Hiraeth VI: Echen 

*~*~*~*

There were times when a husband - as head of his
family, lord of his castle, and slayer of dragons,
Infidels, Normans, and hairy black spiders - needed
to guide his wife. It was his duty, his
responsibility, however distasteful it might be.  A
woman could not be expected to know right from wrong
the way a man did.

Gwilym had two years of practice with Duana, and he
had tried to learn from his mistakes.  He found the
best approach was similar to driving a team of
stubborn oxen: one carefully observed which way the
animals wanted to go and then called out that
direction in a loud, commanding voice.  It made the
driver feel better, fooled anyone who might be
watching, and the oxen did not seem to mind too much.

He made a disapproving noise in the back of his
throat, put his hands on his hips, and squared his
shoulders as he watched her put the baby to her
breast.  Again.  He was going to have words with
whichever servant had brought the baby to Duana.
Again.  Probably Pyn; that man thought the sun rose
and set exclusively for her, which was not true. The
winter sun rose and set for Duana, Eimile, and his
new son.  

"That is common," he pronounced, scowling at her from
the doorway.  When she did not respond, he crossed
his arms and pursed his lips for emphasis.  

"I am a commoner," she replied casually, pulling the
coverlet up over the baby's head now that someone
else was in the bedchamber.  Oh, so she wanted to
suckle her child like a peasant woman, but she had to
be modest about it.

He lay down on the mattress with care, still certain
she would go to pieces if he jiggled her, propped his
head up on his hand and pulled the furs and blankets
back down.  He at least wanted to observe what he was
scolding her for doing.

"You should be resting.  You are not even supposed to
be sitting up.  Look: he is not really eating; he is
almost asleep.  Give him here," Gwilym ordered,
starting to take the baby from her. "I will take him
to the nursery," he lied.  Probably, Gwilym would get
as far as the next room before he barred the door,
sat on the sofa, laid the tiny baby across his knees,
and just stared at him.  It was miraculous: to see
his own eyes reflecting back at him.

Duana clutched the baby and turned away protectively.
"William, I would like to see my son occasionally.
Between you and Mother and Sir Melvin and Gwen and
Father John fawning and strutting around like
peacocks with him, I have been forgotten."  

"I do not strut," he answered haughtily, then added,
"Although I am certain he is the smartest, strongest,
bravest, most handsome week-old son I have ever seen."

Her mouth twitched.

"Go ahead; laugh at me.  No one else can hear and I
am sure you will explode if you do not do it soon.
See," he brushed some milk off her nipple with his
forefinger, "You are already leaking.  You had better
laugh or you will burst."  

Gwilym touched his wet fingertip to the baby's mouth,
and a curious little pink tongue emerged, trying to
decide what to make of this new food source.  When
his son started to latch onto his fingertip to nurse,
Gwilym leaned closer in awe, but then remembered
himself, pulling his hand away and cleared his throat
as he stood up.  As soon as his back was turned, he
brought his forefinger to his own lips, just out of
curiosity.  

He stopped short, worrying the traces of milk around
his mouth in wonder, then turned to look at the baby
nestled contentedly against Duana's bare breasts.

Regaining his composure, he carried the cradle across
the hall from the nursery and set it down beside
their bed. "There, now you will not have to get up,
which I am sure you do not do every time I leave the
room or fall asleep.  I will take him to his nurse
when he is hungry and you will know just where he is
at night."

"I do not sleep alone in this bed," Duana replied.
"So I doubt I am the only one who wants to check the
baby at night."

Gwilym made what he hoped was a disinterested noise,
and laid the baby in the cradle himself so she would
not have to twist to do it. Her mother had given
strict instructions: keep Duana flat as much as
possible. The bleeding had not been as bad this time,
according to Duana, which gave Gwilym nightmares
about what Eimile's birth must have been like. 
Caithrin was still concerned, though, and she was 
not the only one.

"Lay down," he told her softly, closing the curtains
against the weak afternoon sun and stretching out on
the bed so they were eye to eye. "Rest." Gwilym
pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and stroked
her cheek, which was not as pale as it had been
earlier this week. "I want you to ask your mother
before you keep feeding him.  When Eimile came, there
was no choice at first, but this is different. You
are so weak, there is a nursemaid, and I want to hear
your mother say it is all right now.  Do not think
she and I both do not know when you just pretend to
translate what she says.  My serfs on the Isle of
Mann speak a Gaelic language, and neither Caithrin
nor I are fools.  If she says it is fine, I will stop
scolding you about doing it, no matter how
inappropriate it is."

