Hiraeth IX: Dechrau

*~*~*~*

It was probably wishful thinking, not poor
navigation, that Gwilym had guided them to Camelot.
Not Camelot, really, but where bards liked to say
Camelot had been.  Somewhere in this dense, misty
forest in the southwest of England was supposed to be
the gateway to a land of heroes and legends, to a
place where quests were always noble and love
conquered all and the high king would return when his
people needed him. Gwilym sighed, rolling his aching
neck from side to side.  Camelot - it was a nice
story, anyway.

It would be dawn again soon. Gwilym could see the sky
beginning to glide across the spectrum from the blue-
black of night to the violet-black of sunrise.  Duana
was too tired to keep her eyes open any longer, so
they were riding double on his horse and leading
hers.  Somewhere in the night, she had managed to
fall asleep in the saddle behind him, her arms
wrapped around his waist as though life was normal.
Her head bobbed against his shoulder blade, but she
did not stir as he stopped the horses.  

It was not far enough.  They had covered more than a
hundred miles in barely twenty-four hours, but it was
still not far or fast enough for Gwilym.  It did not
matter that there was nowhere to run to, a man still
had the instinct to hurry to nowhere, to frantically
search for 'it,' whatever 'it' was. 

"Where are we?" Duana asked sleepily as he helped her
down, noticing for the first time the slight swell of
her stomach under her dress and cloak.  They had
simply fled, not taking time for polite questions
about marriage and children and futures.

"Near Glastonbury, I think," he answered, "I was
trying for Glastonbury Abbey, but I do not think
either you or the horses will make it that far.  This
house looks empty; we can sleep here and rest the
horses."

"And then?" she asked, looking around at the dark
trees.

"And then it will be tomorrow," he responded, not
knowing what else to say.  

She nodded, shrinking away from his touch and turning
her back.

Wherever Camelot was, it was a long way from here.   

*~*~*~*

By the time Gwilym saw to the horses, got a fire
going, and carried in a bucket of water to rinse off,
Duana had a bed made up near the hearth.  She got as
far as taking off her shoes and veil, then decided
actually undressing was not worth the effort and lay
down - then scooted back to make a place for him.

"You are sure?" he asked, hesitant. 

She nodded, closing her eyes.  "You are my husband,"
she said, not realizing how those words stabbed his
heart like a dull knife.  She did not want him; she
simply had no other choice.  Duana was very practical
that way.

As he stretched out, keeping an ocean of unsaid
things between them, she asked, "William, what do you
remember? Do you remember that this child is yours?"

He rolled over, making a tangle of her neat blankets,
"Did you think that was why I did not come?"

Duana nodded 'yes' again.

"Fitz told me you asked for sanctuary, Duana. When I
went after you, his sencha-something told me you were
in Scotland. That is where I have been: searching
for you. If you say that child is mine, then it is
mine. Whatever you did, you did because you had to."
He swallowed, fiddled with a hole in the blanket,
sticking his finger through it like he was not
supposed to, then asked, "Did you want a divorce,
cariad? I never assumed you wanted to be with me;
only that you did not want to marry Fitz.  That is
why I came for you."

"I was upset," she said quickly. "When Fitz told me
of that girl, showed me the..." She swallowed.
"Showed me the parcel, I was upset. It was Fitz who
had his men take me out of London, though. I did not
want to see you and yes, I asked to leave the castle
- but not to leave you. Not to be taken to
Pembrokeshire."

He opened his mouth, but she interrupted that she did
not want to talk about it.  

"I would like to tell you I was not with that girl in
Chester," Gwilym said after the silence became
unbearable. "But that does not seem to be the case. I
do not remember - there are still many things I do
not recall or understand. Yes, I have been with
Muretta - the tanner's wife - but I do not know when.
Not since before we married, I think, but I could not
swear it. There was a woman when I woke after the
battle, and another woman in Edinburgh - but I want
you." 

That had not come out right. He was making a bloody
mess of this confession, but it was not as if he
could make it any worse. 

"I see other women in my mind as well, but I cannot
tell you who they were or if they were even real," he
told her. "I cannot promise you those nights did not
happen, only that they will not happen again. Is that
enough?"

"You are my husband," she said, stroking his shoulder.

"No, do not do that. Do not pull inside yourself and
pretend you are fine.  For the rest of your life,
every time a woman looks at you and smirks, you will
wonder, and I will not be able to tell you because I
do not remember. I have wondered, so do not tell me
it does not sting."

There was a long, miserable silence.

