*~*~*~* 

"William, I want to stop," Duana said, speaking to 
him for the first time that day.   

He reined his borrowed horse so quickly the knight 
riding behind him almost ran his mount nose-first 
into Lariat's haunches.  His wife was acknowledging 
his presence and he was not even bleeding; something 
must be wrong. If anyone else had asked, Gwilym would 
have replied curtly that they were almost at Court 
and this was not a good time to stop, but he instead 
passed the message up the line to Llewelyn, who 
signaled his knights. 

"Are you all right?" he asked her out of habit. When 
Duana did give her pat answer immediately, Gwilym 
dismounted, his boots splashing deep into the mud and 
muck of the London street.  Holding his arms up to 
her, he said, "Come: I will help you down."  To his 
surprise, she slid down from her mare without protest 
and let him set her on the steps of Temple Church, 
keeping her skirt clear of the filth of the open 
sewer. 

They had traveled at what seemed like a crawl to 
seasoned horsemen out of deference to her, but that 
was still more than she was used to. Eimile, much 
like Gwilym, had an irrational fear of being away 
from Duana, so she had screamed and screamed when 
they had left her at Llewelyn's castle. They had 
passed the first few nights in castles, but she 
had also spent nights sleeping in nasty, noisy 
taverns, eating food Gwen would have fed to the 
pigs, and listening to strangers tell stories 
that made Gwilym blink, and he could not understand
French as well as she. They had ridden several days 
n the snow, and yesterday, in the rain. Unless he
was mistaken, her flux had come a few days ago to
compound her misery. If she would have had a 
sword and weighed more than six stones, 
Duana would have been a dangerous woman by now. 

She had not complained, but she also still thought he 
was dragging her to London just for company or spite, 
so Duana probably saw any admission of discomfort 
as playing into Gwilym's maniacal plan to torment her. 

If Duana wanted to rest, they were resting, damn it.   

He was opening his mouth to ask her if she needed 
anything when one of Llewelyn's knights yelled to 
catch his horse; Gwilym had forgotten that Lariat 
did not ground-tie like Goliath did, especially among 
all the temptations of London. An optimist, he tried 
whistling, but only got a few stray dogs and sow, so 
there was no choice except to chase the stupid 
animal, enlisting a few of Llewelyn's knights as 
herdsmen. 

By the time Gwilym pulled Lariat away from a cart of 
Cabbages - still chewing happily - attempted to 
compensate some red-faced English farmer, and, if he 
was not mistaken, been called 'a base born Welsh son 
who laid with sheep,' Duana had vanished. 
 
"She is in the church," Llewelyn told him, sprawling 
on the steps and offering him a drink from a 
winesack. The prince's knights stayed close, watching 
the crowds for any sign of trouble instead of 
relaxing and milling about as they would have in 
Wales. In Wales, they said the only good Norman was a 
dead Norman; in London, they said the same, but 
about Welshmen.   

Gwilym, thinking Duana only wanted a little privacy, 
flopped beside Llewelyn, and watched in amusement as 
a maid, aiming for the sewer, emptied a bucket of 
waste out of a second-story window and directly onto 
a pedestrian below.  The poor man, spitting and 
sputtering, cursed at the maid in English, and she 
cursed right back, and then slammed the shutters 
closed. 

"He should not complain; he probably smells better 
now," Gwilym commented in a low voice, keeping his 
foreign accent from being overheard. "I would think 
this city was nasty if I had not been to Paris one 
summer," he added, restlessly getting to his feet. "I 
wonder what is keeping my wife?" 

"She is fine; give her a moment." The Welsh knights, 
accustomed to following Gwilym in battle, watched him 
as he stood, but seeing Llewelyn stay seated, 
remained where they were. "Gwil, just wait. She does 
not have to be within your sight every second of the 
day."   

Ignoring him, Gwilym pushed open the massive church 
doors and went to find Duana. He expected to see her 
kneeling or perhaps emerging from the confessional, 
since she probably would not want to tell a Welsh 
priest the events of that night two weeks ago. She 
had participated in several of his sins, and he had 
intended a third. He could manage coitus interruptus, 
as the Romans had, and that seemed the best plan, 
despite the threat of eternal damnation. It was a sin 
of a few inches, he told himself. Poor aim, a 
convenient accident. If God had not struck him down 
for taking his wife among the Druids, Gwilym 
reasoned, God should think little of Onanism. 

It was a sin, though, and he did not want her to know 
about it. If Duana could see him, she would know. 
Darkness helped, and he thought himself a convincing 
actor. He could just pretend and pull out at the very 
last second, provided she was facing away from him. 
For now, his plan was to lay with her rarely, and not 
spill seed inside her. He did not intend to do it 
forever. Only until God struck him down, or Duana 
figured it out and killed him in his sleep.  

As a matter of fact, he would much rather she found 
some London priest to horrify. 

She was not confessing, though. Instead, after 
several minutes of searching, he found her among the 
effigies and mausoleums, sitting beside a low, marble 
coffin. 

Gwilym hesitated, realizing he had stumbled onto 
something she would not want him to see.  Whoever 
this nobleman was, he could come back later and find 
out; no need to ask her, since she would never tell 
him anyway.  The phantom 'Mulder' perhaps, that she 
asked for when she was so ill. Of course she had 
admirers; Pyn's doe-eyed mooning was a castle joke. 
It was not unreasonable to think that a young wife 
with a much older husband might have found some man 
to admire back in all of England. Duana had never 
given Gwilym any reason to doubt her faithfulness to 
him. Let her shed a few tears over a dead Templar 
knight. 

He had turned to walk away, trying to make as little 
noise as possible since every sound echoed off the 
vaulted ceiling, when Duana sensed him and looked up. 

"Come, William. If you want to know so badly, come 
here." 

She sounded more tired than anything else, and he 
started to mumble something about not meaning to 
disturb her, then stopped, knowing he was making a 
fool of himself.  If he had not wanted to disturb 
her, he should not have spent ten minutes searching 
for her. 

"Walter Marshall, Count of Pembroke," he read off the 
inscription. One of the greatest knights of their 
age. Adviser to kings, leader of armies. Gwilym could 
not have cared less about the goings-on of the Norman 
Court, but he knew who Walter Marshall had been. 
Seeing how the effigy was posed and dressed, he added 
the obvious: "A Templar." 

"A long time ago, William.  You would not have known 
him." 

"No, I never met him," Gwilym replied, needing 
something to say.  He ached to take Duana in his arms 
and try to make her pain go away, but if she had 
wanted that, she would have already been in his arms, 
and she was not.  Like she said, some hurts were not 
about him. "I have heard stories, though."