"Mother knows, William. Yes, she wants him fed by the
wet-nurse most of the time until I am stronger, but
it is good for babies to have milk from their own
mothers.  Especially at first: it makes them
healthier, and he is so small. But if you keep having
the wet-nurse feed him constantly, I will not have
any milk soon."

"Why is that?" he asked, scooting down so he could
examine the two subjects of their discussion more
closely.  "Is it like a cow that must be milked
regularly?"  

That was a flattering analogy, but Duana, used to
him, only nodded, and then laid her head against her
forearm on the pillow. 

"Then it must hurt not to be able to nurse.  Cows
make an awful racket if the milk maids are late:
mooing and carrying on like they are dying."

It was a good she had little choice about becoming
his wife; he would never be able to charm any woman
into marrying him with romantic observations like
that.

"It is uncomfortable," she mumbled, partially asleep.
"But new babies eat often, so he will be hungry
again soon."

He was quiet a moment, running his hand carefully
over the swell of her breast and down over the
softness of her waist.  "I do not get to tell you
often that you are wrong. Not and really mean it.
My father was the last Lord of Gwynedd born in this
castle, so, yes, everyone is celebrating my son,
including me. There are bonfires and feasts and
church bells, and your lord husband may indeed have
made a drunken, strutting fool of himself in front of
the Prince of Wales yesterday. But I have not
forgotten about you, either, so do not think I have."
He glanced up and saw her smiling as she dozed.
"Oh, do not look so smug, woman.  As though you do
not know I absolutely adore you."

Her breasts jiggled temptingly in front of his face
as she chuckled, resting her hand lightly on his
cheek.  He weighed the pros and cons for a moment,
then decided he could not possible horrify her more
than he had the night she conceived his son.  This
would earn a mere raised eyebrow from her when
compared to what they had done among the bonfires.  

As he took her nipple into his mouth, exploring the
taste and fullness rather than suckling, she inhaled,
pulling her shoulders back.

"I think I know why you like to feed that baby,
cariad," he paused to say, licking his lips.
"Wanton."

"It is not the same thing at all.  I cannot believe
you are jealous that your son gets to nurse, but you
do not."

"Not nursing," he murmured, and instead nuzzling
against her neck and closing his eyes. "Appreciating."   

"Is that what you call it?"

"You have no idea."

*~*~*~*

Gwilym had sworn Merfyn to absolute secrecy before
they left the castle, but there are still some things
a gentleman just does not tell, especially knowing
Merfyn's penchant for gossip. Anyone who thought
women were the worst for wagging tongues should camp
in an army of knights, foot soldiers, archers, and
squires during a six-month siege. Rumors spread
faster than the French Pox.

The sergeant, however, had no such modesty, and
seemed to think any topic was suddenly open for
discussion.

"You have actually waited the entire forty days?"
Merfyn asked, forgetting to guide his horse as he
stared at Gwilym in shock, or horror: it was hard to
tell. "I thought that was just one of those sins
Leuan made up to torment his parishioners and no one
actually did it.  So you waited seventy days after
Eimile was born?  Seventy days? How many months is
that?  More than two, I know."

"Seventy days is a little more than two months,"
Gwilym answered noncommittally.   

Merfyn considered a moment, cocking his head to the
side with the effort. "I would die," he decided. "I
would rather confess, do penance, and pay for
indulgences.  I can understand a few weeks after a
son or any child, really, but two months - a man is
supposed to wait seventy days to lay with a woman
after a daughter is born?  I have so many daughters;
if I waited two months after each one, I would be
waiting..." He struggled with the math, then gave up
and just said, "...a very long time."

"If you would wait, then you might not keep having to
think up names for so many daughters.  How many is it
now? Eight?"

"Nine; three boys and nine girls," Merfyn said
proudly. "How long is that all together that I was
supposed to abstain?"

"Almost two years," Gwilym answered, glad to have a
new topic besides his relations with Duana. "But you
have two sets of twins and those new triplets, and I
think Leuan would count days of abstinence after each
birth, not by each child.  So a woman is never
unclean for more than seventy days, regardless if she
has one baby or a whole litter, as your new wife
seems to."