"No, it does not sting, it aches," Duana said,
rolling away from him. "I understand why Isabelle
hates me as she does.  It is one thing to wonder - to
wake up at night and find you are not in our bed -
but seeing the evidence is different.  To know a name
or see a face is different. You are always asking me
how I feel, William?  This makes me feel like I want
to throw myself on the ground and kick and scream and
cry that it is not fair. But, you would hold up your
index finger and tell me calmly that life is not
fair, and you would be right."

Not sure what to make of all that, Gwilym moved
closer to her back, close enough that he could feel
the warmth from her body, but not touching. "What is
not fair?" he asked quietly, neutrally.

"That you did not get what you agreed to," Duana
sniffed. "You got a daughter you must lie about, a
woman who seems to bring you nothing but trouble -
though God knows what men see in me - and you are the
one husband in the room who knows other men have
touched your wife. I do not help that by offering
myself like a novice prostitute. I am always with
child, and I spend my days running a castle, and
writing letters, and patching wounds and shirts, and,
and," she sniffed again, beginning to cry in earnest.
"It is no wonder you feel cheated."  

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, and
then covered her face with her hand. "I am sorry; it
is just the baby making me cry. It happens; it will
pass."  

He stared at the shadows dancing on the wall,
dumbfounded.  "I do not feel cheated," he managed.

"No, God forbid you ever feel anything," she shot
back, still sobbing.  "You can chatter on until the
end of time, but you wear your armor around your
heart as well as your body."  

Gwilym rubbed her back, then put his arm around her,
resting his face near to hers. He worried his tongue
against the roof of his mouth, trying to put together
an intelligent sentence.

"Oh, William, I am sorry. I should not have said that
and I know you hate it when I cry. I am just tired
and testy. I will be better in a few hours, I
promise."

"I do love you," he whispered quickly, abandoning the
idea of composing something eloquent and just
speaking. "Do you want love songs by moonlight like
those silly Norman women?  I could not play a harp or
lute now if my life depended on it. Once, I could,
but now I fumble and strike the wrong notes and just
embarrass myself. The link between my mind and my
right hand is not the same as it once was, just as
the link from my heart to my mouth is not after so
many wounds. That does not change my heart, and you
are in my heart," he insisted. "As you say, how can
you be so brilliant and so thick at the same time?
Jesus, how can you think I do not love or want you? I
certainly seem to get you with child often enough.
You are the most beautiful woman alive and still you
sit in front of the mirror searching for flaws. You
are not trouble; you are a challenge, and I like a
challenge: crusades, Druid mysteries, and my wife.
You give me something to think about, to match wits
with. I have loved you for eons, I suspect. The only
time I feel cheated is when I open my eyes and find
you are not beside me. Really, if I was a Norman, I
would beat some sense into you!"

He exhaled and added, "Christ on the Cross! What a
stubborn woman! A mule is easier to convince than you
are."

She continued silently shaking beside him, so Gwilym
raised his head to see her face. "Are you still
crying, or are you laughing at me now?"

"Both," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Well, stop it," he ordered, not sounding convincing.
"I do not care for either."

"Yes, William." 

"Do not take that tone with me," he said lightly,
trying to get his bearings. He felt like he was
laying there naked for her to examine as she pleased.

"Yes, William," Duana answered in that same tone.

"Witch - I am warning you..."

"Your wanton witch," she whispered, rolling over,
pulling the blankets over them, and cuddling up
against him again. "That life does not seem like so
long ago."

"Fitz should see you shaking with fear at your fierce
barbarian husband," he commented, feeling her cold
nose against the center of his chest. "I do not think
we are even technically married anymore - not in the
old way.  Imagine a man being able to sin with his
own wife." 

"You are finished talking now," she murmured. "Go to
sleep, William."

As she dozed, he watched the sunrise gleam through
the cracks in the cottage wall while he did not
sleep.  Turnabout was fair play: he had said it; she
had not.

*~*~*~*  

It was late afternoon when Duana awoke, giving Gwilym
plenty of time to worry about what to say to her -
time to rehearse how various scenarios might play out
in his head.  He was not so idealistic as to think
managing three little words was going to fix
anything. Managing to go back and live a few minutes
over: that might fix something.    

She sat up slowly, blinking, and watched him doing
nothing - though doing it very purposefully - in
front of the hearth.

"We have meat: I got a rabbit.  There is fresh water
if you are thirsty.  You are in a cottage in Bath,"
Gwilym said in response to her bleary-eyed, confused
expression. "I thought last night we were closer to
Glastonbury, but it is a few more miles.  I have
looked around: this place seems safe enough.  The
horses are too exhausted to ride for a few hours, so
we will have to rest here."

