Hiraeth II: Cariad

*~*~*~*

For a warlord prince, there was nothing physically
imposing about Llewleyn Fawr: Llewelyn the Great.
Though his collection of scars rivaled Gwilym's and
the ladies seemed to think him handsome enough, the
Prince of Wales had the same chestnut-brown hair and
average build as a thousand other Celtic men.

Gwilym, however, like his father, had always been
tall - a full man's hand taller than Llewelyn by the
time they were twelve. That meant he could run
faster, reach farther than Llewel, much to Llewelyn's
frustration when they were squires. Once, Gwilym had
managed not only best Llewelyn at sparing, but to
take his practice sword away and hold it over his
head, taunting Llewelyn to jump for it while the
other noblemen's sons laughed.

Llewelyn, all four stones of him at the time, had
punched Gwilym hard in the gut, grabbed not only his
own but Gwilym's wooden sword, and run for home as
fast as he could while Gwilym struggled to breathe.

Two and a half decades later, for the Prince of
Wales, that was still the extent of his strategy. He
took what he wanted, however he could get it, leaving
the details and aftermath for others to deal with. He
was unflinching, and so direct and tactless that he
had once observed that Dafydd of Aber looked far more
like him than like Gwilym of Aber. 

That had been while both Tangwystyl and Diana were
pregnant, but Llewelyn and Gwilym had been far from
Wales, preoccupied with occupying a castle in Dublin
for King John. They had been drunk and bored one
night, as had much of the Welsh army, and the result
of Llewelyn's idle comment had been Prince Llewelyn
and Gwilym living in separate military camps and
communicating only through messengers for months,
even while they fought a war together. 

The bad blood had ended bloody by year's end - for
both of them.

One warm day in late autumn, Gwilym had taken Dafydd
for a ride and they had wandered over to Conwy, about
five miles from the village of Dolwyddelan. To his
surprise, he had seen Llewelyn approaching with a boy
Dafydd's age in front of him in the saddle. Behind
Llewelyn was a slowly-moving group of knights and
wagons and peasant women holding babies. Gruffydd's
pony was tied to a baggage cart, and his nursemaid
rode next to the driver, her eyes and nose red. It
was Llewelyn's family with Tang, Gwilym had realized.
He had moved them out of Dolwyddelan Castle and to
the next village when he had married Joanna, but now
he was moving them back.

Llewelyn had greeted him with, "My condolences on
your father's death. And Diana's death. The messenger
came last week.F

"Your condolences are welcome," he had answered
honestly, stopping Goliath. "I had thought you would
come, though. Visit. Since you have also returned to
Wales."

"There were things which kept me at home," Llewelyn
responded. "You have a new horse. Ride with me,
Gwil," he invited evenly.

Gwilym had looked at the baggage carts and nursemaids
as he turned Goliath, and realized two of the infants
were newborn while pretty Tangwystyl was absent.

"Twins," Llewelyn had responded, answering his
unspoken question. "Another girl and a little brother
for Gruffydd," he said, putting his hand on the boy's
shoulder.

Little Gruffydd had the same empty, lost look that
Dafydd had that winter, but Llewelyn's expression had
not wavered.

"She is dead, Gwil," he added after few seconds, and
Gwilym had known it was not Dianna they were talking
about. "I am taking them home."

"I am sorry."

Llewelyn had nodded curtly, his eyes straight ahead.
"You are the Lord of Gwynedd now. You are overdue to
swear fealty to me and to King John."

He had not felt like the lord of anything that year.
He had felt like merely drawing breath was an effort.
"There were things which kept me at home. Diana had a
little girl. I have a daughter."

There had been a second nod of neither sympathy nor
congratulations, but of acknowledgment. "You will
pass tonight at Dolwyddelan castle," Llewelyn had
said. "You and your son. Swear your oath of fealty.
Then, we will drink."

"To Tangwystyl and Diana and my father," Gwilym
suggested. That seemed like a good plan to him -
perhaps the best plan Llewelyn had devised all year.
He put his hand on Dafydd's light brown curls, then
leaned down and kissed the little boy's head. "To our
children and their beautiful mothers."

He wondered what Llewelyn was going to tell his young
Norman wife, though. Joanna had three small daughters
by Llewelyn, a stillborn son in early spring, and
word was that she was pregnant again. She was not
going to welcome Prince Llewelyn presenting her with
five baseborn children to raise - particularly two
sons who would compete with any sons she bore for
their father's kingdom - but Llewelyn did not seem to
be anticipating that. It was unlikely, but possible
that Joanna did not even know that Llewelyn's hearth
wife and their children existed. Gwilym was no expert
on women's minds, but this seemed like a bad idea. If
nothing else, Llewelyn's father-in-law was the King
of England and both of their liege lords. 

"What will you say to your wife, Llewel?" he asked
finally, since strategy was his domain.