"Do you know the term 'kingmaker'? The nobleman who 
guides the prince of England, teaches the heir what 
he needs to know of statecraft and war? Walter was 
Kingmaker and high counsel for Henry Plantagenet's 
sons: to Prince Henry before he died, and then to 
Richard the Lionheart, and then to John Lackland. 
King John seized almost half his lands and took his 
son as a hostage, just like your David, and still he 
was loyal. He said he had pledged fealty to the 
Crown, not to any one man." 

Gwilym, still standing beside her, rested his hand 
gently on her head and Duana leaned her cheek against 
his leg. She raised one hand to take his, leaving the 
other on the marble effigy of the late Count of 
Pembroke.

"Young King Henry, the brat-king, as you call him: I 
have kissed his scraped elbows and dried his tears 
while his own mother was busy inspiring poems.  Every 
Plantagenet prince of England learned his lessons in 
our home, and King John had my husband executed as a 
traitor without a second thought so he could bed me. 
I did not know it was the King's right. I had no 
right to refuse, and I was no one, but I was the one 
thing Walter was not willing to give to the Crown."   

He had been so focused on the summons that it had never
occurred to him how difficult it would be for Duana to
return to London. Her health, her heartache at leaving 
their children, and whatever trap was being laid: those 
things he had considered, but not that forcing her to 
accompany him was forcing her to reopen wounds that had 
barely begun to heal. 

He thought of what Father Leuan had counseled him: 
to know his heart and to protect those he loved the 
most. To have faith.

He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, fiddling 
with his tunic, his sword, his hair - anything at 
hand - then said, "I will be outside when you are 
ready." 

Duana nodded, not looking up or seeming to notice as 
he walked away. 

*~*~*~*   

She ached. Not just her thighs from too many hours in 
the saddle or her eyes and head from too few hours of 
sleep, but in other places that Duana found more 
difficult to explain.   

Her breasts and heart ached from listening to her 
babies cry as she rode away.  She had looked back at 
Prince Llewelyn's castle, seeing her mother's 
disapproving expression, and William reached over and 
took her horse's bridle, leading her out of Wales. 
She had hated him even more at that moment. How 
could he leave their children so casually?  He had 
spent more time saying goodbye to his damn warhorse 
and hunting dogs than his 'echen,' his family, as 
he called it. 

Her head ached from too much thinking: about the new 
tomb in Temple Church, about - oh, just too many 
things for one female brain. Perhaps the priests were 
right: that it was a woman's place to obey rather than
to question. It would be easier if she could 
close her mind for a few hours, but if she let 
William think for her, she might end up on a horse 
bound for Camelot or the moon. 

There was a place in the small of her back that not 
only ached, it felt dirty all of a sudden.  The 
farther they walked into London Court, the sweatier 
and filthier that spot became until she felt certain 
it must be visible through her dress.  Sure enough, 
Duana felt William touching her there, wanting her to
translate what the royal seneschal was saying to 
Prince Llewelyn. 

"I will arrange an audience with the King for Prince 
Llewelyn and Lord Gwilym tomorrow," she repeated 
softly in Welsh for him and the knights. "Until then, 
please enjoy the hospitality of Court. Countess Duana 
is to-" William's hand clutched the fabric of her 
dress. "Countess Duana is to come with him. William, 
what does he want with me?" 

Llewelyn's knights stepped in front of Duana, hands 
on their swords, as William pulled her a few steps 
backward, prepared to take her and flee.    

"Her apartment is ready," the seneschal said, 
addressing Prince Llewelyn instead of her or William. 
"Did you expect the countess to sleep among your 
men?"   

Llewelyn glanced back at William as she translated, 
her heart still pounding, and William relaxed his 
grip on her. It was fine.    

The seneschal seemed puzzled as William followed 
Duana and the knights assigned to guard her through 
the maze-like halls. "I go with my wife," William 
said in broken French, looking like it would not be 
wise to offer any argument.   

It was one of his odd quirks that she had gotten used 
to and then grown to like: if possible, William slept 
with her, whether they made love or not.  Her room in 
Aber Castle had sat empty so long they had turned 
them into a nursery.  If she was away at night for 
any reason - if a woman was in labor or someone was 
sick - William slept on the sofa and the dogs got the 
bed.  He had not slept alone in his bed since she had 
known him, nor, to her knowledge, had he ever slept 
there with any other woman, which was more than many 
wives could say.  Perhaps she did not hate him after 
all; she just did not like him very much this 
fortnight. 

"Geoffrey!" she said sharply, recalling the 
seneschal's name after some thought.   

In spite of her poor, over-burdened brain, it amused 
her to see Geoffrey still jump after all this time. 
He always had been a nervous little weasel. 
"I am Lady Duana," she continued, speaking slowly 
enough that William could understand. "My husband is 
William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. You will remember 
that." 

"Yes, my lady," Geoffrey replied. Then, thankfully 
turning in the opposite direction of where her 
apartment had briefly been two years ago, he said, 
"This way, Lady Duana. My Lord," he added, admirably 
managing not to sneer. 

*~*~*~* 

"Better?" Gwilym asked, as Duana emerged from the 
bedchamber wearing a fresh dress and with her face 
and hands scrubbed clean.   

"I will be better still after a real bath," she 
replied, surveying the lush sitting room that had 
been assigned to 'Countess Duana.' "But, yes, I do 
not feel like a street urchin now." 

"You do not look like a street urchin, either; you 
are not tall enough.  Are you going to leave your 
neck bare?" he asked.  She had adopted the Welsh 
custom of wearing only a veil over most of her hair, 
no wimple to cover her throat, but she would look out 
of place in London.  Unmarried noblewomen might leave 
their heads and necks uncovered, but Duana looked all 
of nineteen now: more than old enough to be married, 
in London.  With his clean-shaven face and poor 
command of French, no one was going to mistake Gwilym 
for a Norman, but there was no need for Duana to be 
scorned on sight. 

"Does it bother you?" She sounded like she was 
spoiling for another fight. 

"I am used to looking at you," Gwilym answered 
nonchalantly, deciding his boots were as clean as 
they were going to get and pulling them back on. 
"Other men are not. Wear whatever you want."   
 
There were footsteps coming down the hall, swords 
clanking against armor: soldiers.  They were coming. 
He had not expected it to happen so fast.  Perhaps it 
was his imagination, but he could already hear the 
gallows being built outside. 

Gwilym stood, stepped close to her, and whispered 
quickly, "Llewelyn received a summons to bring you to 
Court. I do not know why. Your old titles were on 
the letter. If anything happens to me, and you need 
to escape, get to any church; the Templars will get 
you out of England. It is all arranged.  No one is 
going to force you into marrying against your will 
again. That is all I can think: that the King would 
reinstate your widow's rights to Pembroke's lands and 
find a more politically useful husband for you. That 
is why no one from Aber came with us; I will not 
have anyone else die because of my beliefs."   

The footsteps stopped outside the oak door and he 
heard a man speaking in French to the guards. Gwilym 
had faced Death many times before, but never just 
stood and waited for it to find him. 

