*~*~*~*

The beds were different; that was how she first knew
it was not real, but only a dream from her old life.

In North Wales, the soft down mattresses were covered
in linen sheets, with warm wool blankets and fur
coverlets atop, like those of the Celtic and Viking
warlords. The bed curtains were heavy wool as well,
thick to keep out the winter cold - and pillows were
still considered slightly effeminate. In
Pembrokeshire in the far south of Wales, Walter's bed
was in the French style, with silks and embroidered
covers and tall pillows. The bed curtains were
velvet, and the mattress firmer, like those of the
French kings.

Walter had met the French kings - King Louis and King
Phillip. He had told her of them. He had served Queen
Eleanor - Henry II's legendary wife. He had seen the
Holy Land, fought with the Templars on crusade. He
had counseled King Henry II, then Richard, then John,
though, in private, he was increasingly concerned
about King John. Young Prince Henry, John's eldest
son, was often at Pembroke Castle for Walter to tutor
in statecraft, but her husband did not let Duana
leave her apartment if King John was there, worried
the King would see her.

"It is unwise for your paths to cross, little
countess," Walter would tell her when it was only the
two of them, late at night. "I do my best, but John
is not the king his father and brother were."

In her dream, she opened her eyes, and the head on
the pillow beside hers was not William's. The two men
were alike in some ways - tall, dark-haired men with
warm, dark eyes. William was clean-shaven, though,
and Walter's face bore a brown beard that had
developed distinguished streaks of gray. It was odd
to think about, but, when she first met him, Walter
had been only a decade older than William, and he was
perhaps the same age Sir Melvin or Father John were
the last time she had seen him alive. She had thought
of him as very old, but he was not, really. She had
just been very young.

'An old man's last folly,' he had called her from the
start. He had buried two wives, shedding tears for
each. He was a self-made man who had risen in rank as
a knight, then in service to the crown. His marriage
to the first woman had brought him lands and titles
second only to the English kings. He had a son by his
second wife who had grown to manhood in the time
Duana had known him. There was a stepson he, after
many hours of prayer and a long sleepless night, had
banished and then ordered killed for harming her.
Walter doted on her, teaching her things and giving
her fine clothes and jewelry. 'Indulge me,' he would
say, as a messenger brought another ornament for her
hair or a fur-trimmed dress better suited for Queen
Isabelle. 'For you are an old man's last folly.'

He had told her only once, when he was still quite
weak, that she reminded him of a girl he had once
known. A pretty Irish commoner he had kept as a
mistress, one whom he had loved dearly. He had been a
promising young knight, and she had been the woman he
had loved to distraction, but could not marry. He had
been a second son, a man who was not wealthy in his
own right. Walter had never told her what had
happened to his mistress, but she had died, Duana
knew, and there were no bastard children between
them. Shortly thereafter, Walter had contracted to
marry Edward's heiress mother, and after her death,
the woman who would be Fitz's mother. Kind, obedient,
wealthy noblewomen who had been dutiful wives. He had
been a dutiful husband in return, as he was in all
things: loyal and chivalrous and intelligent and
brave. He loved Duana as well; she had no doubt of
that. But Duana knew he had looked at her sometimes,
when he was tired, and saw not her, but the echo of
young Irish girl who, in his youth, he could not
afford to possess.

She found Walter awake, watching her silently in the
dimness inside the bed curtains. There were two male
servants in his bed chamber, in case Walter needed
them, and two knights standing guard outside the
door. Her maids came and went during the night, as
did other servants.

"Am I keeping you awake?" she asked worriedly. He had
sent for her to sleep with him, as he often did, but
she was tense, restless, unable to be still. She
yearned for something; she was not sure exactly what. 

"I was already awake." When Walter spoke again, it
was in Irish Gaelic so he could not be understood by
anyone except Duana. "It is time for you to visit my
lands in Ireland, little countess," he told her.
"King John demands more and more money, yet he
listens to my counsel less and less. His power is
waning, but he still over-reaches. His enemies
encroach from all sides - the Welsh, the French, the
Scots. A reckoning is coming, I think, and I prefer
you be far away when it arrives."

"I prefer to stay with my husband," she told him. 

"Your husband prefers that, as well. I fear, though,
that your sweet husband will not be here much longer."