"So how long it is really?  Perhaps I can do it all
at once the next time we go to war and get some of my
indulgence money back from Leuan.  I think I would be
fine if I got to kill someone every so often,
because, I swear, I have paid for the chapel's new
altar myself. That priest knows more ways to make
something a sin-" 

Merfyn reined his gelding sharply and ducked to avoid
a low tree branch.  

"Five hundred and seventy days," Gwilym figured,
having had time to calculate since Goliath had sense
enough to walk around a tree rather than into it.
"Nineteen months. More than a year and a half," he
added for Merfyn's benefit.  

Like most men, Merfyn judged time by the height of
the sun, the phase of the moon, and the season of the
year.  He could recognize his name, read scales
enough to know how much he was being paid, and, not
having owned more than a hundred of anything in his 
life, had never needed to count any higher.    

The old man whistled under his breath, which Gwilym
took to mean Father Leuan could rely on Merfyn
continuing to buy indulgences and warm the
confessional for years to come.

"So, then, who is your mistress, if you are so moral
all of a sudden?" he asked boldly. "There was Diana
and Phoebe, though I never saw the appeal. Of
Phoebe," Merfyn quickly added, though he had been
vocal about despising Diana as well at the time.
"Whores, of course, but that is not the same.  When
you came back from the Holy Land, there was Muretta,
but I have not seen you with her since she married.
Really, Gwilym, I do not know who it could be since
the Lady Dana came.  No woman in the castle, I am
certain, or I would have heard of it. That is polite,
though: there is no need to flaunt other women in
front of your wife.  Come to think of it, I have
heard of no village girls, no prostitutes, no camp
followers-"

"It is lovely to hear you chronicle my life.  You are
not the only one with a good memory.  Would you like
to hear my account of your mistakes?" Gwilym
interrupted.  

"Dear God in Heaven!" Merfyn exclaimed, spurring his
horse to a trot so he was riding beside Gwilym, who
had felt the need to pick up his pace. "You are
faithful to your wife!"

Gwilym ignored him and turned off the road, onto the
snowy path to the alchemist's hut.

"That is it, is it not?  There is not only no
mistress, there are no other women at all.  That is
why you are worried that the Lady Dana might become
pregnant again so soon. The forty days have almost
passed and you have not been with anyone else."

Gwilym flung him his nastiest look, but knew it would
do no good: Merfyn had sniffed the wind and caught
the scent of something to tease him about.  

"Interesting.  Well, you are not the only one
hopelessly in love.  Someone else we know has a new
daughter. Twin daughters, in fact."

"Who?" Gwilym asked, interested. Probably one out of
every ten women in Aber had given birth this winter,
but there were no twins or triplets except for
Merfyn's. Duana often delivered babies born in Aber
Castle, so these girls must have come in the months
since she fell from her horse. "Someone in the
village?"

"No, in the castle. Well, a man from the castle and a
woman from the village."

Gwilym thought a moment. That information did not
really narrow the choices. When he tried to think of
which of his knights might have been bedding a woman
in the village last spring, the answer was 'most.'

"My squire and the cooper's youngest daughter," he
guessed.

"A mother from the village, a father from the castle,
and neither are present, at present," Merfyn
elaborated.

"A nobleman or a commoner?"

Merfyn nodded thoughtfully. "I would say he is quite
noble."

"Merfyn, I do not know," he said in frustration. He
was being baited somehow; he doubted his sergeant
was going to let him off the hook about his wife so
easily. He could lay with any woman he wanted; there
was only the one woman that he found himself wanting,
and, by chance, it happened to be his wife. "Just
tell me."

"I will tell you if you will say it: I, Llwynog ap
Gwilym, General of the Welsh Army, Lord of all of
Gwynedd, have not been with a woman in almost forty
days."

"You are being childish.  Tell me who has the new
twins."

"Not until you admit that you are actually being
faithful to a woman.  Then pick me up after I faint,
fan me, and when I wake, I will tell you."

Gwilym frowned. No deal. Aber was not that large; he
would know about the twins soon enough. 

"No really: no one?" Merfyn tried again. "We
were in the south of Wales for all those months when
you first married...  How about while she is with
child?  According to Father Leuan, that is a sin as
well, yes?  She has been pregnant most of the time
you have been married to her-"

"And that is why we are here," Gwilym snapped back.
"I am not the only one who wanted to come, so either
close your mouth and be helpful, or go home and pray
your Elan lives through another set of triplets."

