Hiraeth X: Diwedd

*~*~*~* 

There was nothing wrong with this particular stick,
and even the Druids would have believed it immune to
pain, but he liked to imagine it was screaming and
begging for mercy, just the same.  Leaning against
the outside of the warped cottage door, Gwilym
attacked the piece of wood with his knife,
methodically whittling it from a big stick into an
equally useful little stick.

The door opened, causing him to lose his place,
curse, have to find another stick, curse, and sit
down to start all over.

"Please come inside," Duana asked, sounding
plaintive. "You have been out here for hours. Let me
fix you breakfast."

"It is not your place-" He paused to slice off a
satisfying curl of wooden flesh. "-To fix my
breakfast.  You married a lord, you should be treated
like a lady." Another slash and another long sliver
of wood went flying. "Go rest." 

Duana stepped around him to get outside, then turned,
crossing her arms and changing tactics. "I married
you, big cranky oaf that you are, for better or for
worse.  Now either come eat or be hungry, because I
am not fixing anything else until midday."

"Was there not a part in those marriage vows about
obedience?  I told you to go rest," he snapped. 

"I am not ill; it is not the same." She squatted
down, trying to keep her skirt clear of the dirt. "I
am sorry. I told you it was not a good time for me
to conceive, but I did not think my flux would come
for another day. That is all it is, William: nothing
that you did at all."

"I told you," he started to point at her, then
stopped, realizing he was pointing with the knife and
she was flinching. "I told you to go inside and not
bother me."  

He held his stern expression for a few seconds, then
his forehead crumpled, teeth clench, and eyes closed,
threatening to tear.  He jabbed his knife blade-first
in the soft earth and covered his face with his
hands.  

Gwilym had a dim memory of wandering through the
streets as a small child, not knowing who he was or
to whom he belonged.  Big, strong hands had reached
down and lifted him to safety, thanking God that he
was alive.  His rescuer was someone he knew and
trusted, and life had begun anew. Perhaps it was a
false memory. Perhaps it had only been a dream, but
he desperately needed those hands now - someone
stronger and wiser than he to tell him who he was and
to whom he belonged.

Duana abandoned the idea of keeping her dress clean
and sat beside him, pulling Gwilym against her,
trying to comfort him.  He had grown increasingly
distant since they left Glastonbury Abbey, seeking
solace in hard labor and strong silence - living as
far inside himself as their shabby hut allowed.  Or
he could explode out of the blue, yelling at her for
the slightest thing as if he was a Norman.  Gwilym
was accustomed to people telling him they did not
understand him, but for the first time, he did not
understand himself. 

"You are shaking, William," she murmured, stroking
his hair, trying to figure out was wrong. "I am sorry
you got it on you, but it is just blood for a baby
that did not form."   

"I know what it is!" He took a shuddery breath, but
looked away when he raised his face. "Goddamn it!  I
hate this. It is like my mind is an egg: my real
memories are the yolk and my dreams - good and bad -
are the white, and they have been scrambled 
together.  I cannot always sort out what has happened
and what I have only pictured in my head as someone
told me.  I certainly cannot sort it out when we are
making love and I see..." 

He trailed off, laying his head against her breast
and closing his tired eyes.  

Duana had not said a word about the price of being
with him, but then, she had not said a word about
much of anything.  Not about losing the baby or
missing their children or suddenly being an
impoverished criminal's wife instead of the Lady of
Gwynedd.  Or the Countess of Pembroke and Striguil
whatever the hell else FitzWalter owned. Not even
anything about his obviously having lied to her about
being with other women: many other women, if the
images in his mind could be trusted.  It would be
easier if she would cry and carry on and he could
scold her, hold her, and feel better. No, Duana was
'fine' and he was the one acting like a blubbering
fool.
 
"What are you seeing in your head?"

"A hundred things: you bleeding with Mab and with
this last baby, a few excuses I have thought up for
the girl in Chester. Riding through a thousand
villages after the Norman soldiers have passed
through and finished with the women. You and that
Edward in Dover. It is all as real to me as if I had
seen it, but even what I know I saw is not really
real anymore.  Oh, shit - that makes no sense at all."

He stood, angrily brushing off his backside, and
focusing his gaze on the sagging thatched roof
instead of her.

"The peddler who sold me your dress had come from the
south of Wales and said Llewelyn's army was camped
there. The Welsh border is not far. I am going to
sneak in and ask Llewel to send Eimile to us. I will
be back in a few days."

Duana scrambled up, following him to the ruined
building he used to stable the horses. "Are you going
to fight?" she said, sounding frightened. 

"I am going to have Llewelyn send Eimile to us," he
repeated, otherwise ignoring her. "I told him he
could claim Mab, but I want Eimile."

"I thought you did not want a child right now.  You
said-"

He turned to face her, his eyes snapping as he glared
down. "I said I do not want you with child again;
that does not mean I do not want my daughter."

"Be rational, William.  What if the soldiers catch
us? How would you protect her?"

