*~*~*~*

"I will not have my wife dread me touching her. She 
says God created pleasure for man, and then man, not 
God, decided it was a sin. I agree. I agree with many 
things she says. Nor will I tell her to stop 
thinking. I will not beat and chastise her until 
there are no ideas in her head that I did not put 
there. I refuse to believe God would give people the 
ability to think and reason, and then expect them not 
to do it," Gwilym said, as he knelt beside Leuan in 
the chapel, shoulders slumped and head hanging 
miserably. "Truly, Leuan, there was no evil or 
witchcraft. I have watched the child grow inside her 
and it is of man. One man: me. We did nothing 
against God's word, only the Church's."  

"The word of the Church and the King is the word 
of God," Leuan said forcefully, as though he might 
convince Gwilym this time. "You must learn not to 
question that."

"Kings are men. Priests and popes and Templars are 
only men. Good men, often, but still men. I do not 
question God, but I feel free to question men.  I 
have been in eight different churches in the Holy 
Land that each claimed to house Christ's true cross. 
Now, I have never seen a man crucified, but I doubt 
it takes more than one cross. At least seven of those 
priests are wrong."    

Leuan crossed himself. "That is blasphemy." 

"No, questioning God is blasphemy; questioning the 
Church is heresy. At least damn me for the correct 
crime." 

They had been having this debate since Gwilym was 
fifteen or so, and Leuan had yet to win. Even the 
Knights Templar had not managed to convince Gwilym to 
follow their cause blindly, and he probably spent 
more time doing penance than crusading when he rode 
with them. The best the priest could ever do was 
persuade Gwilym not to stand up at Court, announce 
his beliefs, and get his neck stretched. 

"I can only say this, Gwilym: the world is changing, 
and so the men who rule Wales must change with it. 
The Normans are not like the Romans; they do not 
tolerate the old faiths. For the sake of Wales, 
you must be Christian. That is what your father 
wanted and so what I have taught you." He paused, 
choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps you were 
not the only Christian man among the Beltane 
fires. For you, though, it is not enough to take
your wife among the pagans; you are unwise enough
to admit it to an outsider."


Gwilym glanced at Leuan out of the corner of his eye 
and wondered momentarily if had the priest and the 
blonde Manx woman been one of the couples handfasted 
among the bonfires? Leuan was a Christian, but so 
were many couples; it was just the old way of 
marriage. 

Leuan tried so hard to embrace the Church's 
teachings, but he was only mortal, though he liked to 
deny it these days. Unlike a secular knight who could 
marry when his term of service had passed, there was 
no way for a Templar or Catholic priest to ever take 
a wife in the Church. Leaving the church meant 
excommunication, and when the Pope reigned over the 
known world, there was no place to leave to.  

Gwilym had noticed Father Leuan watching the woman 
during mass at mid-summer, and thought she might be 
watching him in return, but she did not come to 
Leuan's chamber in Aber Castle, nor he did not visit 
her in the village, to Gwilym's knowing - and he did 
own the village. Leuan did not carry her basket at 
market day, nor walk her home, nor linger at her 
door. Merfyn was keeping close tabs, as well, eager 
to have some sin to tease Leuan about; Merfyn's 
taunts were still focused on Leuan's unrequited love, 
with no mention of any late night requitting. Unless 
they could turn invisible, they were not meeting. 
Regardless, the Manx woman was no longer staying with 
the candle-maker's widow in the village; she had been 
given leave to return to her homeland. The love 
affair had ended, if it had ever existed at all 
outside of Leuan's mind. It was unlikely Leuan had 
ever touched her, Gwilym decided: the priest could 
not marry her and he would not shame her by taking 
her as his mistress. The correct thing to do was just 
to do nothing. 

Though it was contrary to everything he knew was 
right, Gwilym hoped the priest had secretly been with 
her, just once. 

"I understand you were curious about the Druids," 
Leuan continued, ignoring Gwilym's scrutiny. "They 
must have drugged or charmed you, so I cannot hold 
you accountable for those carnal sins. And my knees 
are aching now without your wife's tea: that is 
medicine. But in London, all of you would be dead. 
You would burn as a heretic, Lady Duana would hang 
as a witch, and your child would die with her. If you 
think your recklessness has cost you before, you 
cannot fathom what is at stake now. Now, you are the 
Lord of Gwynedd. If Prince Llewelyn falls, or fails to 
provide an heir, it will be you or your son who leads
Wales. Our ways, the old mysteries, hearth marriages,
handfastings, fairy folk: they are called illegitimacy
and witchcraft now. We respect the Old Ones and blend
them with the saeson Christian beliefs and live 
happily in our mountains, but that is not the Norman
way." 

"But I am not a Norman," Gwilym countered.

"You are a vassal of Prince Llewelyn who is a vassal 
of the Anglo-Norman boy-king. You and the other 
Welsh nobles are Normans-by-proxy, and each year 
England chips away a few more of our traditions. Only 
the peasants are still purely Welsh; the rest of us 
are the bastard children of the King's law." 

"I cannot be other than I am, Leuan. Lying is 
wrong, as well." 

