*~*~*~*

Gwilym hoped with all his body and soul that she had
come to him, even so soon. Gotten cold and lonely in
her bed and come to him to pursue her studies of
Welsh and Welshmen. Perhaps just an introductory
lesson, even - but unfortunately, that did not seem
to be the case.

She had been to bed - her long hair had been plaited
so it would not tangle. She yawned as she shuffled in
wearing his bed robe, holding the hem high enough for
him to see her ankles in the flicker from the candle
she carried. When she noticed him draped over the
sofa, staring out the open window at nothing, she
dropped the heavy material, looking puzzled.

"Do you not sleep, Lord William?" she asked, as
though she was not roaming the castle in the witching
hour.

He stood, stretching. "No. Do you not sleep?" he
replied. 

"I have dreams," she said quietly, then stood
watching him.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

She nodded, looking uncomfortable.

"Stay, if you wish." He gestured for her to sit on
the opposite end of the sofa. "Dreams are worse if
you are alone."

He was not certain she would accept his invitation,
but she sat down. After a moment, she folded her bare
feet modestly under her on the sofa, wrapping the
yards of fabric around her against the cold. Gwilym
had let the hearth almost die, not noticing just for
his own sake.

He busied himself rebuilding the fire, and, once it
was burning well, returned to the sofa.

He sat down a respectable distance from her, glad to
have a partner to discuss the creatures that walked
in dreams. "I dream of my daughter. I watch for her
to return some nights."

"Was she taken by soldiers?" She arranged herself
comfortably, as though they had spent many hours like
this - talking of secrets late at night. "My brother
found me, though I was content to stay. Perhaps you
could find your daughter and bring her back."

"No, she was nine. I hope the Norman soldiers would
not take her. Two summers ago, she was just gone.
Perhaps she wandered too far and got lost. Fell.
Drowned. Perhaps wolves or gypsies. Or perhaps
witches, as the villagers say." 

"You do not sleep while you watch for her?  While you
watch for her to come home?"  He nodded his head,
knowing he would stumble if he tried to explain. "I
watch for King John or his soldiers to come again. Or
my husband's stepson and his friend. I still remember
them."

Restless at the images her words brought, Gwilym
stood and went to the window.  

"My grandfather built this castle. From this window,
you can see the pass through the mountains - that is
the only road that leads to the valley below. To our
backs is the sea, so anyone who enters or leaves my
lands on foot can be seen from this corner of the
castle." 

He heard movement and sensed her behind him, so he
moved to the side to let her look out with him. 

"No one is going to hurt you here," he continued.
"All those fires you see in Aber Village - those are
families; people ignorant of kings and books and
charters. People who marry for love and lust and
close their eyes at night, trusting that I will keep
them safe. They know there are things in this world
that they do not know, and they trust me to face
those words and men and monsters in their place." He
braved a hand on the small of her back and she did
not move away. "I worry that I will fail - that they
expect more than I can give, but now I have another
reason to keep watch. You can sleep, my lady.  Alone
or in my bed - no one is going to hurt you again."

He felt his mouth over hers, very careful, just for
an instant. "My God, you are a lovely woman. Do not
be afraid. Do you want the priest to bless us?" he
asked, thinking he would rouse Leuan this moment if
necessary.

Just an introductory lesson, he reminded himself. It
had been too long since he had been with a woman, and
he was too eager. Months, he realized. Not only
Muretta, but it had been months since any woman, and
he had barely noticed.

That was far too long, and he sorely noticed it now.

"My Lord, I do not understand that much Welsh. Please
speak French," she whispered, as though another soul
was awake to hear.

He floundered for a moment, then grinned to himself,
stepping back. "How long have I been speaking Welsh?"

"For some time. What did you say?"

His battlefield courage failed him. "I told you it
was a cold night."  

"It is cold." She crossed her arms, peering at him in
the light from the candle on the desk, marking the
passing of the long winter night. "I do not think
that was what you said, though."

"What do you think I said?"

"I think you kissed me." That was not the question.
"I am your wife, my Lord.  I chose to be your wife." 

And he would thank God, fasting and on bended knee,
for that. First thing in the morning.

"I lied. I can sleep. I just cannot sleep alone in my
bed without bad dreams. Perhaps if I were not
alone. . . "  

"French, please, Lord William."

Shit! He'd never be able to bring himself to say that
again.

"I am teasing. You said that in French. Or something
like French."

Surprised at her boldness, he leaned back on the edge
of his desk, watching the moon framing her head
through the window as it peaked from behind the
clouds.

"What is the French word for wives who are docile?
Adoring and silent and obedient?" he teased back. "Do
you even know, woman?"