He ignored her again, walking around the horse and
straightening the saddle blanket on its back until it
dared not wrinkle.  He was - or had been - Lord
Gwilym of Aber: being irrational was what he did.

Of course he was being irrational.  He was having
enough trouble feeding himself and Duana, keeping the
walls from caving in and the fire from going out.
Duana was still wearing the same blue dress he bought
from the peddler with the last of his money months
ago - now worn threadbare. Her pretty round face was
growing thin. Her eyes were more feline, her
cheekbones more pronounced from struggling to survive
when she should still have been recuperating.

Gwilym had only a vague idea what he must look like,
since the only mirror was the surface of the pond.
Curious, he had looked one day and seen someone
capable of hurting a young girl for sport, then
flaunting that in front of his loving wife. Someone
capable of turning his back on his God and King by
forsaking his oath of service to The Crown. Someone
who had almost killed his wife - and had killed her
child - by seducing her in a holy place. Angry, he
had smacked the water's calm surface with his hand,
wanting that man to go away, but he returned when the
ripples stilled, staring back at Gwilym with old,
tired eyes.  

He saddled the horse, then paused as he picked up his
sword and scabbard, looking at the intricate metal
work on the hilt. On the scabbard was the insignia of
a horse flanked by Welsh dragons: his family's crest.

His father would have been so ashamed of him.

"William, do not go," Duana's voice said.

"I will be back in a few days," he repeated, focusing
on readying his mount. "Just bar the door."

"Llewelyn cannot send Eimile to you," she said
quickly. "She is not in Wales."

He looked up. "What do you mean? Where is she?"

"She, she-"

"Where is our daughter?" he demanded.

"She is... Fitz sent soldiers to bring her to
Pembrokeshire be with me," Duana finally said. "You
had been gone for months, and Fitz said Eimile was
still at Llewelyn's castle. I did not think you
wanted her, so I agreed. She is at Pembroke Castle or
perhaps London Court by now. William, I am sorry."

Gwilym froze, and instead of cowering like most women
would have, Duana stayed, staring at the ground and
waiting. No one would question his striking her for
such disloyalty. Her primary duty was to bear and
care for his children. In England, where women lived
by 'the rule of thumb'- it was in poor taste to beat
her with any rod thicker than a man's thumb - she was
as good as dead.

"You left her?" he asked, pronouncing each word as if
it was heavy. "How dare you."

How could she think he would ever give up their
daughter without a fight?  Or give up Duana until she
told him to his face she did not want him? 

Deep down, it galled him how quickly she had moved
on. The banns for her marriage to Marshall FitzWalter
had been posted while she was still carrying Gwilym's
child. In a stroke of the quill, Duana became
Countess of Pembroke again, Eimile and the unborn
little girl became Fitz's pampered stepdaughters, and
Gwilym was put aside as an embarrassing mistake.

"No, she was not there, but Fitz told me she was
coming."

"Perhaps Llewelyn has not sent her yet," he managed
after several deep breaths. "Stay here. There is
enough food and firewood for several days."

"I want to come-"

"You will remain here!" he yelled, shoving her back
toward the cottage so roughly she almost fell. "You
will not leave that cottage until I return! Do not
dare disobey me!"

She nodded miserably, wrapping her arms around
herself as she started to shake.

He looked away.

"I am sorry," she managed.

He heard her sniff, starting to cry, and the sound
made his chest feel like a dull sword was trying to
pierce it.

"How could you not tell me?" he said hoarsely. "All
this time, I thought she was safe in Wales."

"I did not think you wanted her," she repeated. "I
did not think you wanted me."

"Eimile is nothing to FitzWalter. He will send her
off to some convent."

"He will not," she argued, her voice still wavering.
"He will see she is well-treated. He will care for
her-"

"Because he cares for you," he said, finishing the
sentence Duana had not. "How noble of him."

There was no response.

"Go inside," he ordered without looking at her. "Go
inside. Bar the door, and do not open it until I
return."

Her footsteps crunched through the leaves as she
walked toward the cottage.

After checking the girth, he swung into the saddle,
riding away quickly before she could say something
and change his mind.

*~*~*~*

With a level of comfort born of a thousand boyhood
adventures and misadventures, Gwilym slipped inside
the dark tent and pinned Llewelyn's hands down as he
slept, leaning his face very close before he
whispered, "I think you need some new guards, Llewel." 

From the shadows, Merfyn's voice replied softly,
"Think again, Llwynog. I saw you the moment you set
foot in camp."

Before Llewelyn could get his eyes open, Merfyn had
tackled Gwilym, making undignified, delighted
sergeant sounds.  

"I was beginning to worry about you," Llewelyn
muttered, sitting up and tiredly scratching the back
of his head. "Usually you turn up within the week.
Were you dead again?"

"Ugh - get off me, Merfyn.  I have no desire to be
your next wife."

Merfyn gave Gwilym a last affectionate cuff to the
head, like a lioness swipes at her cub, and then
offered his hand to help him up.  

"Did you take Lady Duana from Pembroke Castle?"

"Of course," Gwilym replied, catching the wineskin
Merfyn tossed at him. "Tell me of Wales."