Merfyn's eyes narrowed, but he kept quiet the rest of
the way through the cold woods to Llangly's hovel.

*~*~*~*

"One would do what with this?" Gwilym asked, peering
suspiciously into the mixture of cedar gum, olive
oil, rue, lead, and white pepper. 

"Inside," Merfyn reminded him, so puzzled he forgot
he was not speaking to him.  
 
"No, I do not think so," Gwilym decided, wrinkling
his nose at Llangly's latest suggestion. "If my wife
knows, then it is her sin as well.  This," he said,
sticking his fingers into the repulsive concoction
and then, regretting it, trying to flick it off and
still maintain his dignity at the same time, "This, I
think, she would notice."
 
"Do not worry. There are other choices," Llangly
assured him. "Many things are said to prevent a child
from forming."  
 
"I have heard of brake-root," Merfyn offered. "One of
my wives drank brake-root powdered in wine."

"How many children did you say you had?" Llangly
asked haughtily.  "Perhaps your science is
questionable?"

"How many times did you say you have been married
that you think any of this-" He gestured to the
alchemist's contraceptive offerings so far. "-is a
valid option.  Let me count: never, I think it was.
Can you imagine what my wife would say if I told her
she was to put this-"

"Better your wife do it than you.  I would have to
sketch you a map for you to figure out where it
goes," Llangly retorted, having disliked the grumpy
old soldier at first sight.  "Tell me: do your
children resemble any other man you know?"

"All right!" Gwilym intervened. "Enough.  You said
there were other choices.  What are they?  Do not
suggest dung from any animal applied to any part
off me or my wife again."

"Weasel testicles," Llangly replied, nodding
enthusiastically.    

"I am sorry?" Gwilym responded, eyes wide.  He looked
to Merfyn to see if he had heard correctly, and his
sergeant's expression indicated he had.

"The Normans say to have a woman wear them," Llangly
explained.

Merfyn thought up a brilliant jibe about whether or
not the Lady Dana already did something similar, but
Gwilym was wearing his sword and Merfyn preferred to
keep his manhood. Lord Gwilym always had the last
word in his marriage, of course, as long as that
was all right with his wife.

Just like Sir Merfyn did.

Llangly held up a sizable jar and assured them with
pride that he collected these himself, which worried
Gwilym for several reasons. "Weasel testicles worn as
a necklace are said to be a sure guarantee against
pregnancy," Llangly said, sounding like he was
actually serious.

"Perhaps for female weasels," Gwilym said
skeptically. "I will put a jasper stone under the
pillow like you suggest, but is there nothing else?"

"My Lord, wives have so many children for a reason:
because it is God's will.  You are trying to prevent
that, which is as unnatural as a woman speaking in
Church or in a court of law."

Gwilym was quiet for a moment, glancing at the
cobwebbed crocks that lined the high shelves and the
parchments on which the alchemist's experiments were
recorded.   
       
"You know, of course, that my wife had a child before
Christmas? A son?"  

Llangly nodded. All of Gwynedd had celebrated: Lady
Duana was well-liked, and everyone breathed a sigh of
relief to know there was again a male heir.

"There was bleeding," he continued. "Just as there
was after our daughter was born.  Her mother was
there and got it to stop, but I was with my wife when
it happened.  Duana sent for me as soon as the baby
came. They did not even have him bathed. I did not
want to leave her in the first place, but everyone
insisted, so I made her promise I could return as
soon as possible after the birth.  I have seen men
cut in two in battle; I thought I would be fine as
she gave birth, that she would be frightened and it
would comfort her to know I was there. The midwives
are right, though: watching my wife start to bleed
and not knowing any way to help was worse than any
war I have ever been in.  One minute I was stroking
her sweaty face, thinking how tired she looked and
thanking God she was alive, and the next there was so
much blood..." He trailed off, not wanting to
discuss the details, but clearly upset by the
memory. "We have a healthy son, and a daughter as
well. We do not need a baby every year. Do not tell
me it is God's will that Duana die young just because,
just b-because of me."

Merfyn shifted, feeling awkward, and decided the
thatched roof and then the dirt floor alternately
needed to be stared at.  

