TITLE: Hiraeth
AUTHOR: prufrock's love
GENRE: AU, Pre-X-files
RATING: R
DISCLIAMER: FOX Network owns The X-Files. No
copyright infringement is intended and no money is
being made from the use of these characters.
SUMMARY: Aber, North Wales, 1215. In a world of
dangerous men, she was a dangerous woman to love.

*~*~*~*

Aber, North Wales
Winter, 1215

It was said that the Romans had Romanized Britain,
but only occupied and annoyed Wales for a time. The
Norman kings had never fully subdued the lands, nor
had the Vikings who came in the centuries before him.
Distinct from the French-speaking Normans and the
English Anglo-Saxons and even the other Celts, Wales
remained a remote, mysterious place that was far
removed from the chivalry of London court.

A few Marcher lords in the south attempted to rule
their feuds in the Norman way, but their castles were
outposts of civilization. In Wales, the ways were
simpler than in the rest of England, closer to the
earth: a blend of the Norse and Celtic cultures that
had existed for thousands of years. In the rugged
mountains in northern Wales, Christianity was
practiced by the aristocracy, but pagan rituals among
the villagers were still common. Seven centuries
earlier, the north had been ruled by a fierce Celt
described by an early Christian scribe as "the dragon
of the Island" - Pendragon - and the legend was born.
It was the land of King Arthur and Merlin - Myrddin
in his native tongue. Magic was not dead in Wales.  

Trained from boyhood in stealth and hand-to-hand
combat, Welshmen were legendary warriors. The steady-
handed archers could hit their targets from great
distances, picking off the enemy as efficiently as
one might pluck a goose. On horseback or on foot,
with a bow or with a sword, Welsh soldiers were so
lethal that the Normans thought of them as brutal
devils and claimed they had mystical powers. The
Norman kings - first Henry II, then Richard and now
John - called on them often to fight the wars of
England and the mighty Catholic church, though none
of those wars particularly affected Wales.

Welsh nobles' legitimate, arranged marriages were
sanctioned by the church, and so subject to church
law. There was also the tradition of hearth
marriages: by declaring themselves in front of
witnesses and consummating their union, a couple was
joined for as long as both agreed to live together.
It was not a legal marriage, and in fact might co-
exist with one, which puzzled the Normans to no end.
Then, once a year, among the pagan bonfires of
MayDay, there was still the option of being married
in a secret ceremony as old as Stonehenge.

Under Welsh law, women could hold property and seek
divorce without their husband's consent. She was
subject to her husband, but she could not be beaten
or imprisoned without good cause. Few entered
marriages at the first flush of womanhood or as
virgins, for a big-bellied bride of twenty seemed a
better bet for a man's future than a untouched
fourteen-year-old girl. Among the lower classes,
lands were still divided evenly among a man's sons,
not passed solely to the eldest. Legitimacy was
determined by a father's open recognition of his
child, not by Christian marriage, though Norman ways
were creeping into Welsh bedchambers, as well. To the
Welsh, all this seemed only reasonable; to their
neighbors to the east, it seemed barbaric.

The Welsh lords were vassals of King John, and, for
the moment, there was a tense peace. Fifteen years
earlier, Prince Llewelyn Fawr had reunited his
grandfather's kingdom. Ten years ago, he had married
Joanna, an illegitimate daughter of the Norman king,
creating a shaky political alliance. King John was
increasingly erratic and impetuous, though, and the
treaty between the Normans and the Welsh was
faltering. Prince Llewelyn, at the London court, had
stumbled onto a way to strengthen the fraying bond
between the countries. The king had taken a liking to
a nobleman's wife, had her husband executed on a
trumped up charge of treason in order to have her,
then had grown tired of his conscience gnawing at him
and wanted rid of her. Prince Llewelyn had seen the
woman, thought of his friend Lord Gwilym alone in the
cold mountains of Gwynedd, and suggested the
marriage. Norman aristocrats often married by proxy,
with someone else standing in for the bride, the
groom, or even both. Llewelyn had stood proxy for
Gwilym in Westminster a few weeks ago as Countess
Duana became Lady Duana of Gwynedd. Lord Gwilym had
been informed only after the fact, and that did not
sit well with Gwilym as he waited for his new wife to
arrive.

"I do not understand why you and Llewelyn conspired
and decided I had need of a wife," he repeated for at
least the dozenth time. "I have lived in peace for
years. I like my life. I do not need a woman
chattering away and under my feet. Why did Llewel
decide I need a wife?" he demanded of Father Leuan.
"Why not marry her to someone else? Why me?"

"Women can be pleasant helpmates," the priest tried.
"They, they host banquets, run the castle, greet
guests-"

"I don't have banquets, Gwen runs the castle, and
greeting guests only encourages them to stay."

"A mother for your children. For Dafydd," Father
Leuan amended. "When he returns."

"My children have a mother; she is dead," Gwilym
answered tersely.