"Come home and see for yourself," Llewelyn replied,
holding out his hand for the wine as Merfyn went
outside to find a torch. "There is a little boy
running around my Court, trying to escape my wife's
pampering."

"Is he really running?" Gwilym asked, remembering
only a tiny infant. "What of his sister?"

"Last I was home, he was toddling. Of course, he is
very pretty. It is such a waste for a boy to have
lips and curls and lashes like that."

"I am glad he is well," he said tightly, raising the
invisible shield he had lowered for a moment.  That
answered Gwilym's question about Eimile; he had not
expected Llewelyn to defy the Crown to keep one
little girl. If the Prince did not mention her, she
was not there.
  
"Come home," Llewelyn said again, finally awake.
"Fitz has half his army looking for you and the other
half searching for your wife. He has let the French
slip back into Dover and the Scots have their kilts
in a twist again. He needs a strategist. He wants to
make a deal: you spend April through October with his
army or in London and then winter in Aber-"

"FitzWalter's deals are trinkets polished to a high
shine," Gwilym interrupted, "His last generous offer
did not turn out to be so generous. Save it, Llewel."   

"It is a genuine offer. He needs you. He is one lost
battle or new tax away from the barons looking to
France for a new king - and a new kingmaker. He needs
to win and he needs you to help him do it. You keep
your title and land, and Duana, if she is found and
if she consents." 

"No."     

Drawing on his own secret fears, Llewelyn asked, "Do
you not trust that Duana will choose you?"

"I trust her," Gwilym snapped back. "Besides her, I
trust no one. Certainly not Marshall FitzWalter."

"Leave Duana with me while you ride to London and
accept Fitz's offer. I will see Duana safely to
Wales."

"Also perhaps not so generous an offer, Llewel,"
Gwilym responded sarcastically. "The last time I left
my wife in another man's care, I returned to find he
was posting the banns to marry her."

"The entire world is not out to get you," the Prince
of Wales reminded him tightly, taking the winesack.
"A few of us call ourselves your friend, even."

"I know," he acquiesced. "This fall has not been
pleasant."

"Fall is ending. Send a messenger to Fitz, then.
Accept the deal and return in the spring. For now,
come home, bring Duana while she is still able to
travel, raise Mab as a possible heir to Wales, and
rule your land."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied cautiously, wondering how
everything could fall back into place so easily and
still not feel right. "I will think about it. You
said as 'a possible heir' - is Gruffydd better?"
"He is better, but still not the same.  No, Joanna is
with child again."

"How far along?"

"Not so far. Early enough to still worry more about
the pregnancy than about her."

"You worry over a woman, my fearless Prince?" Gwilym
teased.

"Piss on you, Gwil," Llewelyn shot back, but without
much malice. "Just because your wife is always big-
bellied. That is not a thing to joke about."

"May God watch over her and her child. For your sake,
and for Wales," he amended more politely.

"Elan is with child again as well," Merfyn chimed in
as he returned, sitting down and not planning to let
Gwilym out of his sight again. "That stuff from the
alchemist does not prevent children, but it makes her
hands soft."

"Llangly was right: you do need a map, old man,"
Gwilym shot back.

Llewelyn chuckled; he - along with the entire Welsh
army - had already heard about Merfyn and Gwilym's
big contraceptive adventure.

"How is the Lady Dana?  Really, we should get our
money back from Llangly: I hear you are to be
congratulated again."

Gwilym shook his head slightly from side to side.
"No."

"What happened, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked.

"Duana is in the forest outside Bath," Gwilym
replied, as though that was an answer. "Send word to
FitzWalter. I accept his terms. I will get Duana and
we can go home."   

Merfyn opened his mouth to ask about the baby, but
Llewelyn signaled him not to.  If Gwilym had wanted
to explain, he would; trying to force him into
anything was never a wise move.

"I have a big surprise for you," Llewelyn offered,
changing the topic.  

"Um - it is early in the morning and you just have to
piss; do not go saying that is for me.  Anyway, I
would call that only an average surprise and you can
keep it to yourself."

Merfyn made a strangled sound through his nose, not
sure if he was allowed to laugh at the Prince of
Wales or not.

"I thought you might show up, so I have Goliath with
us," Llewelyn said, nonplussed. "Would you like some
company to get Duana? Is she even well enough to
ride?"

"She is well enough, if we ride slowly. Can you leave
the siege?"

Llewelyn shrugged. "It is a siege, and I have
inherited a competent sergeant. There is little for
me to do."  

He sent Merfyn to ready their horses, then watched
Gwilym finish off the wine. In the flickering light
from the torch, Gwilym's eyes looked centuries old.

*~*~*~*     

The two men followed the smoke through the forest,
finding a woman frantically trying to get a horse to
leave a ruined stable. The cottage was already
blazing, and the flames were licking at the nearby
trees. The cinders floated through the cold autumn
air, settling on the thatch roof of the stable and
setting it afire as well.