Llewelyn turned his head, looking at him scornfully.
"My hearth wife is dead. I just told you that, Gwil.
Tangwystyl is dead."

"You did," he amended immediately. "For that, I am
sorry. For you and for your children."

He watched Llewelyn worriedly out of the corner of
his eye, but said nothing. He had wondered, though,
for the first time, if there were levels of love for
a woman, just as like the Church said there were
levels of Hell. When love was greatest, he wondered
if the pain of losing that love was most severe, as
well. He had thought he loved Diana. Gwilym bled:
mostly for his father's steadying hand, but also for
his children's mother and for his own empty bed in
the last month. Llewelyn, though - it was as if he
had cut out his heart and buried it with Tangwystyl
for safekeeping. The rest of his body: it just spoke
and rode and fought battles and ruled Wales out of
habit.

He could not stand to love a woman as much as the
Prince had loved Tang, he had decided a decade ago,
when Dafydd was four and Gryffydd was five and he and
Llewelyn were six and twenty. He could bear any
battle wound, as could Llewelyn, but losing a woman
he truly loved: if Llewelyn could not bear it
sanely, then neither could Gwilym.

"We are long overdue in Dover," Llewelyn reminded him
after a silent mile or so. "The King is displeased.
He wants that castle."

"My men are there," Gwilym had countered. "And it is
nearly winter."

"No matter," had been Llewelyn's reply. "Is your
father buried?"

"He is."

"Then we will leave once the children are settled in.
By the end of the week."

Gwilym had not argued, since it would have done him
no good, but he had wondered, when love and duty do
not intersect, once love is gone, if the duty that
remained was enough to keep a man alive.

True to his nature, Prince Llewleyn rode forward,
directly toward to Dolwyddelan Castle. Not knowing
what else to do, Gwilym put his arm around Dafydd,
holding the little boy close, and rode to battle
beside Llewelyn.

*~*~*~*

A few weeks after Duana arrived from London, the
captain of Llewelyn's knights was unexpectedly at the
gate of Aber Castle. The Prince had sent not a a
squire or servant, but, after Gwilym, the most
trusted knight in Llewelyn's army. Gwilym assumed
they were going to war yet again, or there was a
problem with the King or even with Duana, and the
details needed to remain most secret. None of those
things was welcome, but he could not deal with any of
them until he knew what the problem was. Gwilym
exhaled and extended his hand for the message, but
the Captain had not arrived with a letter bearing
Llewelyn's seal: only a spoken message that he was
to relay to Gwilym alone.

Gwilym dismissed Merfyn and the other knights, leaned
back against his desk, and waited, folding his arms
cautiously.

"Does she please you?" the Captain said evenly, only
after the door was closed.

Gwilym tilted his head slightly in disbelief. "That
is your message? Llewelyn had you ride through a
snowstorm to ask 'does she please you'?"

The man nodded curtly.

"If Llewelyn wants to know if having a new wife
pleases me, he should have asked a month ago, before
he married her to me," he said irritably.

The Captain of Llewelyn's guards stood at attention,
his eyes focused straight ahead. Usually, when Prince
Llewelyn sent this sort of knight with a message, it
involved siege equipment or a severed head, not a new
bride.

"You are to wait for a response?"

"Yes, my lord."

A rip on the sleeve of his shirt had been repaired
with stitches so dainty he could barely see them. The
wine in the pitcher on his desk was fresh, his boots
were polished, and the papers on his desk were sorted
neatly. Duana may or may not have done each of those
things herself, but she had seen that they were done.

He could smell venison stew boiling and fresh bread
and apples baking in the kitchen. In a few minutes,
Duana would send a servant to ask him to supper. He
would sit with her, talk with her as best as he
could. He might play music, teach her Welsh songs or
poems, or read to her. He would kiss her goodnight
once, perhaps twice, then stand guard as she slept.

His beautiful new wife had nightmares, and until
recently he still see a thumbprint bruise on her
wrist. She had spent that morning with her head in a
chamberpot and then, after breakfast, in a basin,
though the food had not bothered his stomach a bit.

Tomorrow morning, they would go to the church in Aber
Village, and Father Leuan would repeat the wedding
vows in public, sealing the marriage. The banns have
been posted in London, and the marriage entered in
the Church record. If he would take her to his bed
tomorrow night or any night, there would be no going
back.

Years ago, even in his grief over Tangwystyl,
Llewelyn had done the things Gwilym needed him to do
as Prince of Wales: acknowledge Gwilym's claim to
Gwynedd, and acknowledge his claim to Dafydd as his
son and heir. This message was the same, he realized.
If he had any objection to Duana, this was his chance
to air it.

"What are your orders if I say 'no'?" he asked
curiously. 

The Captain's eyes remained straight ahead. "Is that
your response, my lord?"

"That is my question, not my response. If I would say
I do not want her, what did the Prince of Wales tell
you to do?"

