*~*~*~*

He had never told Duana of the dream he had the first
night she came: that she had changed into an animal
familiar and was scurrying through his rooms,
bewitching him. It was foolishness, he knew, but that
was still how Gwilym thought of the sound: as a
little pagan night magic coming to keep him company.

"Go back to bed, cariad. You are sleeping for others
now and it is not really morning yet." Even as he
said it, he knew it would do no good, and was glad of
it.

"Yes, I slept for you and me both, and now we are
rested and would like to see something besides the
inside of this castle."

After stretching, she set the candle she had brought
on his desk and maneuvered herself down on the sofa,
trying to find a comfortable position.

"How much longer now?"  

Diana had been taller, wider through the hips, but
she had still complained twice as much as Duana, and
probably had half the trouble. The midwives
infuriatingly refused to tell men any details, but
there had been some blood on the sheets last week,
and he and Leuan had passed the morning in prayer
until the midwives appeared and said all was well.
All was not well, obviously, but as long as the
danger was to the baby and not to Duana, his prayers
were effective, if highly heretical.   

"About two months by my count, twelve weeks by your
math."

"Well, you are much better with numbers than I. Raise
your feet," he requested, bringing the letter with
him as he joined her on the sofa, letting her legs
rest across his lap and adjusting his- her robe to
keep her warm.  

"You have hemmed my bed-robe!" He turned up the edges
of the heavy fabric, examining the neat stitches
where she had shortened his robe a foot so it would
not drag when she wore it. It would not reach past
his knees now, should he be able to peel it off her
back ever again.

"Is that David's letter you are studying?  What
fourteen-year-old troubles has he gotten himself into
now?" she deflected, wiggling her toes to have them
rubbed.

"You have hemmed my bed-robe! You witch!  There is
borrowing and then there is thieving! Get your own
robe. Did you take up the sleeves, too?"  Of course
she had taken up the sleeves, probably embroidering
little swans and unicorns along the edges with her
nimble needle.  

"I am making you another. Or we can share this one. 
You will look quite dignified with your knees and
elbows hanging out. Tell me of David."

It would be pleasant to continue this argument, but
he would undoubtedly lose, and therefore lose his
audience for bragging about the news from London.

"Dafydd has decided this week that he will abandon
his pursuit of the King's serving girls and join the
Knights Templar once he is allowed to leave Court in 
a few more years."

She looked puzzled, so he explained, "To be a full
knight with the Templar Monks as Father Leuan was, a
man must be both chaste and unmarried. I was a
secular knight, but the rule still applied for the
length of my service.  It is a wonderful boyhood
vision of chivalry and courtly love, until one
arrives at a certain age and discovers, as Leuan says
it, 'why a man might have need of a wife." 

"To sew bed-robes?"

Now experienced enough to be certain she was joking,
Gwilym ran a hand over the apex of her belly and
rested it in the warmth between her legs.  "Yes, to
sew bed-robes. Dafydd has had this notion every six
months or so since he was small. Gwen even made him
a tunic like mine for his eleventh birthday so he
could dress up as a Templar and attack the Infidel
sheep in the valley. It is in a chest somewhere. He
was much too adult at thirteen to take it to Court
with him."  

Not 'somewhere,' actually. In the corner coffer,
folded carefully with his own red and white tunic, a
battered doll that had been his daughter's, and a
heavy signet ring Diana had gotten in exchange for
submitting to Dafydd's true father. Gwilym would
unlock the chest one day when he was feeling brave
and tell Duana the stories that went with each
object, but not this morning.  
  
"I know of the Templars. How long did you ride with
them?" It was a part of his life she knew nothing
about, though it was not nearly as heroic as she
probably imagined.  More like a quest to slay a
dragon he never found because it was waiting for him
at home the whole time, growing more angry and
vengeful every year he mounted Goliath and rode away.

"After my father and Diana died, I thought I needed
to take up the holy cause: to help reclaim the Holy
Land from the Infidels, as my uncle and father had,
until I rode home one afternoon to find my daughter
had vanished and Dafydd was being raised at Court as
one of King John's hostages. I will still fight for a
cause that threatens me or mine, but not for other
men's ideals. I will shed blood for peace, but I
found no peace in killing men because they prayed to
a God that was not mine, or to fatten the Pope's or
the Knights' coffers."

She was silent, absorbing his words for so long that
it made him uncomfortable.

"Did you know, dear wife," he said as she blinked
sleepily, trying to stay awake, "There are Infidels
and Druids who believe men live again and again, each
time being reborn in a different time until they do
what they are destined to do?"

"I have read of such things. Do you suppose we have
known each other before this life? Or that we will
meet again after this one?"

Rubbing her leg thoughtfully, he replied, "Perhaps.
Who is to say Heaven is as the Church says it is.
Maybe it is merely an eternity of us together until
we find our fate." 

Seeing she had fallen asleep to his thrilling life
story and speculation, Gwilym started to carry her
back to bed, only to have her wake and insist she was
too heavy and to put her down.

"Too heavy?" he asked, lowering her feet to the
floor. "I should take you to Llewelyn's Court and let
you see yourself in a looking glass. It reflects as
clear as the surface of a lake, and you would be able
to see just how 'heavy' you are."

"To me, it seems enormous, but I would appreciate
being taken anywhere, immediately after you take me
to bed for a few more hours."  She took his hand and
shuffled into the next room, making sleepy grumbling
noises as she laid back into the soft bed. "Stay with
me now, William.  Promise to take me to the village
with you later before I go mad from sitting around
waiting to hatch."