"I respect you for that; you are true to your 
convictions even when you know there could be a 
price. I do not doubt that your faith in the 
Christian God is as strong as mine." The priest 
paused again, and his tone changed, darkened. "If
need be, would you die to protect Lady Duana and
the child that she carries?"

"You know that I would," he said immediately.

"Then that is what we need you to do: 'we' being
the people of Gwynedd and the country of Wales. 
Protect your child, protect the people you love, 
regardless of the cost. You are a man; put away
your childish impulses and notions. There are 
great mysteries, and it rests on your shoulders, 
Llwynog, to guard the pass between the old and 
the new."

Gwilym nodded, realizing it was no longer the 
MayDay bonfires or his blunder with the Norman
doctor that concerned Father Leuan. This was not 
a priest lecturing, but one man speaking to 
another. About what, specifically, he was not sure.

"I fear, one way or another, my time with you is
nearing its end," Leuan continued. "One day, I 
fear you will go to far with these odd ideas, open
your mouth to the wrong person, and I will not be
there to save you. You must have faith, Llwynog. 
You must know your heart and think before you act.
And, like the Druids, you must learn to keep your 
secrets secret."

Gwilym nodded again, still staring down at the alter.    

"Go to your wife," Leuan commanded.  "Comfort her. 
For this, you are accountable only to her and God, 
not to the Church." 

*~*~*~* 

Unless they were making love, people freely came and 
went from their bedchamber, and in the week since 
Duana had fallen, the quiet bustle continued at all 
hours.  Gwilym shifted closer to her, blending the 
angles of his body into hers, but did not really wake 
at the sound of the door opening.  Even having the 
bed curtains pulled back did not bother him  Gwen 
had become obsessive about checking on his wife, so 
he did not even open his eyes.   

Not until a drop of hot wax fell on his cheek did 
Gwilym jump, ordering the servant away even as he 
squinted to see who it was behind the single candle. 

"You sleep with your wife?  How very common. How 
Welsh. You must not do that. It is better for her to 
sleep alone, especially now." 

Gwilym's French was not good enough to catch every 
word the doctor had said, but he got the general 
sense.  And he wanted to know what the man was doing 
in their bedchamber in the middle of the night.    

"I came to check the girl," Donaes answered in his 
monotone voice, holding the candle close to her face 
as she slept.  "What lovely hair. It will be a pity 
to cut it." 

Gwilym sat up and stretched. This man still made his 
stomach nervous, but it spoke of great dedication to 
his patient to monitor her even at night.    

"Why cut her hair? It was cut last year when our 
daughter was born, and her fever has passed now." 

"I must have it," the doctor answered quickly.  "To  
to ward off the evil spells that have been placed on 
her and the child."    

Yawning, he stood and covered Duana, who reached out 
her hand, examining the place beside her where his 
body had just been. 

Gwilym had his doubts that the Druids had done 
anything except hold their rites and maybe added a 
few herbs to the wine, but he understood that hair 
must always be burned so it was not used for casting 
hexes. 

"Oh. Then you do not need to cut her hair. I-  I, 
um..."  He fumbled until he found the key to the lock 
on the chest and opened the creaky lid. "I did not 
keep it all, just some," he said sheepishly, 
searching for the pouch containing a few locks of her 
hair.  "I kept it safe." 

Donaes set his candle in a nook in the wall, his eyes 
fixated on the red curls as Gwilym wove them through 
his fingers, enjoying the silkiness one last time and 
remembering that first night Duana had come to Aber.   

"Are you all right?" Gwilym asked Donaes.  

"I am fine.  Please, may I have the hair?" 

Gwilym nodded, handing it over. "I am thankful that 
you could come, but I would like you to wait before 
you bleed her. My wife is no witch. She is slowly 
getting better, and bleeding is dangerous. I will pay 
you well if you will just stay in Aber with us in 
case she becomes ill again."  

Gwilym mentally repeated that to himself, making sure 
he had said what he intended, but Donaes simply 
replied, "Of course," and hurried away with Duana's 
hair. 

"You have a very strange doctor," he informed Duana 
as he climbed back into bed with her. 

"Mumm," she responded, putting his hand on her belly 
and snuggling against his shoulder. 

*~*~*~* 

"Look! Quick!" he called to Duana as they rounded the 
corner and entered the bedchamber. "Look who has 
finally decided to walk!" 

Duana had been dozing in a chair beside the fire, but 
she opened her eyes in time to see Eimile take two 
steps in a row before falling on her backside. 
Gwilym helped the little girl get up, laughing at 
her determined expression as she got her balance and 
tried again. 

Eimile managed to stay upright for several seconds 
once she reached her mother, then began to flap her 
arms and babble in excitement, collapsed onto the 
floor, and howled in frustration. 'Dehdeh' came to 
the rescue, settling her against her mother's chest 
before flopping on the fur rug in front of the hearth. 

"What a big girl," Duana cooed over her. "We were 
beginning to think you would crawl around with the 
dogs all your life." 