"Give me your veil!" a powerfully built man ordered,
jumping down from his mount.  He wrapped it around
the horse's head, and succeeded in getting the animal
through the doorway.

"Thank you," Duana yelled over the sounds of the
fire, scrambling bareback onto the chestnut mare.

"Wait," an older man said, not seeming bothered by
the smoke as he stared at her red hair, his deeply
lined face unreadable. "We will escort- Stop her!"

She kicked the horse, but the younger man still held
the lead rope and turned the jittery mare in a tight
circle. 

"It is all right; no one will harm you.  We will take
you home."

"My husband will be back any minute," she said
loudly, looking for some way to flee. "This was our
home."  

"She is not with child," the younger man informed
him, coughing as he choked on the gray ash.  "They
said the woman would be with child. A Gaelic
noblewoman with red hair who is with child."
 
"No, it could still be her.  Where is your baby?" the
old man asked. "Was it in the cottage?"
 
She tried to dismount, but the first man caught her
before her feet could touch the ground, wrapping an
iron arm around her waist and pulling her onto his
horse as though she weighed nothing.

"Easy," the old man cautioned him. "Be careful with
her."  He kneed his horse closer, squinting to see
her face through the smoke. "I think this is
Pembroke's bride. Are you Duana, my lady?  We will
not harm you; all we want is the money the Kingmaker
is offering.  You seem to be worth a great deal to
him."

"My name is Lyra. My husband is Robert," she
pleaded, struggling to get away. "He will be right
back!  Please - I do not want to go with you."

There were hoof beats and men's voices in the
Distance: other scavengers coming to pick through
the ruins.  Lights from their torches flickered
through the trees, looking blue in the morning fog.

"Go. Get her out of sight," the man ordered, taking a
last deep lungful of the smoke before he followed
them into the forest.

*~*~*~* 

Riding with Gwilym involved a nice mixture of dirty
jokes, boring facts, bizarre stories, and interesting
side trips. He usually seemed adverse to silence, and
maintained a rambling one-sided conversation.
Generally, Llewelyn contributed only by listening
and nodding occasionally, but that was not the case
today.  Gwilym had been quiet since they left Wales,
and mute for several minutes now, letting Goliath
assume a stately stroll.  

Looking back to see if his friend's mouth had closed
over, Llewelyn discovered Gwilym was toying with
Duana's gift, pointing it randomly as they rode
through the deserted city of Bath. 

"Did you ever think of buying her a ring, Gwil? A
length of cloth or even a book of prayer, since she
likes to read?"

Gwilym aimed the sleek crossbow again, tilting it
from side to side to accustom his hand to the weight.
Llewelyn had no idea where Gwilym had gotten such a
thing, nor what possessed him to think to give it to
Duana.     

"That is outlawed. You could be hanged for even having
it," Llewelyn persisted, sounding like a preachy older
brother. 

"She will like it," Gwilym replied. "She could not
manage a sword or a longbow, but this will be fine."

"When you give a woman a peace offering, it is unwise
to give her something she can kill you with. That
defeats the purpose of the gift."

Gwilym did not answer, stopping Goliath short and
standing in his stirrups. "Do you smell that?"

"No, but you do not need to announce it to the world.
Blame it on the horse or Merfyn like everyone else
does."

Instead of some smart retort, Gwilym dug his heels
into Goliath's sides, pushing the animal to a full
gallop and then whipping him with the reins to move
even faster.

"What is wrong?" Llewelyn yelled after him, turning
his own horse to follow through the forest, dodging
the trees and crashing through the brush at a
frightening pace as he tried to see what Gwilym was
chasing.

Goliath was a knight's horse, bred for strength and
size as opposed to speed, but Llewelyn did not catch
up until they reached a clearing.  Gwilym had
dismounted, and was standing in the ruins of a
charred building, the smoke still clinging to the
ground in the damp evening air.

"Duana!" he yelled, frantically, turning in circles
to scan the trees, looking for any sign of life in
the blackened remains. "It is Gwilym. Gome out,
cariad. It is safe. Duana!"
 
Gwilym waded into the remnants of a small house and
flipped aside a fallen shutter and tabletop, as
though anyone could have survived by hiding under
them.  Finding nothing, he searched the thicket,
calling for his wife as the buzzards circled, annoyed
at the racket.

"She is here, Llewel," he insisted numbly. "I told
her to stay right here.  She would not disobey me.
Duana!"

Llewelyn dismounted, leading his horse through the
scorched grass to where Gwilym stood, waiting,
watching like a dog who was just beginning to realize
his mistress was never going to return.

"Gwil," he said. "I-"

"Duana!" Gwilym interrupted, coughing as he tried to
breath in the ashy air. "Duana, you come out right
now!  I mean it!  Right this second!" He pivoted,
scanning the motionless underbrush. "Duana!"

*~*~*~*

"Do you have her?" Fitz asked, barely stopping his
lathered horse in front of the inn before he was out
of the saddle. As the royal guards arrived a second
later, he pivoted, scanning the street. "Duana!"  

"The reward still stands?" the old man asked coldly.  