"What is done is done," Leuan advised. "I suggest you
make the best of it. Being given a lovely noblewoman
as a wife - to care for you, make a home for you -
this is not the end of the world, Gwilym," he said
sternly.

Gwilym stopped pacing long enough to roll his neck.
He moved as efficiently and gracefully as a big cat -
restless now, confined to too small an area. He was a
tall man, slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Prince
Llewelyn teased Gwilym that he was 'pretty,' which
made him bristle, but was true: his lips were full,
his lashes were thick, and his eyes were warm and
intelligent. His body bore scars, as did his soul,
but his face gave little away. There was much passion
and genuineness about him, and he was not prone to
suffer fools or falseness. He was lord of the largest
kingdom in northern Wales and the general of the
Welsh army - a dangerous man to cross, though it was
power he wore well. He had been raised to lead
knights, to make decisions, to win wars as much with
his mind as with his sword. He was halfway through
his third decade of life, and too many of those years
had been spent at war. He learned quickly and he knew
many things, but not peace. 

His protests about a wife were only mouthing. Gwilym
understood the necessity of the political alliance
between Wales and England. If the Magna Carta failed,
the Welsh would need friends. His only son, along
with Prince Llewelyn's eldest, was already at London
court as a well-treated hostage of the crown. When
King John called for soldiers, Gwilym put on his
armor, readied his knights, and rode to war, year
after year after year. If Wales needed Gwilyn married
to a discarded royal mistress, sight unseen, he would
do it and he would treat her honorably. It would have
been nice to have been asked, though.

"Because you do not smile anymore," Father Leuan
answered, long after the question had been asked.
"With Diana dead, your father dead, your daughter
gone and Dafydd away - you do not smile, Llwynog.
That is why we decided you needed a wife."

Gwilym looked at the priest expressionlessly, then
momentarily feigned a broad, theatrical grin. "Now
may I be annulled?"

The priest sighed.

Gwilym went to the window, opened the shutters, and
then removed the oiled linen screen so he could stare
out at the cold, white nothingness of the valley
below. He wanted to ride out to meet her - out of
curiosity and to have something to do, if nothing
else - but that was not 'proper,' according to the
priest. Decorum decreed he wait, but decorum came as
naturally to Gwilym as setting himself afire.

When Father Leuan had arrived from Court with the
news of his unexpected marriage, Gwilym had spent
Merfyn, his sergeant, to London to escort her to
Wales. Knowing nothing of the woman to whom he had
just been wed, Gwilym had left the mode, pace, and
route to Merfyn's judgment. If she was ill or with
child - or a spoiled brat of a girl who was
accustomed to traveling in a pillow-lined, covered
carriage - it might be a month or more before she
reached Wales. He had been surprised when the
messenger had arrived this morning, saying Merfyn's
knights and Lady Duana were already nearing the
kingdom of Gwynedd and should be in Aber by
nightfall. The was not as quickly as Gwilym could
have covered that distance, but in winter, with the
threat of snowstorms and bandits, it was close.
Despite himself, Gwilym felt a grudging twinge of
respect for her. 

"You believe this woman will make me smile?" Gwilym
asked neutrally.

"I do."

"Tell me why."

When Father Leuan did not answer, Gwilym replaced the
window screen and started pacing again. "I do not
like this Norman custom," he said irritably. "A man
should not trust his liege lord to choose a wife the
way one would choose a mare. Check her teeth - make
sure they do not lie about her age. Her temperament
should be docile, and her gait should be smooth as
silk - one wants a nice ride."

"The proxy marriage is done - it is too late for
second thoughts," the priest reminded him. "If you
want, I can bless you tonight and that will be that."

"Yes, as you say. . . That will be that."

The priest hesitated. He was almost two decades older
than Lord Gwilym, and had been sworn as a Templar
priest as a young man. Like Gwilym, he was slim, but
a few fingers shorter, and, despite his vow of
chastity, not as immune to women's charms as he liked
to pretend. His path with the Church had not always
been a smooth one, Gwilym knew, but Leuan was a good,
honest man, and not the preachy, priggish fool he
tried to convince people he was. Gwilym valued
Leuan's advice - and he wished the priest would just
give that advice rather than mouthing about banquets
and visitors and other things of no consequence.

"I agree that it is a queer custom, Llwynog," he said
finally. "Bedding a wife you did not choose and have
barely met."

Leuan got another withering look. He had used the
three-decades-old nickname again, and he had said
what both men were thinking, but neither was supposed
to say. He was Gwilym of Aber, the Lord of the
kingdom of Gwynedd. General of the Welsh army. He had
killed thousands of men, led tens of thousands of
soldiers in battle. He and Diana had lived together
for years, and he had bedded his share of other
women, as well; he had no reason to be nervous about
one woman, yet he was. The king's mistress - that was
as unnerving as it was unappetizing.

