she was a dutiful one.

He disliked her coming to him solely out of duty, but
he also knew what the English said about how no man
ought to look a given horse in the mouth.

"Father Leuan still pales when anyone mentions women
giving birth. If Leuan was in your place, he would be
holding me at bay with a kitchen knife, so I do not
think he should advise you to ignore hurts he will
never feel."  

"You do not enjoy hurting me. It is not the hurt; it
is the intent that lasts long afterward."

She must be very, very drunk or Duana would never
have said such a thing. Any of his questions about
other men or her old life were studiously ignored.

"There is no intent," he whispered to her. "I wish
there was no hurt."    

He ran his hands over her, trying to get her to relax
and reciprocate, but she stayed still, as she had
when they first married, like she just wanted him to
do this and have it done. His dulled mind was racing;
this was going to be worse if she was afraid, but
his body, having slept alone since a few months
before Eimile came, was reacting anyway.

Feeling him ready against her, Duana parted her legs,
wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her
face into his shoulder, seeking safety.  Then she
waited, breathing shallowly, but otherwise being
completely still and compliant.

"Do not to that, cariad. Duana..."

"I am sorry."  She still did not move.    

"Do not be sorry.  You still have not had much time
to learn any different.  Open those pretty eyes and
look up at me."  They opened, trying to focus on his
face as he settled on the pillow beside her. Gwilym
was sure she was seeing at least three of him.
"Whatever you want, I will do it."
 
"I want it to have been you," she mumbled
unintelligibly as he touched between her legs,
feeling her flinch, then exhale.   

"Nice?"

"Um, nice," she replied, slurring her words. Duana
inhaled quickly when his fingers moved inside her,
but relaxed as he kissed her again. "Do you love me,
William?" she asked a few minutes later as he shifted
her to her back. "You had no choice in our marriage,
and you never, ever say it."

"I killed a king to keep you, cariad, and there has
been no other woman since I first saw you, not when
I am away, and not in all these months. Do you still
need the pretty words?"   

Her body opened under his. She gasped and stiffened
as he penetrated, but did not struggle or pull away.

"Oh, Christ, that is sweet. So sweet," he managed to
say, pausing let her adjust. "Talk to me. Tell me
what you want." She wrapped one leg around his waist,
but her face stayed against his chest as he pressed
the rest of the way into her. Gasping now, Gwilym
asked her again, "Are you all right?" She was
breathing rapidly but otherwise still, giving no hint
of distress. The urge to move was overwhelming.

"How can you doubt my love?" he whispered to her. "I
am only mortal."

It was awkward to kiss her lips, but he could feel
her breath quick and hot against his shoulder and her
hands on the small of his back. "Almost," he assured
her, trying to hurry, knowing she was uncomfortable.
The last few thrusts were too deep, and he heard her
cry out, but instincts outweighed intentions for a
few seconds.     

"Oh, God. Sweet Jesus, I have missed you."  

Gwilym exhaled, his heart beginning to slow as the
feeling of total peace overtook him. "Cariad, are you
all right?"

She did not look up at him, so he grasped her chin
and turned her face up so he could see it in the
moonlight. Tears; his stomach sank as he moved back.
"Oh no. I am sorry; it has been too long, but I did
not think it was that bad."

"It was not bad. I am fine." Of course; as though
she would ever admit otherwise.  "I just want it to
have been you. You asked me what I want, and that is
it. I do not think even you can do that for me,
William."

"I succeeded this evening: we are both very drunk,
cariad." He rolled to his back, letting her leave her
face against his chest, and wrapping his arms around
her protectively. "You want who to have been me?"

"When I was a virgin; I wish it had been you that
found me instead," she replied, sounding drunk and
sad and sleepy.

Completely caught off guard, he answered, "Oh Duana,
I wish it had been me too.  That would have saved
both of us so much hurt."   

*~*~*~*    

If he had been unaccompanied, he would have just
ridden on, but the Prince of Wales was seldom
unaccompanied. He had already signaled his men to
stop at the tavern, and they had spotted Goliath at
the same moment as he had; there was no way to back
out gracefully. Llewelyn could either go inside and
see Gwilym, or ride on and have all of Gwynedd
whisper that he was afraid to face their lord.

Llewelyn took a deep breath and reined his horse to a
stop. Two of his knights entered the tavern first,
and by the time the prince stepped inside, the crowd
had parted like the story of Moses and the Red Sea.
All eyes were on the two men. Women and children had
made themselves scarce, and every man had silently
chosen a side.

Gwilym had favored one of the serving wenches in this
tavern for a time, but not lately. Lately, word was
that he had returned from Ireland in late fall with
his wife and a baby girl, and had been keeping close
to his own hearth this winter. He had not sent any
messages to Dolwyddelan Castle, nor visited, nor
invited Llewelyn to visit him or meet to go hunting.
The silence had been deafening.

