Hiraeth III: Saeson

*~*~*~*

"She still stands, my lord."

Even after fifty years, or perhaps, because of fifty
years, his sergeant's eyes were sharp - able to spot
an enemy scout or a free tankard of mead at two
hundred yards, so it was almost certainly the truth.
The dark-haired man leading the tired knights
squinted, rubbed his eyes, and squinted again, trying
to see if he was finally gaining ground on Aber.

The morning sun had not had time to burn away the
mist from the tops of the mountains, so white clouds
obscured the peaks like the Infidel women's veils,
and smoke from hearth fires stoked to burn until
morning stayed low to the ground. As the moon sank,
giving way to full daylight, Gwilym could make out
the stone walls of Aber Castle rising imposing over
the valley. His sanctuary, beautiful in her
simplicity and grace, awesome in her subtle strength,
was still there, waiting.

"She still stands, Merfyn," he agreed.

Goliath must have recognized they were five miles
from home; the horse snorted a lung-full of frosty
air and tossed his head, jerking the reins painfully
against Gwilym's injured shoulder. His massive hooves
clopped impatiently in place in response to his
rider's legs unconsciously tightening against his
sides; Goliath was not the only one anxious to reach
the castle.

Gwilym rubbed the animal's neck, thawing his fingers
and promising carrots and a warm stall tonight. They
had seen all of Wales many times over, as well as
most of Europe, and even the Holy Land together in
their many journeys. Goliath was still eager to go
whenever his owner appeared in his armor and red or
white tunic, but the miles had become longer, mundane
for both of them. If it was on this Earth to be
challenged, marveled at, indulged in, or explored,
Gwilym had done so twice over in his six and thirty
years, and Goliath had taken him for the last ten,
one stride at a time.  

If he was still in God's favor, that castle contained
a slight, auburn-haired, headstrong woman who spoke
good French and some Welsh and questioned him more
than any female had a right to. The last of King
John's land barons had just fled southern Wales, and
Prince Llewelyn Fawr now ruled undisputed. King John
was gelded by the Magna Carta; the French and
Scottish troops in southern England were the Norman's
problem, not the Welsh's. He had killed his share of
Infidels for the Pope and the Templars, as well.
Gwilym had done his duty to God, to Llewelyn, and to
the Norman King; it was time to go home, and to stay
home. To be with his wife and raise his children and
rule his land. Plant crops and settle peasant
disputes and watch the sun rise over his mountains
and set behind the Irish Sea. Both Gwilym and Goliath
were getting too old for such nonsense as wars and
sieges.

It was as though the rest of the world was an old
shirt now: threadbare, colors bleached by the sun
into muted hues. Very little still shone brilliantly.
Having heard nothing but Merfyn's cynicism and taunts
for months, he had thought it might be his own memory
that had grown faulty, remembering home as more
pleasant than it was, the same way one remembers
favorite foods from childhood.  Marzipan was not
nearly as nice now that he could have it whenever he
liked; sticky treats stolen as a boy had been much
more sweet.

Merfyn would say this Lady Duana was much the same:
that the having would not be so good as the wanting.
Inhaling the icy air to revive himself, Gwilym
decided that perhaps Merfyn was much better with a
blade than with women, having been married five times
but only twice seriously wounded in battle. He, on
the other hand, had been mistaken for a deer and shot
through with an arrow by his own squire while taking
a piss one morning, though that was not the story
Gwilym planned to tell his wife to gain sympathy for
his shoulder.

An anchor, Duana said. He was in need of an anchor
and he had found it barefooted and wearing his bed-
robe one cold night in Wales. After looking the world
over for many years, searching, finding shallow
brooks instead of deep waters, he discovered himself
drowning in a lake of blue eyes, glancing behind him
to see who she might be looking at. The surface was
so calm - reflecting, deflecting like glass - but in
the depths was the hand that holds Arthur's sword.  
 