"You are only trying to get your way, wanton. Though
I think you are succeeding."   

"There is an empty sofa in the next room if you do
not like my terms."  

"Wanton witch," he grumbled into her ear, very
content with her terms.      

"Would you say that is a Heaven or a Hell: having to
share all our lives?"

"It would depend," Gwilym replied, struggling with
untying the laces at the neck of her chemise. "In
this next life, would I have my own bed-robe, Duana?"

*~*~*~*

"Word has it your wife is breeding. Is that the
truth?"

Prince Llewelyn was never one to waste breaths with
idle chatter, even when they were children. The
Prince of Wales had simply appeared beside Gwilym and
begun mid-conversation, riding directly up to Aber
Castle for all to see, and ruining Gwilym's plan to
leave Goliath at the gate and sneak in through the
stables. 

"Congratulate me, Llewel. We will have been married
nine months by harvest. The midwives predict another
son, but Duana insists this baby is a girl."

"The King believes the baby may come sooner,"
Llewelyn said, coming close alongside Gwilym as they
rode into the bailey. His men were a hundred yards
behind, and stopped outside the castle to wait,
letting them speak alone. 

A chill crept down his spine, but Gwilym said, "The
Norman king believes many things. And many of those
things are wrong."

"A messenger brought word that King John's knights
are approaching the border of Wales. They will be
here in a few days. If she is with child, she is to
return with the King's knights to London."

Gwilym's heart beat faster, and he picked up his pace
so Goliath remained alongside Llewelyn's young
courser. The horse was fresh, but the prince looked
tired, and his shoulders bowed. That was unlike him;
Llewelyn had tempered with age, but he could still be
so confident that it bordered on arrogant. He ruled a
harsh realm of warriors. He did not have the liberty
to flinch, regardless of the wound.

Llewelyn was flinching now, though, which worried
Gwilym as much as the thought of the Norman knights
trying to take Duana.

"She is my wife," Gwilym argued. "That makes her
child mine, regardless of when it is born."

"I cannot allow that. You may have the marriage
annulled, send Duana back to John-"   

"No."

"If you keep Duana, you may not claim this child. Nor
can you let John have it. I would prefer-" Llewelyn
started, then could not finish his sentence; he could
not order a child's death. He was speaking quickly,
though, as if he had rehearsed the conversation
inside his mind. "I will stall the knights: Duana is
ill, or too pregnant to be traveling. Send her to an
abbey, and when her child is born, you will say it
died and send it away."

Gwilym was still shaking his head. "I do not
understand. Why would the king want this baby if I do
not give up Duana with it? He must have ten-dozen
bastards scattered across Europe. Under the law, this
child is mine, not his."

"Yes, it is. Gwil, this child could inherit or be
dowered with all of Gwynedd. Northern Wales and a
host of ports on the Irish Sea: that makes this baby
valuable to the King. A marriage between it and a
child of Alexander II of Ireland would give John
control over both Wales and Ireland, and I cannot
allow that. The king would not waste one of his
children by Queen Isabelle on such a minor match, but
a child claimed by a Welsh lord with both Plantagenet
and Irish blood: that child he would be glad to
offer. It was not chance that Duana was given to you.
King John knew he would have her before she left, and
knew you would not refuse her as your wife. It was a
trap I walked right into: John schemed a child with
his blood and your kingdom, and I cannot let him have
it. Either annul Duana or make her child vanish
forever."

"You knew too," Gwilym responded angrily. "Do not
pretend you did not."

Llewelyn dismounted, and leaned his head on his
horse's flank instead of answering. 

"I will do neither. Duana is my wife and her child is
mine," Gwilym argued. "Dafydd will inherit Gwynedd,
and piss on King John. Piss on you, in fact, for
letting the Normans geld you."

The Prince of Wales did not respond, and the knot in
Gwilym's stomach twisted. He had seen Llewelyn
bloodied in battle too many times to count, and once,
when they were teenagers, beaten to a pulp alongside
Gwilym in a brawl, but never broken.

Llewleyn opened his mouth several times, starting to
speak, then closed it again.

A bad, bad thought began to swirl in his belly.
Gwilym did not think Duana would have lied to him,
but it was the only explanation he could think of.
"Could this child also be yours, Llewel?"

"No," he answered immediately. "No, Gwil."

"Then what is it?"

"I had no idea it would come to this," the prince
said finally. "I thought that she could have no
children, and that you would claim Dafydd as your
heir."

"I do claim Dafydd as my heir, Llewelyn.  What are
you talking about?"

Llewelyn started shaking his head slowly from side to
side, blinking as his eyes filled with tears. He had
borne mothers' wailing and grown men crying, but he
could not bring himself to say the words this one
last time to his boyhood playmate.

"What of my Dafy, Llewel?" Gwilym asked hoarsely.

*~*~*~*

Letting her temper get the best of her, Duana
muttered one of the Welsh curses gleaned from her
husband and sucked the drop of blood forming at the
tip of her finger.  Her sewing needles were
especially fierce today as she redid another seam to
let out her dresses for her growing bulk. Her
pronunciation must be improving, because one of her
maids paled and crossed herself.   