Gwilym stood at a high table with two of his own
knights, wearing his riding cloak and finishing a
tankard of ale. Gwil was only a mile or two from Aber
Castle and likely planning to be home for supper.
Llewelyn was farther from his own castle, and in no
particular hurry to get home. In fact, if he had 
thought he would be truly welcome, he might have
ridden up to Aber Castle to spend the night: to talk
war and nonsense with Gwilym, lose a game of chess,
check on Pembroke's pretty widow, and see the new
baby.

Gwilym looked at him steadily as Llewelyn walked
toward him, appraising him with those unreadable dark
eyes. The prince's knights flanked him, staying
closer than usual, and Llewelyn was silently thankful
for that. They had been friends since boyhood, but it
was still possible that Gwilym would greet Llewelyn
with another fist in the face. How Llewelyn would
respond if Gwilym struck him again, especially in
public, he did not know.

They had fought many wars together. Gwilym had been
trained as a knight, but his father had also had him
schooled as a warrior in the old ways: stealth and
strategy and hand-to-hand combat. He was as good a
soldier as Llewelyn, and a brilliant general and
military strategist. Llewelyn owed many victories to
Gwilym; it was as if his friend could read the
enemy's mind and predict what the other army would
and would not do. Gwil's intellect was frightening,
sometimes; the few times that the prince had seen it,
so was Gwilym's calculated, cold-blooded rage.

Word was that Gwilym had been wounded during the last
siege, and his right hand was still not working as it
should. A knight claimed to have seen the Lord of
Gwynedd fumble with an arrow, even almost drop his
sword. Perhaps Gwilym was not as handy with a knife
as he had been, but Llewelyn was sure of this: if
Gwilym of Aber had wanted the Prince of Wales dead,
Llewelyn would already be dead.

Gwilym stepped sideways, making a place for Llewelyn
at the table, and gestured to the owner for another
tankard and two stools. The entire room breathed a
collective sigh of relief, and the casual hum of
conversation resumed.

"How is the baby?" Llewelyn asked for lack of
anything else to say.

"She is healthy."

"And your wife?"

"Better," Gwilym answered succinctly, as the tavern
owner brought them seats and more ale. "How is your
son?"

"Broken," Llewelyn responded, using the French word.

Gwilym nodded, then took a long drink, drinking more
quickly than he usually would. Getting drunk: that
seemed a fine idea to Llewelyn this evening, and he
emptied his cup as well.

"You know my second son," Llewelyn said few minutes
later, still in French. It was no secret to his
knights, but he did not want all of Wales to know
yet. "I have been considering sending him to you to
train. I think he should be ready, should he need to
rule."

"I have no sons for him to train with," Gwilym
answered in fairly good French. 

"Perhaps that will change, in time."

Many of the noblemen of Wales had lost their eldest
sons this past summer, but most, like Llewelyn, had
others. Wales was a land of war, though, and those
second sons had not been brought up to be warlords.
Rhys was Llewelyn's only other son, born to Tang a
few years after Llewelyn had married Joanna. That was
a sketchy claim to the throne, even in Wales.

"Perhaps." Llewelyn sat in uncomfortable silence for
a few seconds before Gwil added, "It is better if I
come to your court this summer. I will bring Melvin,
and teach Reese all that I can. He is young. Perhaps
there is still time."

Llewelyn studied his drink. "You do not think Reese
can rule?"

Gwilym considered for a moment. "He seems a kind boy,
dutiful, thoughtful: much like his mother. But this
is not France; kindness and duty will not rule Wales,
and many men will challenge his right to rule. If
Reese was Prince of Wales right now, he would say to
me that he is sorry: for my son's death, for bringing
trouble to my hearth. That would be the kind thing to
do. You would never say that, Leolin, nor can it be
true. You are not my friend; you are the Prince of
Wales whom I knew when we were boys. You may regret
my losses, but you are not sorry as one man is to
another. You cannot even grieve your own hurts. You
are not a man or a husband or a father; you are an
institution, a crown. A crown does not apologize or
befriend. You are the Prince of Wales, and I and the
other boys' fathers are your subjects. You do not
apologize for being our prince, which is why you can
rule these lands. When I lead men in battle, I am a
symbol and I cannot falter; the same is true when a
man leads a warrior nation. After the battle, I can
return home and be mortal, though. The Prince of
Wales: he must always be God-like. If he is ever
mortal, then he is weak. If he is weak, then he is as
good as dead."

"But I am mortal, Will. And I am sorry."

"I know, Leol," he assured him. "But never tell
anyone." He signaled the tavern owner again and
encouraged in Welsh, "Drink."

*~*~*~*
              
She was in her robe and brushing out what remained of
her hair before bed, one hundred strokes even, when
Gwilym stumbled in. Gwen had left a tray of food for
him on the table, but hope of getting hot water for a
bath had passed hours ago unless he wanted to heat it
himself or tell Duana to do it.