"These are only folk remedies," Llangly responded in
a sympathetic voice. "I would not put much faith in
them if so much is at stake. Perhaps they work;
perhaps they do not. Do you know what coitus
interruptus is?" he asked hesitantly.

Gwilym nodded; Merfyn did not. "The sin of Onan."

"If there is no seed for a child to grow from, then
there is no child."

"God struck Onan down for doing that," Gwilym pointed
out, though it was Duana's wrath rather than God's
that worried truly him. 

"Perhaps ask your wife, then. She is very good with
herbs.  I know metals and science, but the villagers
say she is a skilled healer, for a woman. If there is
another way, she will know it.  Perhaps-"

Gwilym was shaking his head from side to side. "I
have asked her and she will not say."             

"She might tell another woman," Merfyn piped up. "She
is bound to be sympathetic to Elan: twins and then
triplets within two years is just not reasonable.  I
will have Elan ask Lady Duana and tell me, and then
Llangly can give you whatever herbs Lady Duana
recommends.  Then it will be up to you, Llwynog, to
get your wife to take them."

"I do not think she will tell Elan," Gwilym replied,
sounding doubtful.  Merfyn's fertile young wife might
adore Merfyn and her babies, but she had as much
sense as a rabbit. "The- Another woman wanted herbs
to end her pregnancy, and Duana would not even tell
her what they were.  Elan is not going to convince my
wife if this woman did not."

The woman had been Muretta last week. Her husband had
sent her and told her not to come home still pregnant
with that foreigner's child.  Not that the tanner did
not care for her; it was just that he could not look
at her every day, remember what had happened, and
stay sane. If ever a situation would play on Duana's
heart, it was that one. Gwilym had accidentally
overheard, via his ear pressed to the office door,
her desperate pleas to Duana. While he could not end
her pregnancy, he would intervene and ensure she was
cared for if Duana did not. The next day, Duana
seemed to have acquired a new, quite pretty,
completely inept, and suspiciously pudgy lady's maid
for the duration of said 'pudginess.' Then, he was
betting, he was going to acquire a foster child.   

"If you have a better plan, share it, Gwilym," Merfyn
replied, frustrated that his idea was so quickly
dismissed. "Perhaps you are not the only man fond of
his new wife."

Gwilym shrugged, defeated. He paid and thanked
Llangly for his time, and walked outside, wanting to
clear his head before Merfyn started picking at him
again about Duana.  

"Father Leuan and the blonde Norse widow," the
sergeant said neutrally, the leather creaking as he
swung into his saddle. "The candle-maker's niece. It
seems our priest is a mortal man after all, though he
is embarrassed to admit it to you or the bishop. The
woman returned to her homeland, but there have been
rumors of her pregnancy since late summer. In 
January, she sent word to her aunt that the girls 
had been born. I had noticed our priest buying 
many candles winter, and when the candle-maker
mentioned the birth to Leuan... That is where
Leuan has been since he christened your son 
and my newest children: on the Isle of Man, 
with the mother of his children."

He had been busy checking Goliath's feet; his gait
was off for some reason. Surprised, Gwilym glanced up,
dropping the horse's foot. 

"Father Leuan? He said he was on a pilgrimage. That 
he wanted to help the monks in the north. He had 
been acting strangely for months, and I thought that
was a fine idea: go meddle in someone else's affairs."

"The Isle of Man would be the most northern of your 
lands, Gwilym."

"Are you jesting? Twins? With the candle-maker's 
niece? Why did he not tell me the truth?"

"Because you are like a son to him, and he does not
want to disappoint you. He does not want to disappoint
anyone. Including the mother of his children, who was
well-aware he was a priest. The Norse woman did not
send for Leuan, as I heard it, and I do not think 
even the candle-maker knows who fathered the 
woman's daughters."

He patted Goliath's shoulder, considering that. If
the Normans believed Northern Wales was barbaric, the
Isle of Man truly was. The inhabitants were a mix of
Celts and Vikings, with their own language and faith
and customs. There were churches, yes, but
Christianity was a new idea on the island: tolerated,
not revered. Much of what Gwilym knew of the Druids
and Norse he knew from governing the Isle of Man,
though he generally followed his father's advice to
just collect the rents and let the island govern
itself. His father had been familiar with the Druids,
but had not wanted Gwilym to be. 'Their world is not
yours, and your world is not theirs. Just let them
be, Llwynog,' Gwilym had been instructed, and Leuan
had reinforced that over the years. Let them have
their rites and bonfires; do not forbid them and do
not join them. The world was Christian now, and so
Gwilym must be as well.