He had gone off and left her, the cowardly thing!
Arrogant, cowardly, deceitful: he was going to hear
of this when he returned. He could slink around the
wine cellar and the stables, hiding like a kicked
hound, or bring her all the trinkets he liked as
peace offerings, but she had her temper honed razor-
sharp and ready for her husband's homecoming.

William had relented this morning, saying she could
ride down to Aber village with him if she was ready
in time, and then was gone before she could even find
her cloak.  He would be full of justifications, of
course, when he returned: that the horse could
stumble and throw her, or that she slowed him down,
or, his favorite: that it was unseemly for her to be
at market day with her great belly like a commoner's
wife.  It did her no good to argue that the titles
were his; by blood, she was equal to any peasant and
was thrilled at the prospect of waddling through the
vendors to haggle over cabbages and turnips.  Lord
William of Aber would look at her with those deep
eyes as though he were contemplating her very soul,
and then do whatever he pleased, leaving her to sit
and fume.

Pricking herself again, she discovered she had run
out of Welsh words, and switched to French, which did
not upset the maid.  

"How are the babies?" the other young woman asked.

"Awake," Duana replied noncommittally, not wanting to
discuss William's latest wild theory with her, though
he or Melvin obviously had. Twins: that was why she
was so big already: because she was to have twins, as
though she had been with two different men in one
night to conceive two babies.  He had persisted with
this insulting idea last night and this morning,
listening to her belly and trying to count the
heartbeats while she explained what everyone knew:
that a woman must be with two men to have two
children. She had presented her evidence: a wife who
is only with her husband had one child at a time, but
an unfaithful wife might have more.  William had
listened each time she had explained it, nodded
wisely, and then continued to suggest two names
instead of one.  
       
"What about Gwilym and Gwendolyn for a boy and a
girl?  Or Donn and Dafydd?" Elan suggested, rubbing
her own huge belly. "My husband says it is good for
twins to be named alike."

Duana's eyes narrowed, thinking William was correct
about one thing: Melvin's wife was indeed a cross
between a female and a chicken, having inherited the
hen's brains, but breasts enough for two women.
Somewhere, there was a village being deprived of
their idiot. She was contemplating some errand to
send Elan on to give herself a few minutes peace when
the clatter of hooves rose up from the bailey.  

"You are eager to see your husband, my lady?" Elan
called after her as Duana hurried as fast as possible
down the staircase.

'Eager' was such a small, misleading word. Perhaps
William could tell her a Welsh term that meant 'so
looking forward to your return that I could stick you
with pins, dear husband.' Alternately, 'you will need
your new robe to warm you on the sofa, which is
where you will be welcome until this child reaches
majority because you left me to listen to that fool
Elan while you rode off on adventures.'  

*~*~*~*

Something was wrong. Duana thought at first that
William was very drunk, though she had seldom seen
him tipsy in a culture where mead and strong wine
were poured instead of water. He looked pale, and
stumbled when he dismounted. Ill perhaps. She would
get her herbs and fuss at him when he felt better.

The man who had ridden in with him was the Prince of
Wales. Prince Llewelyn reached out to steady William,
and he was greeted with a fist that sent him
sprawling into the mud, and then a barrage of Welsh
curses. Llewelyn's knights and William's men came
running and riding from the castle gate, but were not
sure how they were supposed to intervene. Swords were
drawn and brandished, but there were no orders from
either their prince or the general they followed in
battle.

"Mary, mother of God!" Friend or not, William had
just struck his liege lord.  Men had hanged for less.   

Llewelyn, though still conscious, stayed seated in
the mud, staring down while William ranted at him in
Welsh, his fist drawn back again. More guards
arrived, and servants were streaming into the bailey
at his raised voice. Amid the hysterical dogs, Melvin
succeeding in getting between William and the Prince,
and in getting the guards to back away.

Gwen appeared from the kitchens, and her broad face
crumbled, tears cutting through the dusting of flour
across her cheeks at whatever they were saying.
Father John crossed himself, lips moving in silent
prayer as he also tried to get William to back away
from Prince Llewelyn, finally holding one arm with
Melvin on the other as her husband struggled, his
rage giving way to pain.

"You swore he would come to no harm when you said he
must go," Duana thought he said, but could not make
out the rest of his words. David, his David;
something had happened to David. Christ, why could
these people not speak a normal language so she could
understand? "You ordered me to take the castle," he
yelled hoarsely.

Prince Llewelyn stayed down, watching as the priest,
the sergeant, and two guards dragged William
backward, fighting every step.

"Did King John hang your son?" William yelled from
the doorway of the great hall. "Is he dead as well?"

Melvin gave another order, and the castle guards
started herding William's servants away so they would
not see Prince Llewelyn or William upset. The
Prince's knights formed a circle around him, facing
away, protecting him.

From his seat in the muck, Prince Llewelyn shook his
head 'no', then rested his face in his hands, not
looking up again. No, according to the messenger,
King John had hung all thirty boys from Welsh noble
families, but Llewelyn's oldest son, Gruffydd, the
heir to Wales who had been sent along as proof the
children would be properly treated, had been beaten
and jailed, but the only one spared. 

*~*~*~*

He was going to vomit: that was the only thing
Gwilym could think. This was a nightmare so awful
that he was going to be sick before he could awaken.
Either vomit or suffocate, or do both at once.

Duana was there, cradling his head gently against her
belly as he curled up on the floor of their
bedchamber like a child, unseeing. Leuan and Gwen
were trying to comfort him, but only succeeded in
making it worse until Duana finally yelled at them to
get out.