"Duhduh?"  Eimile asked, and the dogs hurried over, 
hoping there would be food. 'Dehdeh' was Gwilym and 
'duhduh' were the dogs, at least according to Gwilym. 
Duana had long insisted it was the same word and 
Eimile simply thought he was the biggest, noisiest of 
the pack.  Of course, 'muhmuh' was claimed by both 
Duana and Merfyn,  but not in the other's presence. 

"I think she learned to walk by holding onto their 
tails.  Really, we are raising a wolf-child," Gwilym 
commented from the floor. 

"I have barely seen her in the last two weeks," Duana 
said, rubbing noses with her daughter. "She could 
have grown a tail herself and I would not have known." 

Gwilym could have assured her that Eimile had been 
just fine, but he was trying to learn when to keep 
his mouth shut sometimes, and this seemed like one of 
those times. Instead, he got to his knees, peeked 
down the back of the baby's diaper, and announced, 
"No, no tail." 

"Dehdeh!" Eimile chastised him, wrinkling up her 
forehead. 

"Wolf-child!" he informed her, and she pursed her 
lips, glaring at him.  He was in the process of 
getting on his hands and knees to bark and howl at 
her when Duana's expression told him someone was 
behind him. 

"Donaes. Good day." And night and day and night and 
day - the doctor appeared in their bedchamber at all 
hours to 'check' on Duana, and Gwilym tired of this 
misplaced devotion. Perhaps it was the fashion in 
London for men to pursue married women, but it was 
not in Wales. "This is our daughter Eimile," he 
introduced. 

"Lady Duana should not be around that child," Donaes 
ordered. 

"Oh, she is fine," Duana said, leaning back as Eimile 
settled against her shoulder to cuddle and suck her 
own fist for a while. "I am feeling better now, thank 
you." 

"No!  She is getting you dirty.  Children are filthy 
creatures!"   

Gwilym stood up, not liking the man's tone at all. 
Eimile had some residual egg and crumbs on her face, 
but her nurse would clean that off soon enough, if 
the dogs did not beat her to it. 

He leaned out the doorway to call for Merfyn, then, 
keeping an eye on Donaes, went to his desk in the 
adjoining room.  Returning with a pouch of coins, 
Gwilym said tactfully, "We are grateful for your 
help, but I could not expect you to winter here.  My 
sergeant and guards will give you safe passage out of 
Wales before the blizzards start.  This-" he handed 
over the heavy bag of silver, "Should cover your 
trouble." 

"Your wife is not yet out of danger," Donaes insisted. 

Gwilym looked back at Duana, who shook her head 'no.' 
There had been no more bleeding or fever, and the 
cut at her hairline was healing cleanly. In fact, 
Donaes' suggested remedies seemed so ludicrous that 
Gwilym had finally asked Merfyn if he was sure he and 
his men had found a doctor and not a butcher.  Once 
she was awake, Duana did not want Donaes near her. 
Gwilym would have just thought that was hesitancy 
around strange men, but then had realized he did not 
want Donaes near him, either.  

"It is time for you to leave.  Merfyn-" he nodded to 
the sergeant in the doorway, "And his men will see 
you home.  Again, thank you for coming so quickly." 

Donaes lost all pretense of formality and simply 
glared at Gwilym. "The evil is still inside that 
girl," he growled. "It cannot be allowed to live." 

"Merfyn," Gwilym indicated, stepping back.  The two 
guards with the sergeant quickly flanked Donaes as 
Merfyn stepped in front of Duana.  "See him to the 
border of Wales. I would not want Donaes to become 
lost and wander in a circle back to Aber. I am known 
to hang Normans who touch even peasant women in Aber." 

Merfyn nodded, understanding the intent rather than 
the French words.  No one could say exactly what it 
was about the man, but Donaes' obsession with Lady 
Duana was just not... Not natural.    

Without another word, Donaes whirled and stalked out 
of the bedchamber with Merfyn and the guards at his 
heels.  Gwilym opened the shutters to watch them ride 
out of the bailey, and breathed a sigh of relief as 
the horses' hoof beats faded. 

Out of curiosity, once Duana and Eimile settled down 
together for an afternoon nap, Gwilym went to the 
room that had been assigned to Donaes to see what the 
doctor had done with the locks of hair he had thought 
were so important.  There was not a strand to be 
found.  Either Donaes had burned Duana's hair or 
taken it with him. 

*~*~*~* 

"Read to me what I have so far," Gwilym requested, 
sitting on the edge of the desk and drumming his 
fingers against the scarred wood. 

Duana pushed the inkwell safely out of the way - as 
though he would be careless enough to spill it twice 
in one morning - and read in French: 

"'Done by the hand of Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber, Lord 
of Gwynedd, this twenty-first day of December in the 
second year of the reign of King Henry.  Your most 
Royal Highness, by the grace of God King of England, 
Lord of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Duke of 
Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, 
greeting.' William, I am not sure the young King 
still holds Anjou and the Aquitaine, but that is what 
you said," she added. 

"Yes. Go on," he urged her. "What is next?" 

Duana picked up the quill again, stretching over her 
swollen belly to reach the parchment, and waiting to 
write whatever he dictated. 