"How is the baby?" he asked, closing the door and
leaving a trail of his cloak, money purse, dagger,
belt, boots, and tunic on the floor as he crossed
their bedchamber. Stripping off his linen shirt,
Gwilym took a breath, braced himself, and plunged his
face into the basin of icy water. Duana would not
appreciate him coming to bed smelling like a brewery. 
"Christ, that is cold!" he exclaimed, giving everything
from the waist up a quick scrub and then shaking his 
head like a dog so that water flew everywhere.

"I am sorry I am home so late; I met Llewelyn, and we
talked. It was not as awkward as I had thought it
would be: seeing him again. He says his son Gruffydd
still lives. The Brat-King is keeping him in the
Tower, but may still execute him soon. It must be
awful to know your son is dying one day at a time;
perhaps I should be grateful, Llewel says. Perhaps
not, I say. We spoke of betrothing Eimile to his
younger son: the other one by Tang. It would be a
good match. He will have a contract drawn up for me
to look over." 

Reaching for the towel, he continued, "Llewelyn wants
us to come to Christmas Court at Dolwyddelan Castle.
He said he is worried about his Norman wife since her
father died, and he thinks you and she might get on
well. Which means his Norman wife is truly back at
Dolwyddelan Castle, though I could not extract any
further details from him. Did I tell you about that?
J- J-" He gave up on saying the woman's foreign name
and said instead, "I predict disaster, but his wife
speaks French, so if she will speak to you, that
would give you someone to talk to. Maybe that would
cheer both of you up. I suspect Llewel also fears
many of the noblemen will find a reason not to come
to this Christmas Court, but I told him we would be
there. Is the baby's cough better?"

"Have you been drinking again, William?"  

"Not so much; just enough to loosen my tongue a
little. How is Eimile?" He draped the damp towel on a
hook and came up behind his wife, toying with her
short hair and the smoothness of her neck and
anticipating making love to her again.

Duana shrugged away. "Eimile is fevered. I thought I
would sleep with her tonight, if that is all right?"
She stood, placing her brush on the wooden chest, and
focusing on the metal mirror. "Do you want anything?"  

"Yes, I want you in my bed." He had not realized that
was in question.

She nodded, barely moving her head. "Of course.
Whatever you want, my lord."

The pleasant numbness from the alcohol decreased
markedly as Gwilym stepped away from her, surprised.
"Cariad, is something wrong? Last night..."

She shook her head 'no,' still staring past her own
reflection.

"I will be more careful tonight; I swear it," he
promised.

That got no response from her.

"Bring the baby to sleep with us later, if you are
worried about her." His eyes scoured her back for
clues. He had checked on the baby before he came to
their bedchamber, and Eimile was fine. "Yes, I have
been drinking, but I am not going to hurt you. That
is never my intent." 

Another nod.

He toyed with the fabric of her robe, stroked her
hair again, and then stepped close behind her and put
his arm around her. He kissed her neck and added,
"But if you do not think that is the case, so soon, I
recall you are a woman of many talents. Choose as you
wish, but I would like for you to remain here, with
me."

Duana nodded her head again, now looking at the floor
and being completely still as he touched her. 

"Perhaps I will even repay you in kind," he offered
in a husky whisper, trying to get her to respond.
"Duana, the baby is fine. Your husband, however, has
had a miserable evening and is lonely. I pray: make
it better."

"Of course," was the only response he got.

"Go check on Eimile, then. Ease your mind," he
offered, thinking that might be the problem.

"You do not want me?"

"Of course I want you," Gwilym replied, not
understanding this female game. "I think it is the
other way around: you do not want me."

He waited for an answer, but did not get one.  

"Fine. Go." He turned away from her and jerked at
the laces of his breeches, stripping for bed. God
forbid he come between her and the baby.

Feeling a warm hand against the small of his back,
Gwilym stopped, his thumbs still looped in the waist
of his breeches. After a few seconds, Duana rested
her forehead against his shoulder blade, and her
breath made his skin shiver as she spoke. "I do not
know what is wrong with me. I feel- I-" She tried
several times, but could not put it into words.

"I am not going to force you. Not this night or any
other." He swallowed. "It is quite soon, I know; we
are still a fortnight from being in the Church's good
graces. There is no harm in waiting. If the only goal
is another child, then we can wait and see if you
have conceived."

Her hands slid around his waist, toying enticingly
with the line of dark hair that ran down from his
navel. "Another child that you can marry off as you
please?"

This was like fighting blindfolded. He had no idea
where the next assault would come from.

"Llewelyn is a good man and I trust his son will be
as well, but a woman cannot be married until she is
of age; this is no more than a tentative bargain.
If it does not seem like a good match when Eimile is
older, either to Llewelyn or to me, there will be no
hard feelings. Only peasants marry for love, but I
will not have her miserable."  

Thinking he had figured out what was bothering her,
Gwilym turned so they were facing each other, her
arms still resting on his hips. "I am not trying to
send her away. I told you that. She will live with us
until she is at least twelve, and probably much
older. I am not eager to give Eimile to a man,
especially a young man, as soon as she is of age.
Once she is married, she will just be as few hours
ride away."

