Hiraeth VII: Adduned

*~*~*~* 

"Christ, will they ever get that baby to stop
crying?" Fitz asked irritably. "I cannot think with
this racket! Show me again: where are Gloucester and
Leicester's men, and where are mine? Is the Earl of
Chester's army the spoon or the coins? I have
forgotten." 

"It is just tired," Gwilym replied. "Look: have
Gloucester move his army toward London from the west
while the royal army approaches from the northeast.
That is enough men and knights that it looks like a
sizable force, but it is not, really. It will be days
before you can bring the other armies down from the
north, but I do not want to wait any longer. You want
to use mainly mercenaries for the initial attack,
yes?" 

Fitz rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration,
not looking at Gwilym's map on the wobbly wooden
table. He might be ten years younger, but keeping up
with Gwilym as he surveyed the troops and the lay of
the land was exhausting. Gwilym seemed to be thinking
three weeks ahead of everyone else, and all this
brilliance was making FitzWalter's head hurt. 

"Fitz?" 

"Yes? What? Do something with that baby!" he ordered
to old woman trying to soothe the infant while
stirring a pot over the fire.  

The tavern owner, knowing these noblemen would pay
well to spend the night and pay even better to spend
it with the prostitutes, gestured for his wife to
take the child outside. 

"No," one of the men said, placing his cup on the
parchment to keep it unrolled, and raising his hands.
"Here.  Not out. Cold."  

His wife hesitated. Norman soldiers would kill
children for sport, but this one did not sound nor
look Norman. If they harmed the baby, they would
surely pay for it, and it was only one of the whores'
brats, anyhow. The innkeeper nodded his approval, and
she handed the child to the dark-haired man and went
back to her cooking. 

"He- she-" Gwilym scrutinized the dirty baby as he
took it. "She is just tired. I think that is her
mother sitting on your lap. Look at the red hair." 

Fitz petted the teenaged girl's long, dirty, auburn
locks, and she smiled up at him encouragingly. "Is
this your child?" he asked in French, then repeated
in English. Her green eyes widened and her freckled
face earnestly shook 'no.' 

"She is not going to tell you if it is, Fitz. This
baby has gotten too tired to go to sleep easily. I do
not think she is hungry or wet." 

"How do you know that?" Fitz asked, thinking again
how odd Welshmen were as Gwilym leaned back, letting
the infant nestle against his shoulder and, lulled by
the sound of his voice and the beating of his heart,
start to quiet down. 

How did he know that? Because the girl's chest had
gotten damp when the baby had started to cry, and she
had spilled a drink on her dress to conceal that.
Because she watched worriedly as the old woman tried
to cook over the fire and hold the child at the same
time. Because this baby was two months old at the
most, making the prostitute still unclean, and
because the tavern seemed to need the money, Gwilym
was not going to mention any of that to Fitz. 

"I have had four children, including one who is this
age right now," Gwilym answered. "Do you not have
any?"  

"Oh, bastards here and there, but no, Isabelle and I
do not have any children." 

Gwilym looked up from the baby, intrigued. Most
noblemen would have pointed out that they were newly
wed, or had been away at war or on crusade. They might
have mentioned that their wife was ill or quite young
or given some other reason that she had not yet
conceived. It sounded like not only did Fitz not have
any children with his new wife, the Queen mother, he
was not expecting any. Isabelle was not yet thirty
and had borne five children for King John; there was
no reason why she would not conceive again. Even men
who detested their wives managed to bed them
occasionally in pursuit of a legitimate son. Fitz
seldom mentioned Isabelle, and, to Gwilym's knowing,
had yet to visit Pembroke Castle to see her.

"I have a king for a stepson, William; what more
could a man ask for?" Fitz said a bit too quickly.

"How is that handled, in England?" Gwilym asked
curiously, as if he didn't know. "Noble bastards,
after a nobleman marries in the church?"

"There are no noble bastards in Wales?" Fitz
retorted. "If you have four children, by my count,
two are illegitimate."

"But there has been no distinction in Wales, until
recently, and there is still no difference among
commoners. If the mother claims the child is mine, I
agree, and no man disputes my claim, then that child
is my heir. It does not matter who my wife is, at
present or in the future. The mother's relationship
with me - Christian wife, hearth wife, mistress, or
passing fancy - does not matter. It does not matter
if the child is not of my blood, even."

"So if this girl," he said, nodding to the redhead,
"Says this baby is yours, and you agree, then it is
your legal heir, the same as your children with Duana
and your older children with your mistress?"

"Yes," Gwilym answered easily. 

"That is such a queer custom. How often is a woman's
claim disputed?"

"Rarely. Remember, it is a public claim, and she
knows the man must respond publicly. If the mother
knows the true father will not claim the child, she
will likely find another man who will. Sons,
especially, rarely go unclaimed."

Fitz shook his head in disbelief. "That is barbaric."

Gwilym considered for a moment. "It is pragmatic," he
responded, using the Latin word. "And it would seem
to have been your father's view."

"You did not know my father," Fitz responded tightly.

A slim blonde girl refilled their cups then,
uninvited, sat down beside Gwilym. Under the table,
out of sight, Gwilym removed the hand she had placed
on his thigh. 

