*~*~*~*

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

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

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

"What is this about, Gwil? I have talked to
FitzWalter; he says you have broken the king's law
and are being held for trial by jury.  I explained
the crossbow was a joke - you are just odd like that
- but he will not listen."

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

"FitzWalter is saying 'treason,' and I do not
understand how a crossbow is treason.  Against the
law, yes, but not treason. You hunt in my woods. You
'forget' to show up to pay homage. If I tried to
punish you every time you broke the law, I would get
nothing done except punishing you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Even if any man could swear King John raped her... I
tried to tell myself it was his right. I even told
Duana it was his right. I did try, Llewel, but some
things, I just cannot make myself believe. He hurt
Duana because she did not want him, he tossed her
away, he hung my Dafydd, and then he wanted my wife's
child back to use as a pawn? No."

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

"I see."

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

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

Gwilym shook his head 'no.' "If you can find Leuan, I
would like to make my final confession to him; he was
with the Norse woman on the Isle of Mann the last I
heard. Assure him safe passage. If you can manage it,
I would like to see Duana to tell her goodbye.  Then,
get her and Eimile out of London, and I will confess."

Llewelyn shook his head, not believing this. "I will
Lie. Tell me what to say and I will say it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," she responded, clenching her fists.

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

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

"Your husband is a traitor and a murderer and a
heretic and Heaven only knows what else."

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

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

"Yes," Duana replied defiantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I trust him," she said icily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Understands what?"

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

"You suit me just fine."

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

He hesitated, wondering how to approach the subject,
then said bluntly, "Llewelyn's wife has miscarried
again; the messenger came yesterday. He cares for his
'Briela' - his wild rose - but she is never going to
give him a son and he knows it.  Even if she did, men
would always whisper that the child was not his.  The
king could not object if he divorced her after what
she has done.  If he would divorce her and marry you,
that would ease Mab's claim to Wales, and you two are
friends. It would work out well, I think. Once, he
said he envied me: that you slept alone when I was
away, patched my shirts, and laughed at my jokes.
Llewel has conquered all of Wales, yet he is jealous
my wife laughs at my jokes. We were both very drunk
and morose when he admitted that, so never tell him I
told you. He is a good father, I have never seen him
to mistreat a woman in all the years I have known
him, and he would kill any man who tried to harm you.
Wales is always at war, though, and one day your
warlord husband will not return from battle. If Mab
is not old enough to rule when Llewelyn dies - you
should consider that, too. Llewel has promised to
take care of you, but I have not spoken to him about
marriage. It would be up to the two of you. After..."

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

"FitzWalter is also a good man, Duana. He does well
as regent, and the English crown is stable. You would
never find yourself penniless with a third husband's
head decorating a pike. He would be as kind to you as
he knows how, and he is powerful enough that he could
keep my lands for you, if you want Eimile dowered
with them. I am not sure anyone else except Llewelyn
could do that. Fitz is younger than Llewel, I like
what I see of him with young Henry, and what I have
seen of him with women. His infatuation with you - it
is genuine; he has caused trouble because he cares
for you, not just because he can. Even if that
infatuation fades over the years, he is an honorable
man; he would not mistreat you or your children." He
paused, then asked, "He cannot father a child, can
he?"

"No," she answered. "He suspects not. He told me
when, when-" She swallowed a stubborn lump in her
throat. "When he asked me to marry him."

"I like that you would never risk childbirth again.
Take some time to grieve, after I am dead, and then
think about it: if you could be Countess of Pembroke
again, or if you would smother Noble Fitz with a
pillow one night as he slept."

"I do not want to be Princess of Wales or Countess of
Pembroke. I want you."

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

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

"Tonight, I can only promise I will always come back.
I will have to find you in this next life we speak of
sometimes." Trying to make a joke, Gwilym continued,
"Just do not be born as a sheep or a man - I do not
care for either.  Not that I have tried either," he
added, starting to chatter to cover up his aching
heart. "I just do not think that I would."

"Are you afraid, William?" Duana asked softly. "I am.
I am so afraid."  

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

"Will you change your mind: about another baby?  It
is time again - if we would-"

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

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

He shook his head, watching her tortured eyes as she
tried not to cry.  "I will not have you die because
of me.  I will not have you to rush into another
marriage because you are with child. We have a son.
My son will rule Wales, one day. I am already
immortal because of you." 

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

"Will you do something for me?"

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

"Prove them wrong."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then prove it to me."