"That whoreson John hung them. All the boys he
demanded as hostages last spring. They were boys,
Duana, none more than fifteen, and some as young as
six or seven. As revenge for Llewelyn reclaiming the
castles that were his by law, by that damn Magna
Carta we fought for... The King said we had violated
the charter and he hung our son like common
criminals," he manged as he sobbed into the bosom of
her dress. "Royal hostages are never executed.
Dafydd lived at Court the same way he lived here,
and got into just as much trouble.  He had begun his
training as a squire, and wrote that his tutor had
punished him for sneaking out at night just as I did
at his age, and that he had seen you when you were at
Court, and..."

She petted his hair, tears streaming down her face
and meeting to fall from her chin as she listened.
Occasionally, her lips moved silently, but no prayer
could exorcise this demon. It sat like a heavy stone
on his chest, crushing him, keeping him from drawing
a deep breath.  

The sun was beginning to set and Duana's gray mare
were being led into the bailey when the demon finally
returned to Hell, leaving Gwilym empty, as though he
had been bled or purged to death. Llewelyn was still
outside, and was going to order Merfyn and his men to
come get Duana and take her from Aber if Gwilym did
not go downstairs soon and concede that he would do
it himself.
 
Still seated on the floor beside the bed, still
sniffing, Duana watched him unlock the coffer,
pushing old shirts aside as he searched for the pouch
containing the ring. Fingers fumbling, he untied the
drawstring and shook out the gold man's ring into his
hand. It was covered in soot, as he had found it
after the fire that killed Diana: too filthy to make
out the royal lions King John, but Gwilym knew they
were there.

If he were passing through a village at twenty, like
the King, Gwilym would have noticed Diana's low-cut
dresses and loose hair flowing down her back, falsely
advertising virginity. He would have ridden by Duana
in her modest dress and veil without really seeing
her. At almost forty, though, he again agreed with
King John: Diana was fine for a night, but Duana was
worth killing for. Any blood shed to keep her was
merely a scratch.

The ring, now warmed back to life by the heat from
his hand, was returned to the pouch and the pouch
slipped into the side of his boot.  Finally able to
draw a deep breath, he found the old white tunic, the
red cross on the front assuring him safe passage as a
monk to wherever he wanted to ride, and then,
fighting against the urge to press his face into the
fabric and cry, pulled out the one that had been
Dafydd's. Every king had a right to know when he
hanged his own bastard son, no matter whether he
remembered the mother or not.

*~*~*~*

There had never been any doubt that, should the boy
Llwynog live to become the man Gwilym, he would be
worthy of his father's name and as formidable a
soldier and ruler as Charlemagne or Henry Plantagenet, 
if either had been blessed with being Welsh. The
only question had been whether Llwynog would manage
to survive boyhood.  

It was his tendency to question everything which
caused all the trouble. Birds could fly, so why could
he not, he had asked the August of his sixth year,
having just jumped from the top of the stable and
mercifully landed in soft hay. Leuan had explained
that the trick to flying was to aim for the ground
and miss, and that Llwynog seldom missed anything
except his lessons. That was an omen of how the next
three decades would pass: a never-ending battle to
keep his student alive and focused on tasks worthy of
a nobleman instead of strange notions which could
only get him burned, beheaded, drawn and quartered,
or hanged. 

The priest could blame the frequent pain in his knees
on hours spent in prayer, seeking guidance on how
best to direct a reckless, youthful 'Gwilym,' as he
insisted on being called from the age of nine on.
The Old Lord had joined his brother Rhonald's cause
in the Holy Land, leaving Leuan to oversee his son's
education, so the priest was either to be blamed or
congratulated for his tutelage.  

He had certainly overseen.  There was the time Gwilym
bloodied Llewelyn's nose in a squabble over a
borrowed and lost ball at the age of eleven, and it
was good that the Prince of Wales did not seem to
hold grudges. Then there came the discovery of
childhood girlfriends suddenly seen in a new light,
among them, a pregnant peasant wench named Diana that
the priest had not heard of his Gwilym being with. He
had overseen the passage from boy to squire to knight
with great pride, christening both of Gwilym's
children himself and saying the funeral mass for
their mother's soul.  He had heard a final confession
and performed the last rites as Sir Gwilym of Aber
became Lord of Gwynedd at his father's death.  

Leuan's first thought when he saw Gwilym in the
alchemist's hut wearing his Templar tunic was that
the Old Lord had come back to life.  There might be
some question about who his mother was, but certainly
not his sire. The set of the jaw was the same, the
frightening intensity of the gaze: Gwilym was his
father's son.

With the exception of instructing Leuan to find his
own Templar tunic and cloak instead of the brown one
he usually wore, to saddle his horse, and to meet
them in the next valley, no one had shared any news
except that the Young Lord was dead and Prince
Llewelyn's men wanted to take Lady Duana. Gwilym had
struck Prince Llewelyn, causing a panic, and the
Prince had waited for hours in the bailey afterward,
just sitting on a step as his knights stood by
anxiously. Whatever Gwilym had finally come outside
and told Llewelyn and Merfyn, the Prince of Wales had
found it acceptable and had ridden away slowly with
his men, looking hollow.

Gauging the look in Gwilym's eyes and the power
behind the white Knights Templar tunic, the priest
felt that old fear for his student in his chest. He
did not know the plan, but someone was about to lose
and he hoped it was not Gwilym.