"Calm your mind - she is lovely, Gwilym.  Not like
Diana, but very fair. She puts me in mind of Prince
Llewelyn's Tangwystl, may she rest in peace. It has
been too long since there was a woman's hand here,
and it could use a little gentling."

Looking at the seven dogs lounging around the room,
who were hoping for a crumb or a pat, the stacks of
rare, cherished books, and the bare walls which
Gwilym never seemed to notice, Leuan decided it had
been about ten years too long. The number of books,
dogs, and odd ideas increased in direct proportion to
the number of years Gwilym was alone. The peasants
had their festivals in the fields, and the castle
might host Prince Llewelyn for a night or lesser
nobles coming to pay homage - brief outbursts of
drunken male revelry - but Gwilym's court was usually
a sparse, serious one, as if Lord Gwilym was just
passing time between battles. 

"I liked Tang," Gwilym said, relaxing a little.
Llewelyn's soft-spoken, beautiful hearth wife had
been taken in childbirth almost a decade ago. It was
Tang's eldest son Gruffydd, now a young man, who was
at London court with Gwilym's Dafydd; King John liked
to keep the heirs of the two most powerful lords in
northern Wales close at hand in case their fathers
developed second thoughts about their oath to the
crown. "I suppose I could live with a woman like
Tang, if I must." He thought a moment, then asked,
"What was it that reminded you of Tangwystl? Did the
Norman King favor her because she is like his wife?"

"Queen Isabelle revels in her beauty - draws men to
her like moths to a flame. No, King John did not
notice this woman because she is fashionably
beautiful. She is not so lush, so showy as Queen
Isabelle-"

"Queen Isabelle was a fool when the King wedded and
bedded her when she was twelve," Gwilym interrupted,
picking at a thread on his new breeches as he spoke.
"I doubt she has grown any interesting thoughts in
fifteen years. Beauty is nice, but at some point a
man must speak to his wife - tell her to get off his
arm so he can leave, if nothing else. If I have to
spend a lifetime listening to this woman's mindless
twittering, King John can have her back, and piss on
Llewel's peace. Empty vessels make the most noise."

"No, she is not like that, Gwilym. Prince Llewelyn
knows you well. She was attentive to her late
husband, Llewelyn said. I thought her serious and
quiet, but most women know to be quiet in the
presence of Queen Isabelle. It is not wise to draw
attention from the Queen, especially when one is this
woman. I never saw her be cross, so her temperament,
I hope, is quite good."

The priest had earned a 'you are describing a mare,'
look.  

"What does she look like?" he asked, trying to a
question Leuan might actually answer. "What color are
her eyes?"

"Blue. She is slight, and looks younger than I would
estimate her to be. She is an adult, though," he
added, before Gwilym could ask. "Her skin is very
fair, so she may be blonde or a redhead." He mumbled
the last word. Red hair could be a sign of a witch,
and his lord had no need of another witch.

"You do not know? I understand you are the picture of
priestly piousness these days, but you saw her. How
did you not notice her hair color?"

"At Court, all women wear veils and wimples now,"
Leaun answered, ignoring Gwilym's jab. "Her French is
good, but her accent is Gaelic. I heard King John say
she was taken from the Scully clan while Dover castle
was being built, so perhaps she is Irish. Perhaps her
family got caught amidst a battle."

"She is not a Norman noblewoman?" Gwilym asked,
interested. No one had mentioned that, and he had
envisioned the pale, sighing, wilting flower of
femininity that was the fashion at court and would
annoy him to death.

"Irish. A spoil of war, I believe."

"How did she come to be married to a nobleman?"
Soldiers often brought young women home, but their
intent was seldom marriage. 

The corners of Leuan's mouth twitched and there was a
light in his old eyes. "I supposed he loved her."

Gwilym went to the window again, and Leuan joined
him, ignoring the bitter cold. Both propped their
chins on their fists like little boys watching for
their fathers to return from the hunt or the
Crusades, hoping for trinkets and war stories. 

"Is she so fair, John?" Gwilym asked, switching from
Welsh to broken French so the servants could not
understand their conversation.

"She is fair enough to draw the King's eye from his
legendary Isabelle," the priest answered slowly, in
French. "Prince Leolin saw her at Court and thought
of you, but there were many other offers of marriage.
She has no children, no land, no dowry, and still
there were offers. So, yes, William - I would say she
is truly fair."

"Leol found her fair, as well?"

"Prince Leolin said she is bright, for a woman, and
interesting to talk with," the priest said evasively.
"Much like his Joanna."

Gwilym's dark eyes studied the old priest. Llewelyn's
marriage to Joanna had been a political necessity,
but his heart had belonged to Tang, and Gwilyn
suspected, had died with her. He did not eavesdrop
outside the prince's bedchamber, but everyone knew
Llewel's arranged marriage had been a stormy one,
with Joanna sinning against her husband in their bed
last year. He did not know Joanna as he had Tang - he
and Llewelyn were no longer boys and there was no
longer time to talk for hours - but he knew the
Prince had ordered Joanna's lover hanged and exiled
her to an abbey. He had not divorced her, though, nor
had her tried for treason. According to the gossip
among the knights, Llewelyn would not see her, but
Joanna was still drawing breath and she was still the
Princess of Wales.