"I am to await your response, my lord," the big man
answered without answering.

"You are to take Lady Duana with you," he guessed.
"You are to treat her most carefully, see to her
safety, and take her to- To Dolwyddelan Castle." He
had started to say the village near Dolwyddelan where
Tang had lived, but Princess Joanna was no longer at
Dolwyddelan Castle. "Are those your orders? If I do
not want her, Llewelyn does?"

The Captain remained at attention and did not respond
in any way. Gwilym could have probably tricked the
man into telling, but there was no need. As well as
Llewelyn knew Gwilym after so many years, Gwilym knew
Prince Llewelyn.

"Tell your prince 'yes'," Gwilym answered. "Yes, she
does please me."

The Captain of Llewelyn's knights nodded, bowed, and
was dismissed. A few minutes later, a kitchen maid
arrived to ask Gwilym to supper.

*~*~*~*

With a groan, Merfyn settled his old bones into the
chair and let his short legs sprawl apart - 'airing'
himself, as he called it. The cook had threatened to
call that pose 'target practice' for her shoe if he
assumed it at supper again, so the little man
restricted the undignified posture, and the
scratching which often accompanied it, to
exclusively male company.  

"Where is the Lady Dana?" he asked, filling his cup
to the brim with wine and preparing for another
winter evening of poking fun at Gwilym's awkwardness
around his new bride.  

Gwilym ignored him and continued staring at a piece
of parchment. It was another of the endless accounts
involved with running a large kingdom, Merfyn
imagined. His jest had not achieved the desired
effect, but the sergeant was like a boy with a stick
and a bee's nest - relentless - and he knew where
Gwilym's tender areas lay. He tried again: "I thought
she was in charge of tallying the chickens and
barrels of port? It is said she can read and write,
after all."

It was a sticking point for Merfyn that a slip of a
girl was better educated than he, even more so
because Gwilym had been deferring to her for almost a
fortnight. She was a lady from London Court; he
understood that. He had seen Princess Joanna and
other Norman noblewomen from a distance, but living
in Aber with Duana was as close to one as Merfyn had
ever been. It was miraculous how clean she was, how
perfect: she had all her teeth, and her hair was
shiny and louse-free, and her clothes and skin were
never sooty or dirty. She smelled wonderful, and
Merfyn understood Gwilym being unnerved. However,
there was doting on a new wife and then there was
acting like a fool; the lord of this land was close
to the latter, in Merfyn's opinion.

"She is still at church," the younger man finally
responded, not looking up from whatever he found so
fascinating. "Leuan is with her - they will be back
soon."

Almost on cue, Father Leuan appeared in the doorway,
rubbing the last of the ice out of his beard and
stomping his frozen feet to announce his misery at
being forced to ride through the snow in the name of
God.  

Passing a second goblet of wine across the desk to
the priest, Gwilym continued, "This is not the
ledger. Prince Llewelyn is summoning us south to the
Tywi Valley to lay siege to Carmarthen castle. You
and your men will get to try out your new bows before
spring comes, Merfyn."

Gwilym read passages of the letter aloud, but only
the priest was attentive, watching his old student
over his goblet. Merfyn, after spending his life
following either Gwilym or Gwilym's father into
battle, was not particular about who he aimed his
sword at, so long as he was eventually able to go
home to his hearth and his latest wife. Gwilym was
Merfyn's liege lord; Llewelyn Fawr, Prince of Wales,
was Lord Gwilym's, and King John Lackland commanded
them all, so service was always mandatory to someone.
It did not much matter what the noblemen or the
Church claimed was the cause; his was hand that
caused the blood to be shed.

"If you can have your knights and supplies ready, we
can leave at dawn and be home for Easter, perhaps."
Gwilym pushed the letter aside, leaning back in his
chair and rotating his neck so it snapped and cracked
like dry twigs. "I am getting too old for this. The
castle should fall, but there is nothing worse than
sitting in a tent in the middle of winter waiting to
starve out some pampered Duke."   

"Why the haste? There is nothing you will be doing
here that you cannot do in your tent as easily."

Gwilym again ignored Merfyn's jab; his friend had
made his opinion of everyone's sleeping arrangements
- or his assumptions of such - clear on several
occasions. Instead, he answered, "I fear that if we
are away too long, my sergeant's young wife may
decide she prefers a husband who at least reaches her
chin."

"Fear not," Merfyn responded sarcastically. "There is
enough of me that reaches my wife, more nights than
not."

Gwilym chuckled, and Father Leuan looked
disapprovingly at Merfyn.

Merfyn raised his goblet and offered, "To war."

Gwilym left the letter out for Duana to practice
reading in the morning, and carried his goblet as he
joined the other two men. "To war," he toasted. "Or
at least, to dressing for war, then sitting outside a
castle and waiting for one."

"To restraint," the priest suggested.

"Never," the sergeant countered saucily. "To young
wives who warm cold winter nights. May our Lord
Gwilym discover there is such a thing."