"Yes, of course." Fitz nodded, and a soldier came
forward with a heavy purse.  "Do you have her?"

"Bring her," the man ordered, reaching hungrily for
the money.

The younger man hesitated, trying to think.  The
woman was ill and had said several times that she
wanted to go back to Bath - that her husband was
there, not in London. "Is he going to hurt her?" he
called from his hiding place.

"Now!" the old man barked, and the big man stepped
out from between the inn and the stable, dragging
Duana in front of him. 
	
Fitz's arms were around her immediately, and the
Norman soldiers accompanying him lowered their gaze
respectfully. "Thanks be to God. Jesus, Duana, who
took you?" He put his hand on her abdomen. "My God -
where is the baby?" Still holding her tightly and
beginning to tremble with fear and rage, Fitz looked
up at the two men. "Where is the child?"

"We think it died in a fire."

"No. Christ. Duana, is that what happened?"  

She shook her head 'no,' weakly trying to pull away.
"Let go of me, Fitz."

"My lord," one young knight said, sneaking a look at
Duana and noticing the back of her skirt. "She is..."

Fitz glanced down and saw the dark red spots on her
dress.  In a heartbeat, someone had arrested her two
'rescuers,' gone for a doctor, and Fitz had scooped
her up and was carrying her inside the inn as she
struggled, too exhausted to put up much of a fight. 

"What did they do, Duana? Are these the men who took
you?" he asked, laying her on the bed and pushing her
back down when she tried to get up.  "Hush - whatever
they did, it will not happen again.  Did they hurt
you?  The baby has come early - is it alive
somewhere?"

"No," Duana answered, refusing to look at him as he
held her shoulders down to keep her flat, remembering
what the midwives had said about bleeding. "Please do
not do this, Fitz."   

"I am not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt
you," he replied anxiously. "Someone has gone for a
doctor.  Just rest."

"He will find me, Fitz," she promised. "It does not
matter what you do.  If he wants me, he will find me."

"No - no one is going to hurt you ever again." He had
seen her beaten and abused and shamed now more times
that he could count. Enough. "Never," he promised. "I
swear it."     

*~*~*~*  

He was truly dead this time. His heart had stopped
beating, but his body did not have the sense to die.

Gwilym sat in the corner of the tent, staring blankly
at the fabric side. He did not remember returning to
Llewelyn's camp, but it did not matter. He would just
wait. Death would find him.

Merfyn had brought a wineskin earlier, trying to get
him to eat or drink. Gwilym picked it up, deciding he
would get drunk again to pass the time as he waited.

"I can send men for Father Leuan. He is on the Isle
of Man, but I do not know where - even if he is with
the Church. It may months before he can be found, my
lord," Merfyn's voice said from outside the tent. 

Gwilym nodded in agreement, and then took a long
drink of the wine. That was a good plan: send for a
priest.

"I fear he is out of his mind," Merfyn added in a low
voice.

"He is grieving his wife," Llewelyn's voice answered,
also quiet.

There was a pause. "My lord," his sergeant said.
"Respectfully: I have grieved wives. Young wives I
have watched die and buried with my own hands. I do
not believe this is grief. I believe this is
insanity."

Llewelyn did not answer. He had grieved a young
hearthwife as well: watched her die and buried her
with his own hands.

Gwilym stared at the inside wall of the dim tent and
took another drink, waiting. His soul knew Duana, and
her soul knew his. They would find each other again,
but not in this lifetime. He had lost her, and he
could not bear to return to this life alone.

He looked down at the veins inside his right wrist,
hating that blood still flowed stubbornly through
them.

Had it been worth it, he asked himself silently. The
pain of returning to her after the battle? Not just
the physical pain, but the humiliation, the loss of
his land and title and children. The loneliness and
fear when he had searched for Duana for months, and
then the sickening stab of seeing the wedding banns
posted in London. Had all that pain and shame been
worth it only to live with her for a few months in a
hovel in the woods, struggling to feed themselves and
stay warm the way that peasants did?

Yes, it had been worth it, Gwilym decided silently,
the corners of his mouth twitching.

He took another drink.

The flap of the tent pulled back, letting sunlight in
as Llewelyn entered. He took in the untouched pallet
and the plate of food, then Gwilym sitting on the
dirt in the corner.

"Lord Gwilym, prepare your men," Llewelyn ordered
authoritatively. "There is a battle. It is time to
go."

Gwilym did not bother to turn his head. It was not
yet time to go. Contrary to what Llewel sometimes
seemed to believe, he was not a god.

"Gwil, get up," Llewelyn tried again. "I need help
with the siege."

It is a siege, Gwilym thought to himself. Go over,
under, or through the castle walls. If that is not
possible, bottle up the castle and wait while the
Normans starve. Even Llewelyn could manage that plan.

Llewelyn squatted down a few feet from him. "Eimile
is at London Court. We will go and get her," he
offered. "Duana's child: it is not the same, but it
is something."

Gwilym shook his head slightly, moving for the first
time in hours. Either Llewelyn or FitzWalter would
take good care of Eimile, and Gwilym was a stranger
to her now. Even for his daughter, he could not go
back. 