"Would Llewel also say this woman is as lovely and
loyal as his precious Tang, but has his wife's
intelligence and political gain?" Gwilym asked, his
face again expressionless. "In theory, I am free to
marry as I please; Llewel is not. How many great men
covet this fair wife of mine?"

Leuan opened his mouth, trying to formulate an
answer. Gwilym was a smart, intuitive man. Years ago,
he would have thought nothing of sharing a woman with
his liege lord, but not now, and not a wife. He was
speaking Welsh again, and not caring if a servant
overheard. Odds were, if Gwilym wanted to know if
Prince Llewelyn had been with Lady Duana - or planned
to be - he would walk up to him on market day and ask
in front of everyone, friend or not, liege lord or
not. Leuan marveled that Gwilym had not gotten his
neck stretched for some of the things he said and did.

"What is it Llewel expects of me with this woman,
Leuan?"

"Prince Leolin is your friend, William. Your closet
and oldest friend, outside this castle," the priest
answered slowly, again in French. "Yes, she is fair.
Yes, there is political gain, but he chose a wife as
carefully for you as he would choose one for himself,
if he had that option. And that is the truth."

Gwilym nodded, giving no indication of how much of
the priest's explanation he had understood or
believed. He left the window open, but went to his
desk, sitting down behind it. A tired servant added
wood to the fire, trying to keep the room warm.
Gwilym opened the new book that was sitting atop his
desk, staring at it. Minutes passed with only the
crackle of the fire, the hunting dog's soft snores,
and the sound of Gwilym's fingers drumming against
the wood as he did not read.

"Llewelyn was my friend, when we were boys," Gwilym
said finally, looking up. "Now he is the Prince of
Wales."

Father Leuan worried his lower lip. "As your friend
or as your lord, I do not think he would purposely
bring trouble or heartbreak to your hearth. You have
already had your share. And that is the truth, as
well."

Before Gwilym could answer, a stable boy appeared in
the doorway, bringing a message from the gate that
the guards could see torches in the valley. It had to
be her; no one else would be riding on a night this
cold.

Gwilym started barking orders like he was on the
battlefield, and servants scurried to set lit candles
in windows, light torches in the inner bailey, and
bring wine from the kitchen. They added more firewood
to the hearth in the great hall. The hunting dogs
were chased from Gwilym's bedchamber and office, and
whimpered outside the office door as the pinpoints of
torchlight made their way up the mountain.

Despite his assurances to Gwilym, Father Leuan did
have concerns. Gwilym was assuming that this woman's
first husband had been a minor noble, and that was
not the case. And even Leuan had noticed the
resemblance between Countess Duana and Prince
Llewelyn's dead hearth wife. He did think Gwilym
would like this woman, but so did the King - and it
was unwise to have something the King wanted, but did
not possess. Leuan had thought she would scoff at
Prince Llewelyn's proposition of marriage to Gwilym,
but she had not. She had listened attentively to
Prince Llewelyn, thought a moment, and then accepted.
King John had thought the marriage was a wonderful
idea, which made Leuan even more uneasy.

Leuan said a quiet prayer, knowing God had bigger
concerns than one Welsh lord - like the infidels in
the Holy Land, or freedom for the Welsh, or the lack
of a suitable prince for England - or for Wales, for
that matter. But, Lord, if you could just lend me
your ear for one moment: this is a good man. A little
odd, maybe, with his books and his philosophy and his
solitude, but good to his people, women, children,
and Church. If you could just see your way to send a
little happiness up this mountain. . . 

"What have I forgotten, Leuan?"

"Perhaps to breathe?"

With obedience learned in childhood, Gwilym's eyes
closed for a moment and his chest rose and fell. "I
know she agreed to this, and I am not pleased, but I
do want her to be happy."

"Maybe a bath?" Leuan suggested. "She has been riding
for some time. She will be cold, tired. If you are
not planning on her sharing your bed tonight, then
she will need chambers of her own. That is the custom
at court: for a wife to sleep in her own rooms unless
her husband sends for her."

"Is it?"

Leuan nodded. "In fact, it might be considered wiser
to wait until the marriage banns have been posted in
London for a fortnight. Then, you and Lady Duana
would repeat the wedding vows here in Wales, be
blessed together, and then take her as your wife."

Gwilym shook his head in confusion. "I do not
understand these silly Norman customs. I thought I
was married to her now."