Gwilym wondered, for the first time, exactly how
familiar with the Druids his father and grandfather
had been. 

He was hurt that Leuan had not just told him about
the woman and her children. Leuan had let women go
before, and he would have parted, heartbroken, from
this one, except for the children. Leuan was truly
like a second father to him: a good friend, a
trusted adviser. 

He remembered Father Leuan asking him if he would die
to protect for Duana and his child. Leuan must have
known even then.

Gwilym realized that, if it had been Duana, far
away, alone, in winter, and with a child... If there
was just that one chance at a life with her, he 
would have made the same decision, regardless of the
cost. If she had need of him, ever, he would be 
there. He stopped readying his horse as the thought
lingered like something he had once known but then 
forgotten. He blinked, and the odd sensation passed,
leaving only the January chill behind.

"Leuan does not disappoint me. He has merely chosen a
different path," he answered, remembering what Leuan
had told him last year. "He is my friend, and I am
happy for him. Send a messenger telling him that.
Tell him to bring his family and return to Aber as
soon as they can travel."

Even as he gave the order, he realized it would do no
good. Leuan would not leave his family, and if he
returned with them - acknowledged the woman as his
wife and the children as his daughters - the Church
would charge him as a heretic. Even Merfyn was
carefully saying 'the mother of his children,' the
way one would refer to a mistress, when the situation
was clearly closer to taking a hearth wife. In the
civilized world, not acknowledging the little girls
made them bastards. Taking a wife, even in Wales,
would cost a priest his soul, if not his life.

"I do not believe he will," Merfyn confirmed. "I will
send the message, but I think you will have to go to
him."

"I will do that then," he answered, and swung up into
the saddle. "In the spring. Father Leuan and the Manx
widow: they have twin girls," Gwilym repeated, trying
to make it seem real. He could not imagine Leuan as a
father, yet he could not imagine a better one.
"Really? You are certain?"

Merfyn nodded, grinning broadly. It was true, then.
Merfyn delighted in secrets the way a glutton
delighted in sweets.

"I thought you were going to make me say that I love
only my wife before you would tell me."

Merfyn's grin dimmed, then return, seeming forced.
"You just did. Do not worry, Llwynog. I will not
tell anyone."  

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym tossed the summons across his desk so it slid
over the edge and fluttered to the floor, and
clenched his fists until the joints ached. "Why did
you not tell me?" he spat out at Llewelyn. "I thought
she was joking when she said her husband called her
'Countess'. Or at least, I thought she meant some
minor count. Could you have troubled yourself to
mention who my wife is?"

"Who your wife was," the Prince of Wales corrected,
puzzled by Gwilym's focus on such a minor detail.
Gwilym had put off swearing fealty to the new king to
stay with Duana, and the brat-king had finally sent a
summons for Prince Llewelyn to bring Gwilym, and,
oddly, Duana, to London Court immediately. "Why?
Would you have refused her?"

Gwilym whirled around, his temper and pride getting
the best of him. "As if I had a choice!  You sent
Father Leuan back to Aber with a message: I had been
married by proxy.  Not 'was to be married.' 
'Married.' Over, done, sight unseen, without once
asking what I wanted. By order of Prince Llewelyn, I
had a new wife and you were in King John's good
graces again."

Llewelyn leaned against the stone hearth, nonplussed.
As was often the case, the Prince of Wales was not
troubled by a lack of self-confidence. "That is your
greatest concern with this summons?"

"The Countess of Pembroke and Striguil, and Lady of
Leister; Llewelyn: that is land in Ireland, England,
South Wales and Normandy.  That must be half of the
Crown's taxes. There is quite a difference between
that and the Lady of Gwynedd. The Count of Pembroke
was Walter Marshall. Queen Eleanor's man. Duana
was..." The pieces fell into place. "She was
Pembroke's third wife. The young one you talked about
a few years back."

Llewelyn fiddled with the hilt of his dagger, bored,
but there was no hurrying Gwilym, sometimes.

"Why would she not tell me? Why would you not? Does 
no one tell me anything? My father spoke of Pembroke,
even rode with him on Crusade, I think. He said 
Pembroke was one of the greatest knights he had 
ever known: brave and wise and noble and-"

"And dead," Llewelyn reminded him. "That last, I
think, is most important."