"I meant no offense," Gwilym said in the same casual
manner. "Your customs seem odd to us, in turn. I only
meant to say... You are raising another man's child.
Henry is as much your son as if he was your blood. Do
you love him any differently than your base-born
children?"

"King Henry," Fitz corrected tersely, "Is my stepson,
but first and foremost, he is the King. He is
ordained by God, and I would not dare compare my love
for my King to my affection for any base-born son I
do or do not have. I would suggest you do not,
either."

"You are right, of course," Gwilym agreed. "My
apologies."

There was an uncomfortable silence that Fitz filled
by whispering something in the redhead's ear, and she
giggled. 

"I am not looking at any more of your maps tonight,
William, nor discussing the finer points of English
inheritance laws. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am
going upstairs. Are you coming or are you going to
spend the evening playing nursemaid?"

"You have claimed the only redhead in the tavern,
Fitz," Gwilym replied, still deliberately sounding
like the innocent fool Normans expected a Welshman to
be. "I thought Isabelle was a blonde. The most
beautiful blonde in the kingdom, some men say. Do you
not like to..." He shrugged one shoulder. "Pretend?"
Then, knowing Fitz would refuse, "I will trade: this
blonde for your redhead." 
 
"Isabelle is the prettiest blonde in the kingdom, but
variety is nice as well." He gave the redhead a
squeeze and, on cue, she smiled again and squirmed
expectantly. "I was here first. Close your eyes and
make do with the blonde."

"Then I will bid you goodnight. I will be back by
morning," Gwilym said, handing the baby off to the
old woman. He paid the tavern owner for what he had
eaten and rolled up his maps. "By first light." 

"Oh, for God's sake! Are you going to go off and pout?
Fine. Take the redhead."  

"No," Gwilym said calmly, "I am going to ride back to
London. We are close now. It cannot be more than
fifteen miles. I have my own redhead. I have not seen
my wife in a week." 

"Through the snow?" Fitz said to the back of Gwilym's
head. "You are going to ride through the snow and
ride back before dawn? It will be almost midnight by
the time you reach London. Where is the sense in
that?" 

There was a loud bang as the tavern door swung closed
behind Gwilym. 

"Shit!" the Kingmaker said disgustedly, and then,
draping his arm around the whore's shoulders,
exhaled, and asked her in English, "What is your
name?" 

"Dianora," she decided, taking his hand and leading
him toward the stairs. That was not her name, of
course, but it seemed more exciting and exotic than
plain 'Joan.'

"Close enough," he replied in French, knowing she
would not understand. "Come on."  

*~*~*~* 

It was as if London Court had tilted and all the men
had filtered to one corner of the building. The Welsh
guards had said that young King Henry, when Fitz was
gone, wanted to sleep in the apartment across the
hall from Duana's, which meant that Henry's dozens of
servants and guards overflowed and ended up sleeping
in her sitting room. All Welsh knights were there, as
well - flanking her apartment door and the door to
her bedchamber, while those off-duty were scattered
across the floor, using their red cloaks as blankets.
The Prince of Wales had his own apartment, but was
dozing on the soda in Duana's sitting room, with
Gruffydd on a pallet within arms reach: guarding
both Duana and his son. Llewelyn opened his eyes as
Gwilym approached, nodded in recognition, and closed
his eyes again. The Prince of Wales would be joining
the battle to lead the Welsh army, but he had wanted
to stay with Gruffydd for a few more days.

"It looks like you had a Roman orgy in the sitting
room," Gwilym whispered, pulling off his boots and
chattering nervously as he climbed onto the bed, not
sure if he was welcome or not. "Thirty men and only
one woman: that is the kind of orgy King Richard
would have preferred. It is said a knight had not
really been on Crusade until he had been with King
Richard and a camel, so I suppose I just wasted all
that time in the Holy Land." 

Duana rolled over, blinking as she awoke, but not
seeming surprised to find him in her bedchamber.
There were still yellow and black bruises on her
face, and they still made him wince. "What is an
orgy? What is a camel?" 

He pulled the bed curtains closed, set his candle on
a shelf in the headboard, and knelt on the mattress
beside her. "Welcome, William.  How have you been,
William? I am fine, William. Do you miss our children
as well, William? Have you killed enough Frenchmen
yet that we can go home, William?" he supplied for
her. 

She sat up, squirming as she pulled her chemise over
her head and then began efficiently undressing him.
"Goodness, you are frozen." 

"This is a nice welcome. Does it mean you have
forgiven me?" he asked casually. Their parting words
had not been pleasant and he had ridden away feeling
both like a kicked hound and the boot that did
the kicking.

"No, it means I have missed you. It is different.
Come down here and see if you can make me forgive you
as well." 

"I am nasty," he replied, not sounding very
convincing as she skinned off his breeches. "I
planned to check on you and then sleep with the men
in the next room for an hour or so. I did not bar the
door." 

"It does not matter; if Henry has a nightmare he will
pound on the door until I let him in anyway. Just try
to be quiet."

Gwilym laid her back on the mattress, and ran his
fingers through her beautiful hair. "You are sure you
do not want me to wash off a little?" 

"Hush," she ordered. "I will take you covered in
honey so long as you are still alive and in one
piece. I am furious with you, but not so furious that
I was not worried."

He kissed her carefully, and every muscle in his
tired body seemed to exhale and relax. Fitz, the
campaign, the men in the next room: everything
outside her bed faded away. She warmed him like the
sun, flowed over him like the tides, and she was his
world.