She flicked the end of his nose lightly with her
finger. "So silly, my lord. What would I do in
Ireland?"

He rolled to his side, using his arms rather than his
legs to move his body. "You could raise a child," he
suggested.

She had smiled sadly and looked down. Young Prince
Henry was talking about his newborn sister, and Queen
Isabelle, Duana's age, had another daughter not a
year old. That made five children for Isabelle,
including two healthy sons. Several of the women in
Pembroke Castle had given birth, and one of the
knights had brought Walter his first-born son to
pledge him that afternoon. Even the cat had a litter
of kittens and the hunting hounds had pups. Around
her, once again, spring had brought big bellies and
babies for everyone except her.

"I do not like seeing you so sad."

"I am fine," she had lied. She felt so empty inside
sometimes that she ached, and she was not good at
keeping secrets from him.

"It is wonderful, Duana - to watch a child be born
and grow. I would like to see you have a daughter
before I must leave you. I would dower her with my
lands in Ireland, and you could raise her there, far
from England and the English Crown. FitzWalter would
keep you safe, after I am gone."

She scooted closer to him, uncertain. He had not
asked her to pleasure him in several years. She was
not certain even that he was not teasing her tonight.
She put her hand on his abdomen. The muscles were
still strong, and the dark hair was coarse against
her fingers. "I will do whatever you want."

He laid his hand in the small of her waist. "I have
told you that the Bishop of Fern cursed me when I
took his manors in Ireland a decade ago: from that
day on, no heir would be born to the Pembrokes." He
shifted his hand thoughtfully. "I want you to have a
child, but how you get that child - that will be up
to you."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, not believing her
ears.

"In my time, I have been with noblewomen and peasant
girls, with the Infidel's concubines and with French
courtesans. I have a fine son. I do not question my
virility as a man - but it has passed. I do not
question your love, either," he assured her. "Do you
want to have a child, Duana?" he had asked in the
darkness, just as William had, and with just as much
gentleness in his voice.

Her heart beat hard inside her chest. "What do you
want me to do?"

He was a decisive man, so he was hesitating only in
telling her, not in making up his mind. "Fitz adores
you. More than he should, I think sometimes."

He was teasing her; she was certain. Telling her to
sin and to sin with Fitz; that was not Walter at all.
Or he was addled of a sudden, she had decided.
Looking back, neither was the case. He was just
seeing his life coming to an end, one way or the
other, and looking at the world with more than fifty
years of wisdom combined with a sudden clarity. 

"I could not be with your son."

"Could you not?" he asked carefully. "He is a brave
man. A knight almost as great as his father," he
teased gently. "FitzWalter would never hurt you."

"I know," she answered, her voice sounding small,
even to her.  

He was quiet so long that she thought he might have
fallen asleep.

"What of Prince Llewelyn?"

"The Welshman?" she asked, surprised. Prince Llewelyn
had been to Pembroke castle several times, seeking a
truce with Walter and the other Marcher lords. There
was to be a counsel meeting in Runnymeade in June
between King John, the Marcher lords, and the Welsh.
The Scottish King would attend, as would the French
Dauphin. Walter was to draw up some sort of charter,
he had told her.

"Llewelyn is ambitious, brave, honorable," he said.
"He is not the military mind that torments the King:
that is his friend William of Aber. That man, I
think, is far more dangerous than the Prince of
Wales. Llewelyn is bright, though. I know him to be
gentle with women, and his eyes follow you at supper,
countess. He would never tell a soul if you passed a
night with him next month. Would you care for Prince
Llewelyn?"

"You want me to choose a man to father my child?" she
asked, still stunned. "I choose a man the way I
choose a horse or a dress? Whichever one I fancy?"

"What do you think men choose when they marry?" he
pointed out practically. "A mother for their
children. These are good men, Duana - men you like
and trust. Men who would not hurt you, and would try
to bring you pleasure, even, which is more than many
wives can say of their husbands. Or if there is
another man want, you only have to name him," he
offered. "So long as I approve, he is yours."

She had no doubt that if she had requested the French
Dauphin or the King of Scotland to father her child,
Walter would have arranged it. 