Gwilym exhaled noisily and changed the subject. "Why
would the brat-king summon Duana? I do not like
this."   

"Nor do I. Whatever could be the reason for it?"

Gwilym sat on the edge of his desk and closed his
eyes, concentrating.

"What would you be thinking Gwil, if you were the
Norman King?"

The fire crackled for several minutes before he
answered. "It is not an invitation, but a summons.
One addressed to you, not me or Duana. That means the
sender thinks I would ignore it. He regards me with
disdain, but also as ruthless. You, he thinks, are
more reasonable." He paused. "If I was the King, I
would know Duana is not politically valuable on her
own. Her value to the Crown would be in controlling
you or me, or in her widow's rights to my lands or
Pembroke's, or both, perhaps. With those lands,
though, she would be quite useful to offer to a new
husband. Have you been to London to know the new
players?"

Llewelyn shook his head. "I have send messengers
pledging my fealty, but I am overdue, as well." He
added, as if it was an afterthought, "My wife has
been ill."

Gwilym opened his eyes. He had not known that. Joanna
must no longer be announcing her pregnancies at the
first sign. He regretted not bridling his enthusiasm
about his own son a bit, but Llewelyn had not said
a word except in congratulations.

"She is well?"

"She is out of danger, the physicians say." Llewelyn
toyed with the dagger on his belt again and said
absently, "It was another boy." He worried his mouth
briefly, then said, "None of your scenarios end well
for you, Gwil."

"They do not. I can think of many reasons why the
boy-King or one of his advisers might summon Duana to
court, and there are many factors I cannot know. It
could be benign. If it is a trap, though, I would
rather face it knowingly."

"Eimile and your son will stay at Dolwyddelan Castle.
They should not remain in Aber unguarded. Send their
nursemaids and Duana's mother; my wife will watch
over them."

Gwilym did not say it, but Aber Castle was more
secure than the one in Dolwyddelan, and even if it
was not, he trusted Merfyn and Gwen to watch over his
children more than he trusted Llewelyn's vast staff
of servants. Prince Llewelyn just wanted Joanna to
have a baby to hold, though he saw no harm in it for
a fortnight.

"Duana will be furious with me, but we will be ready
to ride tomorrow, if the weather holds. I will have
to borrow a horse; Goliath has a swollen hock. Pyn
and Gwen can manage the castle well enough, but there
is a woman, Duana's maid, who is with child. I will
send her with the children. If the maid's baby comes
before we return, I have paid for Saint Mary's Abbey
to take it. I thought Duana would want to keep it,
but she is adamant that she does not."

Llewelyn was surprised. Taking a wife's maid as a
mistress might be convenient, but it was impolite and
likely unwise. Gwilym's bed was Gwilym's prerogative,
but Llewleyn had thought he would have been more
sensitive to Duana's pride.

"The abbot knows Duana, and promised the monks would
keep the child until it is old enough to be pledged
to the Templars or one of the nunneries. The woman is
Muretta, Llewel. See she is cared for and returned to
her husband," Gwilym requested, then, tilting his
head to the side, asked, "Pembroke's son Alex: does
he still live?"

"He did not have a son named Alex. Not by his any of
his wives, anyway, and I do not know of any bastards.
There is a son and a stepson, but neither is named
Alex. Why?"
 
"No reason," Gwilym replied casually, now toying with
the hilt of his own dagger. "As I said, I like to
know the trap that is being laid for me."

*~*~*~*

The sensation was like tiny, pleasant flames licking
her all over as sea foam caressed her skin, which
made no sense at all, but she was not going to dwell
on the disparity.  In the blackness of their
bedchamber, Duana ran her hands across the smoothness
of a man's shoulders as rough stubble scratched her
face, then neck, then breasts, sucking gently.  She
could not see anything in the darkness, but the scent
of his skin, the sounds from deep in his throat, and
the rhythm of his mouth and hands roaming over her
body were familiar. 

"Do not wake," William whispered to her, moving
farther down her body and pushing her legs apart.
"All a dream."