A man finds where he wants to be, drops anchor, and
there he will stay.  

Please let her choose to stay with him. Please let
the wars and the raids and sieges end so he could
stay. Or, at least, let his cause be his own and let
him always find his way back home to her again. It
was a simple prayer, but as heartfelt as any he had
ever sent upward. 

Gauging that the horses still had a few more miles
left in them, he tightened his reins and his calves,
letting Goliath settle into the slow rock of a
ground-covering canter.  

"In a hurry, Llwynog?" Merfyn shouted from behind,
grinning and pushing his tired gelding to catch up.

There was no response, but Gwilym let his horse bound
down the slope at a frightening pace, splashing
recklessly into the stream and then over a rock
fence, taking a shortcut through the woods instead of
staying on the road.  Laughing wildly at their own
folly, his sergeant and four dozen knights and all
their servants and squires followed, scattering
chickens, pigs, and dogs as they thundered into the
village square of Aber a short time later.

*~*~*~* 

There was a blond man in the next valley that liked
to spend his time trying to turn lead into gold when
he was not producing love potions for wives that
wanted to conceive and charms for those that did not.
Gwilym had once passed several days with the
alchemist, trying to form an opinion of this new
science, should he ever be asked or find someone
willing to listen. He did not disbelieve Llangly's
claims, but he did not see any gold in the cluttered
hut, either.  

Perhaps Llangly was correct, but pursuing the wrong
elements, for in his own inner bailey someone had
managed to cross a woman with a chicken and marry the
result to Merfyn.  

Although Gwilym could not fathom why, young Elan did
this every time they had been away, whether for an
afternoon or months; waiting at Merfyn's stirrup as
though she was about to convulse until he dismounted
and then clucking over him like a hen.  The sergeant
received a welcoming kiss that made the men squirm in
their saddles, was deemed only slightly filthier than
he was when he left, and, winking at Gwilym,
disappeared into his house beyond the stables with
his wife before anyone else could even dismount.

Merfyn was always Merfyn.  Fight the wars and marry
the-

Well, never mind. Merfyn was Merfyn. At least they
were not in the cellar this time.
 
Most of the uchelwrs, the elite cavalry, lived in
the village of Aber rather than the castle, so only a
dozen or so and their men had ridden the last mile up
the steep hill. Sliding gently down from Goliath and
giving the big courser a final pat on the rump as a
stable boy led him away, Gwilym looked for Duana in
the commotion of families and servants greeting
returning husbands, fathers, and sons. There was
Leuan, clutching his cross and walking toward him
with great intent, but he did not see his wife.
Glancing up, he noted the window of his- her- their
bedchamber was shuttered, so perhaps she was still
asleep. It was past seven in the morning, but the
baby would be coming in a few more months. He did
not begrudge her the extra sleep, though it would be
nice to have a warmer welcome, especially in front of
his men.  

For pity's sake, not even the dogs troubled
themselves to come out to greet him this morning. All
hail the conquering hero.

"We must speak, Gwilym," Leuan said urgently, guiding
him into the great hall and away from other ears.
"We must speak of your wife."

He swallowed, the back of his tongue thickening as
worry began to pool and drip down to a little puddle
in his belly. In truth, he barely knew Duana, but she
did not seem one to shrug off the propriety of
publicly greeting her husband as the lady of his
castle.

He had sent her several letters in the months while
he was away, and she had replied to each in her
careful handwriting, saying that all was well and he
was to take good care of himself. One could never
predict who might intercept letters, so he could not
ask about the child so soon, but the messenger who
brought her last response had said she did look - he
had heard it said by others - to be breeding. That
was all the information Gwilym possessed: Duana was
in Aber and pregnant enough for it to be casually
noticed two weeks ago.          

Seeing his expression, Leuan hurried to add: "She is
well. I told her to remain in your bedchamber until I
could speak to you."