She was fully covered in breeches and a shirt when
she emerged from behind the screen, but Leuan shifted
his gaze to the dirt floor, not accustom to seeing a
woman in clothing that showed the shape of her legs
or with her hair unbound.  Gathering a ponytail at
the base of her neck, Gwilym fumbled with the
scissors, giving them instead to Duana and letting
her lop off her waist-length hair.  

Llangly, an odd man created out of triangles instead
of ovals, put some mixture onto her cropped hair that
dyed it a dark reddish brown.  Leuan sat on a rickety
stool, watching Gwilym trail his fingers through the
pile of shorn hair on the table, not seeming to
understand he could not save it and reattach it
later.  The hair should be burned before some witch
used it to put a hex on Lady Duana, but Leuan could
not bring himself to take it from Gwilym and throw it
into the hearth.  

The alchemist cleared his throat, indicating he had
finished with Duana, and turned his attention to
measuring, pounding, and mixing ingredients from the
cobwebbed jars that lined the shelves above their
heads.  By lantern light in the hovel, Gwilym helped
her put on Dafydd's old Templar tunic and cloak,
slitting the sides to accommodate her belly, and the
transformation was complete.  Lady Duana and Lord
Gwilym had vanished and two Knights Templar had
emerged: one tall and slim with bloodshot eyes, and
one younger with reddish-brown hair and a decided
thickening through the middle.
 
He knew Duana did not like to be touched, even to be
lifted onto her mare, so Leuan led the gentle horse
to a tree stump for her to mount while Gwilym was
inside with the alchemist.  His own horse was less
cooperative, not accustom to being ridden as of late,
and he danced in circles, one foot in his stirrup and
one on the ground for several seconds.  Finally in
the saddle, his green Templar robes announcing he was
a priest of the sacred order and was never to be
challenged, he was ready to ride to wherever it was
that they were going.

Without speaking, Gwilym fastened a small package to
his saddle. He mounted and then nudged Goliath
alongside Duana's mare, pulling her onto the saddle
in front of him.  When she asked, Gwilym replied that
he had traded her horse to Llangly for the
alchemist's help and silence, although Leuan could
not fathom why he had bought so much silence. The
entire hovel, Llangly included, was not worth half of
that pretty mare.

Giving her the reins, as though any woman could ever
manage a horse like that, Gwilym wrapped his arms
around her waist, resting his forehead for a moment
on Duana's shoulder before saying, "West. St. Mary's
Abbey is West from here. Goliath knows the way." 

St. Mary's was a Cistercian Abby, and a major port
for the Templar Knights' fleet. That was Gwilym's
plan: to hide his wife among the monks until the baby
could come and then say it had died and send it far
beyond anywhere the Norman King could ever find it.
When the king's soldiers reached Aber Castle, they
would find servants who only knew that their Lord and
Lady had gone to the Church with their priest to
grieve the loss of Dafydd and never returned. Prince
Llewelyn could swear the same, and that he had
delivered the king's orders. Should the soldiers
think to search the abbey, they would find powerful
monks who regarded King John as lower than a leper, 
and could honestly say only that three Templars had
stayed in their abbey: a knight, a squire, and the
old priest of Aber.

She clucked twice to the big horse, gave him a
determined kick, and was rewarded with a hesitant
trot. Leuan followed, thinking if the trot got any
slower, it would be a walk. They would reach St.
Mary's by harvest instead of within a few hours
unless Gwilym instructed his horse to act properly.
Gwilym did not look up, one hand still around Duana's
middle and one playing with her cropped hair in the
moonlight.

There was a smart slap as the leather reins met with
the horse's neck, indicating she meant business, a
final snort as the black horse acquiesced into a
canter, and two hours later they had reached the
abbey.
 
*~*~*~*    

It was too much of a risk to take her inside the
priory house.  She would pass for a teenage boy at a
glance or on a horse, but not at closer inspection.
Even with him, she would not like being among many
men in the close sleeping quarters of the abbey.  Had
Gwilym been able, he would have made a few comments
about Mary and Joseph and a manger, but instead, he
gave Father Leuan the money to make a deal with the
Abbot and focused on unsaddling and grooming Goliath
so he would not be expected to converse. 

Leuan sent several of the monks' unbleached wool
blankets to them in the stable, and Dana spread them
over clean, loose straw in a stall in a semblance of
a bed. 
 
When she began to undress, the numbness he had
welcomed since this afternoon finally left his brain.
There was something he wanted to feel tonight:
release.  His wife, acceptance, and release. He
wanted to be able to die inside her and feel the
glory of his death mingling with the new life she
carried. He wanted to forget, both the future and
the past, just for a moment.

No sweet words or jokes; he could not manage the
gentleness or the rhythm of them. He had simply gone
to her, stripped off her clothing, and pulled her
down onto the blankets with him. Gwilym had always
been so gentle with her, so careful to make it nice
for her, but this time he could only be selfish.
There had been whores he had treated with more
romantic pretense, and this was his pregnant wife.

"What do I do?" she asked uncertainly. This was not
their soft bed in Aber where he could still be atop
her without crushing her belly.

"Your knees," he told her, but she was already
kneeling and only looked perplexed. "Your hands and
knees," he clarified. "Turn around." 

If he had the energy, he would have been ashamed. To
compound that, rather than telling him it was a sin
to lie as animals did, Duana immediately obeyed. 