Gwilym sank onto the sofa beside Leuan and responded,
"To old men with wagging tongues: may their swords be
as sharp and nimble."

Merfyn, of course, assured everyone that his sword
was indeed nimble. 

There were several more toasts, each progressively
sillier, before Gwilym had everyone's goblet refilled
one last time and then sent the sleepy servant back
to the kitchen for the night.

The fire crackled, and the wine warmed his blood.
Gwilym stretched out his legs toward the hearth and
watched the flames while Merfyn turned his barbed
comments toward Leuan. The priest had discovered a
striking Norse widow at evening mass yesterday and
was spinning dreams of what a future with her might
hold if he was not a priest. Suzanne, she had said
her name was. From the Isle of Man. He liked wrapping
his mouth around such an exotic, mysterious word -
Suzanne. Merfyn had caught him watching the blonde
woman, much to Leuan's dismay. If Merfyn knew, the
entire village knew - including any details Merfyn
might add to the tale on a whim.

Leuan defended himself as best as he could for a
while, until both men realized Gwilym was not taking
part in the conversation. They stopped speaking and
looked at Gwilym, who continued to scrutinize the
fire thoughtfully.

After a moment of silence, Gwilym noticed the lull
and asked casually, "Is my wife well, Leuan?" 

Leuan shrugged. "I brave the elements to hear her
confession, but thus far, she has had nothing
interesting to confess."

Gwilym responded good-naturedly, "You are a wanton
embarrassment to the Pope, Leuan." He yawned and ran
his fingers through his hair. "And you, Merfyn, are
just an embarrassment."  

The men had passed more than three decades together -
the priest and the soldier already men when Gwilym
was a boy, so the barbs were easily traded and
without malice. It was a routine, a way to pass the
cold evening until beds and wives, or in Leuan's
case, dreams of forbidden wives' beds, called to
them. 

"Empty words from the butcher's dog, my lord, but
that is your own fault. I taught you better, if you
recall," Merfyn shot back, grinning. He tossed the
last of his wine more or less into the fire and then
stood with Father Leuan as Duana entered.  

"Nos da," Merfyn greeted her, losing all bluster and
suddenly finding the floor highly captivating.
 
"Nos da, Sir Melvin, Father John," she replied
politely, taking his seat on the couch. Gwilym
offered her his cup, but she shook her head. Leuan
and Merfyn exchanged looks and found excuses to make
themselves scarce.

"Did you confess for me as well?" Gwilym asked in
French, raising his hand to Leuan as he followed
Merfyn out of the keep and down the stone staircase.
"There is no need - Leuan was there to sanction most
of my sins, or to join in as they happened, so do not
let those weigh on your mind." It was his attempt at
a joke, but it did not sound as funny out loud as it
had in his head. "I mean that he was sometimes part
of the mischief, despite what he claims, when he
was younger."  No, that sounded no better. "Leuan
found his trouble and I found mine - similar trouble,
but not together."  

He abandoned hope of saving face and closed his
mouth, focusing on the fire again as though it
contained the answers to all things.        

She said something, but he only understood a few
words, basically that she was fine - je suis bien -
which is what she always said.  She was learning
Welsh much faster than his French was improving. In
addition to her talent for languages, she had a head
for numbers and had enjoyed managing her first
husband's accounts. To pass the winter days, he had
allowed her to begin imposing some system to his own
cluttered chaos, though he was still keeping an eye
on the ledger.

Her ability to learn and reason did not bother him
the way it bothered Leuan and Merfyn, though it took
some adjusting to. Unlike Diana and Muretta, Duana
did not merely echo what she heard him say, but
thought it through for herself and sometimes came to
conclusions that were as shocking as some of his
ideas.  

He liked talking with her, hearing her thoughts late
at night when she was wrapped in his robe and they
were the only two people awake on his mountain. They
had discussed his library of books, which she was
rapidly consuming. They had talked of the history and
legends of Wales, with which she was surprisingly
familiar. The previous night, after a good deal of
wine, they had again discussed his belief that the
world was round. He was surprised when she agreed,
tipsy herself, saying that the shadow of the Earth
during an eclipse was round, meaning that it was
neither flat nor the center of the universe. He had
never considered it, but she was right.

Once the door was closed and the footfalls faded,
leaving them alone in the office that adjoined the
bedchamber they, in theory, now shared, she took off
her damp veil and unpinned her braid from around her
head. She pulled her wet feet under her skirt on the
sofa, seeming aware of how his eyes followed her
movements. She was a woman who would often be watched
- whether she was overseeing the cooking or
undressing for bed - but he suspected she disliked
it.  