"Why are you wearing a kilt?" Duana mumbled, yawning
and stretching.  She always had difficulty
prioritizing in those first few moments of
consciousness.

"It is a long story and I do not like some parts of
it.  It is not so bad once I got used to it - just a
little breezy.  I thought the Crown would not be
searching for a Highlander, so I kept it. It feels
barbaric, and so do I, so it seemed appropriate.  And
it is gray."  He was nervous - he always talked too
much when he was nervous. "Come and eat: you must be
famished," he added, telling himself that was the
last thing he was saying for the next three minutes.  

"Lovely legs." She scooted to the edge of the
blankets, still eyeing him.  "That is my cross around
your neck."

Gwilym blushed, finding an urgent reason to turn away
and poke the fire with a stick.  "I found it. In
London. I was just holding it for you. I did not want
to lose it." He fumbled with the knot in the ribbon
with his left hand, and then jerked at it, trying to
get it off.  Of all the stupid things for her to see
him doing: wearing a woman's necklace.

"Come here: I will help you with it," Duana offered,
holding out her hands.  

"I can do it," he insisted, aggravated at himself and
the world in general. This reunion was not going at
all as he had hoped. "I can cut the damn thing off,
if nothing else."

"Perhaps it is not that you need my help, William;
perhaps it is that I need to help you," she said
softly. 

Without another word, he knelt in front of her,
bowing his head so she could reach the knot. Even
after he felt the weight lift, Gwilym did not move
except to roll his head as she massaged his neck and
kissed the base of his throat.  He closed his eyes,
letting her touch her lips to his eyelids, his
cheekbones, and finally, carefully, his mouth.

"You have new scars," she murmured, stroking the one
on his face from the Rosslyn castle guard. He was
bearded now, and his hair was almost to his
shoulders. "We both do."

"Did someone hurt you, cariad?" he asked,
misunderstanding.  She had not explained how she had
gotten the guard to open the castle gates - he hated
to think what she might have offered in trade. And
Fitz would not force her, but the kingmaker might be
persuasive.  If she had thought Gwilym was not going
to claim her baby, Duana was very practical and Fitz
was very smitten.

"Just my pride, and it will heal."

"Mine is still hemorrhaging." 

She smiled sympathetically, and he wanted to kiss
her, to know that all was forgiven, but Gwilym was an
optimist, not a fool. 

"Have I ever hurt you?" he finally asked. "Just
because I do not remember does not mean it has not
happened."

"No.  No, I cannot imagine trusting anyone as much as
I trusted you."

"You did not answer me."

"Whatever has happened, I just want to go on with our
lives."

"Cariad," he said, cupping her face in his hands. "Do
you understand that we cannot go back?  I have
refused service to the Crown, and I have something
Fitz wants very much - you.  He will hunt me for the
rest of my life."

"No, I do not think he will.  If we would just
explain, he would understand," Duana insisted.

"Let me tell you something of your brilliant men, as
you call us: we do not like to lose. You knew I was
outside the castle; why did you not just tell Fitz to
let you out if you are so sure he would?"  She
swallowed, looking away, but he turned her face back
to his. "There is no going back."

"But you have told me several times that English
troops will never be able to take northern Wales -
that they could not come over the mountains or make
it through the narrow passes without being
slaughtered.  Why can we not just go home to Aber?
London can scream 'traitor' all it wants, but..."

He shook his head. "If I am in Wales, then Llewelyn
is harboring a fugitive.  No, I do not think the
English could ever take Wales, but they can spend
many years and lives trying.  Give them an excuse -
say, a prince who will not hand over a traitor - and
the peace that Llewelyn has worked so hard for will
vanish.  There is no going back," Gwilym said again,
"Not to what we had before.  Only to begin a new life
- dechrau... If that is what you want."    

Not looking down, she found his hand and placed it on
her belly, letting him feel.  "We have a new life."

*~*~*~*

"You did not get me another tomb, did you, William?"
Duana asked, sitting on a fallen tree trunk as she
watched him clear away the rubble from the ancient
archway.  "I do not think I could stand the romance
of receiving two tombs in one lifetime."

"Are you speaking to me, woman?" he said
sarcastically, tossing the last stone out of the way.
"Are you really expecting me to listen?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

Gwilym paused to grin at her, enjoying the easy
banter.  It seemed so normal: him doing something
crazy and Duana watching him with her arms crossed,
telling him how he was doing it wrong. If he did not
think too hard or look around, they could still be in
Wales and the last months could never have happened.