"But she can choose? If she does not want to marry
Prince Llewelyn's son, she does not have to?"

"If she objects, no, I will not insist she be the
Princess of Wales," he said sarcastically. It was the
best match he could dream of for his daughter. It kept
her close to home, protected by law, and married the 
son of a nobleman he respected. He did not like Duana
disdaining it. "She can marry my tanner, too, if she 
chooses."

He exhaled, remembering he had been drinking, and the
evening with Llewelyn had been a tense one.

"No, she does not have to be married to a man she
does not want," he amended more calmly. He rested his
chin on top of her head, closing his eyes, thinking
he finally understood. "Neither do you. You do not
owe me another child, nor will I make you leave
Eimile here. You have always been free to go as you
please."

Duana balled her hands into fists against his chest,
as though she wanted badly to hit someone. "No, I do
not want to leave. Yes, I want to give you another
child. You are so good to me. I know what you have
done for me, how much you have lost. I should be on
my knees thanking God that you care for me and
Eimile."

"Then what is wrong?  Help me understand, because I
truly do not." He put a hand under her chin and
tilted her face up, stroking her cheek with the
other. "You are so lovely. I know you do not think so; 
You can list your imagined flaws the way other
women list their attributes, but I want you or no
one. Yes, I need a son, but not enough to hurt or
force you, or, in truth, to risk your health. Yes, I
sorely miss laying with you, but you are not going to
find another woman in our bed just because you are
not ready yet." 

Gwilym took two steps back so he could sit on the
high mattress, then pulling a reluctant Duana to come
with him.  He wracked his brain, still guessing.
"This second son of Llewelyn's is no relation to King
John. Tangwystl died giving birth to him and his
sister. Llewelyn has always acknowledged his children
just as I did Dafydd and my daughter. There is no
stigma in Wales that Rhys is a bastard, though it may
be a problem if he must rule. Do you not like that
Llewelyn's wife is King John's daughter?  Or do you
not want Eimile married to a Welshman? I thought... I
do not like how I have seen Normans treat their
wives. I do not want my daughter married to a
stranger in a far away land who can beat her as he
pleases. If Rhys ap Llewelyn mistreats my Eimile, he
answers to me, then to his father, provided Eimile
does not kill Rhys first."

Battles he planned precisely, but this was a typical
Gwilym tactic when talking to women: just keep moving
and eventually he would stumble onto the correct
thing; there was little strategy involved. Duana
exhaled and lay down, so he must have said something
right. Now he just had to figure out what it was.
He curled up behind her, draped an arm over her
shoulders, and pondered it, pursing his lips in
effort. 

"When I first came here, I wanted to close my eyes,
lay in your arms, and let you fight my battles for
me. You did. I cannot even think how to begin
repaying you."

He opened his mouth to tell her he expected nothing
in return, but wisely decided to stay silent and let
her talk.    

"You are so good at it: leading men, making tactical
decisions. I know you only want the best for me
and Eimile. We are your precious things. I feel like-
If Prince Llewelyn or another man you trusted was
lonely one night, you would feel free to offer me to
him the same as you would offer your horse if his was
lame. You would be surprised if I objected to
anything you wanted, provided you noticed I was
objecting in the first place."

Gwilym raised himself upon his elbow, eyes wide. "Are
you insane?" Either he had misunderstood, or she must
think he truly was a barbarian.

"I must be." 
    
*~*~*~*
 
"She thinks I would offer her to another man. To you.
For sport. Like a Norman lord welcoming a noble
guest: here is your bed, and here is a woman to warm
it."

Father Leuan leaned away from the table, looking
disapproving, but Prince Llewelyn considered a
moment, trying to formulate a response. Gwilym
waited, glad to have someone with whom to discuss the
puzzle that was the fairer sex. Merfyn would listen,
but listening and understanding were two different
things, and Merfyn would embroider on extra details
and then tell the entire castle.

"No, that is not what you first said Duana said,
Gwil." Llewelyn waved away the tavern owner, wanting
privacy as opposed to more wine or a prostitute at
the moment. "Even if it is, women seldom say what
they mean, anyway. I do not think she truly expects
to be sent to sleep with me."

"She had better not." Gwilym replied, then paused to
empty his goblet. He and his sofa, after a brief
separation, were on good terms once again. "There are
some things that should not be shared between
Welshmen: wives, blood, tooth aches, bad luck..."

"The French pox, lice, and hangovers," Prince
Llewelyn added, nodding.

"Many women are in bad humor after having a child,"
Leuan chimed in, wanting to change the topic. "It has
to do with having too much black bile, but it will
pass as soon as she conceives again."

The two noblemen did not comment on the priest's
naivete. There was an obvious step between a wife
being sad and irritable all the time and becoming
pregnant again that Leuan was not taking into
consideration. 