"We will ride to Wales, see your son," the prince
promised, and this time got no response.

Like the Pagan kings did sometimes at the end of
their reign, Gwilym just made himself comfortable and
patiently waited for Death.

"Do not do this, Gwil," Llewelyn pleaded, sounding
about thirteen-years-old. "There will be other women,
other loves."

Gwilym slowly turned his head just far enough to look
Llewelyn in the eye. "You lie," he said coolly.

"I do, but I do not know what else to say," he
admitted.

Gwilym resumed staring at the side of the tent. After
a few more minutes, Llewelyn sighed in defeat and
returned outside. Gwilym could hear the prince and
Merfyn debating what to do: perhaps try to get Eimile
from London Court and bring her to him, perhaps put
him on a horse and take him home to Aber. There were
many ideas, but none applied to him anymore.

The fabric of the tent thinned, and he could see
through it, out across the wide grassy field and to
the edge of the lake. Gwilym could feel the breeze on
his face, the summer sun warm on his shoulders, and
he could see a small female figure becoming clear
across the placid lake. She waited for him, watching.

He raised his hand, reaching out for her, and saw the
woman raise her hand in return.

Gwilym got up, dusting off the new breeches and tunic
Llewelyn had given him. He picked up the winesack and
his father's sword from the floor of the tent, in
case he might need them. In afterthought, he rolled
up the bedroll and tied it securely, taking it with
him in case Duana did not have a place for them to
sleep. He had his dagger, his cloak, a new pair of
boots: he was ready to go to Valhalla or Heaven or
whatever world came next.

He stepped outside, squinting and raising his hand
against the bright sunlight. Goliath called to him,
his neigh a low rumble in his broad chest.

"Good, good," Llewelyn praised. The prince signaled a
squire to fetch Gwilym something to eat. 

Gwilym went to his horse. He patted his black,
velvety neck and rubbed beneath his warm muzzle,
asking if Goliath was agreeable to one last journey.

Across the lake, he could still see the woman waiting
for him, her auburn hair blowing in the breeze.

He saddled Goliath, then fastened the bedroll and
wineskin to the saddle. He felt Merfyn and Llewelyn
standing behind him, and a number of knights a few
feet farther back, uncertain.

As Gwilym finished readying his horse, it was Merfynn
who finally asked the question on all the men's lips.
"Where are you going, Llwynog?"

"I am going to my wife."

He swung up and into the saddle.

Merfynn and Prince Llewelyn exchanged quick looks.
"Wait a moment, and I will ride with you," Merfyn
told him, and gestured for his own horse to be
brought quickly. "I am always eager to see the Lady
Dana."

"Your wife is with child. It is not yet your time," 
he told his sergeant.

He touched his heels to Goliath's sides, and, as the
animal started to move, Llewelyn stepped in front of
him, raising his hands and blocking his path.

"It not yet your time, either, Gwil."

Not waiting for his own horse, Merfyn found the
closest saddled mount and swung up with a pained
grunt.

"I order you to remain here," Llewelyn tried, and
flicked his open hands at Goliath. "With us."

Goliath snorted and pranced in place, his sharp
hooves coming down hard a few feet in front of
Llewelyn. He was a knight's horse, accustomed to war.
He would not shy or back away. As soon as Gwilym
loosened the reins, he would run the Prince of Wales
down: two tons of animal charging over nine stones of
man as thoughtlessly as a boot crushed a bug.

"You stand between me and something I love, Llewel.
How do you think this will end?" Gwilym asked.

He looked across the water again, and saw the woman
was growing fainter, as if slowly getting lost in a
fog. He needed to hurry.

Goliath reared up, pawing the air near Llewelyn's
head, but did not step forward.

His and Llewelyn's knights had formed a large,
protective circle around Goliath and Llewelyn, some
with swords drawn. Their prince was in danger, but it
was danger he was purposefully placing himself in,
and they were not sure how to help. They could wound
the unarmored horse: slashing his leg or flank, and
pray they were quicker than Lord Gwilym's sword and
Goliath's teeth and hooves. They could let the Lord
of Gwynedd go and follow him, but he had been
drinking and talking out of his head for days. He
might ride off a cliff or into the ocean in pursuit
of his dead wife.

"She is dead," Llewelyn told him loudly. "You cannot
go to her."

"How little you know of women and worlds," Gwilym
responded.

While Gwilym was focused in the Prince of Wales,
Merfyn rode quickly up behind him, snaked a hand out,
and Goliath, knowing the sergeant, allowed Merfyn to
grab his reins and stop him.

The woman across the lake was so faint that he could
barely make her out. If he did not get to her soon,
he did not know how long it would be before she came
to him again. A year, a hundred years. A century,
perhaps.

Gwilym drew his sword, and three-dozen knights drew
theirs.

"I will kill you if you do not let go," Gwilym told
Merfyn, and there was no doubt in any of the men's
minds that he meant it.

"I will not let you go, Llwynog."