"I know I have said more than that," he insisted. 
Gwilym had been composing this letter for what seemed 
like an eternity. "About this ridiculous idea that a 
vassal's service to his liege lord can carry over 
into the next year if it is not used.  That, just 
because my army did not serve forty days this year 
does not mean that Norman brat-king can call me to 
war eighty days next year or one-hundred and twenty 
the next. It is my duty to equip my men for forty 
days' service each year; after that, the Crown must 
pay us as mercenaries. The royal brat has no 
intention of reimbursing me for more than forty days, 
so I have no intention of serving them.  Did I not 
tell you to write that already?" 

"Yes, but that was not a good way to put it, so I did 
not mark it down," she replied, tapping the quill 
impatiently. 

Gwilym twisted to look at her, his mouth hanging 
open. "You did not mark it down?" 

She raised her eyes, looking puzzled, and then nodded. 

"You did not mark it down?  Have I been talking to 
myself? Perhaps you can write all my letters for me, 
if you are so wise?" 

"I do write all your letters for you, William, and I 
have for the past year," she replied, sounding 
irritable. "Please go find something else to do and 
let me finish this. I will leave it for you to read 
it before I seal it. And please do not call him the 
'brat-King' or the 'royal brat.' He is a little boy." 

"He is a little boy on a throne that can send me and 
my men to war to years at a time, promising payment, 
and then fail to keep his promise," he reminded her. 

Duana shifted in the chair, trying to find a 
comfortable position.  She said earlier that the baby 
had dropped, that she could breathe easier now, but 
seemed to make her back ache to carry it so low in 
her belly.  She was averaging three trips to the 
privy per hour, by Gwilym's estimation, although he 
did not know if that was in any way significant.   

"I can write, you know," he insisted, sounding like a 
petulant child.  "It is just clumsy.  I only have you 
do it because it is good for you to practice."   

To her credit, his wife nodded, as though that was 
actually the truth.  Gwilym could keep a grip on the 
quill for more than a few minutes at a time now, but 
Leuan had edited all his correspondence for decades. 
Gwilym's tactical skills did not extend off the 
battlefield; for some reason men became upset to 
receive letters that only spoke the truth. 

"Do you understand what I want to say: that a 
vassal's period of service is forty days each year, 
regardless of whether or not he was called to fight 
the previous year?  After forty days in one year, the 
brat- The boy-king must pay me if he wants my army. 
Days may not be saved up and then used all at once 
the way Gwen saves lard to make soap." 

"I will not mention lard to Henry, but yes, I 
understand.  But I cannot write with you chattering 
at me.  I promise this baby will not be born or 
vanish if you leave me alone for ten minutes. 
Really, I am fine." 

She stood up, pressing her hands into the small of 
her back as he hovered protectively.   

"See: that is the problem, cariad.  Are you fine the 
way you are usually 'fine', which is not fine at all, 
or really and truly fine?  I wish you would specify 
your 'fines.' Are you 'fine' for a woman who is going 
to have a baby by the New Year, or 'fine' for someone 
who should still be abed after she fell from her 
horse, or 'fine' in some other way that I am not 
familiar with?" 

Duana looked at him tiredly, crossing her arms across 
her swollen breasts.  "If you strike me, there is a 
fee, a fine, yes?" Gwilym nodded. Of course; hitting 
a woman for no reason was a barbarous Norman custom. 
"What is the penalty if a wife beats her husband 
senseless for driving her insane?" 

He was actually thinking it over; Gwilym had never 
been asked to judge something like that among his 
people - but when Duana opened her money purse and 
began to count out coins, he took the hint. 

*~*~*~* 

"Where is my horse?" Gwilym asked as a stable boy led 
Merfyn's gelding into the bailey, leaning into the 
frigid wind to keep his balance. "Where is Goliath?" 

The ten year-old boy blinked, surprised, as he 
brought the big chestnut to a stop in front of his 
lord, wisely keeping his fingers away from its mouth. 
"Lady Duana said you were to have this horse today." 

Further information did not seem to be forthcoming, 
so Gwilym turned and yelled, "Duana  Duana!" at 
corner of the castle.  After a moment, the shutters 
opened and his wife's pretty head peaked out from the 
narrow window of his office. "Cariad, where is 
Goliath? I want to ride down to the village." 

"Take Merfyn's horse," she instructed, squinting her 
eyes against the blowing sleet. "Your new cloak is 
ready if you want to wear it. That gray one you have 
on is ragged." 

"Where is my horse?" Gwilym called up to her, 
ignoring her fashion advice. 

"Goliath is at the smith's shed being shod;  your 
squire said he had a shoe loose this morning. 
Merfyn's bad hip is acting up today and he is 
resting, so he will not need his horse.  Leave 
Merfyn's horse at the blacksmith's to be shod as well 
and bring back Goliath.  Your squire is supposed to 
be with Goliath at the smith's, but he has probably 
wandered off by now.  Go to the tavern, untangle him 
from the cooper's youngest daughter, and tell him to 
wait with Merfyn's horse instead."     

"Oh," Gwilym answered. She seemed to have it all 
worked out. "Leave Merfyn's horse and bring back 
Goliath?" 