Gwilym relaxed, raising his eyebrows slightly as a
servant took his sword and helped slide his cloak off
his wounded shoulder. "You told her to remain?  How
did you manage the stones for that?" Duana did not
take kindly to being ordered around, and Leuan had
always been painfully awkward around women.

Leuan followed Gwilym as he raised his heavy feet to
mount the stairs, feeling every one of the slate
steps jar his bones and waving off Gwen's offer of
wine and breakfast. They had passed just enough time
to eat supper and be polite at Llewelyn's castle in
Dolwyddelan before Gwilym ordered the horses re-
saddled at four this morning. Four was morning, he had
informed his bleary-eyed troop; somewhere there must
be a deluded cock crowing. He was planning an
apology: four was clearly only morning when a man was
twenty.  After that, four was the time to make a trip
to the privy, peer briefly out at the night sky, and
crawl back into a soft, warm bed.

Bed. Lady Duana was already abed. What foresight.
What a brilliant woman.  

What was Leuan pestering him about?

"Well, perhaps she was up most of the night caring
for a sick maid and then fell back to sleep, and I
told the servants not to wake her at six as she
requested," Leuan corrected. "Perhaps she does not
listen when I tell her what she should do."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied, concealing a grin under a
yawn.  

They were now standing in his office and outside his
bedchamber, and he noted that the scent finding its
way from under the door had changed, matured.  The
crispness of clean linens and the richness of worn
leather boots now blended with the softer note of
feminine skin; his private rooms did not smell empty
anymore.  

The priest folded his arms, barring his entrance as
though Gwilym would not pick him up and move him
after not seeing Duana nor slept in his own bed for
too many nights to count.

"Leuan, what?"  

"Llwynog, she..."

Whatever the old man wanted to say, he disintegrated
into embarrassed sputters.

"What? If she is here and she is well, then I am
content."  Gwilym was exhausted and pained and not a
patient man that morning. "I have gotten all your
letters screaming to Heaven because she looks over
the ledgers, as though we did not decide she could
before I left. That Duana has been setting far too
many eggs to hatch, in your opinion, so we are all in
danger of being overrun by poultry.  That she bought
cloth for three - count them - three new dresses -
one blue, one green, and one russet - so she is not
walking around in what she wore from London last
winter. The last message said the entire castle is
sinfully having bread with every meal. I fear we are
all damned," he said sarcastically.

"Violet. One dress is clearly more violet than
russet."

"WHAT is it? Spit it out before I throttle you!"

Leuan opened his mouth and let the words fall out:
"She looks to be breeding."   

He patted the priest's shoulder comfortingly, too
tired to laugh.  Leuan was worse than any wet nurse
when it came to protecting him.  "Yes. Duana told
me."   

"Gwilym-" Leuan warned.

"She told me," he repeated slowly so his meaning was
clear.  If she looked pregnant enough for Leuan to
have noticed and be concerned, King John rather than
he was the father of her child.  She had said that
was the case, but he had still allowed a candle of
hope to burn.  

Regardless, as Prince Llewelyn was fond of saying
when they were boys, 'possession is the majority of
the law.' They had settled those disputes over toy
swords and pet hawks easily: one of them either
running to his tutor to tell or beating the other
senseless. Now, three decades later, Llewelyn had his
troops in all the Norman castles of Wales; that and
King John's seal on the Magna Carta made the castles
his.  Duana was Gwilym's legal wife: his property,
according to the King's own law; that made her child
his. It was roughly the same principle.

"Think this through, Gwilym. I know you are fond of
her, but put your head before your heart, for once.
What if the Crown hears of this?"

"Hears that my new wife is already with child?"  He
lowered his voice and switched to French, closing his
heavy eyelids as he rested the back of his head
against a stone pillar. "Duana is slight; if the
child is large, she could appear more pregnant than
she is. Perhaps we did not wait until the proxy
marriage was blessed; I will be glad to do penance if
I have laid with my wife before it met with your
approval. Perhaps the baby may come early; first
babies do that often, in Wales."  