She was his wife and he watched her regardless - the
line of her neck, the swell of her breasts under her
dress, the narrowness of her waist. He watched her
the way a man gazed at a fine horse or the statues he
had seen in Rome: simply because it was so perfect in
its grace and rarity that it begged to be
appreciated.  She was lovely, but he had unlaced her
chemise last night, wine dulling both their nerves,
pushed the fabric back from her shoulders, and found
the faint yellow bruises, clearly finger marks,
that made his stomach turn.  

Once Merfyn was at court, he would have died to
protect her. Prince Llewelyn would never have forced
her, nor been with her once she was Gwilym's wife. No
lover would have done that, nor would her first
husband, whom she seemed to have adored. He had long
suspected the King had claimed the right of primae
noctis - to spend the first night with the bride
after the proxy marriage - and she had objected.
Rumor was that the English king preferred unwilling
women: the more unwilling, the better. King John must
have found good sport with Duana.

"Cold?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say.
"Froid?"

She nodded, and he offered his hands to rub her
frozen feet, stripping off her wet shoes and
stockings as he would have a child's.  He had
considered forbidding her from riding to the church
until the storm broke, but Duana had been very pious
for the last few days. Leuan usually said Mass in the
castle chapel - one of the privileges of having a
priest in residence - but Duana had wanted to go to
the village church after supper. To think, she had
said. It had not seemed worth the trouble to try to
talk her out of it. She might look like an angel, but
he had discovered she was as headstrong as a mule
when she set her mind to something.  

"What is the butcher's dog, Lord William?" she asked,
watching his hands as he massaged her feet. "Why does
Sir Melvin call you that?"

Her Welsh was indeed improving quickly. "It is a
joke. In truth, Merfyn is terrified of his wife's
temper, and his mouth moves without consulting his
head, more often than not," he deflected.

"What does the joke mean, though?"  

Not intending to answer, the next best option was to
distract her, so Gwilym pushed her feet down and
pivoted her around on the sofa, pulling her onto his
lap. "My cariad, my sweet girl - you ask so many
questions. Kiss me and I may forgive you."

She submitted when he wanted an embrace or a caress,
but except for reaching for his hand or clinging to
him when he woke her from a nightmare, she seldom
touched him. Even when he had begun to undress her
the previous night, she had not returned the embrace;
she just had not fought him.

"Tell me what a butcher's dog is, and I may kiss you
twice," she responded, earning an adolescent grin
from the usually expressionless, world-weary face. To
think he had worried that she might be a dullard.

"I do not accept your terms, woman," he countered,
chuckling. He had drank four, perhaps five glasses of
strong wine since supper, so the pagan Bacchus was
warming his face, relaxing his limbs, and loosening
his tongue a little. "Kiss me once as down payment,
first."

She blushed. "William, I cannot."

"You can," he encouraged her, his face close to hers.
"If you want to know, kiss me first as show of good
faith. Kiss me, and perhaps I will kiss you in turn,
and there will be no more talk of the butcher's dog."

She was unsure of herself as the aggressor, pressing
her mouth tentatively to his. Liking what she found,
she stayed, parting her lips and letting him deepen
the embrace. He put his hands on her face, cupping
her cool cheeks and feeling them start to warm. His
breath and pulse quickened as they kissed, and after
a moment, he lowered her to the sofa, her body
beneath his.

"Do you consent?" He spoke in Welsh, but his meaning
was clear as his hands roamed over her hips and
explored her high breasts. It was only when Gwilym
started to push up her skirt that she pulled her face
back from his. "Relax, cariad.  You will have all the
time you need. You are my wife, and I am not a boy."
Making his way from her mouth to her neck, he noticed
she had become very still. He looked up to see her
eyes watching him in the firelight.

"Yes," she whispered, nodding. "Do not stop."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and steeling
herself the way he did when a battlefield wound must
be stitched closed: when then there was no choice
except immediate pain or slow death, and he must be
strong and brave.

"Relax," he told her again, then returned his hands
to her waist and his lips to hers. He made sure not
to confine her, and reminded himself that being too
eager would not help matters. If he was not careful,
he would consume her greedily, like a drunkard with
wine. Her skin was soft and smooth, her lips
yielding, and her body was warm beneath his. And she
was again being too still. "Cariad, I will not hurt
you. I swear it," he promised. 

She nodded and took another breath, as if waiting for
the second stitch of a wound. The first stitch had
been painful, but there were perhaps only seven or
eight to go and then it would be done.

He kissed her forehead, exhaled, and moved back.

"I can do this," she insisted, looking up at him.

He shook his head. He wanted a willing bedmate, not
merely an obligated one. He did not expect his wife
to respond with the feigned enthusiasm of a
prostitute; she was a lady. Fearful obedience was not
welcoming, though. He had never been a man who
enjoyed frightened or unwilling girls.

"I can."

"It seems you cannot," he answered, sounding more
annoyed than he meant to - or truly was.

Now her face was flushed, ashamed.