"If I am dead, Llewelyn will claim Eimile and Mab as 
his. As my liege lord, he has the same right of 
primae noctis as the king. He would never invoke it, 
but he could."

Duana stared at him, too stunned to speak. 

"You say Eimile is his child by that first night here 
in London, and that Mab is his because you are his 
mistress. His sons' mother, Tang: you look like her, 
Duana - enough that he might arrange a nominal 
marriage to me to have you close by. Say Mab is his; 
the King might execute my son for spite, but not 
Prince Llewelyn's. Llewelyn will confirm your story; 
he and I have spoken." He took a quick breath. "Our 
marriage is legal. Llewelyn will see that my kingdom 
passes to your next husband, but you will need to 
remarry to hold land in Wales. Otherwise, the land 
becomes Llewelyn's until Mab is of age. If you want 
to remarry, you will be wealthy enough to choose 
whatever husband you like. Let Llewelyn guide you, 
and pick a man who will be good to the children and
will not bother you too much. Do you understand?"       

She stared at him, her eyes wide as she tried to 
absorb so much information at once. "We have to run," 
she whispered back, reaching for his hand. 

In the hallway, the footsteps stopped, and a servant
announced their visitor in French.

"If King Henry wants to charge me as a heretic or a 
traitor, he has cause. If Llewelyn or I disobey the 
summons, refuse to come or to bring you - we are 
guilty of a felony and our lands, all of north Wales, 
revert to the Crown. I cannot take you and run this 
time, but Leuan made me learn all that damn Norman 
law and I can still out-think that joke of boy-king. 
You and the children will be safe. Cariad, tell me 
you understand!" 

Duana swallowed, nodding her head and gripping his 
hand as the door opened. 

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym could not decide if he needed his sword or not 
as the wooden door squeaked open on its hinges.  It 
was like taking a drink from a jug and swallowing 
something entirely different from what one was 
expecting - getting sweet milk instead of tart wine; 
it is hard to decide whether or not the taste is 
offensive for that first second.   

Duana paled, and he thought for a moment that she had 
seen a ghost, but then her face changed, softened. 
Of course, the handsome man in the doorway might be 
an old friend, but he seldom saw his wife look at 
another adult with such open affection.  Their 
children, yes; Gwilym, if he was fortunate; but never 
another man.   

"Duana?" the tall man said, sounding like he was not 
sure if he was correct or not. 

Duana smiled - one of those happy, relaxed smiles 
like after their son had come, or when she had caught 
him singing and dancing around with Eimile one 
morning. "My Fitz," she said in French, going to the 
nobleman and tiptoeing to wrap her arms around his 
neck. "I was afraid. I was afraid you were dead as 
well. I am so sorry, Fitz." 

'Fitz' hugged her, lifting her off her feet, then, 
seeming to remember himself, kissed her forehead 
chastely and stepped back. Gwilym sucked in a 
disapproving breath, but he seemed to have been 
forgotten. 

It was difficult for Gwilym to make out what the man 
was saying. His French was more colloquial than 
Duana's and he spoke quickly, but he seemed to be 
apologizing and speaking of his father. "You never 
would have been married to a Welshman if I had been 
here" - that he understood clearly. "This is not your 
fault. You did not do anything wrong, Duana," he 
said, resting his hands on her shoulders and looking 
down at her with warm, brown eyes. "You did not, did 
you?" 

"Do not question me, Fitz," she responded coolly, 
stepping back.   

"I am sorry," Fitz apologized, looking chastised. "Of 
course you did not." He smiled again. "It is so good 
to see you again. I did not know if that Welshman 
would really let you come, even with the summons." 

"You sent the summons? Boy, you scared us. Why not 
write a polite letter if you want to see me?" 

Gwilym raised an eyebrow at that. This dark-bearded 
'boy' was perhaps thirty-years-old, about three 
fingers taller, and a stone heavier than Gwilym, 
which made him an imposing figure. 

Fitz did not seem to mind. He grinned down at her, 
even looking bashful. "Duana!" he said, seeming 
delighted to say her name. "My God! You are finally 
not such a skinny little thing. You look like a woman 
instead of a girl." 

All right! Gwilym had been lounging in the shadows 
looking morose, but at that last observation, he 
straightened and walked toward the happy couple. He 
was still all prepared to kill someone, and now 
seemed like a good time. 

"I am not sure that is a complement. I just had a 
baby." 

The man's face grimaced, looking pained. "Duana, no. 
You should come home. I will see this matter 
resolved, and you can come home," was what Gwilym 
thought he said. 

"Wales is my home. I am happy, Fitz," she assured 
him. "It is different from my life before, but I am 
happy. Come, meet my husband." 

Fitz shook his head 'no,' wrinkling his nose.  

Duana ignored him, gesturing for Gwilym, which made 
him breathe a little easier.  "This is who sent the 
summons for me, William. It is fine," she said in 
Welsh, then in French, "Fitz - William of Aber, Lord 
of Gwynedd. William speaks French, just speak slowly." 

Gwilym offered his hand, trusting Duana not to 
embarrass him, but Fitz looked skeptical, which was 
enough for Gwilym's temper.     
   
"Welsh does not rub off," he said in French. 

Fitz exhaled and took his hand, gripping harder than 
necessary. "I have heard much of you and your 
knights, Lord William." 

"Yet I have heard nothing of you," he replied 
sarcastically. 

"My stepson, William," Duana explained, still 
speaking French.  Gwilym's expression hardened, but 
she added, "No. Fitz was a squire when his father 
and I married. And that father would be ashamed of 
him right now because he is acting like a spoiled boy 
instead of a grown man." 

Fitz grinned good-naturedly. 

The tall nobleman offered his hand again, speaking 
slowly and clearly for Gwilym's benefit. "Let us 
start over. William of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, I am 
FitzWalter, Count of Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of 
Leister, and adviser to King Henry. I was 'Marshall 
FitzWalter' at birth, but Duana christened me 'Fitz' 
at sixteen, saying I was the image of my father, and 
it has been 'Fitz' ever since." 

Gwilym put his hand on Duana's back possessively. If 
Count FitzWalter of Pembroke, Striguil, and Hell-If- 
he-Cared did not stop looking at Duana, Gwilym was 
going to slit his noble throat from ear to ear.  

"I am surprised she managed to name a boy. A girl, 
she did well with, but we have had a 'Mab' - a 'male 
child of' like 'Fitz' or 'Mac' - for almost two 
months now. 'Samer?'" he suggested. "Siarl?"

"Artur," she countered, which meant she had moved on 
from 'Adam' - her decision the last time he had 
checked. "Or Gwyn. I like Gwyn."

"Lord Gwyn ap Gwilym of Gwynedd? I beg you, do not do 
that to my son, cariad."