"None of that is the truth and we both know it, Fox."
The priest wanted so desperately to make this right
for his old charge. "Open your eyes, look at me and
tell me you believe that child is yours. I am not
saying Lady Duana would ever sin against you by
choice, Fox-"

"Stop calling me that!"  Gwilym pulled himself up to
his full height. "I am not a child. I am the lord 
of this land, and if I do not question my wife, 
then it is certainly not your place, John."

The priest took a deep, disapproving breath. "I am
sorry I brought this on you. I knew there was little
chance of her leaving Court without being accosted,
but so did you. I did not dream that this would be
the result. I thought she could not have children. I
would rather you have remained alone than risk King
John's wrath."

"I would not," he replied, switching back to Welsh.
"Congratulate me, Leuan: by fall, Duana and I are
going to have a child."

The priest hesitated, then said hollowly,
"Congratulations, Gwilym."  

As the wooden door squeaked open on the hinges,
Leuan's footsteps echoed heavily down the staircase.
He would light a candle for this child and for them
all when the King discovered it existed. As cold-
blooded and calculating as Gwilym was in war, he was
always reckless in love. Diana, Phoebe, Muretta:
Father Leuan could name a long list of pretty peasant
women who had gained a great deal from Lord Gwilym
and given him little more than heartbreak in return.
No legitimate sons. No dowry. No peace. Once again,
Gwilym was enamored with a woman and was not, despite
his claims, thinking this through. Wives were much
more easily replaced than sons.

*~*~*~*   

Now, there was just no way to maintain his dignity in
this posture: sprawled across the floor, flat on his
back, a woman he could normally toss around like a
child straddling his chest with a knife to his
throat.  Sweet Christ, Father Leuan would be beside
himself if he knew any lady could curse like that.
Four languages, no less. She had threatened his
manhood in Welsh, French, Irish Gaelic, and in
English, for good measure, having no idea who was
intruding into her bed in the dim light.

"It is William. Gwilym!  Duana!  Put down the
knife," he told her, struggling to keep the dagger
away with his left hand.

"William?"  She peered at him, trying to recognize
her new husband under the beard and dirt, and not
moving the blade until she was certain.  

"Yes! So you are not happy to see me?"

"William?"

"Yes. Let me up, please, before someone hears of
this."

She stood, helping him to his feet and offering
apologies.  

"Croeso, Gwilym," she said, as he touched the slight
swell of her stomach.  

Welcome, William.

*~*~*~*                  

Whatever was in the foul tea Duana brewed for him
when she stripped off his shirt and discovered the
arrow wound through his right shoulder, Gwilym slept
most of the day and awoke feeling, and smelling,
like the inside of a drunkard's mouth, as the sun
set. As compared to Merfyn, Gwilym had thought he
smelled fairly good, but Duana handed him a bar of
strong soap, indicating she disagreed and was
choosier that Merfyn's wife. A Welsh woman could
divorce her husband for having chronic bad breath,
she added, and Gwilym made a mental note to take that
book of Welsh law away from her as soon as possible.

Although it was warmer to bathe in the kitchen,
supper was being prepared and the maids tended to
give him sidelong glances and note things they should
not, so the bedchamber it was. Barbered, bathed,
shaved - by Gwen instead of his blade-happy bride - 
and wearing one of the new shirts that had appeared
during his absence, Gwilym's belly growled in
anticipation of the sizzling lamb upstairs, and he
was a contented man.

Slipping away from the festivity following supper to
the quiet of the stables, Gwilym found that Goliath,
too, was a great deal cleaner by nightfall. The black
horse blinked placidly in his corner stall as he
leaned his huge head down for the carrots Gwilym
offered. Crunching happily, he accepted scratches
behind his ears and under his muzzle with great
majesty, as though it was his due, which it probably
was.