Llewelyn was still standing in front of Goliath,
unflinching.

"She is leaving me!" Gwilym yelled at the men, half-
runk, half-terrified.

"She will never leave you, Gwil," Llewelyn assured
him. Perhaps he knew more of women and worlds than
Gwilym suspected.

The stalemate continued, with more knights arriving
every second, blocking his path. Across the lake, the
female figure was gone. The fog rolled away, and
there was nothing left. Gwilym exhaled sharply as he
stared into the distance.

"Climb down, Llwynog," Merfyn urged him softly, as if
Gwilym was still six-years-old and had climbed atop
the stable roof again, frightening everyone.

Across the green field, four royal knights
approached, their standard waving, bearing a message
from the King.

*~*~*~*  

Father said he loved both boys the same, but Edward
was just enough older than Marshall FitzWalter that
he got to do everything first. He was not the best at
it, but Ed was always first - to train as a squire,
to learn to joust, to bed a girl, to visit a brothel,
to ride to war with Father. It set FitzWalter's teeth
on edge sometimes, but in the end, loved equally or
not, one of them was Father's son, and one was not.
One of them was Father's heir, and one was a
troublesome, mercurial obligation that had come with
the woman who had come before FitzWalter's mother. 

Edward had been a baby when his heiress mother had
married Father, and a fever had taken her within a
few months of the wedding. The Count had married
FitzWalter's mother soon afterward, and she had died
days after FitzWalter's birth. That had left Walter
Marshall vast lands and titles, along with an infant
son and a toddler step-son. Losing two wives within
two years had emptied his heart, and, despite his age
and station, he had never negotiated to marry again.
Father had mistresses, of course, but the Pembroke
household had been a masculine one as FitzWalter grew
up, with loud talk of war and politics at supper and
two high-spirited boys having play sword battles with
their father in the great hall.

Then, Edward began to change, becoming reclusive and
odd, talking to demons and listening their counsel.
He stopped smiling, he stopped hunting and going to
mass and bathing. An army of priests and doctors
examined him, but whatever possessed him could not be
cast out. FitzWalter grew taller, heavier, broader
through the shoulders. Handsome, with his thick brown
hair, beard, and dark, warm eyes. Pretty girls
noticed him, not Edward. He won contests and hunts
while Edward scribbled nonsense for hours. Father
discussed campaigns and politics with him while
Edward muttered in his bedchamber. FitzWalter was
better at fighting, better at chess, better at
everything. One night, Edward had gone, uninvited, to
the bedchamber of a visiting nobleman's wife, waiting
for her in the shadows and claiming she loved him.
After that, though Father never stopped saying he
loved both of them, he began speaking of knighting
FitzWalter early, and did not speak of knighting
Edward at all. FitzWalter had liked that very much.

Then, when FitzWalter was sixteen and Edward was
eighteen, Edward had returned from Dover with Father
bloodied and barely conscious, the French army at his
heels, and a pretty, auburn-haired Irish girl that
once again, Edward had been first with.

The girl had not been FitzWalter's main concern, of
course. Father had been out of his mind with fever,
and unable to even sit up on his own. Nothing the
local physician did seemed to help, and there was
fighting for miles around Pembroke Castle. The castle
was besieged, the servants were frightened, and
everyone looked to FitzWalter to know what to do.
All FitzWalter knew was that he did not want Father
to die.

The days dragged on, with Father sweating and talking
nonsense in Gaelic while all Edward did was drag that
pretty Irish girl around the castle, mutter, and
glare at people. Clearly, the girl did not want to
stay with Edward, as the bites marks and bruises on
him attested. 

Their Father owned the shire and every person in the
shire, including the serf women. For noble sons,
there was no shortage of girls to dally with or have
warm their bed, most willingly, even eagerly - hoping
for trinkets or favor. They could also visit the
brothels for more exotic treats, but both boys were
to be home by Vespers, and home alone. Except for
Father's women, girls from outside the castle were
not allowed inside. It 'compromised the castle's
security,' according to Father, though it also meant
the Count knew where his sons were and who they were
with at night. While rape was part of war, it was
something common men did.  To violently force a girl
in the castle was unnecessary and unseemly, they had
been taught, and spoil or war or not, Father would
have put a stop to it.

For several days, Fitz gritted his teeth, tried to
tend to his father, let his father's sergeant defend
the castle as he saw fit, and did nothing about
Edward.

"Enough! Let her be," he finally blurted out, so
tired his temples throbbed. It was after midnight,
and Edward had knocked over a table trying to catch
the girl as she fled from him and down the hall. "Can
you see she does not want you?"

"You are just jealous," Edward accused him.

"Yes, I am jealous of you and your Irish peasant who
hates you. For Christ's sake-" FitzWalter stopped
speaking, and looked at the girl Edward was holding
by the wrist. "Ed, does she speak French?"

They had legions of servants and knights who spoke
Welsh, English, or French, but none that spoke Irish
Gaelic. FitzWalter had no idea what his father was
saying, and perhaps this girl could tell him.