"I am sending down a decent cloak for you," Duana 
answered, starting to close the shutters, but then 
stopping to watch a small woman saying something 
urgently to the guards, trying to convince them to 
let her pass. 

"Caithrin inghean Uilliam ui Scully," the woman 
informed the old sentry at the gate, who nodded, 
trying to figure out what to make of her colorful 
dress and desperate Irish Gaelic pleadings.  She was 
not a beggar or a serf, but not a noble, either. 
"Inion  Duana?  Uilliam ui Aber ui Gwynedd?" 

"I am Uilliam - Gwilym of Aber," he said, pulling 
Merfyn's uncooperative horse behind him.  Then, to 
the sentry, "Show her to the kitchens before she 
freezes.  Gwen will feed her, whoever she is. She is 
probably lost."    

"Uilliam?  Aber?" the woman asked again. "Caithrin 
inghean Mairghread ui Scully.  Mathir ui Duana 
inghean Uilliam ui Scully.  Inion  Duana!" 

As though he was supposed to make any sense of that 
rapid jumble. "Duana!" Gwilym bellowed across the 
bailey as the Irish woman attacked him with questions 
like a crusader that finally catches sight of the 
Holy Land.

"I do not understand.  No, I do not understand," he 
told her repeatedly  in Welsh, in French, in Manx 
Gaelic, in English, and in desperation, even in 
Latin. "Duana is coming; she will understand." 

"Duana?" she asked, eyes lighting up. "Duana inghean 
Uilliam ui Scully?" she said slowly. 

Ah - Duana, daughter of William of the Scully clan. 
"Duana of Aber," he responded slowly. "I am William 
of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. Lady Duana is my wife, not 
my daughter." 

"Duana?" 

"Yes  Duana," he replied, getting frustrated. It was 
not such a difficult concept: that a man of almost 
forty could be married to a pretty woman of six and 
twenty. It was quite common, in fact. Preferable, 
even. "Wife. Not daughter."  He gestured to Duana 
waddling across the frozen cobblestones as quickly as 
her pregnant belly allowed. "Duana." 

The dark-haired woman clasped her hands on either 
side of Gwilym's face and, pulling him down to her, 
kissed him full on the lips before hurrying past him. 

"Was that an Irish custom?  A man could get used to 
that," the wizened sentry commented as Gwilym wiped 
his mouth in his sleeve, trying to recover his poise.   

"I supposed she liked me," he replied, as excited 
female voices babbled behind him in the lilting, 
melodic tongue of Eire, as though they made love to 
each word rather than just pronounced it.   

"Thank you so much, William," Duana called to him, 
embracing the older woman.  "What a wonderful New 
Year's gift!" 

Gwilym smiled and shrugged sheepishly, having 
absolutely no idea what this was about, but willing 
to take credit if it was a good thing. 

"My Lord  I have returned," a red-haired man 
announced breathlessly, his words hanging in white 
vapor in front of his flushed face. "We are here."   

"I see that," Gwilym replied as Duana and the woman 
disappeared inside the castle, arm in arm, leaving 
him forgotten at the gate. Then, looking down to see 
who was speaking, "Which part of the 'we' are you?" 

"Pyn. Your seneschal.  You sent me to bring Lady 
Duana's mother.  I am sorry; Caithrin went off and 
left me in the village. I saw your horse alone at the 
smith's and thought I should bring him back, but 
Caithrin did not wait as I told her." 

Oh. Most of his memories of the week after Duana fell 
were of blood drying on his hands and the frightening 
silence of the early morning darkness as he prayed 
she would keep breathing, but he had sent someone for 
her mother at one point. 

The guard leaned on his spear, taking all this in 
with great amusement.  So far today, the only 
excitement had been a mediocre dog fight and Father 
Leuan cursing when he slipped on the ice; guard duty 
in winter was a frigid, boring affair.  Seeing Lord 
Gwilym kissed by a strange Irish woman who turned out 
to be Lady Duana's mother: this was the highlight of 
the old man's week.  
  
"Well, um - well done, Pyn.  You are my what?" Gwilym 
asked. 

"Sene-sa-chal," he pronounced slowly, struggling with 
the French word. "Seneschal  like a steward.  I am 
to oversee the castle for you: the household 
accounts, the kitchens, the stables. I know French 
and Irish and Manx Gaelic, and a little Latin. I can 
read and even write, some.  Well, I have seen writing 
done and it does not look so hard." 

"Who decided this?" 

"Lady Duana, of course." 

"Of course," Gwilym replied, putting his boot in the 
stirrup and then quickly swinging into the saddle 
before the animal could bolt.  Merfyn claimed his 
horse had 'spirit,' but Gwilym thought of it more as 
a vendetta against all humans for gelding him. 

Pyn - apparently another of his wife's admirers -
hurried into the castle after Duana and her mother, 
probably fearful Duana would sneeze and he would not 
be there to bless her.    

