Hiraeth VIII: Amau

*~*~*~*
 
Holding his breath, he lifted the blanket, appraised
the situation, and had a single thought: 'Please God,
let there be no mistake this time.'

Gwilym kept staring at her in wonder, trying to
acquaint himself with the idea that this woman
belonged in bed with him and he with her. That the
Prince of Wales called him 'Gwil' and welcomed him
with a hug. The Kingmaker greeted him, as well, and
checked on him personally, though the tall, bearded
man also seemed to be checking on Duana. His bed was
in a castle, and dozens of knights called him 'Lord'.
This lovely noblewoman slept beside him at night. As
dawn began skirting the city, he checked again, and
found last night had not been a dream after all.   

In response to the cool air, Duana shifted, draping
her bare leg across his. "What do you need?" she
mumbled.

"Not a thing," he answered honestly.

She stretched, and beneath her chemise, her breast
passing against the crisp hair of his chest with a
sigh. She opened her eyes to check on him. "Really?"

"You do not need to jump every time I breathe. Are
you always like this?" 

"No," she replied, closing her eyes. "Do not get used
to it."

"My lady ..." he began, not sure what he wanted to
say.  Aside from recognizing her, his life was only
flashes of images and sensations, and there was so
much he needed to know. Occasionally, a memory
flickered like a candle had been lit in the darkness
of his mind, letting him see for an instant, but then
was gone, leaving more questions than it answered.

A hint of dawn slipped through the cracks in the
shutters and found its way through the bed curtains,
making her hair glisten gold and scarlet. "My God,
you are beautiful," he murmured, trailing his finger
down her face.  

"Am I?" she responded softly, snuggling against him.

"Kings would die for you and common men would barter
their souls, yet here you are beside me. How ever did
that happen?"

Duana hid her face against his shoulder. "You have
hit your head very hard."

"Why?"

"You do not say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"I am your wife."

He looked down at her, puzzled. She was lovely and
kind and bright and witty. He saw other women in his
head, but mostly, he saw her. She was the woman at
the edge of the water, the voice at the edge of his
mind. He had come back from the dead for love of her,
not even sure she was real.

He had caught her watching him, as well - as if
reassuring herself that he was real. For all the
knights sworn to him, it had been Duana who had been
out in the rain, searching for him after the men had
given up hope. He had no idea how she had found him,
but she had, and he had known her instantly. After
getting him fed, bathed, and doctored, she had come
to bed with her hair down: an invitation to make
love if he could have worked up the nerve. 

If he had never told her he loved her, then he was
the world's biggest fool.

"What do I usually say to you?" Gwilym asked, showing
a surprising amount of tact.

"You call me your 'cariad.' Beyond that, you say
little. It is not your nature.  When you remember
more, you will understand. I know you care for me."
She kissed him softly, melting her body into his
arms, then opened her mouth, offering. 

He put his arms around her, embracing her. At any
moment, he expected to be told to stop, but he was
not. He began to map her body with his hands and
lips: a soft, lush land that offered no resistance.
He had surmised she was a dutiful wife, but this was
not duty. This woman wanted him as much as he wanted
her.

It seemed he had a life that was well-worth returning
to.

He sighed contentedly, and slid his hand down her
leg, gathering up the fabric of her chemise. "Do you
consent?" he asked softly.

"I am your wife," she answered, seeming amused.

"I understand that, but I do not want to presume. I
do not remember. To me it is like we have never been
together before," he tried to explain. 

She glanced away for a second, and then met his eyes.
"I would like that: for you to treat me like a woman
instead of as a wife."

Gwilym paused, propping himself up on his elbow. "I
do not understand."

Her hands traveled over his body as if she had
touched him many times before. She whispered,
"Sometimes, when you have too to drink or you are
upset, you forget yourself and treat me as your lover
instead of as your wife. You are... Impolite," she
said, choosing the word carefully. "After those
nights, I can still feel you inside me the next day.
When you are away for weeks, I ache in that same
place. I do not think you understand that, William."