He traced the vertebra of her backbone as if in a
trance, then covered her, still not feeling anything
except the physical need. Duana just closed her eyes,
and, exhaling, let him empty his mind into her body. 

Before she had slept, she had kissed him gently,
assuring him that he was loved and that morning would
eventually come.  

He had never done anything so good in his life that
it justified God giving him this woman. 

Now, hours later, he had left the stable and was
letting his thoughts float in the musty air, bouncing
gently off the stone walls. He was having a long
conversation with God, and did not hear the footsteps
approaching until Duana draped his cloak over his
shoulders against the coolness of the abbey chapel.

"Go back to the stable and sleep, cariad. The monks
will want to sail after morning Mass, and it will be
dawn soon."

"I do not want to be alone. Come sleep with me."
When he did not move from his knees, she held her
torch up to the stone effigy so she could read the
name and said, "This is your father?"

"And his father and his before that.  Now Dafydd's
body will lie here, as will mine. Souls do not suffer
death, but after death pass from one to another."

"That is Julius Caesar," she told him. "Caesar said
it of the Celts: about why the warriors were so
fierce: they did not fear death."

"You know that?" he said, surprised.

"I know many things. I also know it is not your time
to die; it only feels like it tonight. I have felt it
and, like winter, it passes. You will see them again
in Heaven," she assured him. "All of the loved ones
you have lost. But not tonight."

Emptying his lungs, he stood and took her hand,
letting her lead him out into the summer night. The
moon was huge, close, watching them impersonally as
it came to rest beyond the Irish Sea.

"There are other worlds out there," he reminded her,
his words soft in the darkness. "Worlds we know
nothing of, and that know nothing of the English
king."

"They are not our worlds, William," she told him,
always the voice of reason. "This  is our world."

He wanted them to be. He wanted away from this land
where Kings killed boys and abused women for sport,
and where his wife could not keep her child.

"They are there, though," he promised her, needing to
believe that they were.

"You are not getting in the boat with Father John and
me, are you, William?" she asked softly, sounding
frightened.

"I will come for you, but I want a few words with the
King first. If that man rules by God's will, then God
is off governing those other worlds."     

"You cannot raise your sword against the King."

"I can. My arm is fine. My grip is clumsy, that is
all," he insisted before he realized that was not
what she had meant. He amended, "I will not raise my
sword against the King. But no, I am not going with
you and Leuan."

Gwilym could feel her fixing those eyes on him,
trying to think of some way to beg, bribe, threaten,
argue, or drag him onto the Templar ship. To hush
her, he kissed her brow, then rested his forehead
tiredly against hers in the doorway of the stable. "I
have found where I want to be and I intend to stay,
cariad. I told you I dared any man to say otherwise."

He helped her lay down on their makeshift straw bed,
undressing her again slowly as the bells called the
monks to morning mass. Only a few more minutes: just
once more and then he would leave, he told himself.
In all likelihood, he would never return to her.

"Come to me," he asked, and she did as he told her,
sitting astride, facing him this time, and slowly,
gently, silently making love to him. He could touch
her face and her swollen breasts and belly. In this
position, she was high enough that he could kiss her
as they made love, and he did, running his fingers
through her short, dyed hair.

"Sin," she whispered to him, reminding him a woman
was not to be atop a man.

"I am about to commit a much bigger one. Do not
stop," he told her, resting his hands on her hips and
watching her. She changed the angle and the rhythm of
the thrusts. "Come for me," he urged her hoarsely.

This must be a bit of Heaven: seeing her rocking
against him until her breath caught and her chest
suddenly flushed in the purple dawn. For a few
seconds, she cried out as if he were hurting her,
though that was not the case. He kissed her again,
less gently, so his lips throbbed in time with the
rest of his body.

She was tiring, so he guided her hips to thrust again,
faster and harder until, a few minutes later, he
closed his eyes and gasped. After the spasms
subsided, he let his head fall back, then pulled her
down against him, still telling himself that he would
leave in one more minute.   

One more minute. He could count it out in his own
heartbeats.

"I had always heard that angels sing, but I have
never imagined monks at Mass," she whispered into his
neck, her breathing slowing as well. 

"Only for you, cariad."

"Please do not do this, William. If you want the
king dead, send me back to him. He will not endanger
this child; for a few more months, I will be safe. I
have time and I know the plants to give him. No one
would suspect me, and no one would want me once he is
dead."

"I want him to know Dafydd was his son. My child, but
his blood. Knowing he watched his own son hang, and
living knowing that: I think that is worse than
death."

"You will tell him he fathered Diana's child and then
join me in Ireland? I can give my daughter to the
church, and return to Wales with you? You will come
for me?"

"Yes." 

He did not meet her eyes as he stood, then dressed in
his Templar robes. 

"I will not raise my sword against the King," he
promised again.

She pulled one of the rough blankets around her,
picking the pieces of straw from her hair, and
watched through the boards as he saddled Goliath in
the next stall. His armor was nearby: his
breastplate, scabbard and sword, and his helmet to
hide his face. His heavy mail hauberk and hood were
in a saddlebag. He did not have his gauntlets or leg
armor, but there was a knife in his boot, along with
poison. He was not equipped as if going to war, but a
man did not need armor to have a conversation with
the King, either.

"William, you are lying," she said. She found her
chemise and put it on. "Just send me back to the
King," she offered again.