"One day, when this is all over, I will have to let
you take me while covered in honey. That sounds
interesting, I think." 

Always a smart woman, Duana found something else for
him to do with his mouth, and there was no more
thinking for a little bit. 

*~*~*~* 

"I am listening," Gwilym assured her, shifting
contentedly. "I am awake. Tell me of Aber. I need to
leave soon; Fitz is expecting me back by dawn." 

"You cannot stay?" 

"No, not this time. We will attack in two days, then
retreat back through London and I will see you for a
few hours then. Once the French troops lay siege to 
London, we will be driven farther inland and north
before we divide and backtrack. Then it is just a
matter of waiting."  

"How do you already know you are going to lose?"
Duana asked, fitting her body perfectly against his.
"What kind of war do you begin knowing you will
lose?" 

"The kind where the enemy must bring food and
supplies and fresh troops twenty miles across the
Dover Straits from France by boat, cariad. The kind
where, in the middle of winter, the enemy will find
London, always sympathetic to the French, suddenly
closes her gates. It will be almost March. There is
nothing to feed foreign troops except what can be
brought from France and, while the French are busy
trying to seize London, I will see that nothing can
be brought from France. Every English port will
refuse French ships and every English city will close
her gates."

"You will lure them inland, starve them in the middle
of winter, and then, once the French troops are
surrounded and you have had a chance to move all your
armies down from the north, you will attack. You are
right, William. As long as the French cannot get new
supplies, you cannot lose."  

"Yes," he replied noncommittally, not liking that
Duana would be in London while the French tried to
take the city. London will not fall, though; it had
never fallen during a siege. "Tell me of Aber." 

"The messenger returned yesterday. I sent him to the
army camp to find you, but I suppose he has not yet.
Melvin sends word that the Welsh horsemen will be
west of London in a day and the Welsh army there in
two weeks, as ordered. He says 'all is ready,' and he
is 'seven days into getting his indulgence money back
and ready to kill some Frenchmen,' whatever that
means. He could not bring Goliath, something about
his hock, but offers you his horse if you want it." 

"No, thank you," Gwilym replied. "Lariat and I will
be just fine. I do not need anything else to contend
with right now. Did - is there any word-" 

"Mother and Princess Joanna say both Eimile and Mab
are well. Eimile can walk very well now and is
chattering up a storm. Mab is rolling over, but his
eyes are still hazel brown, not blue." 

"I wanted his eyes to be blue because your eyes are
blue," Gwilym murmured like a sentimental fool. "I do
miss the children; do not think that I do not. I miss
you. I hate that you will be trapped here like a pawn
with fighting all around you."  

"I like you after we make love," she replied softly.
"It is perhaps the only time you speak without first
calculating every word." 

Gwilym made a sleepy grumbling sound, wishing he
could lay in this nice warm bed for about a month.
"No, as we are making love, I certainly speak without
thinking; I just deny it later. But it is nice to
know I am in your good graces again." 

"Close your eyes, William. Roll on your back and
close your eyes." 

"Wanton, are you planning on raising the dead?" he
protested, but rolled to his back.  

He felt soft fabric brush his face as she said,
"Smell." 

Gwilym was starting to quip about this being an odd
game, but realized what the cloth smelled like. "Mab.
My clean, after he has a bath, baby boy." 

"Mother sent it with the messenger," Duana told him,
draping the baby blanket over his chest and throat. 

"I want to take it with me," Gwilym said impulsively,
but realizing he was being selfish, added, "But it
would be ruined. Better you keep it." 

"I will give you something else." 

"I do not need a hanky. If I come down with a case of
Norman chivalry and want to ride into battle - watch
the battle," he corrected, "While carrying one of
your hankies, I will ask Fitz if I can borrow one. I
think he must have them all. Do not sneeze; between
Pyn and FitzWalter, Regent of England, you have no
handkerchiefs left."

"Truly, you are bad, William. No, I have something
better for you." 

"Yes, you do," he answered, thinking maybe he was not
so exhausted tonight after all. He could always sleep
when he was dead. "I like very much that you have 
something better only for me. May I have a taste,
please?"

"When you dress, take the new shirt from my sewing
basket and leave me the one you have been wearing." 

"It is not torn," he said, as she kissed a line down
his body, more than willing to relax, enjoy, and let
her lead. "Just dirty."  

He pursed his lips, then inhaled. 'Fellatus.' Such a
lovely, lovely Latin word. Gwilym relaxed, leaning
back, resting his hand on the crown of her head, and
letting her pleasure him. He was tired, and he was
not seventeen anymore, either, so she took her time.
There was no hurry; it was as if they had lifetimes.

"Come up here, cariad, and show me what else you have
only for me," he requested as the tension started to
build inside him.

He watched her by candlelight as she made her way up
his body again, kissing, nibbling, licking. He put
his hands on her waist as she positioned her hips
over his. 

"You are rather slothful tonight," she observed, "For
a fearless soldier."

"I am an appreciative audience," he assured her,
running his hands over her breasts and then down the
curve of her hips. "I like watching you. You are
beautiful. I am a general, not a soldier," he
reminded her. "Generals command. Soldiers do as they
are told."

She leaned down and whispered in his ear with a voice
that still made his groin muscles tighten, "And what
do you command, my lord?"

