*~*~*~*

The last time Leuan had drilled these phrases, the
answering voice had been changing awkwardly and its
owner had been much more interested in warring and
whoring.  That was almost twenty-five years,
countless border skirmishes, a sullen son, a daughter
who had vanished, a fallen father, and a faithless
hearth wife ago. Who could have known his lord would
have more than his fill of death and empty women in
such a short span of time?

"Je suis.  Tu es.  Il est-"  

"Nous sommes, vous etes, ils sont - I remember this
part, Leuan.  Move on."

"Je m'appelle William.  Comment vous-"

"We already know each other's names, Leuan. Teach me
to say something useful, like how to say 'you have
eyes like a deep blue lake' and 'I am not a
barbarian.'"

The priest had about this much success twenty-five
years ago. They had been sitting at the hearth in
Gwilym's bedchamber for more than an hour, reviewing
the old lessons, and no progress was being made. Even
when Leuan tried to teach a specific phrase, Gwilym
said it too roughly to be understood, then
immediately forgot it.

"Such effort for a wife you do not want," the priest
teased. When that bait did not get a nibble, he
suggested, "Try her name again, at least. Say it as
two words, then put them together."

Running his fingers through his hair, Gwilym tried
again, knowing he was not even close. It did not help
that the closest translation of her name in Welsh
combined with those intense blue eyes made his mind
wander.

"It is a hopeless quest, my lord. You either learn a
second tongue in youth or you will always speak it
roughly." His unwilling tutor sighed, smothering a
yawn. It was past nine o'clock now, and far past his
normal bedtime. Except for Gwilym, the castle slept
and arose with the chickens. 

Gwilym left his chair, crossed the room, and flopped
onto the mattress, partly disappearing into the high
down tick. "I had not thought I was so close to
Death's fingers that I could not say her name
properly. French is close enough to Latin that I can
read and write it - more or less - why can I not
speak it? If I could just see it, Leuan... If I could
see how to say it, I think I could remember, but
these silly drills just make my head hurt."

"Perhaps you should sleep, and see if you are more
able to learn in the morning."

Gwilym took his advice, and within a few minutes,
finally surrendered to the night.  There was the
sound of soft snores from deep in the down mattress
and fur coverlets, and the dogs hurried to claim the
best spots in the bed with their master. His face
looked so young in sleep, Leuan thought, like the
mysteries of life and death paused for him to rest a
moment. A big dog circled, matting down a place
beside Gwilym to spend the night, and his hand moved
in response to the motion of the bed. Finding soft,
floppy ears and a cold nose, his old student rubbed
the dog's head out of habit and shifted still deeper
into the furs without opening his eyes or pulling off
his boots.

Taking one candle and snuffing the rest, Leuan
quietly made his way out to the adjoining office,
careful not to disturb the man's rare moment of peace.

*~*~*~*

For all his faith, Leuan was a mortal man, and mortal
men scream bloody murder when they see a ghost
sitting behind their lord's desk in the moonlight.
Leuan's cry, then angry yelling rousted Gwilym, who
woke with his dagger already in his hand. Gwilym
reached his office in time to see a new book hit the
floor with leaves flying, pale legs fleeing, and red
hair flowing as the 'ghost' ran for her chamber.

"What happened? Why was she here?  What did you say
to her?" Gwilym demanded, hurriedly rubbing a few
moments of sleep from his eyes. "Did you frighten
her?"

"She frightened me. I thought she was Tang. She, she,
she should not be looking at your books," Leuan
insisted haughtily, embarrassed at his cowardice.

"Why was she here?" he asked again, and got no answer.

A door slammed across the hallway as Leuan gathered
up the priceless pages, each a work of art, and
cursed a woman's foolishness.

"What did she need? Why would-" he started to repeat,
then stopped.

He watched Leuan with the book for a moment. The
priest was still arranging pages and muttering
unhappily, oblivious to Gwilym's scrutiny.

"Give me the book, Leuan," he requested. "I wish you
would not have yelled at her. She is tired and
frightened, and if she wants to look at it, she can."

"But Llwynog," the priest gaped, switching back to a
boyhood nickname out of shock. "She was married ten
years with no children - she should not be looking at
books."

Gwilym took the text, annoyed. He disliked Norman
superstitions creeping into Wales. "I know my way
around women, and books do not have much to do with
begetting sons. Not unless the illustrations are very
well done. Go to your bed, old man, and leave me to
mine."

Rebuked into angry silence, the priest shuffled off
to his quarters above the kitchens, leaving his Lord
Gwilym to his books and woman and oddness for the
reminder of the night.