"What could she mean, then? I do not understand how I
suddenly became an awful husband and bedmate. I would
not say it to my wife, but no other woman has ever
complained." 

Gwilym raised his goblet to the tavern owner, and
once it was refilled, emptied it again quickly enough
for Llewelyn to raise an eyebrow at him. He ignored
Llewelyn and gestured for the owner to return and
then to leave the pitcher of wine.

He could order her to submit or ply her with alcohol,
but neither idea was palatable. Duana spent all her
time in the nursery, so much that the ledger was not
kept and he had resorted to getting Gwen to patch his
shirts. She was so irritable that he could annoy her
by breathing, but he could also make her cry by
furrowing his brow at her. Since he seemed to make
her so unhappy, he avoided her, and Llewelyn was
right: he was drinking too much. When he was not
governing Gwynedd, Gwilym alternated between visiting
Dafydd's tomb and the tavern, returning to Aber
Castle only when he had to, and then only to eat in
the kitchen and sleep on the sofa. Most dangerously,
despite his claim to Duana, he found himself watching
the door of the village tavern, wondering if Muretta
might come in one night. Fidelity was common perhaps, 
something peasants pledged, but he liked being
able to tell Duana in truth that there was only her.
And he would like for that to continue to be the
truth.

"I doubt Duana's poor temperament is anything you
have done, Gwil," Llewleyn decided. "I have seen it
happen, and I think Father Leuan is right: it has to
do with a woman not conceiving again after having a
child. She is not herself."

"She certainly is not herself. I wish this woman
would leave and allow my Duana to come back. I rather
liked her."

"I will counsel her," Father Leuan offered. "You need
a son, Llwynog."

"I need many things," Gwilym countered curtly. "But
the least of them is a priest lecturing my wife again
about her wifely duties. You will say nothing to her."

Leuan folded his arms across his chest unhappily.

Prince Llewelyn was toying with his wine goblet.
"When Duana is herself, does she laugh at your stupid
puns, Gwil?" he asked a few minutes later.

"Those puns are genius. Yes, my memories of seeing
her happy are becoming hazy, but I recall some
laughter."

"Your wardrobe has improved along with your French;
she must sew your shirts," Llewelyn observed, seeming
oddly thoughtful for him. "I bet Lady Duana patches
your wounds and fusses over your supper and pretends
to listen to all your bizarre ideas, as well."

"Not at present," Gwilym shot back. "Again, my memory
has begun to fail."

Llewelyn held up his wine, watching the metal reflect
as he turned the stem between his fingers. In French,
sounding casual, he asked, "Right now, are there
guards outside your wife's bedchamber to ensure there
are no visitors while you are away?"

"No," Gwilym answered honestly. "You know there are
not. I do not question my wife's fidelity. Only her
affection for me, at present."

"Then I envy you," Llewelyn said, still watching his
goblet.

Joanna was not beautiful, as Tang had been, but she
was Llewelyn's legal wife and her dowry had given him
the toe-hold he had needed to unite northern Wales.
The Prince of Wales had shown Joanna every courtesy a
husband owed a Norman wife, and he had been fond of
her, Gwilym thought. She had given him a daughter a
few years after they had married, then another
daughter and another. Llewelyn had been delighted
with his bouquet of little girls. Then a stillborn
son. Then Tangwystl had died in childbirth with Rhys,
leaving Llewelyn with a newborn, illegitimate son and
a broken heart. Then Joanna had another son, born far
too soon to live, and for years after, only
miscarriages. King John had battered Wales and
Llewelyn battered back against his father-in-law.
Llewelyn had mistresses for sport, but none for love
and none for long. Then there was returning from
battle to find a Norman knight in Joanna's
bedchamber. That, for Gwilym, would have been
unforgivable, and it should have meant a death
sentence for high treason. Llewelyn had sent Joanna
to an abbey while he licked his wounds, but then, to
the mystification of every man in the realm, a few
months ago, he had taken his wife back.

He was well-established as the Prince of Wales, the
English Crown was in chaos with a boy-king on the
throne, and Llewelyn needed a legitimate male heir,
which he would never get from Joanna. He could easily
have divorced her and married a younger, more
politically useful woman, yet he had not. He could
even have used his children's marriages to make
alliances and then married a woman of his own
choosing, yet he had not.

One of Gwilym's knights had noticed the guards
outside Princess Joanna's bedchamber, and told
Merfyn, who had told Gwilym, and by now all of Aber
Castle knew. Llewelyn did not go to her bed,
according to the gossip among the knights, but Joanna
still sat beside him at the Welsh Court as his
consort. It could only be because, despite
everything, Llewelyn still cared for his wife.

It seemed foolish. Prince Llewelyn was many things:
arrogant, guarded, callous and short-sighted,
sometimes. He was as stubborn as a mule and as subtle
as a battering ram, but Gwilym did not take him for
a fool.