There were footsteps behind him, and Gwilym turned to
find Duana making her way through the stable in
search of him, his ever-loyal dogs and two of his
knights following her.

"You have stolen my hounds' hearts while I was away.
Stay away from my horse, you witch," he teased,
cutting up the last of the carrots awkwardly with his
dagger and left hand, then offering the slobbery hand
to her.  

"No thank you," she replied, dismissing the knights.
"I had carrots at supper."

He should get Llangly the alchemist to design some
sort of device so he could gauge when she was and was
not teasing him.  

"Do you want to feed Goliath?  He is gentle."

That was silly, of course. She was not a princess
whose feet seldom touched grass and thought of goats
and cows as pets. Clearly, he was still bewitched:
his tongue would not work properly when she was near,
and his brain could not think of anything more
interesting to say, anyway. Duana probably found it
amusing that he was avoiding bed, and her, to feed
treats to an old warhorse.   

She nodded, holding out an apple she had brought.
Goliath perked his ears forward, sniffed, then
snorted and turned up his nose at her offering,
flaring his nostrils in disgust.  

"He will not eat it whole. I have to cut it up."

"Does he spoil you, Goliath? Would you care to come
sleep in our bed and beg scraps from under the supper
table?" she asked, rubbing the velvet-soft face.

"He does not speak French; he does not understand
you. He snores, too: worse than me. You would not
want both of us in our bed." He liked that it had
become 'our bed' to her, as though there were no
question. They should not be together while she was
with child, but it was nice to know that the option
to sin was available. Of course, if men and women did
not whenever the Church said they should not, that
left Thursdays, providing it was not Lent or Advent,
or the woman was breeding or bleeding or nursing. She
must be married in the Church and married to that
particular man. It must be after dark, mostly
dressed, eyes closed, husband-atop, and no one had
better enjoy it. Leuan probably gave himself hand-
cramps trying to mark down all the sins of the men of
Aber.

That image made him smile - of the old priest going
from house to house in the village, peeking in at
night, and making notes in his ledger - and for some
inexplicable reason, Duana smiled back.  

Gwilym watched her feed the slices one at a time
while the stallion waited patiently. 

"He was perhaps two and Dafydd was five when they
first came to live with me in the castle. Dafydd
named him Goliath after the Church story and I
thought that was brilliant for a little boy. Dafydd
and Goliath. I used to lead him around the outer
bailey with Dafydd riding barebacked and clinging to
his mane for dear life. Then, once the Crusades and
the endless wars began, Dafydd and his sister would
always run to meet me each time I returned, climbing
up and requesting we ride off in search of dragons or
Normans or Infidels or whoever was the enemy that
year. It does not seem that a decade has passed."
 
She turned her attention from the horse to the
master, resting a hand on the swell of her belly, and
trying to understand all of his words.

"I tried to be a good father, to meet all their
needs, but I could not give their mother back.
Perhaps I was too busy saving the world to take care
of my family. I will not see that happen again."

Well, his tongue and brain worked after all; that was
almost eloquent, for words inspired by a horse.

Gwilym thought he had remembered her: the borderland
at the base of her throat, the strands of fire that
stubbornly crept out from under her veil, tormenting
her with imperfection. His memory must be growing old
along with his eyesight because there were new curves
to be explored, different things behind her eyes to
be pondered.  He had not been able to watch her
amidst the bard and juggler and his high-spirited
knights at supper - to pause, clear his mind, and
drink this woman in until he was full of her. In that
way, he was still a hungry man.

Goliath nudged her gently with his nose, expressing
his displeasure at having eaten the last of the
apple.   

"He is greedy. He will take all that you will give."
As would his master.

He waited for a response, but there was only a squall
from a cat in the hayloft as it pounced on a hapless
mouse that had thought it found a safe haven for the
night.

"It is late. Time for bed," he hedged, not sure
whether to use his seducing or commanding voice, as
though one might be more successful than the other.  