She pushed her braid back over her shoulder and
tucked a few stray strands behind her ear as though
they were discussing the likelihood of rain.
"Norman," she told him in French, saying it slowly,
as if he might not understand. Her eyes twinkled at
him mischievously. "I think the word for those wives
is 'Norman.'"

He chuckled. King John was a fool for two reasons -
for not appreciating this woman as something other
than a trophy, and for not moving Heaven and Hell to
keep her. Stop mistreating her for a moment and a man
could find something quite interesting just under
that pretty surface. Just as he suspected her first
husband had.

"I think I have met my match." There was that
mysterious smile again: the one that made men ride
their horses into low branches as they watched her.
"I never thought I would find my match in my own
office, wearing my robe and little else at midnight,
but I can not imagine where else I had hoped to find
her. Perhaps you are right; perhaps this 'anchor' you
speak of is in Wales."

He replaced the screen in the narrow window of his
office, closed the shutters, lit a second candle, and
offered his hand. "Come," he told her, and she
followed him.

He sat the candle in the nook at the head of the his
bed, then picked up a fur coverlet, wrapped it around
her, and guided her to one of the windows of his
bedchamber. The snowstorm had stopped for the moment,
and, as he opened the window, he could hear the ocean
in the distance.

"Listen," he told her softly, his hands on her
shoulders. "That is the Irish Sea far below us. You
are looking toward your homeland."

She smiled as she looked out at the black night.

"I have serfs on the Isle of Man who are not Celts;
they are the sons of the Norsemen. Vikings," he said,
using the English word. "They tell of traveling to
lands in the west. They say, across that sea, past
your homeland, there is a land of stones, and one of
wine, and one of fertile meadows. Vikings tell of the
people of those lands: short, dark bowmen with
straight dark hair, but no beards or hair on their
chest." He moved his hands to her waist, feeling the
sleek fox fur blanket against his fingers. "On
Crusade in the Holy Land, I saw men like the Vikings
saw: not infidels, but mongols from the east - from
far beyond where any Christian man has ever traveled.
Do you know what that means, Duana?"

He was speaking carefully in French with an
occasional word in Welsh or Manx or English, but he
was not sure how much she was understanding.

"You believe they are the same men," she said, and he
felt one of her hands on his. "The men the Vikings
saw in the west and the men you saw from the far
east."

"I do. I will tell you a secret that would get me
burned at the stake in London, sweet girl," he
whispered to her. "If I am right and the Church is
wrong, there are no dragons at the end of the world.
If I am right, there is no end to the world. If we
travel west from this point, and we knew the route,
we could go in a circle around the world and come
back to this same point. Our world is infinite," he
said, using the Latin word.

"You are correct: that is a dangerous thing to
believe, Lord William," she told him softly.

"I told you: I am a dangerous man." He put his face
near hers, looking out the window with her. "Now that
you know my secret, I cannot send you back to London.
Even if you do not want to be my wife, I cannot let
you go back to the Norman king. Whether you say in
Welsh yes - 'do' or no - 'na' - tonight or any night,
you may not go back. I will not allow it. I must keep
you from him; my life depends on it." He kissed her
cheek, then turned her so he could kiss her lips
carefully. "So choose as you like. Or, if you are
unsure, ask," he whispered. "I will never be mistaken
for a Norman, but perhaps I could teach you Welsh."

"I may choose?"

He kissed down the side of her neck, then whispered
in her ear, "You may. I pray: choose me."

"I did choose you. Tell me in Welsh how to say 'You
are a good man. A kind, brave man. Thank you for
marrying me.'"

"You are welcome, my lady," he answered. He pulled
one of the laces of her chemise, untying it. "I am at
your disposal. Is there more you require of me
tonight?"

"And teach me to say, 'tonight, I will do as you
wish, my lord, but I came to get my book,'" she added
softly.

He stopped, his hand still on the linen cord at the
open throat of her chemise, thinking he had
misunderstood. He was a nobleman and he did not
purposefully pursue unwilling peasant girls, so it
was a novel thing: being turned down by a woman. He
had set the terms, though.

"You came to get the book," he repeated in French,
more surprised than angry.

She nodded uncertainly, looking down.

He pulled back a few inches, laughing at himself. The
dogs perked up their ears at the sound of his voice,
ready to sound the alarm if anything was amiss. No,
for the first time in years, nothing was amiss.
Though clearly, he was bewitched. That was the only
explanation for this foolishness. Sending her to
sleep alone was one thing, but sending her away once
she was in his bed chamber... Merfyn and his knights
would piss themselves laughing.

"Christ on the cross. You will be the death of me.
Llyfr is book," he said, stepping back. "Wait here."

She nodded.

"I should teach you to say 'get out of my bed,' as
well - that will be necessary," he told her as he
retrieved the text from his desk, then put the screen
back in the window of his bedchamber. As he gave her
the book, he noticed she seemed tense again. "The
dogs," he explained, realizing she did not
understand. "They like to sleep in the bed, since it
is often empty.  Do not allow them to sleep with you
unless you are cold and want them. Say 'oddi gwely'."