"Cariad?" Fitz asked. 

"Beloved," Gwilym explained. "Count FitzWalter, this 
son may be 'Mab' all his life. Soon we will have 
another to name, and poor Mab may still be Mab. Mab 
ap Gwilym. I see a pattern: 'Mab,' 'Fitz.' My next 
son will only get a number: 'Trydydd mab ap Gwilym.' 
'Third son of William.' Or just 'Ap.' Ap Gwilym." 

Now Gwilym was taunting FitzWalter, and he gauged the 
man's reaction as he slid his hand from Duana's back 
to her waist, touching her fondly.  
"Poor Ap. My grandson will be Ap ap Gwilym."

"I once met a Fitz FitzWilliam, so it must be a 
common problem," he replied casually, but Fitz's eyes 
had changed as Gwilym touched Duana, answering 
Gwilym's unspoken question.  

He liked to know the trap he was walking into. 

*~*~*~* 

Duana wanted to wait for William to return before she 
got out of the bath, thinking it would be easier - 
and more pleasant - to share with him rather than to 
try to convince the Court chambermaids to heat more 
bathwater for him. Once the worst of her aches and 
the heaviest of her thoughts had floated away and her 
skin began to shrivel, she got out, but did not call 
the maids to empty the tub. William could have a cold 
bath when he came back from The Tower tonight rather 
than no bath tonight. 

She had dried off and slipped on her chemise when 
there were noises: someone entering the next room. 
"William, come see this. Quickly before it 
vanishes," she teased, wanting to make amends for 
being so hateful to him these last weeks.  He had 
been prepared to die for her the whole time she was 
acting like a spoiled, sullen child. "I have found a 
bathtub in London Court! It has water and everything, 
though I traded my honor for the soap. I hope you do 
not mind; it was good soap." 

She was drying her hair with a towel, and he had his 
back to her as she entered the sitting room of the 
apartment.  Fitz had assigned several servants to 
them, but Duana had sent them away before her bath, 
thinking William would return soon and she wanted to 
thank him properly and privately. "What is the news 
of Prince Llewelyn's son? Did you see him?"   

He did not answer, so she put down the damp towel, 
pushing her hair off her face and thinking something 
must have gone wrong: the boy was dead or they had 
not been allowed into the Tower, even after Fitz had 
promised. "Did they not let you see Gruffydd, 
William?" 

"Your husband is across the Thames sampling the 
Southwark whores. That man is not worthy of you, 
Duana." 

It was not until he spoke in fluent French that she 
realized it was Edward, not William, in the dim 
light. She had forgotten how similar the two men 
looked, except for the eyes: William's eyes were warm 
and alive, and Edward's were and always had been 
dead. She had thought Edward was dead. 

"Leave now, or I will yell for the guards," she said 
icily.  

"Now Mother - that is not a warm welcome. Father and 
Fitz are not here. You can speak freely. You have 
come back to me. Let us start again."

She made good on her threat to yell for the guards, 
but there was no response from outside the door. 

"They should be careful of what they drink; it is 
easy to bribe a servant," Edward said flatly, 
stepping closer to her, and an invisible hand began 
to tighten around her stomach. "No one is going to 
come. My stepfather is dead, but I forgive you. Your 
heretic husband and my priggish stepbrother are 
taking turns scrutinizing some slut right now. Your 
guards will wake in a few hours. There is no one to 
keep us apart. You and I can talk, Duana." 

"What do you want to talk about?" she asked, buying 
herself some time. He was between her and the door to 
the hall, and she was not sure she could outrun him 
to make it to the bedchamber and bolt that door.  

"I want to talk of old times. I do still love you. I 
do. I do not care about everything that has happened. 
Come home." 

"I am not going to return to Pembrokeshire, Edward. 
Or remain in London. My husband is here to pay homage 
tomorrow and then we will leave. My home is in Wales 
now." 

"But I love you, Duana," he insisted in his slow, 
deliberate voice, his face completely expressionless. 
"I have always loved you. In time, you will learn to 
love me again." 

"I have never loved you. 

"Oh, but you have," he said in a tone that made her 
insides shiver. 

"There is no love in forcing a woman."

Edward shrugged; her argument did not even seem to 
register in his mind. "You would have learned to love 
me if Father had not interfered. Father and 
FitzWalter. Come with me; let us start over. No Alex 
this time, no Father-" 

"Alex is dead. My husband executed him months ago. I 
love my husband, Edward, and I will never love you."

She saw his hand moving out of the corner of her eye, 
but before she could dodge, he struck her, sending 
her sprawling back. The room swirled a dark gray, and 
several seconds passed before she could see clearly 
again. It had been so long since any man had hit her 
in the face that she had forgotten how much it hurt.  

"That Welsh heretic has bewitched you," he hissed at 
her. "And he will pay. I am not some unwanted stepson 
now; I am a friend of the King. Fitz thinks he can 
become Father as Kingmaker; he cannot, of course, 
but it is amusing to see him failing. He is simple, 
this King Henry: lonely for friends and suggestible. 
I love you, and Father is not going to make that 
disapproving face and come between us. Nor will 
FitzWalter. I will deal with him, as well, if he 
interferes again."   

Think, think, think! Help was not coming and there 
was nowhere to run.  William had left his sword on 
the table, knowing he would not be allowed to bring 
it into The Tower. She grabbed it from the scabbard, 
holding the sword in front of her with both hands as 
she turned back to face Edward. 

"Silly girl. Put that down before you hurt 
yourself." His mood shifted again as though it were 
made of mercury: his thoughts splattering, shifting, 
and re-forming instantly. "You look foolish. That 
sword is bigger than you are and I can take it away 
from you before you can blink." 

"Yes, you can. You can force me, but you must sleep 
sometime. My husband tells me it is possible to cut a 
man's throat while he sleeps; the man will never wake 
as he bleeds to death. It is a Welsh trick: to sneak 
into the enemy camp at night and start slitting 
throats. Is that so, Edward? I think it is; my 
husband has killed enough men to know. Are you so 
certain of my love for you? William will return any 
minute. Perhaps we should tell the general of the 
Welsh army how you have 'loved' his wife and let him 
decide what to do, as he did with Alex." 

He took another step toward her and she raise the 
sword slightly, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. 

"That Welsh bastard has bewitched you, but he cannot 
keep you from me for long. Accidents happen in battle:
tragic mistakes that will leave you a widow. 
If not, there was a doctor a few months past that 
told me the most interesting stories of this William 
of Aber. Druids, Duana? Pagan ceremonies and 
changeling babies? That is heresy - witchcraft. How 
can I allow that? What would Father say about me for 
allowing that?" 

Her arms were beginning to tremble and ache now, and 
she shifted her grip in the hilt. 