She thought for a time, trying to imagine herself
going to a man as a woman would. Bathing, preparing
her body, leaving her hair down, and then knocking on
either Fitz or the Welsh prince's door in her
nightclothes. Going to his bed. Or perhaps, Walter
would have the man come to her, and she had only to
sit in her apartment and wait anxiously, like a
bride. Perhaps Walter would want to watch from the
shadows to make sure the man did not harm her, the
way a gentleman watched as his prize mare was bred.
He liked watching her; in years past, he had watched
her bathing or dressing, then sent the servants away
and called her to him. 

She was his property; Walter could order her to be
with another man, if he wanted. He was not telling
her, though; he was asking her - and not for his own
sake.

"I cannot," she finally told him. It was a sin, and
it was selfish. She ached for a child - for a man,
sometimes - but she could not do that.

"As I said, it is up to you," he answered easily,
sounding tired. 

"You are teasing me, Walter," she decided, though she
knew he was not. "You would not leave me, nor send me
away. Nor send me to another man. You are teasing."

"Perhaps I am. Whatever you want. Sleep, little
countess," he had told her.

*~*~*~*  

The men were drilling on the frozen cobblestones
before dawn, with Merfyn barking orders left and
right and enjoying himself immensely.  

Gwilym stretched like a big cat and pulled the small,
sleeping form to him, scanning her face to make sure
no tears had come while he slept. He would be the
biggest joke in Prince Llewelyn's army if those men
playing at war outside knew how many times in the
night their fearless general had asked her
permission, delaying as long as possible for fear of
hurting or frightening her. 

She had finally convinced him she was willing by
teasing him, whispering that his nose was as cold as
a dogs and if he insisted in putting it in such
places, that he warm it up first. He had stopped,
pretending to glare at the dogs, who were whimpering
about being exiled to the floor. He asked exactly
what she had been doing with his hunting hounds while
he slept on the sofa. He had thought giving them
chicken bones and letting them sleep in the bed was
spoiling them; had she been allowing them at her
breast?

Duana had smiled: a true, gentle smile that spread
until she began to laugh. He had hushed her, covering
her mouth with his on the pretense of not wanting to
send the servants' tongues wagging, and she had not
pulled away. Her body had stiffened as he entered it,
but then she had relaxed, letting him slowly,
carefully, love her. Several times he had seen her
open her eyes, watching him, reassuring herself that
he was the man above and inside her.

There was a full feeling to his chest as he watched
her sleeping. She was unaware of the impact she was
having on his lonely world. He had dreaded her
arrival, and hoped at best for a tolerable companion
- a woman Leuan had described as fair and bright and
good. He had been blessed with so much more.

Pushing her hair back from her face, he wondered what
she had wanted, what she had hoped for as she rode
into the mountains of Gwynedd. Leuan said there had
been offers of marriage from others: land barons,
nobles, and wealthy merchants - men who would expect
little from her except to hang on their arm and swell
their pride. Yet she chose a Welsh lord she had never
met, assuring herself a life of waiting for him to
return from battles, wondering if he even still
lived. He could not imagine why.

The light crept in through the bed curtains like an
unwanted visitor to his sanctuary, and he could still
make out the old marks on her shoulders and wrists
and hipbones. He had seen and received enough blows
over the years to be able to retell what had happened
to her as though he were reading a story.  

The beating had been severe, and there were several
sets of grip marks. She had not just been held down,
she had fought, causing the man to have to readjust
his grip, angering him, and making it even worse for
herself. Why had she struggled? If it had been King
John, as he suspected, there had been no possibility
of escape. Gwilym traced the faint bruises with his
fingers, thinking he would have fought too. She woke
as he touched her, her eyes opening like a contented
kitten's.

"The King?" he asked, touching the marks. Then,
seeing her go pale, he explained, "I understood when
you told me: you think you are with child. I want to
know who has forced you, beaten you. Was it the King?"

"You will not be angry?" He shook his head no, and
saw some color return to her face. "My time: it has
not come."

Still slightly drunk with the night's events, that
female euphemism took some seconds to translate in
his head; her flux had not come. She did not suspect
she was with child; she was with child. He had
thought for several days that might be the case, but
he had assumed the father of her child was her first
husband. Which, according to her, could not be the
case.

It was possible he had just made a huge tactical
error in his own bed.