"Love me," he whispered back. 

*~*~*~* 

Gruffydd had been watching from the window as the
troops flooded through the narrow streets of London
since early morning, looking frighteningly bloodied
and defeated. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" he asked Duana in
Welsh, sounding like a small child instead of a
teenaged boy. 

"I am sure the army is only pretending to lose, but
that is a secret. You cannot tell anyone," Duana
said, trying to appear like she was actually sewing
something. 

"I know secrets," Henry offered. He looked very un-
kingly in possibly the first outfit he had ever chosen
for himself: an oversized tunic of Fitz's, his own
heavily embroidered bedrobe, and tall boots like the
Welsh knights he had made friends with. The servants,
seeing London was about to be under siege, had
scattered like rats, and no one had bothered dressing
the ten-year-old, instead sending him to Duana's
apartment where he would be safe and out of the way.
"I know lots and lots of secrets," he said, waiting
to be asked what they were. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" Gruffydd asked for
the tenth time, forgetting Duana had just answered
him.  

"He is just fine," a familiar male voice said as the
door swung open. Gruffydd, beaming, scrambled down
from his perch at the window.  

"We have been soundly beaten," Gwilym announced
victoriously, unwrapping Llewelyn's arm from his
shoulders and letting the prince slide down onto the
sofa. "We are now in a splendid, full retreat." 

"My God, William!" she said, horrified by the blood
and dirt and gore that seemed to cover both men from
head to toe. "My God, where are you hurt? Prince
Llewelyn?" 

"Nowhere," he assured her. "Llewelyn turned his ankle
hurrying up the steps a second ago. We slaughtered a
bunch of pigs and cows last night and painted
ourselves. What?" he asked, holding out his arms for
her to examine him, "Do I not look lovely? You should
have seen the fine time Merfyn had tossing livers and
hearts and pig intestines over his shoulder as we
fled the field. I have never seen just a man's liver
laying on a battlefield, but Merfyn thought it was a
wonderful idea. Henry," he added in French, "Fitz is
just behind us. He is clean." 

Duana, not yet convinced, wet a towel and, ordering
Gwilym to sit in a chair near the window, tried to
wipe off a layer of filth.  

"It is really me, cariad. I only got all decked out
in case I had to go into battle, but I did not."  

Behind them, Gruffydd began wringing his hands
nervously as Llewelyn tried to reassure him that he
too was unharmed.

Duana kept looking back and forth between her husband
proudly grinning at her and Gruffydd whimpering
beside his father on the sofa.  

"You- he- I would kiss you if you were not so nasty,
William!" 

"Kiss me anyway, cariad," he requested, licking his
lips clean for her. 

*~*~*~* 

"Come on!" Fitz ordered from the hallway, succeeding
in getting Gwilym to move half a step this time. 

"I am coming," Gwilym assured him from the
bedchamber, still kissing Duana goodbye. That was his
saving-grace: Fitz suspected she was barely dressed.
Otherwise, he would have dragged Gwilym out twenty
minutes ago. "One minute." 

"William!" Fitz yelled. "We are waiting on YOU so we
can close the city gates. Just YOU, William." 

"I am COMING," Gwilym yelled back, then softly to
Duana, "You know he loves this, do you not? He is
going to have you all to himself for weeks." 

That was not really true; he was leaving enough Welsh
guards that there was no danger of her being harmed,
but it bothered Gwilym just the same.

"I thought he was accompanying you?" 

"No, it seems there are things that keep FitzWalter
at Court. Pretty little red haired, blue-eyed things,
I suspect."  

"What is it you say about your dogs, William? About
them 'barking up the wrong tree'? You do not need to
worry," she promised him. "Swear to me that you are
only guiding the armies, that you will not fight.
Swear you will come back." 

"I swear it, make you an adduned, a promise," he
said, putting his hands on the back of the door on
either side of her head and leaning down to whisper
in her ear. "We are old souls, cariad. That sounds
insane, but I would swear it is true. If we lose each
other in this life, I will find you in the next, but
I do not plan to leave you yet. If I had to start
over, I would need a new horse, a new cloak, and in
the next life I will expect you to be taller." 

Christ, he should shut his mouth and leave. 

"I will see if I can grow before you see me again." 

"Not too much. I like the way you fit against me,
around me now." He kissed her again, then said
quietly, his lips brushing hers, "We fit very well. I
will always come for you. Do not doubt it." 

"I do not doubt it," she whispered back, sounding
very convincing for a woman who was lying. 

"I used to love so easily. I would give my heart so
carelessly. Then I kept losing pieces of it, one
chunk at a time torn away until I thought I could
never stand to lose again, so I tried to stop caring.
It is not a choice, though: whether a man loves or
not." 

He opened his mouth to say it, and, getting only
breath instead of words, closed it again. 

"Go on," she told him, kissing the tip of his nose,
then stepping away from the door. "I am fluent in
Williamspeak. Go. Hurry up, or I will be angry with
you for making me cry." 

"William!" Fitz bellowed from the hallway. "Now!"

"Do not doubt it," he told her one last time,
slipping out and closing the bedchamber door behind
him. 