"Yes."

"I am wounded. I should not be alone."

"You took a castle, led your men twice the length of
Wales, and, as I hear it, the bunch of you still had
the energy to terrorize the village this morning,
screaming at the top of your lungs like Infidel
women. Now you cannot manage your boots and breeches
alone?"  
 
He shrugged, immediately regretting it as pain shot
through his shoulder.  "Those were very manly,
Christian screams."  

Pushing up the sleeves of her new dress, which was
much more violet that russet, above her elbows, Duana
crossed her arms and fixed those blue eyes on him.  
 
"You are to blame for this. I am half out of my mind
with all the poppy you put in that witches' brew you
poured into me this morning.  I was wounded in battle
while you sewed shirts and-" he gestured to her new
roundness, "Grew a child, and when I return, you drug
me and glare at me.  Perhaps I was better off in my
tent with only Merfyn to give me the evil eye."

Gwilym was proud of himself for making it through his
mock lecture without cracking a smile.  

"You have no need of a sword or a bow. You could
talk the Normans and Infidels to death, my lord." She
picked up her skirt to avoid the stable muck and made
her way out, leaving him to follow, not sure she knew
that he was jesting.  

"Christ on the Cross, woman, can you not understand a
joke? Do not dare walk away from me," he said as he
caught up, tripping over a pail in his haste and
uttering a few words that would have made his
sergeant proud.

"I am not walking away from you, my lord. I am
walking to bed and you are just slow. Hurry, or there
will be no room for you with all the dogs."      

*~*~*~*

She scooted higher on the down tick, readjusting her
head on his good shoulder, and tracing a warm finger
across his chest so it made his stomach shiver again.
Praise God, she had bought his story about his act of
pissing valor and the resulting wound, and she was
fussing over him in a very satisfying manner.

"And this?"    
  
"An Irish spear with a very angry, though very
inaccurate, Irishman behind it. The King sent the
Welsh army with his troops to take Dublin, and the
inhabitants of the city objected strongly. That was
the year I came home to find my father dying of his
wounds and Diana dead."

"Here?" she asked, tracing the old, raised scar on
his thigh.

"That one is not so good for bragging - I got it the
first summer I was allowed to travel with my father
on Crusade.  My uncle was Commander of the City of
Jerusalem in the Knights Templar and I was so excited
to meet him I fell off my horse and onto a pike. The
wound did not heal well, so Father and Leuan stayed
with me in Jerusalem, at the Hospital of St. John, 
instead of riding with my uncle as they had intended.
Near the Sea of Galilee, Uncle Rhonald led the
Knights into what was supposed to be a minor skirmish
with the Saracens: the Infidels in the Holy Land who
had been accosting the pilgrims.  It was called the
Battle of the Horns of Hattin. On July 4, 1187; the
Knights Templar died to the last man, all captured
and beheaded, my uncle among them. I was eight years
old."       

By candlelight, Gwilym could see her eyes watching
him, listening.   

"You have the hurts of your life written on your
body," she commented, "As though an artist with a red
brush painted the worst moments into your flesh."

"I will lay here, willing and complacent, and let you
take pity on me again, if you consent, and if you
will wait a few minutes." He pulled her closer to
him, wanting to talk of more pleasant things.

"If I take pity on you twice in one night, on a
Sunday, fully undressed so you can see all of me, and
while I am with child, there will be a loud 'thud'
the next time I confess because the priest - your
fierce Templar warrior Father Leuan - will faint."

"I will come and fan Leuan when you must finally
confess that you enjoyed it."  

Gwilym said it lightly, getting sleepy, but hoped she
would answer. Perhaps she was embarrassed by the
changes to her body the baby was causing, or still
feeling King John touching her instead of him after
all these months, but he was not fully at ease with
her reaction to their lovemaking.  She was not so
timid as she had been when they first married, but it
was not as pleasant for her as it could be.