Keeping the reins tight, Gwilym leaned down to the 
sentry, who had been married to the same woman for 
twenty years and would understand. "I am going to 
take Merfyn's ill-mannered nag to the blacksmith and 
get my own horse," Gwilym said with false, wide-eyed 
earnestness.  "I am going to wear my old gray cloak 
and stop at the tavern to find my squire and then 
have a tankard of ale or three if I feel like it. I 
will belch: loudly. If I itch, I will scratch 
wherever I please.  When I return, I will write my 
own letter to the king and warm my feet at my hearth 
in my castle with my dogs!" 

"I will inform Lady Duana of your plans, my lord," 
the sentry replied, trying to keep a straight face.   

Gwilym's mouth twitched, then he gave up all hope of 
decorum and grinned broadly.  "When did it come to 
this?" he asked, then chuckled.  Duana would never, 
ever argue with him in public or even raise her voice 
to a servant, but the entire castle seemed to defer 
to her, just the same. "One day, I looked up and 
found I was in charge of nothing except fathering 
children, fighting wars, and  no, I think that may 
be all."      

"Those are the best parts," the old guard said with a 
gleam in his eye.  "Would you have it any different?"  

Pyn bustled back out of the castle with Gwilym's new 
cloak, looking very self-important. 

"Of course not," Gwilym replied, reining Merfyn's 
horse toward the village, leaving Pyn to yell after 
him, fruitlessly waving the new not-gray cloak. 

*~*~*~* 

"He says a horse bit him," Duana translated for her 
mother, stripping off William's tunic and ruined 
shirt so she could see the wound.  "He goes through 
more clothing..."    

William stooped to show Caithrin the twin rows of 
tooth marks on his left shoulder, still telling his 
woeful tale. "A bloody, ungrateful, demon-possessed, 
bastard, eunuch of a horse bit him," Duana clarified 
in Irish Gaelic, and William nodded in satisfaction.   

Not sure what was expected of her and a little 
intimidated, she did as she would with her own sons. 
Caithrin made the sympathetic face, clucked over him 
like a mother hen, and William, pacified, settled 
down on the stool by the fire to let Duana doctor him. 

She had heard of him: this warrior Gwilym of Aber, 
Lord of Gwynedd.  Clearly some of the stories were 
true: the scars across his torso and down his arms 
told of a life of battle, and he had the air of a man 
accustomed to being obeyed.  Caithrin would want her 
own sons on the same side of a war as William, but 
someone had chosen a good husband for her Duana. 

This Duana.  He was good for this Duana, who was 
almost a stranger to her.  This noblewoman who could 
read and write and speak foreign languages and had an 
army of servants at her disposal.  Caitrin had never 
been past the great room of any castle, and here she 
was in the bedchamber of the Lord of North Wales with 
the lord stripped to the waist and the lady much 
alive and heavily pregnant and calling her 'mother.' 

It was overwhelming trying to reconcile the fourteen- 
ear old girl she remembered with this woman who was 
Lady Duana.    

Caitrin's son Charles had found Duana in 
Pembrokeshire years ago, but could not persuade her 
to return home; he had assured his mother she was 
well, but said no more.  Then, by chance, her son 
Uillec had seen her at London Court while he was 
fortifying the castle walls. Uillec said Duana had 
been widowed and then married to a Welshman, but, 
like Charles, he politely deflected any further 
questions about her life.  Whatever Uillec knew, it 
was not information he thought his mother would want 
to hear.  Then a foreign man had appeared in Dublin 
babbling that her daughter was dying - that she must 
come immediately. Caitrin had gotten on the boat 
expecting to find a corpse in the mountains of Wales, 
but she had wanted some answers about what happened 
to her little girl. 

So this is what happened to her little girl.  She had 
grown into a woman in the last twelve years. 

Caitrin had been mortified at the realization that 
the tall, handsome man in the bailey that she had 
taken for a knight was actually the lord of the 
castle, but Duana had laughed. 'William was twice as 
embarrassed as you,' she had said, and that seemed to 
be the case. 

Duana translated a bit of the story her husband was 
telling: that William had been unsuccessfully holding 
a horse's head while he was shod, but Caitrin was 
more interested in the way he casually rested a hand 
on Duana's belly whenever she was close to him. 
Duana had proudly shown her Eimile, but this would 
be his first son, perhaps.    

He eyed the wine-soaked rag as Duana prepared to 
clean the wound, which was more a nip, really. The 
bite was nothing compared to some of the scars his 
body bore.  To Caithrin's amusement, William 
squirmed, he cursed, he kicked his heel against the 
rung of the stool, but he knew better than to pull 
away.  For a man who seemed to spark with danger, he 
behaved like a child with a skinned knee around his 
wife.   

"He wants to know if I am trying to kill or cure 
him," Duana translated as William pretended to glare 
at her. "I told him I would allow him to live, but 
would torture him a bit. He was annoying me earlier."   

Caithrin put aside any remaining worries about 
whether or not her daughter was well treated; she 
was not only well treated, she was protected and 
adored.  However she had come to make her way first 
to Pembrokeshire and then to the majestic heights of 
Gwynedd, God had been with Duana.  Perhaps not during 
a few awful moments that a mother would rather not 
think about, but God had a plan for her daughter's 
life. 