Oh, dear God in Heaven. He simply said the last
rational thing he was capable of thinking: "You are
so slight. Perhaps I am afraid of hurting you."  

"You told me before you left that we fit together
very well. That you liked that."

He shuddered as she rubbed against him, but still he
hesitated. Gwilym did remember a jumble: her
struggling, frightened, trying to pull away as he
held her in the darkness, feeling a baby moving
inside her, splotches of blood on a white sheet,
hearing her gasp one morning in a stable, surprised
at her body's reaction to his. It all blurred
together, though, like smeared ink, and made an
incoherent story.  

She raised her mouth to his, kissing him hungrily,
and his instincts began to overshadow his thoughts.
He gathered up her chemise, pulled it over her head,
then pushed her down, nude, onto the mattress beneath
him. The pressure in his groin was insistent. His
lips throbbed as he kissed her again, and he slid his
hand up the back of her head, tangling his fingers in
her hair as he pushed her legs apart. The way he
wanted her, the way she wanted him, was certainly...
Impolite.

"Yes, I consent," she whispered, her breath hot and
fast against his throat.

*~*~*~*

He wanted to stay in this place: his body deep inside
hers, her legs wrapped around his hips and waist
holding him to her, mouth on mouth, hands on hands.
Nature, however, had other plans.

Rising a bit so she could breathe, Gwilym studied
Duana's flushed face, then kissed her leisurely. "I
think you liked that," he whispered into her ear. "I
think you liked that very much."  

"You are very observant," she murmured back, still
floating in an euphoric haze.

"I still have you," he reminded her, squeezing her
hands under his, fingers tightly interlaced. "Perhaps
I am not sure; perhaps I should do it again so I can
watch you more closely."  

He gave his hips a thrust and she gasped, her
body convulsing.

Gwilym rolled to his side, keeping her against his
chest. Duana aligned her body with his, exhaled, and
closed her eyes, content. He took a deep breath and
relaxed as well, his body humming. He felt heavy and
boneless, tingling and fully alive, yet too tired and
satisfied to move a muscle.

"Cariad," he said lazily, trying out this new name,
"I remember something: it is MayDay; at dusk, our
year will have passed. If we renew the vows tonight,
the pagan marriage continues; if not, it is as though
it had never been. We have a son from the Beltane
fires, yes?"   

"We have a son from last year: Mab. David," she said
softly, wanting to sleep.  "Eimile is a toddler. You
had two other children with a woman named Diana, but
they are with God, as is she. It is very complicated
though, and Prince Llewelyn has just made it more so."

"It seems my life is very complicated," he replied,
trying to digest all that.  "Four children. Really?"
"Do not sound so surprised. The King and Queen of
Spain have seventeen, Melvin has twelve, and Prince
Llewelyn has seven, a few even with his wife. I
think, perhaps you are going to have a fifth."

Gwilym had been hovering in a pleasant fog between
sated and asleep, but he jolted awake. 

"You are with child?" He should not have been with
her, then, especially so roughly. As her words sunk
in, he asked, "A child I fathered?"

"I am not certain yet," she continued calmly, "But I
think so, and Fitz already knows; he may tell you if
I do not."

He stroked her sweaty, tangled hair, counting the
months. If they had a son from the bonfires last
year, the child had been born mid-winter and it was
barely spring. That was quite soon for her to be
pregnant again.

"Did I want this, cariad?"

"Of course; very much. You wanted another son."  

Gwilym swallowed, wondering what had possessed him.
"Did you want this?" he asked.

There was the slightest hesitation before she
answered 'yes,' which told more than any assurances
she could offer.  

*~*~*~* 

"His color is better," Fitz observed, as Duana
checked a dozing William again. She kept looking at
William as if reassuring herself her husband was
really alive and there. "The ladies of the Court will
rejoice; he causes hearts to flutter. As Prince
Llewelyn says, he is rather pretty. Are his memories
returning?"

She nodded, but William opened his eyes and frowned
as she tucked the blanket tighter around him. "Fitz
is just jealous," Duana assured her husband. "Perhaps
he wishes Prince Llewelyn called him 'pretty,' as
well."