Gwilym took a deep breath, knocked once, and the door
to her bedchamber came open.  Looking down, he saw
the bolt laying on the floor; some helpful servant
had taken the lock off her door so it could not be
barred.

"Lady Duana," he called softly, trying not to wake
the castle at this hour. "Lady Duana, I have the?
shit!"  What was the damn thing called?  Llyfir - how
was that said?  Not lives.  Not livers.  Curse all
Normans and their bad manners and their stupid laws
and their damn tongue-tying language. The world would
be much happier if all men were Welsh. Livre! "Book.
Duana, I have the book."

He repeated that to himself silently, trying to make
sure he had said the right thing and not some insult.
When he knocked again, the door wide swung open, and
books were long forgotten.

Whatever the quick words were in Gaelic, they were
not an invitation to her bed. She was frightened, but
she did not beg or cower. A torch burned on either
side of the hearth, casting long, ethereal shadows
across the room. Her borrowed chemise, probably
Gwen's, fell in folds at her feet, and that auburn
hair could be the Devil's breath wrapping around her.
No wonder the King coveted her. No wonder Leuan
thought she was not of their world - he had the urge
to touch her to make sure she was real and not one of
the visions that creeps into a man's bed when he
sleeps alone for too many nights.

She was beautiful.

He remained in the doorway and raised his right hand
to her, palm out, in the gesture he would use to
assure a skittish animal he would not harm it.

"You are fine. I will not hurt you," he managed,
using two phrases from what he was starting to think
of as his 'whorehouse French' vocabulary.
 
"I am sorry. The priest frightened me." She spoke
slowly so he could understand. "I will not touch your
books again, my lord."  

Touch the damn books. Take out the pages and roll on
them, he thought - just do not run away.

Her hair was down because she was expecting to sleep
with him; otherwise it would be braided for the
night. She was his wife, and, after the maids had
left her, she had dutifully come to him. Finding he
was with Leuan, she must have sat at his desk in the
next room to wait until he sent for her to come to
his bed.

He could see the silhouette of her legs through the
thin chemise, and the shape of her breasts, the
nipples erect.

He swallowed dryly.

"I am fine." No, that was not the right phrase.
Stupid, stupid! "The book is fine." No better. Tell
her how the pig, the wine, the whore, and the cheese
are all fine.

He stared at her like a hunter who had startled his
prey and was too entranced by its beauty to loose his
arrow.

She stared back, shivering.

He held out the book and pointed to her, gesturing
that she could have it. Then, he held up one finger,
indicating he wanted her to wait, and laid the book
on the table inside her door. By the time he went to
his bedchamber and returned, she was standing where
he left her, but she was holding the book against her
chest. It seemed they could communicate correctly
about that, at least.
     
He held up his bed robe for her, wondering if she
would actually come. She did, and let him slip the
heavy robe on her one arm at at time. After that,
they stood facing each other, unsure what happened
next.

"Do you want to see the book? I can read the book,"
he offered stiltedly. He wanted to show her he was
not a pagan heathen. He had learned Greek and Roman
and Norman history, whether he liked it or not. He
had been on Crusade. He could play music and recite
poetry, and, he supposed, if the need ever arose,
knock another man off a horse with a big pike. Gwilym
could read and write and speak several languages -
just not the same ones she spoke.

"Yes, I would like to read the book, my lord," she
answered slowly.

He started for his chambers, and gestured for her to
follow him.  She took a few steps, but could not
manage to carry the big book and hold up the too-long
robe and chemise to walk without tripping.

He held out his hands for the book, and she
relinquished it nervously.

"Feet," he told her, showing off his French. "Toes."

"Cold toes," she responded, and he went to the hearth
in his office, adding logs to the dying fire. If she
had lived in London or Dover, she would find Wales
frigid. But he did not know if she had lived in
London or Dover with her husband, and he did not know
the words to ask. 

He pointed to the sofa, wanting her to sit, and then
brought a candle and sat next to her with the heavy
book on his lap. "This is the Book of Deer."  

He tilted the cover so she could see the distinctive
illustrations, trying to focus his attention on the
book and not that she smelled like soap and clean
linens.

"I am sorry I dropped it. The priest frightened me,"
she said again.

He nodded, since it seemed important to her that he
understand.

"The Gospels are in Latin," he explained, "But this -
this is French. It is a note by the scribe who copied
the book." She followed his finger as he read by
candlelight, "'May it be on the conscience of
everyone with whom this splendid little book shall be
read that he should give his blessing on the soul of
the poor lesser who had written it,'" he translated
slowly, and realized. "No, that is wrong."