"Bring her in," he said, and started toward Father's
apartment. 

"No. She is mine!" 

"I am not trying to take her. I want her to
translate."

Edward just repeat his assertion that the auburn-
haired girl was his.

"Jesus Christ, you crazy fool," FitzWalter cursed,
and nodded angrily to the guards. He had to pry
Edwards finger's off the girl's wrist as his
stepbrother protested. The knights kept Ed in the
hall while FitzWalter took the girl by the hand and
led her quickly into Father's rooms. 

"Do you speak French?" he asked again, slowly.

She watched him with big blue eyes, cautious but
seeming to believe he was the lesser of two evils,
compared to Edward. With her free hand, she gestured
with her thumb and forefinger that she spoke a
little. 

Father's bedchamber was stuffy, the shutters closed
against the night air. A dozen candles burned,
their smell mingling with the heavy scent of
sickness. The manservant stood, and in the big,
canopied bed, Father turned his head toward them as
they entered.

It was eerily silent. The siege equipment had stopped
for the night, and the castle was tensely still for a
few more hours. Father looked at his son and the
girl, then smiled slightly. FitzWalter was not
certain his father was truly seeing either of them.
Father said something in Irish Gaelic, and slowly
reached out his hand toward her. 

"What is he saying?"

She pointed to herself, then to the pitcher of wine.

"Yes," FitzWalter said, then nodded and let go of her
hand. "Go ahead. Whatever he wants."

The girl curtseyed and went to the pitcher beside the
bed. She filled, then held a cup to Father's lips,
letting him drink.

"Ask about his wounds. What to do. If he is in pain.
And ask what to do about the French outside," he
ordered her. 

The girl studied FitzWalter, trying to understand. 

"Wounds," he repeated. "Injuries." The physician had
left salves and bandages, and stitched up the obvious
gashes, but Father was not lucid enough to tell them
what had happened in the battle or even where all he
hurt. He could move his head and arms, but his legs
had barely moved at all.

Frustrated, FitzWalter touched his own forehead, then
pointed to the cut on his father's face. "Wounds.
Help him."

"Wounds," the girl repeated in French. "Yes, sir."

Edward yelled and struck the outside of the oak door
loudly, demanding the girl be returned to him. She
jumped, frightened, and spilled the wine on the bed
covers. As she tried to mop it up, her hands shaking,
Father said something softly to her that sounded
comforting.

"Quiet," Father ordered clearly, in French, and
nodded to Fitz, then to the ruckus in the hall. Fitz
went to the door and instructed the guards on the
other side to take Edward to his apartment and keep
him there.

When the girl looked at him again, still frightened,
he pointed toward his father. 

She spoke, seeming to ask permission, then, when
Father agreed, she took a cloth from the basin and
wiped the gash on his forehead. Then his arms, then,
folding back the covers, his legs. Father asked for
several things in Gaelic and each time she complied,
bringing more wine, then opening the shutters. He
touched his shoulder, telling her something, and she
ran her hands over it carefully, examining for
injuries and not seeming to find any broken bones.

FitzWalter sat down heavily on the sofa, exhaling as
he watched them. At least Father looked able to give
orders again, even if only to a peasant girl in
Gaelic.

Father continued speaking to the girl, sounding tired
but kind. The girl folded the blankets down to his
waist, examining his side. She seemed to be making
Father calmer and more comfortable, unlike the
physician who prescribed bleeding and leeches. 

"Sir," she said, coming to FitzWalter. "Wounds," she
said, using the French word.

She gestured for him to come to the bed, then to help
him turn Father carefully to his side. On his lower
back was a large, purple and black bruise. The girl
nodded, and seemed to be telling Father about the
injury in Gaelic as FitzWalter covered him with the
blanket again.

FitzWalter stood a few feet from the bed, watching
them, exhausted but feeling grateful and relieved. 

She was a pretty young thing, FitzWalter remembered
thinking. Dainty and very pretty, under all the
bruises and dirt. The hair and eyes were lovely. All
alone in a strange country. Kind, quick to learn, and
wanting to please. Perhaps, once Father was better,
they could put her to work in the kitchen and have
her stay at Pembroke Castle. Something would have to
be done about Edward, of course, but Father would see
to that. Have the girl bathed, find her a new dress,
and give her a little time to heal, and then let her
demonstrate her gratitude to him for rescuing her
from his possessed brute of a stepbrother.

Not that night, though. That night, and for many
nights to come, likely, she would take care of
Father, FitzWalter had decided.

The next morning, Father was sitting up and speaking
French like a civilized man. His wounds were
bandaged, he was hungry, and he had his wits about
him again. He had never walked again, though.
FitzWalter told him what Edward had done, Father was
appalled with his stepson, and Edward was sent on
Crusade, leaving immediately. The Count summoned his
sergeant next, dictated a message for the Frenchmen
outside the castle, and the siege equipment stopped
pounding the stone walls of Pembroke Castle. The
Irish girl's name was Duana, FitzWalter was informed,
and she would be staying in his father's apartment.

*~*~*~*