Yes, Gwilym had hurt Duana the one time he had been
with her since the baby came. But that had been an
accident and he had been sorry. She did not touch him
at all now, as a lover or otherwise. It had been
weeks since that night, and his pride was suffering
more than his body. True, Duana had been clearly
pregnant by the time he had returned from the last
campaign, but she had been interested in lovemaking.
Very interested in her Welsh lessons, in Gwilym's
view. Perhaps now that the threat of being sent back
to King John had passed, so had her interest. It was
not just lovemaking, though, or the ledger or the
hole in his sleeve. Llewelyn was right: she was not
herself, and it frightened him.

He looked at his wine, unable to remember how many
goblets he had drank, and considered that perhaps he
was not himself, either.

"Women are mysterious creatures, my lord," Leuan
counseled gently. "They can be weak-willed,
troublesome, lustful. Their affection can be fickle,
like a hearth that requires constant tending, but
they can also be strong beyond measure. They can sin,
but they can also repent. Like most beautiful things,
they require care, patience and devotion. Give them
that, and, I have heard, their love is God's
greatest gift to man."

Gwilym glanced at Father Leuan, and realized Leuan
was speaking not to him, but to Prince Llewelyn.
Leuan heard many confessions; Gwilym wondered what
the priest knew about Llewelyn and Joanna that Gwilym
did not. Unlike Merfyn, Father Leuan would never tell.

The Prince nodded, and a second later, his
inscrutable expression returned. 

"To the love of troublesome women," Gwilym offered,
raising his wine.

"Since the alternative is Pretty Gwil over there,
Father-" Llewelyn raised his goblet. "To women: may
we spend lifetimes delving into their mysteries."

Father Leuan frowned again, but Llewelyn and Gwilym
ignored him as they divided the last of the pitcher
of wine between the three cups. It was late, it was
starting to snow again outside, and the wind was
picking up. Llewelyn looked at the door as it shook
on its hinges, then at the two young women sitting
with his knights across the room.

"The slim brunette," Llewelyn decided, pointing at
the girl on the left. "Tonight I plan to delve into
her mysteries."

At his gesture, the prostitute slid off the knight's
lap and approached the Prince of Wales, swaying her
hips and smiling enticingly. She was prettier, but
she bore a passing resemblance to Joanna, Gwilym
thought. Wisely, though, he did not say it.

"Oh, that is a fine choice and a fine pun," Gwilym
said in approval. "I am riding up the mountain to my
own enigmatic woman." He got to his feet, stretched
tiredly, and then shrugged on his gray riding cloak.
He yawned and invited, "Come pass the night with us,
Llewel."

"It is cold outside, and the love here is
guaranteed." Llewelyn reminded him, but got up
anyway. His knights quickly finished their wine and
stood as well. 

"Wrap her up and bring your love with you. The only
bed in Aber Castle that comes with a woman in it is
mine."

Llewelyn nodded almost imperceptibly and, as one of
his knights paid the tavern owner, another had the
prostitutes find their cloaks. The other two men
disappeared to the stable, fetching the horses and
bringing them to the tavern door.

In the cold and the darkness and the chaos of squires
scurrying, Gwilym noticed that Father Leuan was not
on his horse. Leuan was standing beside the gelding,
holding the reins. Thinking perhaps the older man
needed help to mount but did not want to ask for it,
Gwilym led Goliath over. A squire followed, ready to
serve as a step-stool if need be.

"Are you pouting that you did not get a girl, Leuan?"
Gwilym teased him.

"Give me leave to remain in the village tonight," the
priest requested. "In the church. I will see you at
breakfast."

"As you wish," Gwilym agreed, but thought it an odd
request. Vespers and Compline had already been sung;
Lauds would not be for hours, and Leuan could have
easily slept in his own bed and been back before
dawn. The monks of Aber Church would be asleep, and
if Leuan wanted to pray, there was a chapel in Aber
Castle.

Father Leuan bid Gwilym and Prince Llewelyn
goodnight, turned, and led his horse not toward the
church in the center of Aber, but down the lane
toward the cooper, the smith, the baker, and the
candle-maker's hut. Gwilym doubted Leuan had any
interest in bread, tools, or barrels this time of
night, but beeswax was a possibility. The candle-
maker had died last year, but his wife's blonde niece
had been sent to help out, and so candles continued
to flicker to welcome men home. In fact, the demand
for candles among unmarried tradesmen and even lower-
ranking noblemen seemed to have increased as of late.

The niece was Manx, which was stymieing the Welshmen
trying to court her, but Father Leuan was fair with
Manx-Gaelic.

The wheels and pulleys of Gwilym's brain turned, and
the pieces fell into place.

Good Lord; it was freezing cold and it was not as if
most priests were actually chaste. The bishop had
more children than Llewelyn did. Leuan did not have
to sneak off into the shadows. He could not take a
woman to the monks sleeping quarters at the church,
nor could he linger at her hearth for long before
tongues would start wagging. While Leuan's bedchamber
in Aber Castle was his to do with as he liked, he
would not be seen bringing a woman there, either:
both openly breaking his vow of celibacy and
advertising the blonde widow was his mistress, and
therefore not marriageable.