"He would say the same thing he always did: nothing. 
He would try to right whatever you had done, Edward; 
to compensate whoever you had hurt. He would grit his 
teeth and square his shoulders and try to fix it 
because he promised your mother he would take care of 
you. When the mess was cleaned up and the door was 
closed, he would grieve that the boy he had raised as 
his own had no more honor than an animal."  

She stepped forward so the tip of the sword was 
inches from his neck, and Edward stepped back toward 
the door. She did not have to be strong or skilled 
with a sword; she only had to be quicker than he was and lucky. 

His minded twisted again, and he looked at her with 
cool hatred. "You were a plaything, Duana. You still 
are," he growled at her, putting his hand on the 
door. "A pretty little witch that charmed me and then 
charmed my family. You have done well for yourself, 
Countess - climbed quite high on your back - but you 
are still nothing but an Irish peasant." 

"Of course I am. Get out, Ed." 

"You will be sorry," he promised. You and that 
Welshman and Marshall FitzWalter and all of you who 
plot against me."

"Get out." 

By the grace of God, she managed to hold onto the 
sword until she heard his footsteps fading away down 
the hallway.  Then she simply dropped it, letting it 
clang to the floor, threw the bolt on the door to the 
hall, ran for the bedchamber, and bolted that sturdy 
door after her as well. 

*~*~*~* 

Pembroke Castle was an outpost in the hostile land of 
southern Wales. Murder or kidnapping or siege was 
always a danger, so there were guards outside her and 
Walter's bedchambers day and night. There were 
knights at both entrances to the great hall, and at 
the inner and outer castle gates. Guards patrolled at 
night and kept watch from the towers. He had more 
than two-hundred knights in his household, plus the 
men who were pledged to his vassals. Walter could 
summon an army of ten thousand by nodding his head, 
and pay twenty-thousand mercenaries at the stoke of a 
quill. She rode with Walter sometimes to observe his 
armies training: legions of men, drilling, jousting, 
making siege equipment, readying for war. After the 
Pope and the King of England, he was the most 
powerful man in the empire - and it was debatable 
that he was actual more powerful than King John. 

Duana had felt safe for so long that she had 
forgotten she was not. 

Walter's horse was named Louis, after the old French 
King, and Walter said the big chestnut gelding had 
the same plodding, placid, predictable temperament 
and was therefore easy for him to ride, but she was 
not to repeat that. The New Years past, he had given 
her a gray mare so pretty that Duana had named her 
Eleanor. Walter had teased her that beautiful, hot- 
tempered Queen Eleanor had given King Louis of France 
only daughters, then she divorced him to marry Henry 
Plantagenet and become the Queen of England. Duana 
had teased him back that he and Louis had better mind 
their manners, then. Walter had the last word, 
telling her the royal marriage had been stormy, with 
Queen Eleanor once declaring war against her own 
husband, King Henry. She almost won, according to 
Walter, who had been there. King Henry had Eleanor 
imprisoned in a remote castle for decades, until 
Henry II finally died and her favorite son, King 
Richard, assumed the throne of England. 

'So perhaps pretty Eleanor would have been better off 
just tolerating boring King Louis and remaining Queen 
of France,' Walter had finished, grinning at her. 

She had cared for him; she did not doubt it. Walter, 
in turn, had done everything he could to keep her 
safe and make her happy. 

It was pretty Eleanor the Mare who was nursing a sore 
foot, holding it up plaintively to show everyone her 
discomfort. The groom had assured her the horse would 
be fine in a week, but Duana had gone to the stables 
to check on her after supper. She brought an apple 
for Eleanor and one for Louis, who, true to his name, 
did not seem to take much pleasure in eating it, but 
did so predictably. Eleanor gobbled her apple up 
immediately, then nudged Duana with her nose, 
impatiently wanting more. 

"Silly girl," Duana told her, laughing and patting 
her velvety neck. "There are more in the cellar. Do 
not go to war."

She thought she heard footsteps in the stable. She 
turned, expecting to see one of the grooms or even 
Fitz returning, but there was no one. It was late, 
and most of the men were at their own hearths. Which 
was where she should be, as well. 

She gave the sweet mare a final pat, then made her 
way toward the entrance of the stable, both hands 
trying to keep her skirt clear of the floor. 

Before she knew what was happening, there was a hand 
covering her mouth and an arm around her waist, 
pulling her back into an empty stall. The man pushed 
her hard against the trough, bending her forward a 
little and pressing against her. 

"Mother," he whispered in her ear, his breath 
smelling of ale. "Welcome me home."

She tried to scream for help, but she could barely 
breathe. She kicked the side of the stall instead, 
trying to alert one of the grooms. 

Walter had sent Edward on crusade, wanting him as far 
away from her and England as possible. The young man 
was unpredictable, deciding women he did not even 
know were in love with him. It could be a kitchen 
maid, it could be another man's wife - it did not 
matter. Edward started to believe the poor woman was 
in love with him, despite what she claimed, and 
everyone was plotting to keep her from him. And so, 
sooner or later, he started to hate each of the 
women, and then he was dangerous. 

"You are not happy to see me?" Edward hissed at her. 
"It has been a long time."

Duana struggled, but he was too strong. She could 
feel his hips pressing against hers, and her 
struggling was only arousing him. He started to 
gather up her skirt, but with one hand covering her 
mouth and the other trying to keep her still, he had 
difficulty. 

She twisted and fought, knowing she did not have to 
win,  only delay him. Sooner or later, someone would 
come to the stables, and even if it was another 
woman, the woman could still go for help. She kicked 
the board again hard, but then realized anyone who 
heard would assume it was one of the knight's 
stallions kicking irritably and not bother to 
investigate. 

"I bet you do not give Father and Fitz this much 
trouble, little countess," he told her. "Come: give 
a crusader a nice welcome home ride."

He had her skirt and chemise up, and had to adjust 
his grip to push his tunic aside and unlace his 
breeches. As he did, she twisted her face and bit his 
hand hard, causing Edward to jerk away and curse. 

"Stupid slut!" he yelled at her, and hit her face 
hard with his fist.  

She fell backward, striking her head against 
something and falling to the straw, momentarily limp. 
Dazed, she felt Edward on top of her, pushing up her 
skirt again and ripping open the front of her dress. 
She tried to fight back and get away, but he covered 
her mouth with his hand again. There was blood in her 
mouth and she started to choke, then to panic. 

As suddenly as Edward had grabbed her, he was gone, 
his hand off her mouth and his weight off her body. 
Duana coughed, spewing blood everywhere, then tried 
to catch her breath as she struggled to get up. 

She heard blows landing, and a body smacking hard 
into a wooden wall. Fitz's voice yelled for his men, 
and heavy footsteps came running. The horses were 
calling to each other in alarm, and there was more 
yelling - some from Edward, and some from FitzWalter. 