"Is this word 'monk'?"  She pointed, her finger close
to his, indicating the line. "Monks copy books. 'On
the soul of the poor monk who had written it.'"

His brain had not rested in weeks, years maybe, so
her words took a few seconds to flow from French to
Welsh and make their meaning into his head.  

"You have heard a man read The Book of Deer?"

"No." She was quiet beside him.
 
"You can read?" There was no response, just her eyes,
watching him. "That is why you want the book. It is
fine that you read. I am..." He had to stop to think
of the word. "I am surprised. I am not angry. Who was
your teacher?"

Some fathers had their son's tutors spare a few
minutes on the daughters, but not unless the girls
were high born and expected to make political
marriages.  If not for her face and figure and that
hair cascading down her back, this woman would have
been left in peace with her family.

"My husband. My husband taught me to read. To speak
French and some Welsh, as well."

Gwilym was intrigued - what husband would take time
to teach such skills to a young wife? She had been a
spoil of war, so why teach a bed mate to spend hours
with her nose in books or practicing languages? 

Then again, why marry her?

He realized, when she spoke of 'her husband', she did
not mean Gwilym.  She meant an aging nobleman who had
married her solely out of love. She meant the man the
king had stripped of his lands and executed as a
traitor in order to have her.

There was no baggage train making its way through
Wales, he realized. There were no jewels or gowns or
furs or furniture; the only things she possessed were
the rich clothes she had arrived in. He suspected she
was not a discarded mistress, but something far more
dangerous: a beautiful woman who had scorned the King.

He couldn't see her wrists under the too-long
sleeves, but what Gwen had meant earlier was that
there were bruises on them. When King John wanted
something, he took it; consent was optional, as many
pretty Welsh women knew.

Bruises healed. Memories faded, he told himself. 

Tonight was not the first time he had wanted to kill
the King.

He waited, listening to the fire crackle and the
wolves howl in the distance, but she did not offer.
Her silence seemed to be as heavy as his own. Another
soul with burdens no priest could absolve.

"The book is yours as long as you are in Aber. It as
a gift." He handed it to her and she took it like a
child with a new present, but then tensed. He had
said something wrong again, or she had misunderstood.

"Are you going to send me back to London, my lord? I
do not want to go back. I am sorry. I will not read
if you do not want me to. My husband would tell you;
I am a good wife. I will do whatever you want."

"That is why you are here - you..." he stopped to
search for the right words. Not knowing any polite
term, he just pointed to her, then to himself, and
then to his bed in the next room.

She nodded 'yes,' smoothing the cover of the book and
casting down her eyes.

"As you wish," he agreed easily, leaning back and
resting his arm along the top of the sofa.

"I, I do not wish to go back to the King, my lord,"
she answered evasively. "I do not like him."

"Nor do I."

She nodded, and sat waiting.

"Stay in Wales. You are here, and it is not good to
travel in winter," he invited, and she glanced up,
her eyes curious and keenly intelligent. "I am a good
husband and a good soldier. King John will find no
love in Aber. I promise you."

"You are not angry?"

Regardless of what she was asking about, he shook his
head 'no.'

"I may stay?"

"As you wish. In Wales, you may stay or go as you
wish, Lady Duana. We are not Normans; you are not
chattel."  He hoped he said the right word - the
French one meaning property and not the English one
meaning cows. "Do you understand?"

"I do, I think. Thank you, my lord."

"Lord Gwilym," he reminded her. "William."

"Gwilym," she repeated, managing a fair
approximation. "William."

"That is good. Better than me. I cannot say your
name, but I do know it is not 'Duna.'"

"Duana," she said slowly, but he shook his head.

"That does not translate into Welsh. It would be good
to chose another name before you become 'Lady Dana'
to Merfyn. 'Dan' is 'tan', and 'danas' are..." He put
his hands to his head, indicating deer antlers.
"Deer. There is no word for a name."

She considered a moment, her forehead wrinkling.
"What is Dana?"

"It is not a name," he repeated. 

He noticed that, once she understood the meaning of a
Welsh word, she used it, interspersing it French. If
she heard him use a word in French or Manx Gaelic,
she used it, as well, producing a uniquely jumbled
language, but one he could understand. She was quick,
this woman. 

"What did your first husband call you?"

"Countess."

He couldn't tell if she was serious or not, but
Gwilym could not see himself calling her 'Lady' in
bed. Duana - 'Dana' would be more appropriate, but
not in public. 