*~*~*~* 

Two menacing Welsh knights in red tunics and two
English knights flanked her apartment door when Fitz
returned an hour later. None spoke; the royal guards
would speak only when spoken to, and the Welshmen
would not have lowered themselves to speak to him
even had they spoken French. The Welshmen fell in
step behind Fitz as he entered her apartment, moving
eerily silently for men who must weigh sixteen stones
each. 

"Count Marshall FitzWalter, Regent of England," his
servant announced.

Seconds passed. There was no response from the
bedchamber. He could feel the color rising in his
face and guard's eyes boring holes into him.

"Duana," Fitz called, knocking on the door of her
bedchamber.  

Two more Welsh guards glared at him. Lord William had
assigned a dozen men to supplement the English
knights Fitz had already assigned to her. The Royal
guards might be good enough to protect the King, but
that would not suffice to guard Lady Duana, according
to William. Neither man had been willing to back
down, so Lady Duana's sewing and reading was to be
supervised by at least four formidable men at all
times: two English, two Welsh. Tonight, guarding her
bedchamber and apartment doors, there was a total of
eight knights, and Fitz suspected there would be
bloodshed by morning.

"William is out of London. He got out before the
French had the city surrounded. He is safe. I saw
him ride away. It is not dawn yet; William will catch
up with the army before sunrise." 

Light from the candles was seeping through the cracks
around the door, and he could hear her pacing on the
other side.  

"Duana, are you all right? Do you need anything?" 

The door swung open, banging loudly against the wall
in the predawn silence of a city under siege and, he
was confronted a beautiful, angry Duana in her
bedrobe.

"I need my husband!" Duana yelled at him. Strands of
auburn hair escaped her braid and curled around her
flushed face. "I need my husband and I need my
children and I need you to let me out of this cage,
you son-of-a-bitch!" 

Fitz stood rooted to the floor, shocked as much by
her temper as by seeing her in such a disarray.
Christ, she was crying. 

"Duana?"  

"Go to Hell!" she yelled at him, then slammed the
door so hard it rattled the shutters. 

He thought one of the Welsh knights smirked at him,
but it might have just been the scar on his upper
lip.  Fitz was certain he heard a snort from behind
him, though. At least one of Lord William's men must
speak French.

*~*~*~*

"Go, Gwil. You have one night to spend in a real bed
instead of on the ground," Llewelyn reminded him.
"You have done all you can; really, I am fine." 

"You sound like my wife," Gwilym replied, yawning.
"She is generally lying." 

"It is a small cut and the bleeding has stopped. Get
some sleep." 

Gwilym would not describe the gash in Llewelyn's
thigh as a 'small cut,' but there was nothing else he
could do to help. He was just hovering, and he knew
Llewelyn hated it as much as Duana did when he
hovered. 

Certain they were several days ahead of any French
troops as they retreated to Lincoln, Gwilym and
Llewelyn had relaxed, ridden a little ahead of the
army to talk strategy, and stumbled across a band of
French deserters. The group, catching both men off
guard, had lashed out madly before they could be
subdued and executed. Gwilym had only a few nicks and
a minor cut on his hipbone. At least, it seemed
minor; he had not checked it yet - but Llewelyn had a
new wound on his thigh to add to his collection of
scars.  

Llewelyn, having lost a fair amount of blood, was
already dozing, so Gwilym followed the servant to the
room in Lincoln Castle that the Earl of Chester had 
offered when they had shown up at the gatehouse two
hours ago. Closing the door, he stripped to the skin,
carelessly letting his chain-mail shirt of armor fall
to the floor, and held the candle close, craning to
see the cut. 

No, it was not life threatening, though pulling off
his clothes had caused it to bleed again. Too tired
to care either way, he set the candle on a table and 
crawled naked into the bed. He wondered how he would
explain to Duana that he had not only just resumed
his old rank as General of the Welsh army, but also
been promoted to Field Marshal General of the King's
army. Llewelyn was not going to be able to ride for a
week with a wound like that, and they circled back to
attack the French in two days. There was no choice,
but, still, he had promised her. 

He was so tired he could feel the bed spinning as he
lay staring up into the darkness. Merfyn could lead
Llewelyn's as well as Gwilym's knights, and
Llewelyn's Captain of the Guard could serve as
Lieutenant General of the Welsh. Gwilym had been
impressed with several of the English generals; one
of them would serve as a Lieutenant General for the
English. Another would lead the mercenaries; that had
already been decided. A third could take Gwilym's
place as strategist: watching the battle and
communicating with the Marshal on the field. There
must still be a Field Marshall General of the whole
army, and that had been Llewelyn. It could have been
FitzWalter, but Fitz was in London with the French
army battering the city walls with siege equipment,
desperate for food and shelter. Delaying the battle
might give the French time to bring in
reinforcements. He could think of no option besides
continuing as he and Llewelyn had planned, but
without Prince Llewelyn. It was a brilliant plan,
except that now Gwilym would be leading the King's
army in battle while relying on a General he did not
know to be his eyes and ears, in a language in which
he was not fluent and with a right hand that still
went numb sometimes.

Yawning again, Gwilym decided his brain would work
better after a night's sleep, and, rolling over,
tossed his arm over the small female form beside him,
and...

And jumped back so quickly he almost fell out of the
other side of the bed. 

"Jesus! My God! My lady, I am sorry. The servant
showed me to this room. There must be some mistake. I
will find my... Christ on the Cross! I will go. I am
so sorry." 