"I am amused that I am quarreling with my wife over
which of us get to commit high treason. I am a Celt.
I am not afraid to die," he assured her.

She leaned against a post at the edge of Goliath's
stall, crossing her arms. "I am a Celt as well, and I
am afraid of you dying."

"Then I will never die," he said lightly, to appease
her.

"Swear it."

He put dropped his breastplate over his shoulders and
fastened the straps on one side, but could not manage
the other side with his right hand. Duana came
forward, helping him. He watched his wife, seeing the
outline of her belly through the white fabric of her
chemise. He could feel the child moving now, hear its
heartbeat. It was no longer an idea, but a living
thing. He could kill a man in battle without a second
thought, but he could not make her send that child
away any more than he could send Duana back to King
John. He did not like either of Llewelyn's choices.
He liked the plan where he got to take his wife and
child and return home and live out this lifetime in
peace.

Gwilym looked around for his sword, and discovered
Duana had it. "I need you. Swear you will not die,
and you will always come for me," she insisted,
holding the scabbard out to him with both hands.

"I swear it," he said, his hand on his father's sword.

To his surprise, she seemed to believe him.

*~*~*~*

Christ, he had not foreseen this when he sent Duana
into hiding with Leuan: that the Knights Templar
would hide her so well that Gwilym could not find
her.  His reasoning had been that if he was caught
and tortured in England, if he did not know her or
the child's location, he could not give it away.
Leuan had Gwilym's signet ring, and enough gold and
Templar credit to take Duana wherever he thought was
safe, and he certainly had.

The monks of St. Mary's could only tell him that
Father Leuan and a Templar squire had boarded a ship
for Dublin three months past. She - or 'he', rather,
was not with the Cistercians or the Templars or any
of the nunneries or other monasteries in Dublin, nor
did they know of her. He was considering searching
for the Scully Clan when an innkeeper mentioned the
Knights of Saint John had built a new Hospital nearby.

"A young man named 'Scully'? Perhaps. King John has
not been kind to Ireland; we have many people in need
of care because of him," the abbot hedged, pushing
his black cowl back so he could see Gwilym clearly
through the gate. "This is Holy Ground. Put aside
your sword. We do not care for the Saeson - for the
Saxon or Norman outsiders here. Who is it that asks
for 'Scully'?"

The knights flanking the abbot stepped closer, hands
on their swords. Obviously, the King's men had been
thorough in their search for Duana.  

"Gwilym. I am Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd."  

Please, please, please. If she was not here, then the
Knights and Leuan had decided the danger was so great
that they had sent her deeper into hiding, to France
or the Holy Land, and it might take him years to
find her.  

"I do not see a Welsh lord; I see a monk of the
Knights Templar. Tell me of this 'Scully.' Perhaps I
have seen him."

"Small, with red-brown hair cut to the chin.  Fair
skin and blue eyes.  He was ill about..." he had to
pause to count, "One month past. Very ill. He is my
squire and the man with her is an old Templar priest
named 'John'." 

The abbot caught that Gwilym had slipped.

"Perhaps I have seen 'Scully,' or know of her. We
often give sanctuary to souls fleeing the cruelty of
the Crown. Sometimes I hear their confessions myself."

He took the gamble, rolling his proverbial dice:
"Duana of Aber.  She is the Lady of Gwynedd.  She was
with child." The Abbot shook his head; either he did
not recognize that name, or it was not the password.
"Duana of the Scully Clan. Countess Duana-" He did
not know her first husband's name or lands.
"Countess Duana of, uh, London." No, there was no
Count of London. What lands had her first husband
owned? Dover?

"We do not worry so much about lands and titles here.
Perhaps there is a nickname only those close to
'Scully' know."

Breathing a little easier, fairly confident he only
had to guess the password to be allowed into the
monastery hospital, he offered the obvious: "'Cariad:'
I call my wife 'cariad."

"That is sweet, my lord, but many Welshmen call their
wives 'beloved.' Perhaps another nickname?"

He thought a moment, knowing Duana would have chosen
a password only he would guess in order to gain
access to a monastery. "Witch, father. She is my
wanton witch."

The password was no sooner out of Gwilym's mouth than
the Abbot and the two monastic knights with him
became much more cooperative: 

"Scully has his own quarters below St. Michan's
Church, just north of the River Liffey. The birth was
difficult, but he is well now. The child is still
with him, and your priest left for Wales to find you
when we heard- We were afraid of what might happen
when we heard that the Old King had died, so as soon
as the danger of bleeding has passed, we moved your
Scully in case the Saeson soldiers returned."

Gwilym paused long enough to pour money into the
man's outstretched hand, then remounted Goliath.   

"I had to carefully choose which of my knights I sent
to St. Michan's to guard your squire. He is an
amazing youth, my lord. There was quite a commotion
among my monks. If a face like that belonged to a
woman, kings would pursue her the ends of the Earth,
even if she were content as another man's wife."

That earned no comment from Gwilym, but it held his
attention.

"You said you have just come from England, my lord?
It is the Templars here that say King John has died.
Is that true?" Gwilym nodded, and the abbot
continued, "It is said that his death was quite
painful. Poisoned by a monk, in fact."

"I hear the same, Father, but I am sure it is a rumor:
about the monk."

"You are far from home. I have heard your wife's
confession. Do you want me to hear your confession as
well, my son?" the abbot offered quietly, so low
Gwilym could barely hear him. "Absolve you of your
sin?"