Duana rested her forehead against his for a moment, 
said something, and William answered affirmatively. 
Duana had told her they had been married only two 
years, but they were comfortable together, as though 
each poured in and filled the cracks and crevices of 
the other. 

"What is it that he calls you?" Caitrin asked, noticing 
William assessing her with curious, dark eyes.  

"'Cariad' - beloved, usually, but he was calling me 
'witch' before.  My name does not translate into 
Welsh, and he has difficulty saying it."    

William turned his head to watch Duana bandage his 
shoulder, and then looked from his wife to Caithrin 
as he spoke. 

"William wants me to tell you that you are welcome in 
Aber, that he would like for you to stay as long as 
you wish.  He wants you to be comfortable here and 
says you are very brave to leave Ireland alone on the 
word of a man you did not know..." 

She paused, and William looked at her expectantly, 
aware she had not said all that he asked.   
       
"You are very brave and a very good kisser, just like 
your daughter, and that is a good combination," she 
finished, blushing. 

*~*~*~* 
 
"That is it. I am not getting up again," Duana 
announced, returning from her midnight trip to the 
privy.  "There should be a limit to this." 

Gwilym, fully awake now, rolled to the edge of the 
mattress, holding out his hands and cupping them into 
a bowl helpfully.   

"In a few more hours, I may be willing to take you up 
on that offer." 

He raised his eyebrows, but dropped his hands. 

"Take this off," he requested, tugging at her chemise 
as she stood beside the bed. 

Duana wrapped an arm around her belly protectively. 
"William, really?"  They had not made love since she 
fell, out of fear of more bleeding. 

"I want to see you.  I have never seen you this big 
before.  Take off your chemise and come to bed." 

"Those are the words that make a woman's heart soar: 
'I have never seen you this big before,'" she said, 
pulling the yards of soft linen over her head before 
sliding under the coverlet.   

"It works well on men, though."   

Duana sighed, resigned herself to another round of 
her husband's insomniac musings, and relaxed into the 
pillows as Gwilym stretched out beside her.    

"Would it be foolish to tell you that you are 
beautiful?"  

Duana replied that it would be, indeed. 

"I will not say that, then."  He propped his head up 
on his hand so he could see her face by the candle 
she had left burning.  "Or some silliness about this 
being the first child I have ever been wholly certain 
was mine and what that means to me. The wonder I feel 
when I look at you and know that I have done this. 
Then there is that I need you to the point that it 
is vulgar to even mention it - some nonsense about 
anchors and being incomplete and adrift until you 
came.  All that is appropriate to say to one's 
mistress, but not to a wife." 

Without comment, she adjusted his hand on her abdomen 
so he could feel the baby's feet shifting.  Duana 
always treated his nocturnal chattering like a head 
cold: she made herself comfortable and tried to 
ignore it as much as possible until it ran its course. 

"I do not have a mistress, you know.  That is why I 
am practicing on you."  He ran his palm over the 
swell of her belly, and was surprised when she 
stiffened for a moment. "Are you all right?  Was that 
another pain?" 

She exhaled.  "Only a light one. They are not close 
together yet."   

"You said it would be another month," Gwilym said 
urgently.   

Duana turned her head to look at him, then reached up 
to stroke his cheek comfortingly. "Babies come when 
God decides they are ready.  This one is ready, I 
think. Do not worry."  

"How soon, do you think?" he asked, his heart beating 
faster.   

"Hours," Duana said casually, as though women had 
babies every day.  "Afternoon, maybe. It is hard to 
predict." 

He swallowed. "It is really happening, then?  Can I 
stay a little longer?"  

Duana nodded, scooting over so she could rest her 
head on his shoulder.  "I would like for you to stay 
until I have to send for my mother.  She can bring 
the baby as well as any midwife."   

"Are you afraid?" he said softly. Then, in a more 
confident tone, "Because I am not afraid - not that 
something could go wrong and I could lose you. 
Because there are so many things I have not said - 
and if I told you right now how much I cared for you, 
it would seem like I was doing it under duress and 
you would not believe me."  

"Perhaps I am afraid," she admitted. "But I should 
not be." 

"Then I will be too.  You should not have to be 
afraid alone." 

*~*~*~* 

"Any word?" Gwen asked, wiping her hands on her dress 
before she knelt beside Leuan in the chapel.  No one 
was interested in eating supper, but she and the 
kitchen maids had served it and cleaned up afterward 
out of their need for something to fill the hours. He 
had been praying for hours until his mind numbed and 
the Latin words jumbled together.  

"Still that all is well and it will not be much 
longer.  Midwives always say that, but they have not 
sent for me," Leuan replied, rolling his shoulders to 
try to ease the knotted tendons.       
 
"I have opened all the windows and doors in the 
castle.  We may freeze, but it will help the womb 
open for the child to come."

"Does that truly help?"

She shrugged. "It cannot hurt. And I sent up a knife 
for Lady Duana's mother to put under the bed to cut 
the pain by half.  Can you think of anything else?" 

"See if you can persuade Gwilym to pace inside," 
Leuan suggested. "Or at least get him to put on a 
cloak besides that old gray one.  Maybe he will 
listen to you." 