She sat up, thankfully, from what he could see by
firelight, wearing a chemise instead of nothing but
bare breasts. "Are you William of Aber, Lord of
Gwynedd?" she asked. 

"I am," he managed. 

"Then you are in the right room. The Earl of Chester
sent me." 

Ah. Norman hospitality. "How old are you, child?" He
leaned closer to see her face as she leaned back,
wary. 

"Seventeen," she insisted stubbornly, watching him
with big, dark eyes. "Sixteen. Fourteen.  Thirteen,"
she finally decided. 

"That is it?  Do you know I have a daughter who would
be..." He was about to embark on a fatherly lecture
when he realized, "You speak Welsh. I have been
speaking Welsh all this time and you have understood
me. How is it a servant girl in the east of England
speaks Welsh?" 

She shrugged, and his heart started to beat faster. 

"The Earl knew you were a Welshman and thought you
would like me. Have I done something wrong? I can
take this off-"  

She started to untie the ribbon at the neck of her
chemise and he barked, "NO! No- you have done nothing
wrong. Tell me again: how is it you speak Welsh? What
is your name?" 

No, this could not be her. He had searched every inch
of Wales after his daughter had vanished years ago.
Gwen had seen her playing in the bailey one minute
and she was gone the next. They had checked every
house, every cave, every church between the Irish Sea
and the Welsh border and she was just gone. She had
fallen off the cliffs into the ocean or wolves had
gotten her or...

"My name is Lucy. Oh, you do not like me." The
corners of her mouth turned down in a childish pout
the way Diana's had when she was angry with him, but
it is easy for a man to see what he wants to see, and
Gwilym knew it. 

"I do not think the question is whether I like you or
not, child. Have you always been called Lucy? Never
Catyna? Never Tyna?" 

She shook her head 'no' as he tried to imagine what
his daughter might look like today. It was plausible
for her to have been kidnapped and sold or just
wandered out of Wales and ended up on the other side
of England. Far-fetched, but plausible. 

"How long have you lived here in Lincoln?" 

"Since I was a child." 

"You are still a child," he replied, and seeing her
bottom lip begin to tremble, added. "You are fine.
Very pretty, in fact, but I need to sleep.  Tomorrow 
night," he promised, knowing he would be gone by
tomorrow night. "Are you sure you have never been to
Wales? Think hard: do you remember a brother named
Dafydd? A father- Lucy, look at me. Do I seem
familiar to you at all? I do not usually have a beard
and my hair would have been shorter. Do you remember
a Templar knight who lived with you in a castle? Your
mother died in a fire so you came to live in the
castle on a hill. There was a priest named Leuan and
a cook, Gwen, and a man named Merfyn who used to let
you ride around on his shoulders. I taught you to
play the lute. You had a black pony named Saul
because my horse was Goliath and your brother was
Dafydd and you would get in trouble for trying to get
Saul to jump over things after I told you not to
and... No, you do not remember, do you?" 

She just kept shaking her head no, puzzled by his
questions. "Can I at least stay here tonight? The
Earl: he will not be happy if he knows you do not
want me. He has been good to me. I do not want to
disappoint him." 

Gwilym reached for his breeches, trying to dress as
modestly as possible. "Of course; stay." 

"But you are getting dressed! You are leaving! What
do I tell the Earl?" 

"I will talk to Chester in the morning. I will thank
him and say you were just fine. I want to speak with
him about where you came from. Jesus: you even look
Welsh. If he asks you, just lie, Ty- Lucy. How will
he ever know?" 

Lucy looked at him, wide-eyed, and he realized what
the problem was. Apparently, the commander of the
king's army was important enough to merit a virgin.  

"There will," he checked the still-oozing cut as he
fumbled with the laces of his britches in the
shadows, missing Duana's nimble fingers, "Yes, I
think there will be plenty of blood on the sheets for
anyone who wants to see tomorrow morning. Just lie,
which is an awful thing for me to tell you to do,
and I will see if Chester will let me buy you. Would
you like to see Wales, Lucy? Maybe you could remember 
more if you could see Wales again. Perhaps you are
someone I once knew."

"I have never seen Wales, my lord. I have lived in
Chester since I was a little girl." 

He was not going to reiterate that she was still a
little girl and he planned for her to stay that way,
but, as he pulled on his boots, he asked, "But where
did you live before that? You did not just fall out
of the sky one day in Chester. Where were you born?" 

She wrinkled her brow, trying hard to remember, but
could not. "I have been in Chester since I was nine
or so. They found me wandering. I suppose I could
have been in Wales. Where is Wales?" 

"Home, I think. Lie down and sleep, Lucy." She lay
down, watching him curiously as he pulled his tunic
over his head and gathered up his armor and sword. On
impulse, Gwilym leaned down and kissed her forehead,
pushing her hair back and gazing at her pretty face.
It was not just his imagination: she did look like
Diana. "If you are Tyna, I have missed you very
much," he murmured. 

"I am not Tyna," Then, in a frightened little voice:
"But I will be if that is what you want to call me.
Is Tyna your wife?" 

"No," he told her, stepping out into the hallway.
"Goodnight." 

"My Lord," a young Welsh knight asked, scrambling up
from his pallet on the floor outside Llewelyn's room.
"Are you all right? Is the wound-" 

Gwilym took a long, shuddery breath. "I am fine.
Really fine, perhaps.  Will you watch this door?
Just until I can speak to the Earl in the morning. I
do not trust my eyes until I have had a little
sleep." 