"You are. You are married by proxy; you may
consummate the marriage tonight, if you like. But it
will be so late that you may find tomorrow is soon
enough." Leuan, not ignorant to the ways of the world
or the workings of Gwilym's mind, added helpfully,
"Norman marriage laws are indeed complex. Proxy
marriages can be annulled, in some cases, or
unpleasant, untouched wives put away. And those
inheritance laws... With Norman sons, a great deal
rests on their parents' marriage being deemed valid.
To ensure that, some noblemen might even wait the
fortnight."

That had been the sort of advice Gwilym had been
seeking, and there was another flurry as servants
flew for hot water, blankets, and soap. The hearth
was lit in the room across the hall, and the down
mattress was fluffed, then covered in sheets, wool
blankets, and soft furs. The dogs slipped into the
office again, excited and underfoot. Alone in the
din, as he often was, Gwilym pulled a chair to the
open window and watched the torches snake up the
mountain, minutes away. 

The King had sent a large escort to ensure she
arrived safely, but the royal guards waited the gate.
Most Normans viewed the only good Welshman to be a
dead Welshman, and the sentiment was coolly returned.
Gwilym's sentries readied bows and checked swords,
should there be one false move; most men of Aber had
lost a son or a limb to soldiers like these, and no
gentle words from a priest would stop the bloodshed
if there was one slight.   

Gwilym's hand rubbed his freshly shaven face as he
watched his new wife, trying to glean some clue about
her from his high window. He had attempted the Norman
custom of a beard for her, but given up after a few
days of itching, though Father Leuan's ginger-brown
and gray beard was coming along nicely. The old cook
- who had been his father's mistress - had cut his
hair this morning and shaved him, as she claimed,
'close enough to kiss.'

A manservant held an embroidered, sleeveless surcoat
as Gwilym slipped it on, then draped a gray, fur-
ined cloak over his shoulders as he watched the woman
in the bailey.

In the midst of Gwilym's knights, a big, red-bearded
man rode into the inner bailey beside a woman on a
fine-boned gray mare. Merfyn followed, watchful. The
man patted her hand and turned to leave. She looked
back at the man, saying something Gwilym could not
hear, and the red-haired man circled his horse once,
nodding to her, then rode away with the King's
guards. Gwilym saw in the torchlight that she was
barely as tall as his sergeant, which was not saying
much, and that she stumbled when her feet touched the
snow.

"What are they doing, Leuan? Are they leaving her?"  

The priest looked out, squinting his eyes. "It would
appear so, my lord. She has been delivered; their
responsibility for her has ended. I would not linger
in Aber, if I were a Norman soldier."

"You said the King promised her brother could travel
with her. That must have been her brother. He is
welcome. Does he not want to meet me? Pass the night
here?"

"No - since there is no choice, probably he does not
want to meet you. If she was my sister, I would
rather not know."
 
The King's royal guards and the red-haired man were
fading into the darkness, and most of Gwilym's
knights were trailing across the bailey, headed home
to their families for the night.

The poor dogs, exiled to the great hall, raised a
racket as their master hurried through. He took a
breath and nodded, and the servants opened the tall
wooden doors, revealing only the woman and his
sergeant. There were many curious Welsh eyes watching
silently from the stable, the kitchens, and the
little thatch-roofed buildings and houses scattered
across the bailey, though.

Gwilym stepped into the night, and the icy wind blew
his hair and whipped at his cloak. It seemed foolish
to insist she wait outside while he greeted her, so
he ordered Merfyn to bring her inside. Her face
largely hidden under her fur-trimmed hood, the woman
stepped over the threshold and into the great hall.
After she passed, Gwilym looked out the door, waiting
for her ladies and maids and guards, then remembered
that he had not seen any. The only knights in the
bailey had been his. No baggage, either, so it must
be under guard and coming with her maids. Tonight,
there was only a pretty gray mare and Merfyn's bad-
tempered gelding outside, both being led away by one
of the stable boys. 

"Merfyn - did her ladies get separated? Are they
waiting in the valley until morning?" The trek up the
mountain could take a man's breath in daylight, so it
was likely that her ladies, having no fear of being
returned to London if they displeased him, were
waiting in a warm or castle tavern until morning.
"You were not attacked, were you?"

The little man pulled off his outer layers of wool
and leaned close to the blazing hearth. "There is
only her, Gwilym. Her maids would not leave London
court for fear of being raped by the Welsh devils."

"Merfyn!" This was not Gwilym's idea of the proper
way to greet a new wife.

"She does not speak Welsh, Gwilym. Or speak much at
all. I have barely heard a word out of her since we
left London. Her brother did most of the talking, and
I am glad to be rid of him." The old soldier paused
to stretch tiredly. "I have men tailing the Norman
soldiers, in case they try to make trouble in the
valley," he added.

"And?" Gwilym finally prompted. "Did you travel
safely? Did the weather hold? Is she well? Why the
haste; I did not expect you for a few more days at
the earliest. Did you pass the nights in castles?"

"Do you think I tied her to my saddle and rode for
the mountains? I was glad to be clear of the stink of
London, but her brother set the pace and she did not
object, to my knowing. I did everything you asked,
and here she is, safe and sound. You have your bride,
my lord."