The frown became a tired grin, then relaxed as his
eyes closed again.

Watching them together so intimately, Fitz did not
question her affection for William. When he had heard
William speak of her children - in the tavern months
ago, and a few times in camp - it was with genuine
devotion. Prince Llewelyn's eyes followed her, too,
though.

"Have you slept?" Fitz asked, following Duana out of
the bedchamber and shutting the door softly behind
him. "Or have you been taking care of him all night?"

"His head wound is not as bad as I thought, though he
will not like his new haircut when he gets a look at
it," she replied, seeming not to hear Fitz's
questions as she busied herself tidying up the
sitting room. "He is tired and hungry and bruised,
but aside from his head wound, he is in good health. I
think as the swelling goes down, more of his memories
will return."

She picked up a long green cord off the floor, and 
Fitz saw her eyes lose focus as she straightened 
back up.

"Easy," Fitz said, steadying her and backing her to a
chair. Even flustered, he saw that she winced as her
backside made contact with the wooden seat. He had
come to her apartment early this morning to check on
William - and Duana - and overheard them even from
outside the closed bedchamber door. Apparently,
William had awoken rested and up for some rough sport
with his pregnant wife.

FitzWalter had not imagined it: that damn brute of a
Welsh guard at the bedchamber door had smirked at him.

He took a deep breath, trying to push those sounds
and images out of his mind for the moment.

Never having been around a pregnant woman before, he
hovered, offering everything but his soul to make her
feel better until she shushed him. The Welsh knights
came forward, available, but keeping a respectful
distance unless she needed them.

"We can speak another time if you need to rest,
Duana. It will wait. You cannot ride to Wales like
this. I do not want you endangering the baby. Or
yourself." 

"No, I am fine. This happens."

"I see how you are fine. Do you want me to send for a
doctor?"

"Really, Fitz, I am-" His forehead wrinkled with
worry and Duana acquiesced, "Maybe a little fresh
air. Just for a few minutes." 
 
"Of course. Let me take you outside. It is a
beautiful day."  

He helped her up, gesturing for several servants and
all the guards to follow them to the outer courtyard. 
Choosing a bench near the castle gate, Fitz sat
beside her, making sure to leave a decent space
between them.  Maids swarmed like bees, bringing
blankets, sips of water, and fanning her until Duana
ordered everyone away.

The Royal guards retreated a few dozen feet, and the
Welsh knights, perhaps ten.

"For Heaven's sake, I just became a little dizzy. I
am not that delicate." 

He worried his lips, then opened his mouth, sighed,
and closed it again.  

"What is it, Fitz?" Duana asked, keeping an eye on
the outside of the shuttered window of her bedchamber
as she rested. "Something is on your mind."

"I am not sure how to say this, Duana. I had thought
I would say nothing, but now it seems I have to.  But
I am not sure this is the right time, with the baby."

"What is it?"

He hesitated. "It is not a pleasant nor polite thing
to speak of."

"Speak: I am used to William. I doubt you can shock
me."

Fitz shifted uncomfortably, then signaled a servant,
who, a moment later, reappeared with a package.

"When we could not find William's body after the
battle, I had my seneschal intercept any packages or
messages that came for you.  I did not want a
Frenchman with a sense of humor sending you William's
head.  This came for you from the Earl of Chester."

Duana untied the letter he gave her, skimming it
quickly.

"Is that William's seal and signature?" Fitz asked.

"It is. Why do you think this is unpleasant or
impolite? It instructs me to pay for a servant girl
named 'Lucy' and see that she is sent to Wales.  I
handle his accounts as I handled your father's; there
is nothing unusual about this. Just another of
William's odd expenses."

"That is quite a sum to pay for a mere girl."

She shrugged, puzzled.  William had bought dragon
eggs, unicorn horns, and three different maps to
Camelot; she did not even question it anymore.

"Duana, I think he is paying her bride price as well.
William and Llewelyn spent the night in Lincoln
Castle after Prince Llewelyn was wounded, and William
must have spent the night with this girl. This
thirteen-year-old girl. Afterward, he wanted very
badly to keep her. I do not expect him to be faithful
to you, but I cannot stomach that he would send you
the bill."