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

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

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

"Make Duana leave with Llewelyn. She will not go
willingly; I understand that, but Llewelyn will not
harm her, either.  Let Duana remarry as she pleases,
if she pleases, and let her have say over Eimile and
Mab. Grant her rights to my land with Llewelyn
speaking for her in court, if need be. And do not
touch her..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am not a Norman and I have no quarrel with you,"
William continued. "She is free to leave me. If she
wanted to be with you now, I would step aside. I
would even leave Eimile with you and Duana, knowing
she would be well-cared for. But you decide if I live
or die, Fitz, whether Duana can ever see our son or
me again, even whether she can remarry after I am
dead or if she will be sent to a nunnery and my
children and lands taken from her.  You control
everything precious to her and she had nothing else
to offer except herself.  How can you think she has a
choice but to consent?  She will agree to you, and
she will even manage to smile and pretend, but wake
up one night, Fitz, and you will see she is crying.
If you truly care for her and think she might someday
care for you, let her go.  For now.  Send her to
Wales with Llewelyn, let her grieve, and then, in
summer, see if she wants to return to London and to
you. I wager..." He paused to consider. "I wager she
will return before next winter. You can wait a year.
Keep her here now, though, and she will hate you
forever."

"What if she is with child?"

"She is not." The corner of William's mouth rose
again, amused. "I am sorry, FitzWalter: you do not
get to both eat your cake and have your cake. Dying
in flames so you may court my wife next summer is all
I am willing to do for you."

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

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

Fitz nodded tersely, folding his arms across his
chest.

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

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

"Let Duana go and I will confess," William repeated,
his face now expressionless as he tilted his chair
precariously backward. "The most powerful man in the
world is in love with my wife, and believes I did
kill King John."
 
"I have no desire to execute an innocent man.  I am
not going to charge Duana for having that crossbow.
If that is why you are confessing, I was only
bluffing.  It was just an ill-considered gift I took
from her before she could hurt herself."     

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

"I know who I am and to whom I belong, though it has
taken me this lifetime to figure it out. I am content
to die knowing that, and knowing that souls mate
eternally. Nothing you can do can take her from me,
nor me from her. I hope you live long enough to
understand, but for now you are a still boy who
believes he can own swans, Marshall FitzWalter."

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Druid only shook his head 'no,' backing away.
In his dreams, the ice suddenly began to crack and
shift, as it did now - breaking apart with loud
moans. As soon as there was room, Gwilym lay on his
stomach and reached into the fissure, ignoring the
gashes from the sharp edges and the precarious angle
of the collapsing ice as he fished in the murky
water.  The body began to drift away, and he lunged 
after it, falling head-over-heels into the frigid 
water, but succeeding in grasping her wrist.  It 
seemed like an eternity before he broke the surface 
again, gasping for air as the cold squeezed the 
breath from his lungs. Coughing, he struggled to 
stay afloat and keep hold of her hand until he
could drag her atop the drifting ice.

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

His chest constricting painfully, he looked at the
body, touching the bruises around the neck and the
bloody stubs where fingers had once been.  He could
not imagine what mortal man would do this - kill a
woman and then take her hair and fingers as trophies.
This was a demons work. Evil was not speaking
against the Church or taking his wife among the
bonfires: destroying such beauty so cruelly and
senselessly was evil. As the tears began to fall, he
pushed what remained of her wet, red-black curls back
from her forehead.  Someone had hacked it off: even
the hasty haircut Duana had given herself in
Llangly's hut was better than this.

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

That would truly be Hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

Stealth, plotting, and shadows were Welsh strengths,
so she just kept a firm grip on her daughter's hand
and kept walking down the main aisle of the church,
having absolutely no plan except to escape.  Llewelyn
claimed he had some plan, according to the servant he
had bribed to bring her a message, but most of Prince
Llewelyn's plans were simply 'win' - he left the
details to William. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mathair just has no idea where that might be,' she
added to herself.  She had counted on Llewelyn to
meet her as they planned, and now the Prince of Wales
was nowhere to be seen.

"Cold," Eimile protested, beginning to whimper.

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

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

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

"I need to know what you did to King John," Fitz said
evenly, crossing his arms as he stood in the doorway
of Gwilym's tower room. "Now, William.  There is no
scribe or jury, and if you are trying to protect
Duana, you have failed.  Tell me what you did."

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

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

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

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

"So you killed him?"

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

"Then how did he die?"

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

"But Duana told-"

"Duana told you what I told her.  I told you I made
sure King John burned in Hell, and that is exactly
what I did. What I did was treason and heresy, and I
regret neither."    

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Henry, now!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My Dafydd; King John's son." 

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

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

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

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

"What?"      

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

Fitz took the jeweled dagger in disbelief, staring at
William's weary, tear-stained face. His father had
died trying to protect her, just as William was
willing to do. There was something about that woman:
men got in line to fall in love with her and die for
her. In a world of dangerous men, she was a dangerous
woman to love.    

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*