"The King?" he asked again, keeping his voice
carefully even.

She nodded miserably. "He said he would send you a
wedding gift, and it seems he has. 'A wedding gift
for the bastard Welsh general.'"

"What of Llewel? Prince Llewelyn?" he clarified.

"I do not know where he was. It happened so quickly,"
she said, misunderstanding his question but answering
another he did not have the nerve to ask.

He bristled that Llewelyn had not tried harder to
protect her, but then, the Prince of Wales would not
defy the king or the king's law for the sake of one
woman. He could post all the guards he wanted outside
her bedchamber; Welsh knights would not stop the
Norman King.

She looked up. "The King said it was his right. That
I should not have objected or resisted. Is that true?"

"It, it is a right, but it is never done. All lords,
in theory, have it over their subjects' brides, but a
fine is paid instead. Jus primae noctis: the right to
the first night with the bride. Invoke it in Wales
and a lord is likely to find a new husband's arrow
mysteriously between his shoulder blades before the
week is out."

"Oh," was all she said in response to his history
lesson.

Awkward, not sure of what to say to her until he had
time to think, Gwilym dressed hurriedly. He washed
his face and rinsed his mouth while she sat on the
bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, and bare skin
forming gooseflesh in the cold air.

"There is no one else who could have fathered this
child?" he asked, praying she would say yes. A lover
at court or Llewelyn or any man besides King John.
While he was not thrilled at her bearing another
man's child, it was not as if Duana had been
unfaithful to Gwilym. Most widows remarried quickly,
and some so quickly that they brought their first
husband's unborn child to their new marriage. The
Normans were obsessed with legitimacy and must think
their women too stupid to know who had fathered their
child - hence the Norman custom of waiting a
fortnight after the wedding banns were posted to take
the vows and consummate the new marriage, Gwilym
assumed.

"There is no one else," she answered softly, not
looking at him.

The king's bastard: the knowledge settled over him.
His lovely new wife could be carrying King John's
bastard son. That was no small thing, if it was true,
if it was discovered. Even if it was a daughter, King
John would remember and want this woman and her child.

Prince Llewelyn did not know about Duana's husband
either, he realized. Llewelyn thought Duana could not
bear a child.

He stopped in the doorway, turning toward her and
bracing his hands on either side. His eyes were fixed
on the floor as he tried to form a plan.  

He could send her back to London or to Llewelyn. But
he had promised, and, even if he had not, he could
not send her away. She was his legal wife, he had
consummated the marriage, and he did not want her
annulled. He suspected he was falling in love with
her in spite of himself. Keeping Duana was worth
risking the King's wrath.

Gwilym suspected Prince Llewelyn was not going to see
it that way.

Perhaps she was mistaken, he told himself. Perhaps
she was merely anxious and there was no child. Until
he exiled her to an abbey last year, Llewelyn's wife
was forever suspecting she was carrying a son by him
because, for the sake of Wales, she desperately
needed to be. Duana was not Joanna, though. Gwilym
suspicioned Duana had told him the truth: she did
want to have a child, but by him, and never by King
John.

He could send her to an abbey to have the child in
secret and make her leave it there. That seemed
cruel, but it was often done with unwanted children,
and it was kinder than letting it die of exposure. He
could say the baby came early and was his. He looked
nothing like King John, but Llewelyn was fairer
skinned. He could send for a midwife to brew mandrake
tea and give it to her, killing the child before it
even formed. That was dangerous, though; a woman in
the village had bled to death trying to rid herself
of a child. He wanted Duana  - safe and with him - 
but he could not fight the King's army, nor would
Llewelyn allow him to. 

"Where are you going, William?" she asked, still
studying the bedsheets.

In truth, nowhere pressing. The soldiers would not be
ready to ride for another hour. He had finished his
correspondence and read over the accounts last night.
Merfyn was very capable of preparing for a siege.
Morning mass had come and gone while he lay abed, so
Leuan would be along soon for an explanation of his
absence.

"You are angry. I am sorry," she said, hair falling
like a veil over the sides of her face. "I will go -
leave. You should not trouble yourself with me. You
should not have laid with me," she said, her voice
wavering. "I will not tell anyone." She started to
get up. "I will go. I am already with child. It makes
no difference what we have done. Just do not tell
anyone, and I will not either."