He checked that the horses were securely tied, then
held out his hand. "If you are finished mouthing,
could you come with me?  If this place is what I
think it is, you are in for a surprise."

"A sacred spring where a Goddess lives?" she replied,
not moving. "Or a ruined building that is going to
collapse any moment?"

"Sulis Minerva," he reminded her. "A Roman Goddess."

"Of course," Duana replied, letting him help her over
the rubble and through the archway. "No, really -
what is this place?"

"The Romans built it.  They used to come here to
bathe in the waters, hence the name Bath, but then
the Romans left, Arthur died, and the Normans
invaded, and so no one has bathed England in several
hundred years."  

"You have spent an hour breaking into an old bathtub?"

This time he ignored her, letting the magnificence
speak for itself: the arches along the four walls
framing a large pool.  The room, except for a few
cracks in the walls and some missing stones the
locals had carted away, was exactly as the Romans had
left it when they had fled Britain.  Without a roof,
the calm water reflected the sunset and the first
evening stars as perfectly as a mirror. 

"I saw these on Crusade," he explained, but Duana was
busy staring at the mosaics, the marble statues, and
finally bending down to dip her hand in the water. 

"It is warm."

"It is filled by a hot spring - it must flow through
a dragon's lair.  And, since the water is so clear,
it is probably mineral water."

"I have never seen anything like this place..." she
whispered in awe, slowly pivoting.

"You said yesterday that you would like a bath," he
said lightly, undressing as he surveyed the water - a
nice excuse to avoid her eyes.  How amazingly stupid:
for a man to be nervous about his own wife. "This is
a bath, an old bath."  Slipping into the deep end, he
continued, "The Romans had orgies here - dozens of
men and women together at once - and the water is
said to help a woman conceive."

"I do not think that will be necessary," Duana said
skeptically, watching him moving easily through the
water. 

Gwilym swam back to the side of the pool where she
was, reaching up and tugging on the hem of her skirt.
"Come in, cariad. You will like it."

She hesitated, looking past him at the water.
"William, I do not swim well.  I do not swim at all,
really."

"Oh - then walk around to the shallows." He pushed
away from the edge, crossing the thirty feet to the
other end, and stood up, showing her the water came
only to his waist as he waded to meet her. "Come in:
it is not deep here."

Duana still watched him, not the water. "I had
Forgotten. It does not matter much for men, but
Prince Llewelyn is right: you are rather pretty."

He smirked, flicking a few drops of water at her.
"Witch, strip off that dress and come here."

Duana sat down on a stone slab in the corner of the
room, pulling off her shoes, stockings and veil, and
unfastening her hair so it fell down on her
shoulders.  "You are going to watch me?" she asked,
standing up and starting to unlace the neck of her
expensive dress.

"I am going to watch you," Gwilym said hoarsely,
folding his arms and waiting, trying to look
nonchalant. Duana managed to get her dress off, then
fumbled with her chemise, blushing, glancing up at
him every few seconds. Perhaps it was just being true
to her nature, but every garment had to be folded
before she turned, her chest rising and falling
quickly.

"If you are too afraid, do not do this. You do not
have to pretend." Gwilym, never the master of
subtlety with women, trailed his fingers across the
surface of the water and added as though it had been
his original topic: "I can swim; you cannot. I
understand if you do not want this."

"I am willing to try."

"Well, that is all a man can ask," Gwilym replied,
managing not to stutter. "Perhaps you would like me
to come to you first?"

Duana nodded 'yes,' refusing to even stick her toe in
until he was standing right in front of her.

"You are blushing all the way down to your breasts,"
he observed, drinking her in appreciatively. "When
did you get so modest?"

"The water is warm," she excused, gripping his hands
tightly as she took a few tentative steps. "You have
never wanted me in a room with no roof or door.
Anyone could just walk in."

"There is no one around for miles," he assured her.
"What makes you think I want you?  Such a wanton; do
you think of nothing else..." When he pulled her toward
him, her foot slipped on the tiles and she gasped,
tightening her grip on his hands.  "I have you.  The
water is shallow here.  The pool deepens gradually,
and there is barely any current. The other end is
over my head, deep enough to dive, but here it is
just like a big bathtub. Duana, trust me."

She exhaled, letting go of one hand and watching
wondrously as her arm floated.

"You have never been in open water before, have you,
cariad?"

"Not like this," she said shakily. "I feel so light,
like anything could sweep me away."