"You are going the wrong way, Father," Gwilym called
after him.

"A different path, Llwynog," Leuan's voice answered
from the darkness, and the sound of his horse's feet
faded into the night, muffled by the snow.

Goliath nudged Gwilym with his nose, making a deep
rumbling sound in his chest. When he shifted his
attention back to Llewelyn and his knights, Gwilym
found the men had the horses ready and were waiting
on him. 

"There are two girls, Gwil," Llewelyn reminded him as
they mounted. Once the Prince was in the saddle, the
prostitute swung up behind him. The Prince of Wales
fished in his saddlebag, found a cape, and passed is
back to her. She thanked him as she tied it around
her shoulders. She pressed close to Llewelyn, putting
one arm around his waist to hold on. Her other hand
snaked under Llewelyn's fur mantle and came to rest
on his inner thigh, rubbing. 

The second young woman looked around, not sure which
man she was supposed to be with, or at least, which
man got to be first. She was dark-haired as well, and
more lush: full breasts, round hips, and, Gwilym
suspected, the first hint of a pregnant belly. The
women were sisters; their parents were dead and the
tavern owner was some distant relative. Gwilym could
remember the girls being small: perhaps nine and ten
when Dafydd was six or seven. In fact, he could
remember Dafydd giving the younger girl a pear in
exchange for a kiss.

His son would have been fifteen now. If Dafydd were
here, Gwilym would have made sure the second girl
went to him, and Llewelyn's knights could find their
own entertainment.

He closed his eyes, pushing those thoughts from his
mind.

"Gwil," the prince prompted impatiently, as his horse
pranced in place.

"Oh, I prefer a challenge," Gwilym assured Llewelyn,
the snow stinging his face as he turned Goliath
toward the steep white road that led home.

The captain of Llewelyn's knights helped the second
prostitute scrambled onto the saddle in front of him.
He pulled his heavy riding cloak over both of them
against the winter night, then whispered into her
ear, grinning. Whatever he said, she giggled.

Duana kept telling Gwilym that he needed a warmer
riding cape, but he liked his old gray one. Perhaps
she was right, because the cape was not keeping him
warm tonight. He felt frozen and empty, and, despite
the men around him, utterly alone. 

Llewelyn signaled his knights, and they rode up the
hill toward the castle with the squires running along
behind. Where Father Leuan spent the night, he never
found out, but when Gwilym asked the monks, he
discovered it had not been with them.

*~*~*~*  

"Hush, Duana, hush," he murmured, rocking her against
him. The nightmare was not stopping. She continued to
struggle, so Gwilym let go of her so she would not
think she was being held down. He stayed with her,
rubbing her back and shoulders and pushing her hair
off her sweaty face until her thrashing stopped. "It
is just me, cariad. I am home. You are safe; no one
is going to hurt you.

Once she awoke, terrified and sobbing blindly in the
darkness, she curled into a little ball on his lap
until the shudders and demons retreated to the
corners.  

"You were watching me," she said finally, her voice
muffled against his chest.

"I was watching you," he admitted softly, pulling the
fur coverlet around her.   

"I did not know you still did that: watching at
night." Duana sniffed and wiped her eyes on her
sleeve. "I thought you slept."

Gwilym raised his eyebrows, though she could not see
his surprised expression.  His daughter was still out
there somewhere, trying to find her way home, and now
his Dafydd lay in the vault beside Gwilym's father
and grandfather.  His Duana slept alone in bed,
tormented by dreams she did not want to discuss with
him, and the Old King's bastard daughter slept in the
nursery, her entire young life a tangled lie. At
almost forty, he had no brothers or living uncles or
male heir, and his wife tended to look through him
these days, as though he was made of mist.

"You smell like a tavern," she observed.

"I was with Llewel. His men are downstairs, giving
the dogs something to watch."

She 'hummed' disinterestedly, either not
understanding or not caring.

"Eimile is in her cradle in my office," he explained.
"Llewelyn is in your bed tonight, at my invitation,
so your fears were well-founded. Fortunately, as I
requested, you are here with me," he finished,
stroking her face. "I am glad you decided to obey."

"I am glad you are home," she said, seeming relieved.

"You do not like it when I am away."

She answered simply, "No. It is too quiet."

"You are safe. There are guards on the walls and at
the gates. No one will hurt you here," he promised.
"I can have knights stand guard outside the door, if
you want."

"Or you can just come home," she suggested softly in
the darkness.

"Or I can just come home," he agreed. "You know I
would kill them if I could, cariad," he told her, the
wine still warming his blood and loosening his
tongue. "If these demons that come to you at night
were flesh, I could kill them with my bare hands and
the dreams would stop."

"Sometimes demons are flesh, William," she replied,
pressing even closer to him.  "Sometimes they are
handsome young men with fine horses and armor and
mysterious, foreign languages. Quite dazzling to a
mason's daughter."