As Gwilym stood there, open-mouthed, a round young
woman emerged from the kitchen and stood waiting at
the far end of the great hall, wringing her hands
excitedly. 

Seeing her, Merfyn grinned. "And I have mine. Let me
know how it goes. I get the feeling she could set
fire to a mattress, this one."  

It was a blessing for Merfyn that Gwilym was not
wearing his sword, but the old man still got a cuff
to his ear that caused him to hear bells for the next
few minutes. Unabashed, Merfyn retreated with his
wife, rubbing his ear, wiggling his eyebrows, and
still grinning. 

Then it was just the small woman shivering by the
fire, the old priest examining the floor for lack of
anything proper to look at, and Gwilym lurking in the
doorway. When Prince Llewelyn visited Aber, it was
with his own servants and a party of knights.
Gwilym's father had never married, so the last
noblewoman welcomed in Aber Castle had been his
grandmother. It occurred to Gwilym only after the
fact that he should have arranged for a more
elaborate greeting - some sort of formal welcome
ceremony. It seemed silly to have the servants line
up to greet her now, though. Strategy was Gwilym's
strong point; ceremony and politics he left to Prince
Llewelyn. Matters of the heart, he just left to the
pagan Fates.

"What might she understand besides French, Leuan? I
read a little Manx-Gaelic, but I speak even less -
and that is not the Gaelic spoken in Ireland.
English? The only thing I know how to ask for in
English is a whore," came a terse whisper.

"Do you want me to translate?"

"No," Gwilym answered quickly. "Then she will think I
do not speak French well."

"You do not speak French well, Llwynog."

Gwilym gestured for the priest to stop pestering him
with details. "Go roust the cook. Since she did not
bring any maids, Gwenllian will attend her tonight.
See about some supper for her, as well."

Father Leuan bristled at being ordered around like
one of the servants. He did as he was told, but he
muttered to himself as he walked away.

Once they were alone, Gwilym looked at her and
marveled at how cruel Normans could be - to barter a
woman, then abandon her alone and unprotected in a
strange land, not even able to speak the language.
That was another reason that Wales would never lay
down on her back for King John - not as long as
Prince Llewelyn lived. That was not the way to treat
a Welsh woman. And this was a Welsh woman, by
marriage.

"Greetings. Welcome to Aber. I am Llwynog ap Gwilym,
my lady, Lord of Gwynedd, but most call me Lord
Gwilym. I am glad you have arrived safely," he said
slowly, knowing he was butchering the proper French
he had seldom spoken in years.

She turned, her hood falling back from her face,
revealing blue eyes that snapped like lightning
across the tops of the mountains. Perhaps the docile
Tang had not been a good comparison.
 
"You are Lady Duana?"

Fool - of course she was Duana. It is not like there
could be some mistake. He and Leuan had practiced her
name earlier, but he knew he was still not saying it
correctly.

"Lord Gwilym," she said slowly, more to herself than
him, trying to wrap her tongue around the syllables.
Even for other Celts, Welsh was a tricky language.
Spoken properly, it lilted and rolled and purred like
a contented feline.

"Try 'William' - that's the English - Fox, son of
William."  He stood near, but not so close as to
frighten her, taking her measure. 

"Croeso, Lord William. Gwilym. Diolch I'r Ior," she
said in careful, heavily-accented Welsh. 'Greetings,
Lord William. Thank you, my Lord.' She sank into a
curtsy, and then stood waiting, watching him intently.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "You speak
Welsh," he realized, thinking of what she had just
heard about raping devils and English whores and
setting fire to a mattress and whatever else Merfyn
had said in her hearing in the last week. His
sergeant thought himself an expert in matters of the
heart and the bedchamber, and whether he truly was or
not, Merfyn was always opinionated and colorful. "Do
you understand what I am saying now?" he asked,
speaking quickly and casually.

Those eyes were still watching him keenly.

"Do you speak Welsh fluently, or just enough to be
polite?"

"Dw I ddim yn deall, I'r Ior," she answered
stiltedly, in formal Welsh. 'I do not understand, my
lord.'

"Do you understand if I speak slowly?" he tried.

She pulled off one glove and gestured with her finger
and thumb that she understood  a little.

Gwilym nodded. "Do you understand my French? Me- Est-
ce que vous - Comprenez-vous mon- me Francais?"

She repeated the gesture.

"Ah. Then we have reached an impasse."

He pointed to his favorite chair beside the fire, not
willing to risk the "ch" sound to say the right word
for it, and she sat down.  Her hands trembled
slightly as she accepted the goblet of wine from a
servant, and he hoped it was just because she was
cold and exhausted, and not frightened of him.

In her wimple and veil, he could only see her face
from eyebrows to chin, but she was indeed lovely.
Hopefully not lovely enough that King John would
change his mind and summon her back to London, but he
said a silent prayer of thanks for a foolish king's
conscience that caused her to end up on his mountain.