"Nice?"

"Nice. Just do not leave me."

"I will never leave you," he promised, kissing her
forehead, the tip of her nose, and then slowly asking
her mouth open for his.  She moved closer, wrapping
her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts
against his chest. Neither of them were children -
she could have bathed in the stream before they left
the cottage and they both knew it. "I have you," 
he said huskily, moving to the deeper water.
"If you want, I will show you why Romans liked their
baths so much."

"Tell me of these orgies," Duana requested, letting
her head fall back as he turned them, as though they
were dancing, in slow circles in the water.
 
He cupped her breast, alternately massaging and
teasing as he lazily explored the salty skin of her
neck and shoulders with his tongue. "I would not
corrupt you."

Gwilym said a few unintelligent things after that,
forgetting what the question had been, and
concentrating on the way the water shimmered silver
on her skin and the little noises she was making.
Guiding her to one edge of the pool, he pressed her
against the side, then pulled her leg up and over his
hip, and slid his hand between their bodies.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders and her
breathing quickened in time with the pace of his
fingers. "I think it is too late."

"For what?" Gwilym was quickly reaching the stage
where all thoughts drained down out of his brain,
leaving only the rush of need.  

"Too late to keep me from being corrupted."

"You have to relax, cariad," he murmured, realizing
she was not nearly as ready as he was, perhaps
because she seemed so distracted. It was as though
she was trying too hard instead of just enjoying the
moment. "You said you wanted this. I am not going to
hurt you."   

She pulled her face away, breathing heavily.
"William, I do not think the baby likes this..."

"Is fine..." he replied, closing his eyes as he
positioned her hips, already imagining the delicious
sensation of entering her. "Be careful - slow," he
promised.

"William - stop." 

He blinked, losing the dreamlike haze that had been
enveloping him.  "I told you, it is just like a bath.
You bathe all the time when you are with child.
And, do not tell Father John, but we make love all
the time as well.  Just relax." 

"No, really-"  She loosened her grip on his neck and
lowered her legs, seeing if she could touch bottom.
"I want to get out.  The baby does not like this."

"The baby does not or you do not?" he said, sounding
angrier than he had intended. "Perhaps the stars are
rising too bright or the moon is too full for you?
Could the water be too wet?  If you do not want
this, say so. I understand if you do not, but I would
like to hear you say it instead of making up excuses."

She tried to get free, but he kept his hands on the
edge on either side of her head, pinning, but not
touching her. "Something is wrong."

"Yes, many things are wrong, but I want to hear you
say it: that you-"

"Really, William-" she interrupted, dropping one hand
to her stomach. "He does not like this at all."

His focus shifted from his dented pride to her ashen
face. "Cariad-" 

She started to sway, and he caught her before she
slipped beneath the water.  

"Jesus, what is wrong?" When she did not answer, he
picked her up, carrying her out and wrapping her in
the elaborate cloak she had been wearing. "Duana -
what is happening?" 

Not knowing what else to do, he held her on his lap,
stroking her wet hair and praying until he forgot
which saint he was supposed to address.  She had
fainted before when she was with child, but not like
this.  He had told her the truth: there was no one -
no doctor, no midwife - for five miles in any
direction. Glastonbury Abbey was the closest, and
there were only nuns there. There were no doctors,
and she needed a doctor.

"Tell me you are only fooling me," he said
desperately, rubbing her shoulders and hands to warm
them in the cool air. "Please talk to me, Duana."

She opened her eyes, but it was a moment before she
could focus on his face. "This happens - it will
pass." She took a careful breath, keeping one hand on
her abdomen. "I was only fooling." 

"Jesus, you certainly were.  Perhaps we should not be
here - perhaps we are angering the Roman Goddess."

"Perhaps," Duana agreed shakily. 

"Do you think that is all it is?"

"Of course," she said automatically, then, paling and
looking pained again: "No, no I do not think so."

*~*~*~*

The nuns at the Glastonbury Abbey led a quiet life of
prayer and penance and charity, and were not sure
what to make of a tall, scruffy Highlander with a
lovely unconscious noblewoman in his arms appearing
at their door in the middle of the night.  The best
the Sisters could figure was that Robert and Lyra, as
he gave their names, were runaway lovers. Lyra was
the lady of some Scottish castle and perhaps Robert
was a knight who had gotten her with child.  

It was a very romantic tale, at least the way the
girls made it up.