She relaxed under him, letting her muscles go limp.
They had finally finished all the arrangements for
their trip to London and fallen into bed long after
midnight, barely speaking.  She was not happy about
leaving the children because of one of her husband's
whims and had told him so.  Loudly and angrily.
Making her accompany him was selfish. She was still
nursing their son and this was just a way to make her
stop, regardless of what he said. William had been in
a foul mood all evening, refusing even to let her see
the summons and barking orders at her like she was a
fool, so perhaps this was his way of apologizing.  

Oh, sweet God; he must be very, very sorry.

She could feel his smooth lips and rough tongue
between her legs, and a moist heat radiated through
her pelvis. The tension inside her began to build,
and she moaned, shifting her hips, not sure if she
wanted to press toward this sensation or away from
it.  In a heartbeat, it did not matter, because the
wave crested and broke, crashing over her and leaving
the last of the sea foam effervescing on her skin.

Still half-asleep, when Duana could focus again, she
found William kissing her deeply, mumbling
endearments into her mouth that he would passionately
deny if he ever thought she heard.  

"Turn over," he told her, wanting her to face away
from him.

"Like this," she requested, wanting to see him, feel
him above her.

"No, do as I ask," he prompted. He added after a
second, "You just had a baby."

She stopped kissing and touching him, her feelings
hurt. William seemed to like her full breasts, but
her stomach was still soft and her hips round. She
had not thought she was so unappealing that he would
want to take her like an animal, not having to look
at her.

"I do not want to crush you," he explained, though he
was obviously not telling the truth. "Turn over. This
will be better."

No, if he was so concerned about hurting her, he
would lay with her so she could see him and he could
see her. He would be atop her, or, if he wanted, it
was no less of a sin for her to be astride him than
to be on her hands and knees.

She rolled over sullenly, awaiting his next command.
He curled up behind her, his erection pressing hard
between her thighs. He touched her breast, cupping
it, then adjusted her top leg and started to slowly
slide just slightly inside her.

"So sweet," he whispered to her, kissing her
shoulder, then her neck.

She heard him gasp as his next thrust was a little
deeper, but she did not move. She did not resist him,
but she did not move or welcome him, either.

"Duana, do not do that. Relax or it will hurt."

She gritted her teeth, staying silent. It was not
only nighttime, but William had snuffed the candles,
let the hearth die, and shuttered the windows. There
was total darkness, so he did not have to see her at
all.

"Tell me what you want me to do and I will do it, my
lord," she said, her obedience tinged with anger.

"I want you to relax and let me make love to you,"
his voice responded, sounding displeased. He pulled
his hips back, leaving her. "Which you do not seem to
want."

He exhaled. After a moment, he rolled her to face
him, pulling her close. His breathing was still
quick, and his chest was hot against hers.

"It is too soon?" he asked.

"It would seem so," she answered coolly.

His body was still insistent; she could feel his
erection against her thighs. Instead of pushing her
to her back, he kissed her softly, his palm on her
cheek. "All right," he agreed, his voice husky. He
moved away, leaving a warm hand on her waist, but
otherwise not touching her.

She was being an awful wife, she knew. She should be
thankful he wanted to lay with her at all, and that
he would not force her or purposefully hurt her,
instead of being so prideful. 

She heard him take a long, shaky breath, trying to
relax. William did not have a mistress. He wanted
only her, he said, and it had been months now.

Her anger cooled, and she was unhappy and
embarrassed. "I am sorry," she told him.

"It is all right," he told her uncomfortably.

"I will do whatever you want," she assured him.

"No." He said it firmly, like he was declining more
wine instead of her. It was not only her pride that
was suffering tonight.

She felt her face grow hot. "Do you want fellatus?"

"I do not know that word."

"My mouth," she said simply.

There was a hesitation in the darkness. "Yes," he
finally said, as if he should not.

She moved down his body, doing as she was told, and
heard him gasp again. He pressed up on one elbow, and
she could feel his muscles tensing and the sweat on
his skin beneath her fingertips. He touched her face,
ran his fingers through her hair, talked to her
softly until he could not speak anymore. He let his
head fall back, his breath quick, his fingers
tightening in her hair.

Afterward, he said nothing. He laid back on the
pillow, and she laid beside him, listening as his
breathing slowed. 

Not sure what to say either, she rolled away and
adjusted her pillow. When she slid her hand beneath
the pillow, she discovered a small, smooth rock, of
all things. She let it fall to the floor, wondering
how in the world it got there.

*~*~*~*