"Tell me about these demons so I will recognize them
if they enter my dreams." 

She did not seem inclined to answer, so he tried a
different tactic: "You know, I passed through Dover
that year, and I am a fool for girls with big, blue
eyes.  Perhaps I should have thrown you across my
saddle and taken you home with me.  I have never been
with a virgin, so then it would have been me, as you
said."

She sniffed again, her breathing slowing. "I have
heard Gwen's stories of you. You would have ridden
past me and never stopped."

Although that was probably true, that was not the
direction he wanted this conversation to take. "Try
me and see."   

Duana looked up at him, trying to decide if she was
going to tolerate this tipsy silliness. Exhaling, she
replied, "If you are the knight that has been
following me, you are wasting your breath and charm.
I am betrothed to a man in Dublin, and I do not
understand a word you Normans say. My brothers speak
some French. Go find one of them to bother. I only
want my father to finish your castle so we can go
home." 

Relaxing with her, he lay down, settling her on the
bed in front of him. "Do not insult me; I am a
Welshman.  King John sent the Welsh archers to Dublin
with his soldiers. Now he wants us to remain in
Dover, but I am returning home. My men will stay, but
I am riding to Wales."

"Welsh, Norman: all you soldiers look alike,
jabbering in your foreign tongues and taking whatever
appeals to you. I cannot tell the difference."

"You can tell us apart by our swords: the Welsh are
larger and more skilled in a tight spot," he quipped.  

Duana did not seem to get his joke, or else she
ignored it if she did.  

"Fine, you and your sword are Welsh. Good day and
ride on, Sir Welshman."   

"Oh, but I am wounded. A very angry, though very
inaccurate Irishman, remember?" For the first time in
months, he heard her chuckle. "Could you see to my
wound before I fall out of my saddle with fever?"

She considered for a moment. "Well, I suppose I can.
If you are really so ill, you are probably harmless.
Why are you riding with such a wound? Are you in a
hurry to get home?"

"A messenger says my father has been wounded, but
there is more. I will tell you a secret, sweet girl."
He raised his lips close to her ear and whispered: "I
have what Normans call a mistress - a hearth wife -
and she and I are expecting a child any day. There is
an older boy, but this baby is mine, I think. In
fact, I am almost sure of it. My first child."

Duana adjusted her head on the pillow, tickling his
face with her hair. "You are teasing me. You are too
young to be married."

"No, not married; it is slightly different: a pagan
rather than a Christian marriage. I am..." Gwilym
paused to count.  "..Five and twenty or so. If you
are fourteen, then I am five or six and twenty and
living with Diana, much to my father's annoyance.
Dafydd is small and my daughter is about to be born."

She rolled to face him, resting her palms against his
bare chest. "Diana will be dead when you return. Your
father will soon follow her."

He nodded. He had not planned for this discussion to
be about him, but Duana somehow dammed conversations
so they flowed around her life rather than through it.

"You loved her."

"I thought I did. I did," he admitted. "She was so
lovely: tall, with black hair and soft brown eyes. I
would have given anything if she had loved me in
return. Only me. For a time, I think she did, but
then... Diana loved powerful men. I was a powerful
man, but there were others, when I was away."

Gwilym fidgeted, uneasy. He had never said that to
another soul.

"Then she was a fool, William."   

He looked away, embarrassed. "We were both fools. I
loved pretty, passionate women. She was one of those
women, but there were others, when I was away. There
were others even when I was in Aber, even when it was
Diana I came home to. But then I was with her all
winter, and I knew a baby was coming and I wanted to
be... Better," he said, summing it up in one word. "I
could not marry Diana in the church, but she was my
hearth wife, and my child's mother, and I could treat
her more kindly. One of those other women, a few
villages away: she was angry when I stopped visiting
her, and she claimed it was because Diana had
bewitched me. That year, the crops failed, Father and
I were both away at war, and the peasants believed it
was because Diana was a witch. They encircled Diana's
house, set a fire. Dafydd and the baby got out
somehow; Diana did not. After I buried Diana, then
buried my father... I was the Lord of Gwynedd, and I
had that woman hanged."

He exhaled.

"I do have stories with happy endings. Just not that
story," he added. "That one just has moral lessons
and nightmares, I suppose. As if we do not have
enough nightmares."

Her hand came up, gently exploring the angles of his
face.  

"My nightmares and demons are my own, just as yours
are." She grasped his chin and turned his face to
hers, just as he often did to her. "Do you
understand?  This is not about you any more than
Diana was about me."

He nodded, vaguely comprehending.

"I think I have banished them for tonight, and we
have not yet made another son."

"No?" He had not been home to notice. He would have
to correct that.

"No. Would you like to stay and try again?"

He opened his mouth, his lips brushing hers as he
answered: "No, but may I stay and make love to my
wife? That is what I would like."

*~*~*~*