Mother Superior donned her disapproving face and
accepted the money the man offered, while the younger
women put their heads together and gossiped about the
scandal, sneaking peeks through the curtain to see
the red-haired woman.  The Highlander, not allowed in
the abbey at night, waited at the gate, hands on the
bars, and watched the main house with dark, intense
eyes.  When Mother Superior finally let him in at
dawn, he paced the hall outside the sickroom, making
the novice nuns scatter like frightened hens each
time he passed.

Someone whispered that the man had gone to the Lady's
Chapel to pray, so a half-dozen novices gathered
around the curtain to take a good look at the woman,
taking turns peeking around the edge and speculating.  

"Sin will always out," a sharp voice said behind
them, and the girls whirled to find themselves being
scrutinized by the Mother Superior.  "Women are only
vessels of lust and this is what lust can bring."

"Yes, Mother," they replied in unison, already
envisioning what their penance would be this idle
gossip.

"The wages of sin are death.  If your mouths are so
busy, go to the chapel and pray for her child's soul."

"Yes, Mother," again.
  
As they turned, glad to have an excuse to flee, the
girls discovered the Highlander had returned, and,
from his expression, was not having much trouble
following their conversation in French.  

"My wife?" he asked tersely, speaking French but
looking very fierce and foreign.

The girls squeezed each other's hands excitedly.
Perhaps this couple had been married in secret -
made a lover's pact and stolen away to find a priest.  

"You may see her," Mother Superior answered.  

Instead of hurrying into the room, he hesitated. "She
will live?"

"She should," she promised him, then, thinking
someone should tell him, stared at the floor and
began, "The child-"

"The bleeding has stopped?" he asked nervously, for
the first time seeming like a vulnerable boy instead
of a warrior.

"The child... She has miscarried."

He shook his head, not seeming to care. "The bleeding
has stopped?" 

"It has stopped," Mother Superior assured him,
stepping to the side to let him pass.

*~*~*~*

"There is my sweet girl," he murmured, pushing her
hair back off her face as she began to stir. "I
thought you would sleep until spring."

Duana's hand slid across the blankets to her abdomen,
trying to figure out what had happened. "Muldar?"

"Gwilym. It is Gwilym. It is all right. Just rest,
cariad. The Mother Superior said you would be fine."

"The baby?" she whispered.

He shook his head 'no,' stroking her face.  

"Oh, William - I am so sorry." She looked away,
blinking.

"Please do not cry," he stammered. "You will be fine;
that is all that matters. If you cry, I will cry, and
there will be a big, dramatic scene which I will have
to lie about later."

Duana sniffed, watching the candlelight flicker on
the wall. "You wanted another baby."

"I want my wife." She opened her mouth again, but he
interrupted, "No - do not apologize.  I am the one
who dragged you across England - again - and I am the
one who thought we should play in that silly bath.  I
am not a king, a Druid, or a Roman: I should listen
to Father Leuan before I go angering Goddesses."

She turned her head back toward him and managed a sad
smile. "There are no Roman Goddesses; you can be so
silly, William."

"I like that smile. I was not sure I was going to see
it again."  He took her hand, stroking her thumb over
hers.

"Did the nuns baptize the baby?"

Gwilym nodded reassuringly, actually having no idea. 

"What did they say about another child?" Duana asked,
her eyes darting over his face.

"I do not know. I would rather you rest and not worry
about it."  

Gwilym would thank the Heavens if she never became
pregnant again.  This was the third time he had
watched her almost bleed to death: after she fell
from her horse, after Mab came, and then last night.
That was three times in less than three years and
three times too many.  He shivered, thinking of her
joke about the Roman bath being her tomb. All he had
heard for days was the innkeeper witch in Edinburgh
promising him that if he returned to Duana, it would
end bloody.

He had thought she meant bloody for him, not for
Duana and her child.

"The nuns will not let me in the abbey at night, and
you need to rest," Gwilym said, needlessly adjusting
her blankets, "So I will see you in the morning; I
will be just outside in the forest.  If anyone asks,
you are Lyra and I am Robert.  The younger nuns have
concocted quite a romantic story about us."

"That would depend on your definition of romance,"
Duana murmured, getting tired. 

"You are mine," he said, leaning over to kiss her
forehead. "I do love you - just rest and get better."

She closed her eyes, keeping hold of his hand. "You
are getting better at saying that."

"I have been practicing," he said lightly, giving her
a moment to respond, but she seemed to be dozing. "I
will see you in the morning, cariad."

Duana nodded slightly, releasing his hand as she fell
asleep.