"Of course, my lord.  I let the maid inside with
breakfast, yes?" 

Gwilym nodded, too dazed to laugh. "Yes.  You are
learning."  

"Shut up," he ordered Llewelyn, who grumbled at
Gwilym appearing in his dark bedchamber, shining a
candle in his face. Gwilym wanted to make sure it was
still the Prince of Wales before he crawled into the
bed. 

"Are you so lonely that I am starting to look like a
woman to you?"  

"Just shut your mouth and scoot over," Gwilym
responded, "I might decide I prefer your hairy chest
to the flat one in next room if you keep giving me
ideas."  

"We cannot all be as pretty as you, Gwil," Llewelyn
mumbled, falling back to sleep. 

*~*~*~* 

"Stop lurking and come in, FitzWalter," Duana
ordered. She paused to tell Gruffydd to stop doing
something, and then added, "I know you are out
there." 

He nodded for the servant to announce him, and then
Fitz appeared carrying a heavy ledger. He dropped it
on the table in her sitting room with a thud, making
Gruffydd jump a foot in the air and all four guards
come running.  

"Have you brought me your accounts to do?" Duana said
crisply, laying down the quill and covering the
letter she had been writing. She waved the knights
away.

"They were my father's accounts. I can make neither
heads nor tails of them," Fitz said awkwardly,
knowing he was not welcome here, even with a good
excuse.  

Henry spent his afternoons playing in Duana's
apartment, trying to soak up the mothering she wanted
to bestow on her own children. Sometimes Fitz found
the young king underneath the blanket-covered table,
insisting he was searching a cave for dragons, and
other times curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea,
listening wide-eyed to Duana read him stories of
Hercules or Camelot or Wales. Fitz's first reaction
was to say it was not appropriate for Henry to spend
half his day doing little that was productive, to
which Duana had replied being a ten-year-old boy was
very productive. Then, to his surprise, she had
apologized, asking if perhaps she was causing
problems with Henry's mother. Did Isabelle dislike
Henry spending so much time with her? Fitz had
skipped over the details: that Isabelle had rarely
seen Henry, and Fitz for that matter, since she and
Fitz had married, and did she did not seem to miss
either of them. He had simply said 'no,' that it did
not cause problems, and allowed Henry to come
whenever he wanted.  

Which meant Fitz had a reason to check on Duana,
though she now treated him with a formality so cool
it chilled the room.

"I have finally run out of things to do during the
siege," he explained. "So I opened Father's ledgers
from the country estate and found this mess." 

"There is no mess. I kept those records. What are
you talking about?" She stood, insulted, walking
around the table, and opening the old leather book
she had once spent many hours poring over.

"Look closely, Duana," he instructed. "You kept them
in Irish Gaelic. You and my father know Gaelic, but I
do not, nor does my seneschal. Could you perhaps tell
me what a few words mean so I know what I own and
what I do not own?" 

Her glare softening, Duana trailed her finger slowly
down the parchment, skipping randomly between
memories. "This page is all payments: taxes, the
Crown's share of his rents, retainers for two-hundred
knights, and then this is just castle expenses for
the spring of 1215. This is the trip to Runnymeade to
draw up the charter. This, I would politely call a
loan to King John rather than another extortion. Your
father was not well, and it was such a large sum that
I went with his men to deliver it to Court." 

"It is the last entry." 

"Yes, it is," Duana replied tightly. 

"My father was no traitor," Fitz informed her. "I
will not speak ill of the Old King, but my father was
a true and loyal vassal."

"Of course," she answered. "He was a good man. If you
will leave this, I will make notes for you. I am
sorry; I never considered that anyone might need to
understand it besides your father and me."

"He probably thought it 'increased the security of
the ledger,'" Fitz said, mimicking his father's stern
demeanor.

"He probably did, in case there was some plot to
discover how much he spent on trinkets for me."

"I am the Count of Pembroke, and I will buy blue
velvet by the mile, if it pleases me," FitzWalter
responded, still imitating his father and trying to
get her to smile. "When you rule this land, you may
dress her as you please. And this discussion has
ended, son."

He succeeded in earning a sad smile from her.

"He adored you, Duana. I think- I think all women
should be loved as he loved you."

Her smiled faded, and she looked down at the ledger
again.

"Did you love him?" he asked, then immediately wanted
to snatch those words back. 

"He was very good to me," she replied softly.

"But did you love him as he loved you?  Did you love
him or did you spend almost a decade with him because
it was safe and convenient? Or because you had no
choice?" 

"Yes, I cared for him very much," Duana responded,
her voice starting to tremble. "Yes, I have cried for
him, if that is what you want to know. What is it you
want, FitzWalter?" 

"I want to know why I returned to England to find
Pembroke Castle empty and you married to some Welsh
barbarian and my father's body hanging from a
scaffold in the Tower green."

After a moment, she answered tightly, "Because the
king wished it." She tilted her chin up and added,
"Now you guide the new king, FitzWalter. I pray,
teach him to be worthy of his crown."