He sat up and pulled her against his chest, petting
her, telling her it was all right while his heart
pounded. If he truly intended to let her go to bed
alone, he needed to put some air between them, and
quickly, too. Having her draped across him, breasts
pressed against his chest, hair coming unbraided and
curling around her face, was not decreasing his sense
of urgency. She looked wild and wanton, and, though
his mind knew differently, much of his body was
convinced she was.

"William, I am your wife..." she insisted shakily.
"Do not stop. I will be fine."

"I can wait," he assured her, though the bulge in his
breeches gave away his impatience. "I will not force
you."

She took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "I want
to please you. I am trying. But I... You do not force
me."

"Force takes many forms." He brought her hand to his
lips and kissed it, then looked at the contrast
between her delicate fingers and his large, tanned
ones. She was so slight. He could have pinned her
down as easily as he could have won a wrestling match
with Dafydd. He swallowed, then said, "Norman
soldiers pass through Wales often. You are not the
first skittish woman I have known. You are my wife,
and I will wait. We stop now."

He wanted to push her down on the sofa - on the rug
in front of the hearth, even: push her skirt up and
be inside her, to open her dress and feel her bare
breasts against his chest. The little liar who lived
in a dark place inside his mind said she was right:
this was silliness. She was just nervous, as all
brides were, he supposed. He should have her for the
first time and be done with it, and the second time
she would be less frightened. This time he wanted her
and it was his pleasure; the next time, she would
magically want him in return.

That little liar was convincing.

She put her other hand on his cheek, then kissed him
again, softly, carefully. She exhaled and her mouth
opened, offering. It was a persuasive offer, and if
she were any other woman, he would not have held back
a second time. He would have taken her to his bed and
in ten minutes, he would be satisfied: his senses
heightened, his body humming, and his mind dulled
with pleasure. In twelve minutes, though, he would be
sorry. Gwilym had listened to that little liar before.

He pulled back, ending their kiss. "Do not. Do as I
tell you and stop now," he warned.

His erection was so insistent that it was
uncomfortable. He guided her off his lap, shifted his
hips, and stared at the hearth as he took several
slow breaths. Until quite recently, he was not
accustomed to being aroused, but unsatisfied. The
world was full or pretty, willing, even passionate
peasant and serf women for a nobleman to dally with.
There was no one now, though - not since last summer,
when his mistress had wanted to marry a man who was
not him. Now there was only his lovely, frigid wife.
In truth, Gwilym wanted only his wife, yet she did
not want truly him. Duana would submit if he forced
her, but he had promised he would not force her.

In bargaining terms, they had reached another
impasse. One that pained Gwilym greatly at the moment.

"I am sorry," she apologized, watching a spot on the
wall above the hearth and seeming as awkward as he
was. She still held his hand. "I am being foolish,
and you are too tolerant of my foolishness - that is
what Melvin thinks."

"How did you know that?" Merfyn spoke no French
beyond what was necessary when ordering whatever was
available in a London tavern, and, even then, it was
unlikely he had spoken to Duana alone.

"The butcher's dog - a creature expected to lay right
beside the meat and never touch it. Always looking,
hungry, but never getting what it wants unless it
takes it without permission. What he wants, he will
never be offered. Is that right?  Is that what he
means?"

That was exactly what Merfyn had meant, but Gwilym
was not telling her that. He was the lord of this
castle, and his bed and who he shared it with, or
waited to share it with, was his prerogative; Merfyn
be damned.   

When he did not answer, her face flushed with shame a
second time, knowing she had guessed correctly. "I am
not a girl. I am not a virgin. I have caused you
discomfort - aroused you and then shied away; that is
not a wife's place." She touched his groin, and he
inhaled suddenly. "If you will not believe I act of
my own will, then let me prove it to you."

Before he answer, she sank to her knees in front of
him, pushing up his tunic, then untied his breeches
and then his linen braies underneath. He opened his
mouth to ask what she was doing when it became
marvelously, incredibly obvious.

"Duana?" he managed hoarsely. He knew such a sin
existed, but had never experienced it. He had been
with peasant girls and tavern or camp whores, but
none had ever offered this. Gwilym had been taught
that it was pure lust and against God's will and akin
to sodomy - something men did to men. He bit his lip,
moaning softly, hoping both that she would and would
not stop.

Christ on the Cross, this was so nice it must be a
mortal sin.

Such a smart woman. Such an ingenious way to resolve
their dilemma.

He was going to burn in Hell.

The door across the room was not bolted, he realized.
Servants would knock, but Merfyn or Gwen or, God
forbid, Father Leuan could enter his office at any
moment and catch him allowing this.

"Sweet Jesus!" Her hands pushed gently against his
hips, wanting him to keep still so she did not choke.
"This is a sin, and I am damned." At that moment, it
seemed well worth the trade.

Duana paused, raising her eyes and swollen lips to
look at him. "Do I stop?"

He shook his head 'no' quickly. Christ had been a
mortal man, the priests said. If Christ were in his
place, Gwilym was sure He would understand.