*~*~*~*

Since his Uncle Rhonald had been a full Templar monk
- sworn never to marry or have children - Gwilym had
been raised with the certainty of being the only son
of an only son.  At the time, Welsh estates were
divided between brothers, but Gwilym had been the
only heir, so there had been no question of the
succession of Gwynedd.  As long as he could remember,
he had been deferred to and treated differently, one
day expected to govern his father and grandfather's
vast kingdom.  Even Llewelyn, as a grandson of a
great warlord, had not been so sure of his
inheritance. 

Privileges, power, and comforts had always been
there.  Wales did not share the Norman custom of
providing a woman to a noble guest, but he had seldom
slept alone during his journeys as a young man.
Diana had been the first girl he could not simply
smile at, casually mention his title, and have her
start fawning.  She was the first woman he had to
work to bed - which explained a bit when he
considered it almost two decades later.

His name and handshake were collateral enough for
unlimited credit at any tavern or inn.  In Gwynedd,
his word was law - whether he settled a dispute over
a cow or judged a murderer - and he was accustomed to
having his lightest utterances obeyed.  And, being
both Gwen's darling and Merfyn's and Leuan's
protegee, he was also accustomed to being doted on.
Finally, there was the warm completion Duana had
brought to his life; she created a sanctuary of home
and children and soft flesh in the darkness that he
had also come to think he deserved as his birthright.  

There had been great certainty of his world and his
place in it - a clear line between right and wrong,
truths and lies.  That had all begun to change the
afternoon Llewelyn had told him Dafydd was dead.
That a king he had fought and bled for had not only
raped his wife, but executed his Dafydd and was
coming to take Duana and her child.

For the first time, Gwilym had questioned his
universe, questioned what was faith and duty and what
was blind stupidity.  It was like looking at the
world with his eyes open for the first time, and it
was impossible to ever close them again and pretend.
His questioning had ended in his turning his back on
Fitz and walking away not only from his oath of fealty,
but from his faith in his way of life.
 
It was remarkable how quickly comforts could be
stripped away - and even more remarkable what a man
will do to keep what remained.  

"Robert," the sister said for the second time before
Gwilym realized she was addressing him and scrambled
up from his seat against a tree trunk.   

He approached the gate, which she kept between them
as though it could actually keep him out.  The nuns
had been willing to offer shelter to Duana without
asking any questions, so he had followed their rules:
seeing her only briefly each morning and sleeping
outside the walls like a stray dog at night.  He had
tried to be useful by chopping firewood and helping
with their harvest, but the women preferred to be
self-sufficient.  Gwilym understood; it was a matter
of pride.  Duana would fit in here very nicely.

Many of the nuns were kind, careful to speak slowly
and slipping away from their duties several times
during the day to come assure him his 'Lyra' was
well.  The novices - young girls and teenagers who
had been given to the Church - seemed sure he was
starving and smuggled loaves of bread out to him,
leaving them at the gate, hissing his assumed name,
and then running for cover. He responded by keeping
the abbey supplied with venison, rabbit, and fowl,
using that same hiss and run delivery method.  He 
had even found a pair of breeches waiting for him
in his makeshift camp yesterday; someone had taken 
pity on him and his kilt.  

Mother Superior had thawed a bit, but this woman -
Gwilym had discovered she could be trouble, although
he was probably more sensitive about it than
necessary.  She was not a nun, but a wife put away by
her husband, and she did not appreciate having her
awkward flirtations ignored by Gwilym.  She was
harmless, just lonely, but he would never give Duana
any reason to question him again. He had tried his
best not to hurt the woman's feelings, but her
affection for him had turned to cool distaste - which
he actually preferred. 

"You may not bring weapons in, Robert.  You have been
told before."

Trying not to take offense, to get used to being
addressed as a commoner, he unrolled the blue fabric
he carried to show her it was only a plain woman's
dress.  "I thought D-Lyra would need something to
wear."

"Did you steal that?" she asked, turning up her nose.
"She can wear a habit - perhaps it would help her
learn a little chastity."

"I bought it from a peddler," Gwilym said through
clenched teeth. "Lyra is my wife."   

"So you claim.  Mother Superior says you may come in
now." She lifted the latch of the gate, then turned
her back. "You will follow me."

Gwilym swallowed, his temper and his pride, and
followed her across the courtyard and into the main
house.  "Half an hour," she reminded him, lifting the
curtain to the sickroom.  Christ, she always made it
sound like he had paid for a prostitute instead of
just wanting to check on his own wife. 

Duana was up: standing at the window with a blanket
wrapped around her shoulders.

"How is my Lyra this morning?" he asked softly. 