"Since you lack patience tonight, William, try to
have faith. I do not act against my will, if that
puts your mind at rest."

"I have heard that said about the Lady of Gwynedd,
but never experienced it myself.  She is the most
obedient and meek-" he pulled the furs up over their
bare skin, grinning, and added, "and modest of wives
to me."

His chin on the top of her head and his good arm
rapidly going to sleep before the rest of him
underneath her face, Gwilym hoped she was too content
to bother to retort. Then a thigh stirred, pressing
gently between his legs so his breath caught.

"What is the Welsh word for this, William?  I could
not very well ask Father John."

"Leuan would have something to pray about for weeks
if you did," he managed, congratulating himself that
his voice stayed steady. "Bonllost' is a polite term,
though there are many others. Do you want to know the
words for anything else?  This -" he ran his hand
over her breast lightly, "Is 'mynwes,' a woman's
breast, and when I pull you close to me, you are at
my 'asgre;' at a man's bosom."

"You have 'bonllost' and I have 'mynwes'?" she asked
into his neck, her hair tickling his nose as it fell
in red chaos over them both.

"And I thank God for that, cariad.  Stop tempting me
and go to sleep. Let me rest and heal, you wanton
witch, and we can practice your Welsh again in the
morning."

Deciding that the activity under the furs had stopped
for the night and it was safe to return, the dogs
found their usual places, nosing Gwilym suspiciously,
as though wondering what he was doing off the sofa.      

"William, are you asleep?" Duana asked some minutes
later.

"Um-hum," he responded, not opening his mouth or his
eyes.

"I am enjoying my Welsh lessons.  It is just new to
me and I learned very different before.  You are a
good teacher."

"Umm."          

Blending himself into her as thoroughly as if an
alchemist had stirred them together, Gwilym cut the
rope holding him to consciousness, and, not minding
the lack of blood flow from his liver to his left arm
in the slightest, slept.  

*~*~*~*

She was not fevered, nor was she bewitched. She was
just pregnant, and beginning to understand the phrase
'great with child,' though there were still months to
go. Duana opened her eyes, safe in William's arms as
he slept, to see the man who was not her William
again watching her from across their bedchamber.

Curious, she reached out and pushed the bed curtain
open farther so she could see him in the candlelight.
The William standing a few feet away was similar to
the man she had seen as a girl, but a few years
older, perhaps. He was strong and slim; she could see
the outline of his stomach and shoulder muscles.
There were scars on his left shoulder and both his
knees, and a long, straight scar down the center of
his chest; she could not fathom the wound had been
survivable, but it had, since he carried the scar. He
was her William, but one who had lived another life.

He wore only short, soft-looking braies. His face was
shadowed with stubble, and his short hair was
flattened on one side as if he had been sleeping. He
must have stumbled out of his dream in his world and,
momentarily, into hers.

He looked around the room, then watched her with the
same curious expression as before. She wondered if he
was not as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

"Are you William?" she asked softly, in Welsh, in
Irish, and then in French, pushing up on her elbow.
She was not sure phantoms in the night could speak.
"What is your name, my lord?"

He stared at her for a second as if trying to
understand, then said, "Bad hard."

"Bad hard?" she whispered, trying to understand him,
then realized he was saying a name, not individual
words in French. Mal Dur. "Maldur?" she asked, and he
nodded.

He pointed at her and said flatly, as an Englishman
would, "Scully?"

She nodded and felt a tingle go through her as if
lightening had struck close by.

He smiled, and Duana did not think she had ever seen
a man so happy and relieved. He asked something, but
she did not understand. His French was different from
hers: not only the accent, but some of the words.

Just as she should have been frightened as a girl to
wake to a strange man beside her bed, she should have
been embarrassed to be seen now, in her chemise, with
her hair down. She was not, though. She thought
nothing more of it than if her own William had walked
in. Whoever this mysterious man was, her soul
recognized his.