He did not know how this would end, and he did not
care, so long as it did not end just yet. He let his
head fall back on the top of the sofa, and his eyes
closed. He rested his hand on the back of her head.
His breath quickened and his heart thudded inside his
chest as the tension built. He shifted his feet, and
gripped the arm of the sofa with his other hand. She
put her hand on his hip again, firmly, reminding him
not to thrust: he only got to accept pleasure, not
control it. A novel sensation - to not be in control,
to have to wait and trust her to please him. She did
please him, very much so. The feel of her mouth and
lips and tongue on him was lighter, languid almost,
drawing out pleasure and letting it build inside him
until it almost became pain. He gasped, his fingers
tightening against her hair, and moved against her
instinctively despite her instructions. Not sure what
was expected of him, he started to push her away at
the last minute, but she did not let him.

Later, had Gwilym had anyone to tell about this
experience, he would have sworn lightening split the
Heavens and then jolted through his body. It left him
staring at her wordlessly from the sofa, his brain
still recovering from the shock. She pulled his tunic
back down so he was covered, bid him "Nos da," got up
from her knees, and went to their bedchamber to sleep
alone.

*~*~*~*

Christianity had reached northern Wales when his
grandfather was a boy, and so Gwilym had been raised
in the church all his life. The old ways were still
present - there were even Druid priests - but Gwilym
had received the sacraments, learned the gospels, and
spent years on crusade with the Templars in the Holy
Land. The church dominated every aspect of his life:
marking the passing of the day, decreeing what he
could eat when, how feast days were celebrated, even
how and when he could lay with a woman - often in
direct opposition to the traditions of the old ways.
By Welsh standards, Gwilym was a good Christian; by
London standards, he was probably a heretic.

It was an old debate for him - the conflict between
the well-trained mind and the weak, willful flesh -
this time compounded several fold by the priest being
his friend. He was the husband and he had allowed it;
it was his sin, not Duana's. Confess this... well,
this encounter, watch Leuan's jaw drop, do months of
penance, and be absolved, or preserve some dignity
and expect God to understand.  

Migrating from one end of the sofa to the other in
search of a more comfortable position, propping up
his feet and folding his hands behind his head,
Gwilym decided, first, that he could forgo confessing
this sin. Second, he questioned the Church's motives
for forbidding such an act and wished he could figure
a way to hear Leuan's justification without giving
himself away. How this could be deemed equal to
laying with a man or an animal was ludicrous.   

By his calculation, there was no way to conceive
child, and there lay the sin. It seemed like a small
sin, though. He had not harmed his wife, nor had she
harmed him. For couples that were tired of constantly
breeding, there could be a mass exodus from what the
Pope Innocent III considered acceptable behavior
between men and women, and therefore less new
parishioners born to swell the pews. Although
children, especially sons, were vital and nice for
boasting, he as well as many other men quietly
frowned in worry when a young woman's belly swelled
year after year. Too many wives died young and there
was a limit, despite what Leuan and the Gospels said,
to how many children a man should need.
Unfortunately, babies seemed to follow the desire for
a woman as constantly as prostitutes followed the
King's troops.

When Gwilym cut an Infidel's throat in the Holy Land,
that was God's will; let his wife pleasure him with
her mouth, and his soul would burn in Hell for
eternity.

The Pope was certainly as puzzle, sometimes.

How, in six and thirty years, had he never
encountered such a wonderful sin before, and how, in
the name of God, could he encounter it again?

She was certainly a puzzle as well, this bartered
bride of his. The pleasant haze of sleep had come
immediately, but left him hours before dawn, so there
he lay, unsure of what to say to her in the morning
and considering leaving for the siege before she
awoke. He could claim the manly art of war caused his
absence and not his tendency to stutter out absurdly
stupid things in her presence.

He must have made an unfamiliar noise, possibly a
sigh of contentment, because the pack of dogs
hurried from the bedchamber to investigate. Seven
cold, wet noses sniffed him suspiciously, as though
he had not raised each from a pup, decided he posed
no threat to their mistress, and abandoned him to his
sofa and thoughts.  

He got up, going quietly to the bed chamber. As he
pulled back the bed curtains and watched her in the
light from the single candle, she looked like a
contented child, safely asleep in her parents' bed.   

She should not be here; she belonged on the arm of
some prince at Court, on display to turn heads
instead of in the north of Wales, hidden away from
the world in this harsh land of endless snow and war.
Regardless, as Leuan had said, what was done was
done. They had stood in the doorway of the church two
days ago - four weeks after the banns had been posted
and read in accordance with the Norman law - and
repeated the priest's words once more so there would
never be a question as to the validity of the
marriage: "To have and to hold, for fairer or for
fouler, to love and to cherish according to God's
holy ordinance, I plight thee my troth."

She was his to cherish, so long as she was content to
stay.      