There were footsteps on the stairs; the one morning
he wanted peace, Heaven forbid his lands and serfs
function past six in the morning without his presence
to decide who owned a cow or how best to replace a
bridge. After throwing the bolt on the door, he
walked the length of the bedchamber and sat on the
edge of the bed.  

"Do not tell me what I should do." He took her hand.
"Duana - I said your name with my breeches on, so
take note - I know of King John. He would never let a
woman go, whether she wanted him or not. He is too
proud. I did not expect you to be with child by him,
but I want you and anything that comes with you. You
have taken me as I am, and I intend to do the same.
You are that anchor. I have found where I want to be
and I intend to stay. No more roaming."

"You want me to stay?" she asked, seeming surprised.
"William, the King-"

"You are my wife, not the King's. By harvest, you
will have a child. Perhaps, it will be born a little
early, but that happens often in Wales. If you agree,
I will claim the child as mine and dare any man to
say otherwise. The King will never know. He never
knew with Dafydd."

She stared at him for several seconds, her mouth
slightly open. He looked back at her steadily. He was
being rash, he knew, but he meant every word. It was
as if his soul recognized hers, and he would die
before he would lose her again. 

"I told you: I am a very good soldier," he promised.
"I do not care for Normans who try to take what is
mine. You are mine, by the King's own law. Your child
is mine, by Welsh law. If you agree, it would be
unwise for any man to disagree."
 
He gave her hand a squeeze, then stood up. He studied
her, trying to gauge what she was thinking and
feeling. She did not reply and he could not guess, so
he pulled the covers around her against the cold and
turned to leave.

"Thank you," came the calm voice from behind him. "I
have not had many choices."

"You are welcome. What will you choose, do you
think?" he asked, stomach knotting, not sure which
choice they were discussing and afraid to turn to
face her. "Or have you chosen?"

To stay in Aber? To remain as his wife? To say the
child was his? They still had trouble communicating
sometimes, especially nuances. She sounded as if he
should know what she was talking about, but he did
not.

"I cannot promise. There are so many possibilities."

"Then you will need some time to think."

"Yes," she replied. "You are going to war?"  

He nodded, telling her the name of the castle he was
laying siege to at Llewelyn's command.

"Ask me when you return," she requested.

"It could be months before I return. Will you be
here?"  

She said yes, and he filled his lungs with air again.  

Abandoning all pretense, he turned and asked, "Will I
know the question by then?"

"You are a good man, William of Aber." 

There was that mysterious smile again, her eyes
lighting up. Christ, if this woman could still smile,
there was hope for all God's sinners. She seemed like
the Greek and Roman statues - lovely, fair, and silk-
smooth, but carved of the hardest rock. She looked
gossamer light and his fingertips remembered flowing
over her as though she was polished stone, amazed
that a mortal was allowed to touch this form. It was
not until some well-born ruffian tried to damage her,
to chip away at her, that the fine marble showed its
true strength. Kings and kingdoms could be falling,
but men would still stand in awe, shaking their heads
at how such beauty could endure.

"This morning, you choose me as your wife, and I am
grateful to you. I would like to demonstrate my
gratitude. This morning the question is 'Must you
leave so soon?' There are two answers," she told him,
smoothing her long hair back. "You may go to war now.
Or you may linger a little, my lord, and teach me
more Welsh."

Choosing the obvious answer, he quickly pulled off
his boots. Let Father Leuan and the servants pound on
the door until their knuckles bled; Gwilym did not
care. Llewelyn's siege could wait, as well. Heaven
and Hell could wait, for all he cared. Like a
mistress, he would leave the bed when his lover told
him to, and not before.

"I have barely slept," he warned her as he lay down
with her and pulled the bed curtains closed. "You
truly will be the death of me, cariad."

"I sorely hope not," she told him, putting her hand
on his cheek as he kissed her.
 
*~*~*~*
   
She had read and heard of many things she had never
seen - foreign lands, dragons, Heaven and Hell and
all that lay between. There were supposed to be
dragons in Wales and men with horns and tails, though
she had found no evidence of either. Men whose
tempers flared like kindling and fought brother
against brother - those there seemed to be aplenty,
but William was not one of them.   