There was a steady stream of servants through the
great hall - some on honest errands like carrying
firewood or fetching blankets, but most inventing a
reason to get a glimpse at his new wife. The hearth
was fed its fill of wood, clean tables were wiped
clean again, and there was competition to replace
torches and refill his wine goblet. An old man
bashfully swept his way around the edge of the room
and back to the kitchen doorway, to where his wife
was waiting to quiz him about Lady Duana. Whatever
she wanted to know, he must not have been able to
answer because a moment later he and his broom were
making their way around the great hall again, this
time taking a better look. There were always guards
on the outer walls of Aber Castle and at the gate,
but now the Captain of the Guards himself and three
of his knights flanked the inside of the doors of the
hall. The kitchen and the base of the stairway was
guarded, as well: the large, battle-scared, stoney-
aced men in red tunics covertly observing because,
like the old man with his broom, their wives would
expect a full report.

Duana looked around, silently taking in the quiet hum
of activity. She glanced up at the huge timbers that
braced the roof, at the knights guarding the
doorways, and then at the dais across the room, where
he dined and the peasants came to stand and seek an
audience. Behind the dais hung his coat of arms and
the standard of Gwynedd, and on the dais was a long
table and a single, elaborately carved wooden chair.
She looked at it for a while, then returned her gaze
to him.

The marshal of the horses, with the head groom and
two unnecessary but wide-eyed stable boys lurking
behind him, came to report that Lady Duana's mare was
well. Gwilym asked the marshal a few questions, glad
to have something to do. Duana's gaze shifted between
them, seeming tired but curious.

"Votre cheval est bien," he tried to tell her, but
the second word came out as unrecognizable and the
rest were not much better. "Ceffyl," he tried, using
the Welsh word for horse.

She shook her head that she did not understand.

"Capall. Cabbyl," he tried. The Welsh were renowned
horsemen; he could buy a mount in any language in the
known world, but his pronunciation of Manx Gaelic was
not any better than he pronunciation of Irish Gaelic.

"Dw I ddim yn deall, I'r Ior," she said stiltedly,
shaking her head.

Yes, he knew she did not understand. 

Gwilym thought a moment, then slipped his heavy
signet ring off his finger and gave it to her. He
gestured for her to hold it close to the firelight so
she could see, pointed at the insignia of a horse
flanked by dragons, and repeated slowly, "Ceffyl.
Cheval. Votre cheval est bien."

She was either going to think her horse was fine or
was being attacked by Welsh dragons.

Her lips moved silently, repeating the words, and
then she nodded. "Merci, mon dieu. My lord," she
added in Welsh. 

"We are making progress," he informed her, and
dismissed the marshal.

She nodded obligingly, obviously having no idea what
he had just said.

When she gave his ring back to him, the metal was
warm and her hand was cold.

Minutes passed without either of them speaking.

She took a sip of her wine and, before Duana could
lower the goblet, a young page up long past his
bedtime came running with a pitcher of wine.

Gwen came halfway down the stairs, called loudly for
more hot water, and instantly the lurking servants
scattered back to where they were supposed to be -
which was most likely abed. Someone must have alerted
Merfyn, because his stocky silhouette appeared in the
doorway; he cleared his throat unhappily, and the
Captain of the Guards and his knights silently filed
away to their beds, as well.

As quickly as the bustle of people had arrived, it
was was gone, leaving only Gwilym and Duana sitting
beside the roaring hearth.

Duana alternated between looking at Gwilym and the
fire, then at him again while he cursed himself for
spending his youth avoiding Leuan's lessons instead
of learning something that would be useful at this
moment. Like the correct way to explain he did not
have horns or a tail, as the Normans thought all the
Welshmen did. That he saw enough brutality on the
battlefield, and did not care for it in his castle.
He had a million questions for her: about her life
and her journey and why she had agreed to marry him.
He wanted to tell her that there was soon to be a hot
bath and a soft bed for her upstairs, and he did not
expect her to share either tonight. As Leuan had
said, it was late, she was tired, and tomorrow would
be soon enough.

He wished she would stop looking at him so curiously.
It was unnerving, but he could not tell her that,
either.

'Hot' was chaud. 'Show,' though that was a 'ch'
sound, which, like 'j' did not exist in Welsh. Maybe
he could demonstrate scrubbing - that should impress
her. Bed - what was bed? 'Chambre' he remembered from
his last trip to London - as in 'How much, and where
is your bedchamber?' Another 'ch,' damn it, but take
out a money purse and a Southwark whore understood
his pronunciation. Gwilym could also buy cheese,
venison, and wine, answer that he was fine, and knew
three different ways to insult a Norman's manhood.
Really, he had known enough French to get by until he
suddenly had a French-speaking noblewoman as a wife.

"My lady. . ." 