"Catherine? Is there a Catherine? That is my mother's
name."

"Catrin." She was lovely, and the word sounded like a
dog trying to clear a bone from its throat.  

She raised an eyebrow at him - obviously not
suitable. 

"What about 'Scully?' That is your father's clan,
yes? There is no word like that in Welsh and there
would be no confusion."
 
"My brothers are the O'Scullys - the sons of Scully
the Mason. There is no word for a daughter." It was
his turn to wait in silence. "Do you expect me to
come to you when you call 'Scully'?"

"I would be a fortunate man if you came to me,
whatever I called you."

That was a lovely thing to say to a woman, he
congratulated himself, and he did not think he had
bungled a word.

Apparently unmoved, she folded her arms across her
chest, considering, then told him abruptly, "I can
write, too. French and Latin and Irish-Gaelic."

Gwilym had not realized they were playing
'confessional', but he had never see a woman write.
It spoke to years of struggle on Leuan's part that
Gwilym did not need a scribe. He handed her a quill
and found the ink, then took his turn, since they
seemed to be telling secrets: 

"I have a son- no, there is a boy, Dafydd, who is
fourteen and knows everything. He is at Court, so he
will not trouble you until he can recover from the
madness of youth. I had a daughter who is gone. The
villagers say her mother was a witch who came from
the dead to take her back to Hell, but regardless,
she is gone. I know you have no children - why you
were not married to a man with more wealth or power
than me - but I do not expect any more. I could not
stand to lose another."

He said it all in one breath, before he lost his
courage, and hoped he had conveyed some of what he
had intended.

"I saw your son David at Court. He is a fine young
man. Your mistress died?"

"My hearth wife - like a mistress, to the Normans,
but it is not the same in Wales.  Yes, Dafydd's
mother died in a fire soon after our daughter was
born."

She was concentrating on her careful strokes - she
had not learned to write as a child - and stopped to
respond. "My husband's stepson brought me home, I did
not like him, and his stepfather intervened. We were
married for almost ten years until the King- Until my
husband refused to give me to the King, and so the
King saw to it that I no longer had a husband."

Dear Lord, how should he respond to that? She dropped
her eyes again, one hand pulling back her long hair
to keep it from dragging in the ink as though she
just accepted her lot in life, so long as it was not
King John.

No, she was no more accepting than he, Gwilym
realized - just too tired to fight tonight after so
many battles. Or perhaps she chose to fight only the
battles she could possibly win with the weapons she
had at hand. That was what he would have advised her
to do.

"My father brought me back from King Richard's
coronation for our cook, Gwen, who had no children by
him. He said I was his son by a hearth wife but that
is probably untrue.  The London ghettos were burned
and the Jews killed when King Richard was crowned, so
it is likely he found me wandering in the ruins and,
having no sons, claimed me as his own."

He had never told that to another soul, but she did
not even look up. "Your father was a kind man to love
your Gwen and to find a child for her to love. It is
empty to have no children of one's own." 

Perhaps she did not understand: had his father known
his mother at all, she was most likely one of the
Jews or a prostitute. Leuan and Merfyn knew the
secret, and many men suspected, but no man questioned
his right to rule Gwynedd - not if they wanted to
live.

"I may have no more Welsh blood than you, my lady. I
have only become one of the Welsh - y Cymry; the lost
people."

She finished her sentence and blotted the ink to dry
it. "Then we are both in need of an anchor, Lord
William of Aber. Perhaps it is in Wales." 

"Perhaps," he agreed cautiously, not sure what 'une
ancre' was. However, if they both needed it, he would
see about arranging it first thing in the morning.
That, and a second chair on the dais downstairs.

She give the quill and ink back to him, then, after
he put them away, just stood and waited, the robe and
her chemise falling over her feet.

This was were those nuances of language became vital,
he thought. He did not her to think he did not want
her as his wife - for any reason - but he did not
want force or coerce her, either. As Leuan had said,
an unconsummated marriage by proxy was easily
annulled, and he suspected Duana knew that. A woman
was not equal to a man in Wales, of course, but it
was far different from England, where a man could not
be charged with beating his own wife. In England, a
brutal husband was damaging his property, and he
might be thought a fool, but his wife was his to
treat as he pleased.

Gwilym had been to London, and had always wondered
why more men did not wake up to their wife's dagger
in their throat. Perhaps that was how the Norman
custom of wives sleeping separately from their
husbands developed.