When she could see again, she found Fitz a few feet 
from her, watching her anxiously. "It is all right,"
he promised her in French. She was curled up in the 
corner of the stall, and she could smell the sweet 
straw, the oiled leather, and the horses. "Jesus," he 
muttered, talking to himself rather than her. "My men 
have Edward. There is no one else here." He gestured 
with his hand. "Come here, Duana."

Dazed but relieved, she tried to stand, but got dizzy 
and fell to her knees again. 

Fitz moved slowly toward her, taking off his cloak 
and wrapping it around her. She had not realized her 
dress was open to the waist, baring her breasts. Once 
she was covered, he looked around again. Not finding 
what he wanted, he shucked off his shirt and used it 
to carefully wipe the blood from her face. 

"If Father does not have him killed, I will," he 
promised. "Jesus," he said again. "No one saw him ride 
in? Or did some fool guard just let him pass?" he 
asked, again talking more to himself. "You can buy a 
woman with a handful of coins. There is no reason for 
this. He is just a crazy brute."

She just stared at him numbly, her face and the back 
of her head throbbing. FitzWalter's horse ambled out 
of the stable, still saddled, his reins dragging the 
ground. He must have just ridden in. There was a girl 
in the next village that Fitz had been spending his 
evenings with, and he wanted to bring her to the 
castle to live. But he was barely nineteen, and 
Walter would not allow it. There had been several 
arguments about it, but, as always, Walter had 
prevailed. 

"I am sorry," he had apologized, as though it was his 
fault. Fitz looked at her face again and hesitated. 
"I am going to pick you up - carry you inside to 
Father. I will not hurt you."

She nodded, and he gathered her up, lifting her 
easily. 

It was a long walk from the stables to the castle, 
but thinking back, either Fitz or Walter had given 
the order to clear a path, and not a soul had seen 
him carrying her in. She heard Walter's voice inside 
calling urgently for her and Fitz. 

The next thing she remembered, she was laying on a 
sofa in Walter's apartment, her head and face aching. 
Her ruined dress was gone, and she wore a new 
chemise; a warm blanket covered her. She must have 
been unconscious for some time. As soon as she opened 
her eyes, Duana started to tremble, and felt a man's 
hand on her back, comforting her, assuring her she 
was safe. 

"I was there. I saw. I am bearing witness," Fitz's 
voice insisted. He was pacing on front of the 
fireplace angrily, shirtless, but now wearing a robe 
in addition to his breeches and boots. 

"You cannot bear witness in a court of law," Walter's 
voice said, and she realized her head was on a pillow 
on his lap. "You have not reached the age of 
majority, and, anyway, I will not have her shamed in 
public. This is a private matter."

Walter took her hand, interlacing their fingers and 
comforting her. 

"If it is private, then let me kill him. Tonight. 
Name one soul who will grieve Edward," Fitz demanded. 
"Enough of this. You always protect him, make excuses 
for him, but he is just insane. Possessed. He has 
embarrassed our family too many times to count, and 
he will never stop."

"You will not harm him, son," Walter ordered. 

"How can it be right to let him go free?" Fitz 
demanded. 

"I did not say it was right; I said it was the law."

"You did not see what he did to her," Fitz insisted. 
"I want him dead."

"Do you think I do not want him dead at this moment, 
as well? "Walter asked softly, still stroking her 
back with his hand. "I cannot set aside the King's 
law as I please, son."

Neither man was asking what she wanted, she realized. 

"I will banish him," Walter decided. "I cannot risk 
him hurting her again."

"You have sent him away before. Even if he never 
returns, Ed will harm other women in other lands. 
Probably, he already has. He deserves to die. Duana 
did nothing to entice him; I would swear my life on 
it."

"As would I," she heard her husband say softly. "Are 
you awake, little countess?"

She nodded slightly, her head throbbing. 

"Are you not her lord and protector, Father?" Fitz 
demanded. "She is your wife. If this was my woman 
that he had touched, we would not be discussing what 
to do - Edward would already be dead. You are Walter 
Marshall. Where is your rage?"

"My rage will wait. Ed will wait. Right now, my 
concern is my wife. Soften your voice, son," Walter 
told him. "A frightened woman does not know if you 
are yelling at her, only that you are yelling."

Fitz came forward, squatting down and looking at her 
from a few feet away. He shook his head angrily, but 
complied with his father's request. "You are wrong, 
Father. Letting Edward live is a mistake," he said 
softly. "I do not care if it is lawful; it is a 
mistake. He is not a man; he is an animal, and the 
laws intended for men do not apply to animals." 

"He is my son. Perhaps not my blood, but he is as 
much my son as you are," Walter had responded 
quietly. "I could not order your death, either." 

Fitz shook his head again, then stood. "He is not 
your son. I am your only son. I am your blood and 
your heir. Yet you ignore my counsel, deny what I 
saw, endanger Duana - all for the sake of a madman. I 
could order his death," Fitz threatened in a low voice.
"And I will. You can protect him now, but not 
forever, Father." 

"That can be said of many things," her husband had 
responded. "For now, I am still the Count of 
Pembroke, Duana is still my wife, and you will not 
harm your brother." 

"Sometimes, there is the law, then there is what is 
right," he tried one last time. 

"No, FitzWalter, there is the law," her husband's 
voice said with finality. "When it is your son, you 
will understand. And this conversation has ended." 

Fitz did not respond, but Duana heard him exhale 
angrily, and then quick footsteps as he left the room. 

"Noble Fitz," Walter said to himself thoughtfully, 
long after his son had gone. 

Walter's hand continued to rub her back softly, and 
he said nothing else of either man. Servants brought 
cool cloths for her face, soup, and brandywine. Duana 
quaked inside and ached outside. He had a dozen of 
his knights dress in chain-mail and battle armor, and 
flank the bed chamber door, showing her no one would 
get past, but it did no good. 

Each time Duana tried to sleep, she woke unable to 
breathe. Long after midnight, Walter had the maids 
bring a bathtub and bucket after bucket of hot water, 
and watched silently, taking note of the bruises, as 
she washed and washed. So many candles burned in his 
bedchamber that it was a bright as day, with no room 
for anyone to hide in the shadows. Afterward, he had 
a chair placed beside the bed and sat there, beside 
her, on guard, as she watched the darkness and did 
not sleep. 

"Do not let him return," was the only thing she said 
to him all night. 

Walter had nodded that he would not let Edward 
return, and offered her more brandywine. He was still 
watching her, and behind his eyes was the cold rage 
that Fitz thought he did not feel.  

In the hour before dawn, she closed her eyes, more 
drunk on brandywine and exhaustion than willing to 
sleep. She could feel her husband's eyes on her, and 
his hand covering hers. 

Duana heard Walter summon a knight and tell him 
softly in French, "Find him. When you do: do it 
quickly, painlessly."