But his lady's eyes were growing heavy as the fire
warmed her, and he closed his mouth again. It was not
long before she dozed, dwarfed in the big chair and
looking younger when one could not see her eyes.  

He watched her for a long time, listening to logs
burning in the hearth and winds whistle outside the
stone castle walls. Two hunting dogs approached,
sniffed the fur hem of her cloak curiously, then,
finding her acceptable, lay down beside her chair to
keep watch.

Her goblet started to slip from her hand, and he
reached forward quickly, taking it. Once he was close
to her, he could see she was wearing layers of wet
wool and fur cloaks. He knelt and carefully untied
one, then a second cloak, pushing them back from her
shoulders and finding an expensive blue silk gown
underneath that seemed dry enough. She opened her
eyes, watching him silently but not shrinking away.
The fire crackled, and he could feel the heat on his
face.

"You will get cold. Froid," he told her, and had her
shift side to side so he could get the wet cloaks off
her. He draped the cloaks over the chair where he had
been sitting, then held out his hands for hers.
"Better?" he asked in Welsh, holding her small hands
between his. "The maids are preparing on a bath for
you," he assured her. "And supper is coming, I think."

Even though she probably did not understand a word he
was saying, she nodded.

"So - you are cold and dirty and hungry and frozen,
and your barbarian husband speaks only gibberish, to
your ears; how do you find being my wife thus far?"

She just blinked at him as he held her cold hands.

He smiled, and, for some inexplicable reason, she
smiled back.

He felt as though he had stepped into a swiftly
moving stream, and the water was pulling him along
with it, and toward her. She was his legal wife, as
odd a concept at that seemed. Her lips looked warm
and full and soft. One welcome kiss, he told himself.
She was welcome - one polite kiss from the bridegroom
to the bride to give the servants something to tell
their wives about.

He hesitated, then grinned and glanced down,
embarrassed and, as if he was a boy, losing his nerve.

To his surprise, when he looked up, he saw a tired
but bemused smile.

"Again," he requested in Welsh, and she touched her
tongue to her lips.

As he moved forward a hair's breadth to kiss her,
there were footsteps across the hall. He turned his
head as Gwenllian appeared, smiling as she waddled
in: broad faced and broad hipped, like the goddesses
the Druids worshiped.

"Is this your bride, Llwynog?"

'No, Gwen, it is my newest hunting dog,' he wanted to
say as he stood, but didn't.  She was kindly, but
sometimes he could only wonder at his father's taste
in women.

"My cold, tired bride. Take good care of her. She
does not speak Welsh."  

"Please tell her that if she will come with me
upstairs, I have a bath ready for her. She looks to
be a sweet little thing."

He nodded, then looked back at Duana. "You go with
Gwen," he told her in French, pointing at his cook.

She let him help her up, then kept hold of his hand. 

Gwen curtseyed, then said politely in Welsh, "This
way my lady," and waited.

Duana looked at him again uncertainly, so he escorted
her through the hall, then up the steps and to the
bedchamber the servants were preparing. In the few
minutes Gwen had been absent, every female in the
castle had drifted into the chamber to gossip and
ready Duana's bed while sneaking sideways glances at
her. Gwen surmised this, and ushered all but two of
the women out, then busied herself checking the bed
and the bath.

"Do you want me to bring her to your room when she is
ready?" Gwen asked him, while the servants were out
of earshot.

"No, have her sleep here, Gwen. Find her some clean
clothing; her baggage has not arrived. I am going to
find Father Leuan."

The cook nodded.

Gwilym waited in the doorway, and Duana stood just
inside, watching Gwen, and then looked up at him. She
asked something slowly in French, then in lilting
Gaelic, but the only word he understood was 'room.'

"Votre chambre," he told her, guessing at what she
was asking. This was her room.

Duana nodded, her pretty eyes still taking his
measure.

A kitchen maid came up the stairs, carrying a tray of
supper for Duana. Gwilym glanced at what she had
brought, and nodded in approval. There had been
anxious murmurs in the last week about him marrying
an outsider, but his people - though curious - seemed
to be doing everything they could to make her welcome
and comfortable. 

Gwen gestured for Duana to come forward, indicating
the bath was ready.

"Where is your bedchamber?" she asked in French,
enunciating carefully.

He pointed across the hallway. "Bon soir," Gwilym
told her in French, then in Welsh, "Nos da," as he
closed the heavy door. He exhaled, then went to find
Leuan for some language lessons. By morning, he was
going to be able to say her name and something
besides 'How much?' clearly in French.

*~*~*~*

The candle had burned down less than a quarter hour
when Gwen knocked softly on the open door of his
office. Gwilym looked up, and she touched each of her
wrists silently, worriedly. 

Gwilym nodded that he understood.

Leuan looked puzzled, which was fine.

"I want to bring more hot water for her bath - let
her soak a while," Gwen told him. "Will you wait?"

"Yes," Gwilym told her.

*~*~*~*