She didn't move away as he kissed her again, still
tentative, keeping the book between them like a
shield.

"That is a good lesson. To say 'yes' and 'no', to ask
for my book, and to say who is welcome in my bed
should I wake up cold and alone and want him. In
time, I think I want to learn more." Her lips were
even with his ear, and he heard her whisper, "What
does my name mean in Welsh?  Why do you not say it?"

His breath, already quickened, caught in his throat.
"Under. 'Dana' means 'under' or 'beneath' someone. I
will gladly say it as often as possible. But not
tonight," he reminded himself aloud. He caressed her
cheek and stepped back, composing himself. "My life
is in your hands now," he told her. "I do not like
boats nor fire. Do not..." He stopped, trying to
think of the word. "Do not betray me."

"I will not," she promised.

Gwilym pointed to the sofa in the next room,
indicating that was where he would be if she woke up
cold and alone or frightened again.  

"You will keep watch while I sleep?" 

He nodded.   

She disappeared behind the bed curtains, taking her
book with her. Several spoiled hunting dogs bounded
in after her, unaware that she was the fox they were
bred to chase. He left the bedchamber door open as he
went out, and the dogs were not told to leave the bed.

Gwilym settled himself deep in the sofa cushions and
resumed staring out the window at the snow, on guard
to intercept any bad dreams that might try to make
their way up his mountain. The candle sat burning on
the desk near his head, flickering in the cold
breeze. The notch indicated one o'clock and then two
and three came; the witching hour had long passed as
he kept watch and listened to the soft breathing from
the next room.

Yes, it seemed he had been bewitched, but he did not
mind. Everyone knew pretty women with red hair were
witches who could change into animals and haunt a
man's dreams. Familiars, they were called,
masquerading as a man's wife.  As he drifted into the
light, watchful sleep of a soldier, there was the
rustling of little feet against the floor and a flash
of red hair as his eyes closed. A familiar soul was
haunting his dreams. He was bewitched, after all. 

*~*~*~*

The snow had stopped and the sun was rising from its
bed when Leuan found his friend already at his desk,
going over the ledger before morning Mass.  

"What is 'une ancre,' Leuan?" Gwilym asked, saying
the French word carefully as the priest settled
himself in his usual place, old bones protesting at
the early hour.

"Angor? An anchor: what keeps a ship from drifting,
you land-loving fool. You locate where you want to be
and drop anchor, and that is where you will stay."  

Leuan pulled his chair closer to the desk, hoping for
some wedding night gossip. He knew Lady Duana was not
in the kitchen or the great hall, and the door to her
room was open, the bed empty. That left only one
possibility.

"How did you find the little bride and her book? Just
between old friends, tell me - and remember: I live
piously and vicariously now, and I absolved you of
that blonde in the tavern without batting an eye."

"That blonde has a name, Leuan - and a warm hearth
and a loving husband now, which is all she wanted and
more than I could give her. Sometimes, words of
caution from you beforehand would have been more
beneficial than words of absolution afterward."
Gwilym's eyes never looked up from the accounts and
correspondence, indicating that boasting was not
forthcoming. From Gwilym, it rarely was. 

No matter - Merfyn's observations of any woman could
heat a man's blood.  Hopefully the sergeant would
have the sense to observe the new wife outside of her
husband's hearing from now on, though.

"What is this, Gwilym?" Father Leuan asked, noticing
a piece of parchment left on the desk. "Why are you
wasting parchment scribbling Gaelic? This must be the
one Irish-Gaelic phrase you know. Would you be trying
to impress the pretty little thing still asleep in
your bed this morning?"

His eyes raised, but his face was blank. "Can you
read it, Leuan?"

"Of course - ciunas gan vaigneas.  Your writing is
getting dreadful, but it says 'quietness without
loneliness'."

"So it does." After a moment, he said as if it was an
afterthought, "We need a second chair downstairs,
beside mine. A small one, so her feet reach the
floor."

"Lady Duana will be staying in Aber, then?"

"Of course she will be staying in Aber," Gwilym
explain as if the priest was dim. "She is my wife.
She cannot sit on the floor at supper. See about a
chair. A small chair." He held his hand roughly even
with his chin and added as if Leuan might not know,
"She is small."

He didn't think he was fooling a soul, but he was
damn sure trying.

The priest leaned forward, resting his elbows on the
battered desk and his chin on his hands. He tried one
last time. "Then tell me this - only this: does she
make you smile, Llwynog?"

"It seems she does, Leuan," he answered calmly, then
went back to the accounts of the mountain kingdom of
Northern Wales.

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth, part I