Geraldus Cambrensis had written "The Description of
Wales," one of the books her first husband had given
her to read. Cambrensis told of a hardy people who
loved their beautiful land and music and poetry;
hospitable men who did not hit their wives or force
women without repercussion. He wrote that this was a
land of war and mists, of King Arthur and old magic
and dangers natural and unnatural. Only a foolish
Norman would cross the border. The historian had
written the truth; once she crossed into Wales, only
memories of Norman men had followed.

They had discussed it for hours - she and Walter,
sipping brandywine, laughing, and deciding that Welsh
dragons must breathe ice instead of fire. Then her
husband would ring for a servant to carry him to bed,
leaving her to her books and dreams. It had been a
very gilded cage - a lonely one, but a safe one, she
had thought.

It was a choice, one of the first she was allowed in
her life: when her brother had found her - to return
home and be married to whichever Irish farmer would
have a woman used by the King's soldiers, or stay
with her sweet husband and use his wealth to feed
hungry peasants and doctor anyone who appeared at the
doorstep. Years later, there had been another choice:
submit to King John and dishonor her marriage, or
refuse and pay the price. Walter had not wanted her
to go with the King's soldiers, and so she had
refused. And so the King's soldiers had come for
Walter. Then for her. Her choices had led to this: a
feeling like snow suddenly giving way and sliding off
a steep slope.  

Northern Wales was such a cold place, but the cold
numbness deep inside her was starting to thaw. The
ice must have formed years ago, and she had not
noticed. She had thought it was normal to feel only
shallow things.

Wrapped in her new husband's bed-robe, she watched
him in the snowy bailey below, supervising Melvin as
he put the soldiers through their paces with bows,
swords, long spears, and maces. Duana had seen wars -
the battles in Ireland when she was a child, the ones
Dover and Pembrokeshire, even a siege in London. The
Welshmen in red tunics were well-armed and well-
rained. They could not defeat King John's hoards of
mercenaries, though. Those men scurried over the
mountains like ticks, looking to fatten themselves on
the blood of the land. If the King learned of this
child, the soldiers would come; the King's bastards
lived at Court, usually with their mothers. The
soldiers would come for her and her child, and, if
her new husband tried to stop them, they would come
for William.

He was a good man, this William of Aber - but like an
avalanche gathering force. If she did not run now,
she would be caught up in it and unable to escape.
There were no bonds this time - no ropes or moats or
even gilded social bars; if she chose to leave, all
she had to do was say and William would send her
under safe passage to wherever she wanted.

Her first plan had been to wait until she was certain
she was carrying the King's child, then to tell
William she wanted to leave Aber. She would have
grieved, but she never would have told him about the
baby. She would not have put him or his kingdom in
danger. Then, as she watched him watching her,
wanting her, and heard Mervin's taunts about the
butcher's dog, 'just once,' she had thought rashly.
She did want him, as unconvincing as she was about
demonstrating it, and as much as it complicated
leaving him. Let him take her as just once, but
William did not take. He wanted her to give, and so
she had - but not in a way that he would think her
baby was his, if he ever discovered why she had truly
left him. Then, when he woke her from a nightmare
last night, she chose to tell him about the baby,
hating to keep the truth from him. William chose to
stay with her, to lay with her, and now... Now she
understood why people called it making love.

The empty space inside her was starting to fill with
a swirl of fear, and one drop at a time, with love,
which was equally frightening.

Father John and Prince Llewelyn had done something
unheard of: before they offered marriage to William
to the King, they had asked her, telling her of him
and asking if she would like to be his wife. They
said he was brave and quick and well-read, but
reclusive and inclined to melancholy when left to his
own devices.  Lonely, they said, since his mistress
had died in a fire years ago. He did not trust
easily, nor suffer fools, and he had some ideas that
bordered on blasphemy, Father John had added,
crossing himself. She had agreed to the marriage and
within hours stood in front of Father John and beside
Prince Llewelyn to be married by proxy to a man she
had never met.

When Father John had recited the vows again two days
ago, she had taken William's hand and found it as
moist as hers. After kneeling with her to be blessed,
William had led her home to the bed, placed her,
still dressed and trembling, under the fur coverlet
and himself above it, pulled her close as though he
was afraid of losing her, and slept.                      