Gwilym hesitated. "I do not think that is within your
power, father, nor do I want my sin to become yours.
I owe you a great deal already. I have spoken with
God; let him judge me as he will."

"Is King John truly dead?"

"He is dead. Long live King Henry III."

"Long live the boy-king, Lord William," said the old
abbot, making the sign of the cross to bless him, and
then stepping back from the monastery gates. "May it
take him many years to grow up enough to trouble the
Celts."

"Wait." Gwilym fished in the side of his boot,
pulling out the pouch and then the ring, now polished
so the King's lions could be easily seen, even by a
dying man. He kneed Goliath close to the bars,
handing the heavy gold ring through. "Smelt this and
put it to better use, Father."

*~*~*~*

He was making an utter fool of himself: picking
Duana up and turning her in a circle, then almost
dropping her when he realized she had just had a
baby. He finally settled for kissing her thoroughly
enough to upset the monks who had shown him to her
chambers secreted below the church.

He was complete.

Once he let her up for air, Duana ran her fingertips
over his shoulders and then down his arms and over
his face, like a blind man trying to recognize
someone by touch alone.

"You are real?" she asked. "You are my William? I am
not dreaming?"

"I am real."

She put her arms around him and kept them there a
long time. She rested her head against his chest, as
if listening to his heartbeat comforted her.

"I am here," he assured her again. "I promised I
would return and we could go home. Never say I do not
keep my promises, sweet girl. Let us go home."

She stepped back, nodding, and then exhaled.

"Fontevraund Abbey, William," she informed him. When
he looked perplexed, she explained, "The Abbey where
Eleanor of Aquitaine is buried in France. I have read
of it, heard it spoken of. The nuns are taught to
read and write and play music. You told me I could
decide where my daughter is sent. I would like her to
go to Fontevraund Abbey."

"Cariad -" That was awful; he had been so focused on
Duana that he had not asked about the child, even if
it was a boy or a girl. "If-"

"Is that all right?"

He got as far as saying "Yes, but-" before she
interrupted him again.

"Thank you. Will you wait, then, William? She, she is
here, and I want to feed her before we go. The monks
know of a wet nurse, but I do not want her to be
hungry until the nurse can come."

"Duana-" he tried.

"Only a minute.  You do not have to see her.  She is
just in the next room," Duana said, trying to sound
practical, though she was getting upset.

"Duana!"  

"Just one minute! Please. Then I will go! I will,"
she insisted.

He finally succeeded in getting her attention by
grabbing her wrist, jerking her back to him. She
flinched, expecting to be struck and starting to cry,
and he felt like the rags tied to a beggar's feet.

"Duana, listen to me. Listen. Is there anyone besides
you who knows King John ever forced you? The entire
Court must know you refused, so is there anyone who
can say King John did not just change his mind and
want you back, rather than that he fathered the child
instead of me?"

She wiped her face as she considered, and he could
see her obediently, methodically listing names in her
mind, not understanding why he was asking. "No. I
have told you and confessed my sin to the abbot when
she was born, but there is no one else but you and
King John who truly knows."

"King John is dead. He died last month; word is only
now filtering this far north. There is no king who
will come for you, or take your child. If you can
ride, get your daughter and we will take her home."

Duana looked at him, sniffed, and then, wisely,
swallowed and did not ask.

Duana could have an entire castle packed and ready in
ten minutes, so collecting a tiny baby and Dafydd's
cloak presented no problem. By the time she stopped
sniffing, denying that she was ever crying, he was
giving more coins to the monks and whistling for
Goliath.

"What is this child's name, cariad?"

"Eimile. I told you. Here: give her to me before you
drop her."

"No. I have held little girls before."   

He actually did have to hand the bundle to her long
enough to mount, and she stubbornly refused to give
the baby back, saying he could either hold the reins
or the baby, but not both. Obviously, motherhood had
not made her more docile.

"How did the King die, William? I have not heard of
any battles," she asked carefully. "Was he sick,
perhaps?"

He knew she wanted to know what he had done, but it
was far safer if she did not.

"There is something carved in the church, cariad.
Can you read that to me? My eyes are getting old."
He paused to let her decipher the Latin on the
cornerstone of St. Michan's Church, knowing full and
well what it said.
 
She was better with French or Gaelic than Latin, so
his plan succeeded. She had to stop questioning him
to translate: "Wine is strong, the king is stronger,
women the strongest, but truth conquers all."

"That is how the Old King died, cariad. Truth
conquers all. It is time to go home.  I have a son to
bury and a new daughter to acquaint myself with."
Picking up the reins, and turning the horse toward
the coast, he asked,  "What we spoke of that last
night in Aber: of being reborn and our souls being
fated to certain paths. Do you believe that?"

"Why do you ask, William?"   

"Because I think I have just changed our path for
this lifetime." He hesitated, then told her, "When we
left Aber, I did not plan to return. You and your
child were safe. I had thought this last journey
would be one direction only, and once my mission was
complete, my life would be, as well."

"You promised me," she reminded him. "You would
return."

"I did, and I have. And so we shall have to see where
this path goes." One of her arms wrapped around his
waist, the other holding the baby securely against
her as he pressed his heels to Goliath's sides and
clicked his tongue against his back teeth. "One more
time old boy, and I hope it will be the last time.
Take us home."

*~*~*~*    

End: Hiraeth III: Saeson