Walter never knew that she had overheard, and Duana 
had known it was not Fitz he was ordering the men to 
find and kill. She had always assumed the knights had 
found Edward, despite his head start. Apparently, 
they had not, and Walter had not ordered them to keep 
searching. 

Walter said he and Fitz had spoken again the next 
morning, and Fitz had decided to supervise his lands 
in Normandy for a time. From there, word came that 
Fitz was going to Languedoc, taking his men and 
joining the Pope's holy war against the Cathars: a 
heretical sect. Edward had never returned to 
Pembrokeshire, but neither had his body. Duana's head 
had stopped hurting, the bruises had faded, the 
nightmares had stopped, and life had gone on. Even 
pretty Eleanor the Mare's foot had healed, so well 
that Duana had ridden her from the King's court, 
through the snowy mountains, and to Northern Wales 
years later. 

She had been seventeen that night when Edward had 
returned, and it had been years before they had seen 
Fitz again. Even then, he visited Pembrokeshire only 
briefly before returning to war in France or the Holy 
Land. So FitzWalter had not been in England or Wales 
when King John had summoned her to London Court, or 
come to arrest Walter, or ordered Walter's death. Or 
married her to William. Noble Fitz had been a 
thousand miles away, fighting who he thought was the 
enemy. 

*~*~*~* 

"Would she truly lock you out?" Llewelyn asked as 
Gwilym banged on the barred door again. It was late, 
and he was sure Duana was tired, but both men were 
accustomed to having doors opened for them with a 
polite bow, not having to pound on them and beg to be 
let in. Servants and the Court guards were beginning 
to raise their eyebrows at the ruckus he was causing, 
and Llewelyn folded his arms disapprovingly.  

"No, she would not. Do you have any idea why this 
door is barred?" Gwilym asked the Welsh guard, who 
nodded 'no,' looking miserable. "Are you ill? You are 
green. Where is the other guard?" 

"Something we ate," the man mumbled, leaning against 
the wall instead of standing at attention, which was 
not a wise thing to do in front of Llewelyn or 
Gwilym. "He went to get someone else to guard Lady 
Duana. My Lord, I think I may have passed out at some 
point; I am sorry.  I have been vomiting out the 
window and I have not left for a second, but I do not 
remember all of this evening." 

"Maybe she is sick as well, Gwil," Llewelyn said. "I 
will see about an ax." 

Gwilym pounded on the door one last time, and heard 
footsteps inside. "That is her. Wait.  Duana?" he 
said hesitantly, as she opened the door wearing only 
her chemise, her cheek red and her hair loose and 
wildly tousled. Out of decency, Prince Llewelyn and 
the guard found something else to look at. "Are you 
all right?" 

"I was sleeping," she murmured. "I am sorry." 

"I will send new guards for tonight, Gwilym," 
Llewelyn said, turning to leave. "And I will see you 
at Westminster in the morning. Do not be late." 

"Are you really all right?" he asked, slipping into 
the dark sitting room and noting she bolted the door 
behind him. "What happened to your face?"  There was 
an ugly red mark beginning to turn purple on her left 
cheekbone. 

"I- I fell. Against the table. And I knocked your 
sword to the floor. I am sorry." 

He glanced at the sword lying on the stones. "It 
looks to be in one piece, but I am not sure about 
you. Look up at me; how hard did you fall?"  Gwilym 
tilted her face toward the torches on the wall so he 
could see the mark. "Hard, it seems. I do not like 
that you have been sleepy after you hit your head; 
that is not good.  Did you faint? The guards ate 
something that made them ill. Have you been 
nauseated?"   

"I am just too tired, William." 

"Well, I wonder why. I have dragged you across Wales 
and England and then scared you half to death over 
some silly summons. And there is that baby you just 
had. Come lie down. Rest." 

"If Llewelyn's knights are ill, I should see if I can 
help them," she protested, though she did not sound 
very convincing. 

"They can vomit without your help. Back to bed."    

She let him lead her to the bedchamber, turn down the 
covers, and pull her chemise over her head, looking 
to see if there were any other marks on her.  She 
stumbled against him, jumping back and almost falling 
when her warm skin made contact with his cold chain- 
link armor. 

Gwilym caught her and guided her onto bed, pulling 
the blankets up to her chin.  "I am getting a 
doctor," he decided worriedly. 

"No!" she said so urgently he flinched. Then in a 
smaller voice, "Stay with me. Stay with me and tell 
me of Prince Llewelyn's son. Did you see him?" 

He sat down on the mattress beside her, watching her 
suspiciously. "You promise me you are fine? Really 
fine - not your usual vague 'fine'?" 

She nodded, reaching up to stroke his face. "I am 
better now that you are here. Seeing everyone again, 
being at Court again - I want to talk about something 
else.  Rinse off while you tell me of Gruffydd." 

Gwilym eyed her for a few more seconds, and then 
stood up, beginning the laborious process of taking 
off his layers of armor and clothing. "We saw him. 
Your Fitz let us walk right into The Tower, and 
Llewelyn brought him some new clothes and books and a 
few other things. Gruffydd is not good, cariad. He is 
thin and pale, but something is different about him,  
like he is hollow inside. Broken, as Llewelyn says. I 
think he has been beaten one too many times or caged 
too long. His death warrant was signed before Eimile 
was born, so he has lived each day since then waiting 
to die, and that is too much for a boy to bear. 
Llewelyn - he is upset. This, by Norman standards, is 
his only vaguely legitimate son, and even if King 
Henry relents and lets him out one day, I do not 
think Gruffydd will ever be able to rule Wales." 

"Come here. I will untie you," Duana offered, sitting 
up.   

Gwilym had abandoned any pretense about his right 
hand being as dexterous as it once was, so he went to 
the side of the bed to let her unfastened his 
breastplate, belt, then the drawstrings on his 
breeches and braies. He could manage it, but she 
could do it quicker. She finished, kissing his 
stomach before she lay back down. 

He touched her face again, looking at the bruise, but 
said nothing. She could not possibly be with child again,
and she did not seem ill. He did not like that 
she was so tired and weak that she had fainted, 
though. Damn FitzWalter for making him drag her 
across the Welsh mountains in winter when she could 
be recuperating in Aber with their children right now. 

"What will he do?" she asked. "Prince Llewelyn? What 
of the son you want Eimile to marry?" 

"Rhys came after Llewel married Joanna; Gruffydd came 
years before. Both are Tang's sons, but Normans hear 
'mistress' and think 'bastard,' 'hearth wife' and 
think 'legitimate.' Wales is too Norman now to be 
ruled by a bastard. Rhys is a kind, thoughtful, 
affable boy - I think he will be a good lord and 
father and husband, but not a prince. Not in Wales, 
and I have told Llewelyn as much. Even if Rhys had 
the temperament, he is a second son; no one has ever 
taught him how to rule. He is ten now, perhaps too 
old to go back and learn statecraft. I do not know 
what Llewelyn will do. What would your Count of 
Pembroke say, cariad?  Could he have taught a gentle 
boy of ten to be a warrior-prince, because I am not 
sure I can." 