"I will see what I can do."

Leuan bowed his head, closed his eyes, and resumed 
his soft prayers. Around them, dozens of candles 
flickered - lit and left by maids and grooms and 
squires and even Gwilym's knights, who would have 
ordinarily found it unmanly to acknowledge worrying 
over a woman in labor. A surprising number of souls 
were physically present as well, their heads bowed 
silently. In the village, the monks and peasants were 
praying as well. A great deal rested on the outcome 
of this night - and a great many of them had been 
among the Beltane bonfires themselves. 

"Keep Lady Duana safe," Gwen's voice asked quietly, a 
moment later. "Watch over her son." Leuan opened his 
eyes and found Gwen was speaking to the painting of 
the Christ child above the alter. "Watch over all the 
sons and daughters who will be born in the next 
month. Be with their mothers."

'Yes, please,' Leuan added silently. 

She took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

"Is there anyone else you can speak with about that?"
he asked her softly, obliquely. "I must remain here."

"I will see what I can do," she repeated. 

Before Father Leuan could say anything else, there 
were loud footsteps behind them. 

"You are supposed to be praying!" Gwilym informed him 
tersely, shaking the snow out of his hair and 
stalking up the aisle of the chapel. "You are not 
praying; you are flirting and gossiping!" 

"I am praying," Leuan insisted, folding his hands 
piously as Gwilym knelt on his other side.    

"Do you know what the Druids say?" Gwilym asked, far 
too restless to remember his prayers himself. "That 
on the last day of April, the king becomes the lover 
of the goddess. And on the twenty-second day of 
December, after the winter solstice, at dusk, as 
penance, the king awaits Death.  It is dusk, Leuan. 
Duana said it would be afternoon and it is already 
dusk.  The moon is rising blood red on the horizon." 

"You are neither a king nor a Druid, Llwynog," the 
priest reassured him.  "This child is blessed - 
breathed to life by the Old Ones, but I will deny I 
ever said that.  That is all the moon signifies." 

Gwilym considered a moment, and then stood up. "Pray 
louder," he ordered, marching out. "Perhaps God 
cannot hear you through the snow.  Pray in Welsh, not 
Latin;  no need for God to have to translate."  

"Any word?" Merfyn yelled from the walkway atop the 
castle as Gwilym emerged from chapel.  The sergeant 
claimed he was on guard duty - patrolling in case 
Aber was attacked in the snow three days before 
Christmas. 

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' yelled back soon, and 
both men went back to pacing. Gwilym resumed his path 
across the inner bailey with his displaced dogs 
whining at his heels, while Merfyn prowled the 
battlements, both glancing nervously at the moon each 
time it emerged from behind the clouds.   

Merfyn told himself it was not time to worry just 
yet. Gwilym said the pains had started around 
midnight and it was barely dusk.  Eighteen hours was 
not so long.  He had heard of much longer, but of 
course those women had not lived. 

"Any word?" Pyn asked, leaning precariously out of 
the window of Gwilym's office. He addressed Merfyn on 
the walkway above him, having had his head almost 
bitten off earlier for daring to speak to Lord 
Gwilym.    

"You are in the next room and I am on the roof; now, 
who do you think would know better, boy?" Merfyn 
snapped at him, and Pyn's red head disappeared back 
inside the stone walls, his mouth twitching 
dejectedly.  Merfyn sighed, smoothed back what  
remained of his hair, and resumed his lookout for 
nothing in particular. 

Hearing boots crunching quickly through the snow and 
into the castle an hour later, Leuan and Gwen went to 
the doorway of the chapel, watching the shuttered 
window of the bedchamber.      

Gwilym was not outside, so he was already with Duana. 
No one had been able to persuade him to do anything 
other than pace and pray since he had left their 
bedchamber at noon.  If he was not in the inner 
bailey or the chapel, Duana's mother had sent for 
him.  Word would come soon. 

As they waited, Gwen pointed up at the frozen night 
sky.  Through the clouds, Leuan caught glimpses of 
the full moon, but something was nibbling away at its 
red flesh. The priest knew the legend as well as 
Gwen: the last child of the Druids born during a 
lunar eclipse had been Merlin.  This was an oracle, 
the Druids would say, that a great change or tragedy 
was coming - or that a great leader was being born.   

Leuan crossed himself and started mumbling his 
prayers as Gwen clutched his hand again, her chubby 
fingers damp against his.    

Above them, Merfyn stopped pacing, and Pyn's head 
peaked out again, his fair face eerily lit by a 
single candle.  Most of the servants and guards were 
loitering on the stairs outside the office or in the 
great hall, but a stable boy, the marshal of the 
horses, and a few others perched on the woodpile, 
waiting in the cold, not daring to breathe.  Even the 
old sentry guarding the inner gate stood up a little 
straighter, watching Caithrin as she unlatched and 
opened the shutters of the bedchamber window. 

Caithrin started to say something, then stopped and 
glanced behind her.  Finally, reassured that she was 
pronouncing the word correctly, she leaned out the 
window and announced, "Bachgen," in her faulty Welsh. 

Son.     

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth V: Bachgen