Fitz worried his lips, then crossed his arms and
said, "I have news of William. He has turned the
armies, bottled up the harbors, and is pushing the
French from all sides. Everything has gone exactly as
he said it would. The French are hungry and cold and
thinly spread as they hurry to reconquer all the land
from Dover to Lincoln. He is picking them off like
ticks, surrounding London for the final attack. He is
sure London will hold, and the French will have
nowhere to hide." 

Her posture seemed to relax a bit. "He is well,
then?" 

"In his messages, he makes no mention of being
otherwise."  

"If I - Gruffydd, do not pick at your hair; your
father is fine, as well - If I write a message, will
you try to send it?" 

"Of course. I cannot open the city gates, but I will
have it passed through at the next opportunity," he
answered. Looking at Gruffydd sitting alone in the
corner, he asked, "That is Prince Llewelyn's son,
yes? What is wrong with him?" 

Hearing his father's name, Gruffydd got up to check
the window, then sat back down again, sighing
dejectedly.  

"King John took a teenage boy already far from home,
had him beaten and then locked in a forgotten cage
for more than a year, waiting to die. What do you
think is wrong with him, Fitz? It would probably have
been kinder to hang him with the other Welsh boys,
with William's David." 

"I did not do that, Duana," Fitz insisted. "The Court
was chaos when the royal counsel appointed me as
regent. I did not know any of the Welsh boys still
lived at first. I did not know you still lived. I had
to get Henry crowned, marry Isabelle, figure out-" He
stopped short, biting the tip of his tongue. "There
was chaos. I had him moved to better quarters as soon
as I realized who he was. I never wanted him to come
to any harm, just like I never planned to make you
hate me." 

"I do not hate you," she said sadly. "I just want to
go home. I understand that you are doing what you
must for England, but I miss my children. I have a
baby not five months old, a daughter not yet two
years. I ache for them."  

"I can have your children brought here. To Court. To
be raised alongside the King. If you wish," he added
easily. "If you would want to remain in London."

She blinked at him. "And what of my children's
father?"

"Again, as you wish."

"I wish for you to release William from service. I
wish to go home to Wales," she said crisply. "With my
husband, to my children."

"I wish for you to be safe," he retorted. He could no
longer see the bruises on her face, but the memory of
them was still vivid in his mind. "Safe and well-
treated. There is no one else to speak for you, Duana,
and I cannot guarantee your safety when you are two-
hundred miles away from me in a lawless, pagan land."

"The Welsh are not pagans. They do not have tails or
breath fire. They are men, the same as you."

He shifted his feet. "Still, anything could happen to
you, and I might never know."

"Anything could happen to me in London. There are
many monsters in this world, Fitz. No man could
protect me from all of them. Not even you."

At her words, a chill crept down his spine.

"Swear it, then," he said. "Give me your word, as if
you were a man: that Welshman has never mistreated
you. Swear that he treats you as gently and as kindly
as my father or I would, and that he is a good and
Christian husband."

"Why are you asking me these things?"

"Because I have heard whispers otherwise," he told
her cautiously. 

"What have you heard?"

He shook his head. "If you truly want to return to
Wales, to remain as his wife, swear it. Or, if you do
not want to return... You do not have to tell me why.
It is enough that you wish it. I will see to the
rest."

"I swear William is a good man and a good husband. He
would lay down his life for mine. As would your
father."

"As would I," he reminded her. "It is settled, then.
My mind is at ease," he lied. "If you would ever want
to return to London, whatever the reason, you would
only need to send a message."

"Noble Fitz," she said, as if talking to herself. "He
would be proud of you, you know. Your father. It
cannot be easy: so much resting on your shoulders."

He clasped his hands in front of him, knuckles white.
"Father made it look easy: creating a king, creating
a nation. Even your William: he leads armies as
easily as others play chess, and he commands respect
from men who would sooner spit on a Welshmen than
follow one into battle. Father wielded power as
though it was lightweight, but it is not. Power
weighs a man down like heavy, wet clothing, and
lashes him in dreams like an unexpected tree branch.
He taught me many things, but he never thought to
tell me that." 

Duana closed the ledger and turned to face Fitz as
they stood beside the ornate table. "A brilliant man
told me that being powerful is like being a lady: if
one must tell people that one is, then one is not." 

"That sounds like one of William's odd sayings."

"Perhaps, but it was your father that said it to me.
When other noblewomen laughed at me because I did not
speak French well and was just learning to read and
write, that is what he told me." 

He closed his eyes, wanting to take a break from
living for a moment, and, without thinking, Fitz
leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. There
was not even time to enjoy the warm, yielding
softness before she realized his intent was not just
a chaste kiss and pulled away. 

"Do not-" 

"I am sorry," he said, taking one, then two steps
back.

Duana hugged her arms around her body, looking at the
floor and saying nothing. 

From his corner perch, Gruffydd was watching them. 

"I should not have done that. I-I do not know what I
was thinking. I was not thinking. Duana, it will not
happen again." 

She nodded that she understood.

Not knowing what else to say, Fitz turned to leave. 

"It will all be over in a few days, Duana," he said,
his voice calm and even. "Listen to the city walls:
the siege engines have stopped. The French have taken 
the field against the English army all around London.
The battle has begun." 

Fitz-" Duana finally looked up. "You said the
soldiers were following a Welshmen into battle. They
are following Prince Llewelyn, yes?" 

"Of course," Fitz lied.  

*~*~*~*