That kind of love for a woman that had frightened him
a decade ago: it still frightened him now, though he
suspected he was already wading knee-deep into it.

Another nightmare was bothering her. She pushed her
arms out, attempting to escape some monster and
succeeding only in sending a few dogs and a pillow to
the floor.  

"Hush, hush, cariad," he whispered into her ear,
setting the candle in the alcove of the headboard. He
stroked her hair as he sat on the edge of the bed,
letting the curtains fall back, creating a private
place only for them. "Only a dream. You are safe."
  
Her eyes opened, focused on his face, and then closed
again as he held her, driving away the demons. "Only
a dream, sweet girl."

"Not a girl," she sniffed, wiping the tears from her
cheeks and trying to smooth down her chemise to cover
her bare legs. "If you will not say my name, at least
do not call me a girl."

He was unaccustomed to women speaking to him like
that, but she was upset and barely awake. It did not
seem worth correcting her, just as it was not worth
telling her not to go to the village church in a
snowstorm.  She was almost silent when others were
present, especially uncomfortable in the presence of
many men, but in private she spoke as if they were
almost equal and it was shocking, even by his casual
standards of conduct - though he was guilty of not
chastising her.

"What was this dream about?"

"Men," she said into his shoulder.  "Always men.
Alex, this time."

"That was your husband's son, yes?"

"You are my husband, and your son's name is David,"
she murmured, retrieving her pillow and indicating
she did not want to continue this discussion.   

"Dafydd, I claim as my son, yes."
 
She lay down, pulling at his sleeve for him to stay
with her and tugging the fox coverlet over her legs.
This was not the first time they had shared a bed;
she had wanted him to stay until she fell asleep the
previous night, and a few nights even before that.
She had just wanted him to sit there, ensuring she
was safe. He was guilty of lingering, watching her
without her knowledge, touching her as she slept to
make sure she was real. 

Gwilym sat up long enough to tug off his boots and
tunic so he did not soil the sheets, then curled up
behind her, enjoying the warmth and the curves of
her.  

"I need to confess something to you, William," she
said after several minutes of silence. She shifted,
pushing closer against him, hoping to be granted more
space on the pillow, he assumed. "When you said you
wanted no more children, did you truly mean that?"

He rested a hand in the small of her waist, then ran
it over her flat abdomen as he spoke. "I meant that I
do not judge myself by the size of my wife's belly.
It would ease my mind if I had a legitimate heir, but
I am content for Dafydd to inherit as my son. I cared
for his mother and he is a good boy. A man, almost.
Why do you ask?"

"My husband - he- he was older, so no one questioned
that he did not go to Court. He passed his days in
our home, receiving guests there. He had been injured
badly in Dover. I tried to care for his wounds, but
there are hurts I cannot heal."

He did not understand, so he waited, letting her work
up her courage.

"His legs and back never healed properly, William. He
was a proud man and he wanted no one to know, so he
kept it a secret, like he did many hurts. Most people
truly did not know that he could not walk or stand
alone - not for long. We were never together; not the
way the Church says is proper. He would not let me
be..." She looked down, embarrassed. "Atop," she
managed, "Because then that would be my sin. So he
taught me what I showed you and said that if he asked
and allowed it, then it was only his sin. That is why
there were no children."

He pushed up on his elbow, staring at her. "Christ on
the cross!  Why did you not tell someone that? You
would never have been married to me if the King had
known you had no children because, because-"

"Because my husband could not," she finished for him.
"It was a private matter.  I am no one compared to
you or him - and he was so good to me.  He taught me
many things, and he asked me for very little. I was
young and I was afraid and I was content with that
for many years. He said, when I first came, that if I
was with child, he would claim the baby, but I was
not. I wanted a child so much. Last spring, he even
spoke of... He spoke of me going to another man, but
I would not."

Such things were not unheard of - he had known who
the father of Diana's child was, and still
acknowledged the boy as his own. In time, a daughter
with his dark hair and eyes had followed, but now all
were gone: Diana to fire, Dafydd to the King's Court
as a royal hostage, and his little girl to God's
grace.

He swallowed hard, pushing those awful images from
his mind and bringing his hand up to her breast so
his meaning was clear. "Do you want to have a child,
Duana?" 

"I think I am already to have a child," she confessed.

"You are my wife. By law, any child you bear is my
child unless you or I say otherwise."        

She hesitated, and he thought he had misspoken or
misunderstood again.  

"Are you certain about your child?" he asked.

"No. Not yet. But William-"

"Pass tonight with me, and who will ever know the
difference?"

She rolled to face him, tangling her long chemise
around her legs and laying her head on his
outstretched arm. "Yes, I want to have a child with
you."

"And I with you," he told her softly.

"You will not hurt me?"

"I will not hurt you." He would swear his life on it.
He put his hand on her cheek. "Come to me," he
invited, and she did.
 
*~*~*~*