"Caged," she replied, turning to greet him. "I feel
like I have spent the past six months watching life
from a window.  It is not as nice as the poets make
it sound."

"Would you like to go outside?" he asked, unrolling
the dress he had brought her.   

Duana nodded eagerly, and he found something
interesting to watch through the open window while
she slipped it over her head.  Turning back around as
she tied the belt around her waist, he commented, "I
suppose I am used to seeing you with child.  I forget
how tiny you are when you are not."

She dropped her eyes; it was a sensitive topic, no
matter how many times he told her not to worry about
it. A wife's two primary functions were to have
children and satisfy her husband, and Duana had
doubts about her ability to do either.  

"Do you think you can manage a walk?  I would like to
talk to you without a dozen little girls," he raised
his voice slightly and said in French, "Listening
outside the room."

From the other side of the curtain, there was a
flurry of giggling and scurrying, which made Duana's
eyes light up a little. "They do think we are quite
the pair," she commented, smoothing her hair.   

"Who is to say that we are not?" Gwilym teased back,
reaching for her hand.      

They walked for a while around the perimeter of the
grounds, Gwilym trailing his fingers along the stone
wall and saying nothing of particular interest. When
they reached the front gate, Duana paused, looking
out at the forest.   

"You are sure you want to leave, Cariad?  I thought
you might want to stay here.  It would be much safer,
and the sisters seem nice."
 
"I am not a nun," she answered, not looking at him.
"Are you saying you do not want me?"

"No," he said quickly, squeezing her hand. "Of course
I want you.  You can leave whenever you are ready."

"I am ready now."

He chewed his lip, rubbed his beard, and rearranged
his shaggy hair, trying to figure out how to say it.

"William, I am sorry about the baby," she said, a
desperate edge creeping into her voice.  "Please do
not make me stay here. You said you would take me
wherever I wanted, and I want to be with you."   

In England, divorce was seldom an option, so, like
the nun who let him in, many unwanted Norman wives
were sent to convents.  That preserved the marriage:
letting the husband keep the dowry, but ridding him
of an inconvenient, barren, or unpleasant wife. Under
Welsh law, either husband or wife could just walk
away, but they were not in Wales.

"Will that happen again, do you think?  With the next
child?"

"I pray not."

"No, answer me." He dropped her hand, leaning against
the gate and watching her. "Llewelyn's wife almost
died having their last child, the baby boy was dead,
there was a fever, and then she has miscarried again
and again. Is that what will happen?"

"Perhaps not. Perhaps it was just this baby. Yes, it
was soon after Mab for me to have another child, but
other women do it. I know you do not remember, but
you wanted another son." Gwilym, who did remember,
looked away, and she reached up to stroke his scruffy
cheek. "Sometimes it only happens once and then every
other baby is fine, but no, I cannot promise."

"I am older than you," he said, avoiding her eyes.
"Most men do not live past forty, which is not far
away for me."

"I think you look healthy enough. Perhaps in need of
a haircut and a shave, but healthy," Duana said
lightly, knowing what he was getting at. He did not
want to leave her with small children and no way to
provide for them. It was not an issue when he owned
half of north Wales, but now any sons would have no
inheritance and any daughters would have no dowry 
to marry.

"I understand the risks, William, but I am not
content to sit at the window and watch life pass me
by. If I wanted that, I would have stayed with Fitz.
I understand all the hurt I have caused you. You told
me once that you wanted no more children because you
could not stand to lose another. Now, you have lost
not only this baby and your David, but really, Eimile
and Mab as well. Because of me. If you do not want
me, you do not need to make excuses."

He swallowed, chipping some rust off the bars with
his thumbnail.  Gwilym had worked out a nice speech
in which he explained why they should have no more
children and she should stay here, but somehow he had
forgotten every word of it.

"You need to rest, and winter is coming," he said
nervously. "The cottage where we stayed last month -
I can make it livable with some work, and it is very
secluded. We could live there, at least until
spring."  

Damn it: his mouth just kept moving and this was not
what he was supposed to be saying.  She was supposed
to stay at Glastonbury Abbey where she was safe and
in no danger of getting pregnant again: that had been
his plan from the beginning.   

"If you still want me - knowing what you know of the
girl in Chester and that I will spend my life running
from the Crown and that we may starve this winter -
Jesus Christ, the least I can do is let you run with
me."

Ah, damn it all to Hell: she was smiling. He was
always powerless when she smiled at him.

*~*~*~*
  
End: Hiraeth IX: Dechrau