"Would you like to learn more Welsh, my lady?" he
asked, walking her to her bedchamber. She followed
him without objection, but then, he had known she
would. He could sense her trepidation, though. "'Yes'
or 'no'? Or perhaps you could teach me Irish Gaelic?
What did you say when I knocked on your door earlier?"

She dropped her eyes, her hair falling over her face.
"I said that I had been beaten by a king and so I was
not afraid of you," she admitted. "I was frightened."

"You were right to be frightened. Threaten what is
mine, and I am far more dangerous than the Norman
king," he told her calmly. 

"That was what my husband told me. My first husband,"
she corrected quickly.

He leaned his hands on either side of his doorway as
she faced him outside her bedchamber. He felt very
tall so close to her, as if he was towering over her.
"After your journey, you should sleep. I should not
bother you. When you have rested, come to me, and we
can see about a few Welsh lessons. Winters are long
in Aber. There is plenty of time."

"It is so cold here. When does spring come?"

"May. The peasants plant in May. Be patient. It seems
like winter lasts forever, but it does not. I have
passed several winters, and I know," he promised her.
"Nos da, my lady," he said, stepping back. He wanted
to kiss her, but he did not.

"Nos da, my lord," she answered.

He earned a mysterious smile that must have melted
the hearts of kings and commoners alike, and her door
closed.

Gwilym remained in the doorway a moment, the stout
door not far from his nose. It had seemed romantic as
he was doing it, but he realized he had just sent a
lovely woman - who happened to also be his new wife -
to her room to sleep alone. Which meant, unless he
wanted to put the effort into finding a willing
serving girl - and endure all the complications that
involved - or ride to the village to find a
prostitute, he would also be sleeping alone that
night.

Frankly, it seemed impractical.

Gwilym looked at the bolt to her door, which was
still laying on the floor. Inside the room, the bed
squeaked as Duana settled in for the night. He
glanced at the door latch, considering. Then he shook
his head, silently amused with himself, and turned
toward his own chambers.

That was chivalry, damn it.

*~*~*~*

She could not imagine how she knew this William of
Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, but Duana was sure she had
seen him somewhere. Clearly, he did not know her, and
she could not understand how that could be.

She liked this man, she thought - her new Welsh
husband. He seemed intelligent, willful, kind, but
mostly she liked most the lack of pretense about him.
If he thought she was cold, he took her hands and
warmed them with his. If he had a question, he asked
it, and he listened to her answer. He was not
threatened by women, or by many men, she suspected.
Prince Llewelyn was right: he was rather pretty, in a
dangerous way. She liked that he felt no need to
rattle his sword or bark at servants to prove his
power; his people respected but did not fear him,
which said a great deal about the kind of nobleman he
was. He was not a Norman, but neither was she. He was
a warrior, but only out of necessity. He was not
cruel without cause, she expected, but give him cause
and the wounds he inflicted - physical and otherwise
- were unfailingly mortal.

She wished she could understand more of what he was
saying to her, because he seemed interesting. 

They were becoming friends, she thought, and that was
good - except they were not friends. William was her
new husband and lord. Anytime he wanted, he could
summon her to his bed, strip off her clothes, do with
her as he liked, and she must let him. Her body was
not her property, but her husband's.

This William was the kind of man who, when he wanted
something, generally took it.

Sore and bone-tired, Duane rolled from one side to
the other, trying to get warm and to find a position
that was comfortable. 

She had chosen to marry him; he had no choice about
marrying her. She had arrived early; perhaps he had a
mistress in his bed and did not want Duana to know.
Perhaps there was some Welsh custom she did not know
or he thought her forward for coming to him, though
that was what she thought he had told her to do.
Perhaps he did not want her, or want her as his wife,
though she did not think that was the case. Perhaps
he wanted something she could not give him. She could
submit, even trust that he would not hurt her
needlessly, but she did not think she could feign
passion. She might not be good at obedience, but she
was awful at acting.

It was so cold here. So quiet now. So far from the
rest of the world.

She missed her husband. Her old husband, not the new
one across the hall. William of Aber seemed a truly
good man, but he was a stranger. She wanted her old
husband next to her so if something went wrong, she
only had speak and he would see everything was
immediately put right.

There were no maids, or companions, or even guards
outside the door.

She almost wished William would send for her. Then,
at least, she would not be alone. It still hurt
between her legs, and yet she felt so empty inside.

If she slept tonight, she would most certainly dream.

Duana opened her eyes, looking at the canopy over her
bed. She knew where she had encountered Lord William.

*~*~*~*