He tested the round tub of water that had appeared in 
the bedchamber and found it still tepid, so Gwilym 
stepped in and began to scrub off a week's worth of 
grime. 

"His name was Walter, William. You can call him 
Walter." 

"What did you call him?" he asked, picking up the 
soap and doubting she would answer.   

She was quiet for a moment. "For the longest time, I 
called him 'Sir'. I was fourteen-years-old and so 
frightened I kept forgetting his titles.  That was 
one of the few words I knew in French: monsieur. 
After I had been in Pembrokeshire for a month, he 
told me it seemed pretentious to call him 'The Count 
Pembroke and Striguil, Lord of Leister' when he was 
laying in bed and I was changing his bandages. He 
said that when he could walk again, I could call him 
that, but until then, I should find another name for 
him.  That if I would bring him parchment, ink, and a 
quill, he would show me how to write down and read 
his name so I could remember it."

Gwilym had been so caught up in her story that he 
forgot not only to wash, but momentarily what his 
first question had been.   

"Yes, he would have said ten was too old, William. 
He believed kings are ordained by God, but honed by 
man, and a ten-year-old will never think like a king. 
That was the problem with King John, he said, but do 
not repeat that. Henry Plantagenet had expected one 
of his older sons to rule, so John, years younger, 
was spoiled and forgotten. Then, with his older sons 
dead without heirs, that left only John Lackland. How 
could my husband suddenly teach a grown man to be a 
king?  King John understood how to wield power, but 
never the responsibility that came with it." 
 
"Christ, you do pay attention, Duana." 
  
"I have had a few brilliant men to listen to," she 
responded, nestling down among the pillows as she 
watched him bathing. "Tell me of Fitz, William." 

"What of Fitz, cariad? Aside from his adoration of 
you?" 

"Yes, aside from that. It was hard for me to judge 
while he was staring at me like a forlorn puppy and 
you were boasting and wrapping yourself around me 
like a second skin. What kind of man has he grown to 
be?" 

He considered as he rinsed off, then answered, "A 
good man. Honorable. Bright. Lonely, perhaps. He was 
tolerant, even friendly to Llewelyn and me, which is 
more than many Normans would have been. He has a 
great deal of power and responsibility, yet he has 
had little time to grow into it. He is trying to do 
what he believes is right, though. He is quite noble, 
and he does not yet realize the world is not always a 
noble place. I would say his father - your Walter - 
was a great man, and that Fitz is trying too hard to 
be his father instead of himself." 

"I would say the same. I just wondered what you 
thought." 

"Well, now that we agree on that, do you want to try 
again to name our son?" he asked, standing up and 
drying off. 
   
"He has a name. Your name." 

"Which I am still using.  A given name, like Leuan 
calls me 'Llwynog.'  I was not christened Llwynog; 
that is just what everyone thought I should be 
called.  By the time I was seven I had forgiven them 
and by the time I was eleven, I had learned not to 
answer to 'Fox'. Mab cannot be Llwynog and he cannot 
be some name I cannot say: no j or ch sounds.  And, 
until I get used to the idea that you had a life 
before we married, please do not call him Walter. 
Aside from that, just pick." 

"Another night," she said as he blew out the candles, 
snuffed the torches, and slid under the wool blankets 
of the elaborate bed. 
 
"Are you sure you are all right?  Look at me again. 
Something seems- I do not know... Is something 
bothering you? Something besides what I already know 
of?" 

She turned so they were laying face to face, though 
he could not see her clearly in the darkness. "Not 
yet, William. I will tell you, but not yet. Being 
here is not easy for me." 

"I know that. Are these the same rooms, cariad?" 

"No, she whispered, and traced a cool finger down 
his bare chest. "I do not want to think about that 
right now." She kissed him softly on the lips, 
offering. "I do love you. You do make me happy. Do 
not doubt it." 

"I do not doubt it," he assured her. 

He hesitated, wanting to tell her he loved her as 
well. Seconds passed without his mouth moving though, 
and then the moment passed with it. So Gwilym just 
exhaled kissed her back, showing her rather than 
telling. 

"Yes?" he checked, putting his arms around her. 

"Yes," she whispered back. "Like this? So I can see 
you?"

"All right," he agreed. 

He kept finding and picking up jasper stones and 
Duana kept finding and throwing them out, wanting to 
know why he had taken to collecting rocks. Gwilym had 
told her they were dragon droppings, which proved to 
be a mistake: now she was horrified when she found 
one under her pillow. Regardless, he did not have any 
jasper now and there did not seem to be any way to 
save face. 

Thinking quickly, he requested, "Duana, I want you to 
do something for me."  

She shifted closer, pressing against him, and nodded.  

"I told FitzWalter the truth: I want to have another 
son to try to name. What can I do to help ensure that 
happens?"    

"So soon?" she asked before she thought. 

"It is soon, I know, but yes," he bluffed. "Tell me." 

"Babies seem to be conceived a little more than a 
week after a woman's flux comes. Since I have stopped 
nursing, that will help as well." 

He kissed her, careful of her sore face. 

"Your flux just passed, so you could not conceive a 
son tonight? Next week, perhaps, but not tonight?" 
It was easy to adjust his strategy, then: lay with 
her when she could not conceive, and then, if he 
could not resist, pull out without her knowing when 
she could. By the time she figured out what was 
happening, enough months would have passed that it 
would be reasonable to have another child. Now Duana 
was going to fret about becoming pregnant again, but 
he could not think of a better option. She would just 
have to fret. He was the husband, and it was his sin. 
He wanted more children, but not so soon, and not so 
much as he wanted his wife alive to care for them. 

"Tonight is not a good night?" he made sure.

"No. I am sorry. You do not want me, then?" 

He sighed, trying to sound disappointed. "Well, I 
suppose I could. It seems like wasted effort, though."

She trailed her fingertips down his throat and across 
his shoulder, touching him as if he was precious. 
"Perhaps you could let me put forth some effort."

He pursed his lips appreciatively. He had not been 
truly inside her since the baby came. That was a fine 
idea: let her be atop, go slow, be in control. Her 
pleasure was almost assured, and he did not have to 
worry about hurting her. He could just sit back and 
watch her, touch her, and enjoy. Such a brilliant 
woman. 

Something still seemed amiss, though. Off-kilter, 
out-of-joint. 

He touched her bruised cheek carefully, then cupped 
her face with his palm.  

"I want to be with you tonight," she whispered in the 
darkness. "Only you. Stay with me."

"All right," he conceded. "Just for you, I will make 
this sacrifice." 

He was being sarcastic, but she seemed grateful as 
she said, "Thank you," softly. 
   
*~*~*~*