The baby shifted, and she put her hand on her belly,
not used to the sensation. The man came closer and
stooped down, grimacing momentarily as his knees
popped, but then his expression of curious wonder
returning. "With child?" he asked her slowly, softly,
in his odd French.

"Yes."

He smiled again, more broadly, his dark eyes lighting
up. "May I touch?"

When she nodded, he held out his right hand, and she
placed it low on her belly. She could feel his hand
under hers and through her chemise: warm and soft,
and exactly the same as her husband's hand.

Behind her, her William shifted in his sleep, moving
closer to her.

In front of her, the William in her dream rested his
hand on her belly and waited. She could smell his
clean skin, his hair. She could see hints of gray in
the stubble on his face, and the fine lines around
his eyes. Like her William, he was beautiful. She
reached out, touching the awful scar on his bare
chest and wondering who had done this to him.

He looked down, seeming embarrassed.

She slid her fingers to the side, across the hair of
his chest, and felt the slow, strong beat of his
heart. It comforted her, like listening to the ocean.
He covered her hand with his, and still feeling for
the baby to move, he closed his eyes.

"Girl," he told her softly, as if listening to
something. He seemed surprised, but then added,
"Good. Strong."

She could not fathom how he knew that, but she nodded
anyway.

"Amelie," he said in French, and then tried, "Aimile."

"Eimile," she guessed. "My child is to be named
Eimile?"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes, letting go of her hand to toy
idly with a lock of her hair. He seemed so tired:
the kind of tired that sleep did not help. 

"The hair is beautiful," he whispered to her in the
candlelight, still speaking odd French in that flat
English accent. He added sadly, "I miss you."

This William thought she was his woman, she realized.
His Scully woman. In his world, some version of her
existed for him. Or had. Perhaps his woman and child
had died in childbirth, and that was the reason for
his sadness. Perhaps to him, she was the ghost.

He inhaled as he finally felt the baby move, then
said something else she could not understand. What he
wanted was quite clear, though, and she did nothing
to object.

His hand slid higher on her abdomen and he sat on the
edge of the bed. She felt this William's lips on
hers, kissing her gently, then, as her mouth opened,
more passionately. Suddenly, he knew every inch of
her, every secret. There was no politeness to his
embrace; it was fire consuming tinder. It was the way
man was intended to love woman - boundless, naked,
lawless. It was like a warm storm around her,
consuming her. Even when they had made love, her
husband did not kiss her like that. Her William was
kind, gentle with her, careful each time to never
frighten her; he always held back, never forgot
himself. This William's kiss was intense and
instinctive and a little frightening and she never
wanted it to stop.

She had been having dreams like this, lately.

"You are beautiful," he whispered to her, his lips
brushing against hers. "I love you. Always."

He pulled away before she did, leaving her uncertain
and breathless. She was not sure she could be held
accountable for adultery committed in a dream with
her own husband, or at least, her mate in some
world. In some world, in some time, she was this
man's woman, and she had carried his child. And he
longed for her. Duana was not sure how she knew it,
but she was certain that in his world, his woman
longed for him, as well.

"If you have need of me..." he told her, speaking
slowly in French, and seeming to chose his words
carefully. "...Ever... Speak. Call. I will come."

This William looked past her, watching her William as
he slept, and seemed to take note of the fresh scar
on his shoulder. She wondered what it was like: to
find your other self in a dream.

Her husband reached out for her, and put his hand on
the side of her belly. He curled against her and made
a low, contented sound deep in his throat as he slept.

The other William looked wistful as he stood up.

"Thank you," he told her, and she nodded yet again.
She hoped, in his world, she was more eloquent.

He turned his head toward something, hearing a sound
she did not.

He scanned the dim room again, taking in the
curtained bed, the hearth, the shutters open to the
warm night. "I am in a dream, Scully," he told her.

She assured him that he was, and he stepped back and
just faded away.

*~*~*~*