There was a storm growing inside her, along with this
child.

She would not have another man die because of her.

The soldiers were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder with
their backs to her window, offering their weapons for
Melvin to inspect. William, astride a huge black
horse, looked up, saw her watching from the window,
and gestured for her to get back before someone saw
her in her nightclothes. Melvin was chastising some
poor man for a faulty arrow tip and not paying
attention, so she pulled the neck of her chemise to
the side, exposing her shoulder and seeing the color
and surprise rise in William's face.

He watched over the heads of his men, transfixed, as
she untied the laces, baring both shoulders and
turning in a little circle so he could admire, before
she leaned out the window, grinning mischievously at
him. This feeling, this novel sense of power, this
avalanche gathering force; it was as intoxicating as
wine.  

"Witch," he mouthed, trying to maintain his stern
expression. "Wanton." He jerked his chin up, silently
ordering her to get away from the window and dress. 

She pulled his robe closed against the icy morning
air, but continued to watch him as he played the role
of nobleman preparing for war, glancing up
occasionally at her to see that he was doing it
correctly. 

He was brilliant and brave and kinder than he wanted
men to know. Thoughtful, willful, and scarred and
skittish from too many wounds. He was reclusive and
melancholy and much, much more dangerous than the
English King. All King John could do was abuse her
for sport; William, if she let herself love him,
could hurt her far more deeply.

She suspected William was correct: there were worlds
out there that they knew nothing of - across the sea
or beyond stars or from another time. 

In her eighth year, she had taken a fever so high
that she had not known her family. She shivered and
sweated as demons had tormented her, tricking her to
see and hear things that were not real. Days had
swirled by until suddenly, she had woken in the
darkness, her young mind clear, but alone and too
scared to cry out for her mother. Her father and
brothers were working in the city, but there had been
a strange man there, clean and cleanly shaven, with
very short hair, wearing odd clothing. He had looked
around, then at her curiously. He seemed to recognize
her, and he smiled kindly and squatted down. He was
not flesh, she realized, but neither was he evil.
Rather than being frightened, with a child's trust,
she had pulled up her feet so he could sit at the
bottom of her pallet. He had. He was her father's
age, perhaps, but with the soft hands and smooth skin
of a nobleman. She thought he was the most beautiful
thing she had ever seen, but that might have been the
aftereffects of the fever. The fire had crackled, and
wolves had howled in the distance, but they could not
get her.

She did not know how long the strange man had sat
there, but he never spoke or touched her - he just
kept watch and kept her from being afraid during the
night. When her mother returned, carrying buckets of
water and out of breath from the walk, and Duana no
longer needed him, the man just faded away, like mist
in the morning sun. Duana had never told a soul about
the mysterious man, and people would have said she
was bewitched or just a flighty girl if she had. He
had not been not William, but some echo of William
from a far away world. She was sure of it.

She would not have this man die because of her.

A maid entered carrying warm water and left her to
wash herself, removing traces of the events of the
night. There was still no blood on the towel as she
dried, but she had not expected there to be. William
was right - she, or she and he, were going to have a
child. There was an ache between her legs again, but
it was a slight one, with no malice behind it: just a
reminder of her husband.

If William said he could keep her and the child safe,
she believed him. He had said this child was his, and
dared any man to say otherwise, even the King.

There was nowhere that she wanted to go. She would
stay in Aber, love this man, and have this child, as
ill-advised a choice as that was.

The young maid, Melvin's wife, returned to help her
dress, commenting on her beautiful hair as it was
braided and pinned in a auburn crown around her head.  

"You are a fortunate woman, my lady," the girl said
slowly so Duana could understand, since the maid
spoke no French.

He called her 'cariad.' He called her many silly
things as he avoided having to pronounce her name,
but she suspected William did not apply that word
lightly. She suspected he loved her as well, as ill-
advised a choice as that was.

Perhaps it was fated in some world, the way Kings and
Popes were predestined to rule in their world.
Perhaps, somewhere far away, they were was already
written in the stars.

"A woman takes fortune where she finds it," she
answered, but the flighty girl was full of dreams of
knights and mists and courtly love and did not
understand.   

Cariad - beloved. Wales would be a good place to
begin again.  

*~*~*~*   

End: Hiraeth II: Cariad