"He would not do that," she said coolly. "I think you
are mistaken.  In fact, I-"  

"Chester sent the bed sheet, Duana, in case William
might not recall why he agreed to such an steep
price.  There is no mistake."  Fitz watched her face
as she reached further into the parcel, touching the
large spots of dried blood on the white fabric, and
then looked away. "I will provide a dowry for her and
see that she is well-cared for in Chester. If this
child had a child, it will be fostered there as well;
you will never see it."

"Why did you do this, Fitz?" she said after a long
pause. "Whether this is true or not, why hurt me?  I
thought you were my friend. We are friends, Fitz,
nothing more. Please remember that."

"You do not need to worry; I will not forget again. I
do not want to hurt you," he said shakily. "I want to
see that you are not hurt. If he will hurt a young
girl, he will hurt you, and I will not tolerate that."

"He would not," Duana insisted. "And it is not your
concern anyway."

"I heard you this morning. There is no excuse for
that, Duana, even if you were not with child. You
pull away when anyone suddenly touches you now; you
did not do that with my father.  Perhaps he and his
friend care so much that you are carrying your third
children in barely two years? It is nice that Muretta
- William's mistress - has free run of your home in
Wales. He cannot even keep her in the village? The
word is that he wanted you to keep Muretta's child,
but you refused. There is the heresy Edward spoke of:
taking you go among the Druids, practicing some
sort of fertility witchcraft. What of you and Prince
Llewelyn? Is it true? That is barbaric: passing you
back and forth like an eating knife or tankard of
ale. I do not care if Llewelyn is his liege lord; I
cannot allow that!"

"You may not say things like that to me. It is not
prop-" Duana leaned down, covering her face with her
hands.

The large Welsh guards came closer, hovering
protectively.

"Please do not cry. I like William. I do, but he is
not one of us. The Welsh are different with their
odd laws and ways.  They are warriors: hotheaded,
uncivilized pagans. I would give him my army to lead,
or my son to train as a soldier, but not my
stepmother to wife.  But the Crown did give you to
him and so it is the Crown's place to object to your
treatment. I object. I object with every fiber of my
being to see you so shamed and mistreated. I know
you, and I know you will put on a brave face and
pretend everything is perfect when you are miserable."

"You do not understand, Fitz," she said, her voice
trembling. "I am sure there is an explanation for
this girl; he just does not remember it.  Even if
there is not, he is my husband.  I have no say over
what he does. You love this: planting doubts about a
man you know I care for."

"I would never have told you if he had died.  No, I
take no pleasure in this. But you did not tell me the
truth, and I will not send you back to those God-
forsaken Welsh mountains alone as though I trust your
husband to put you above all others."  

'As I would,' Fitz did not add.

Duana looked up, her face and eyes red. "Do not harm
him."

"Of course not."

"What is it you want, Fitz? Are you saying you want
me in exchange for not charging William as a heretic?
That my William has been found, and now I am to keep
my end of our bargain?" 

"Do not say such things! We had no 'bargain.' Duana,
all I want is what I said: to know you will not be
hurt again. I am not going to harm William; you have
my word."

She looked around her, feeling like the tall stone
walls were beginning to close in. This was not real.
William loved her. No one could come between them;
their year did not end until dusk tonight. She could
still feel the damp grass beneath her back, the heat
from the Druid bonfire nearby. She could see her
husband's dark eyes as he touched her pregnant belly,
then as he held his newborn son.

"Is it true, Duana?" Fitz asked gently. "Did William
or Prince Llewelyn take you among the Druids?"

"You are going to harm him."

It was true, then, Fitz thought. The next Prince of
Wales - likely the biggest thorn in King Henry's side
after the French King - was born of witchcraft. Fitz
worried already that Henry would be a weak,
indecisive king; Henry would, at least, be a king who
needed strong allies and frail enemies, not cunning
adversaries. The best thing the kingmaker could do
for England was to see William burned at the stake
and have that unnatural baby boy thrown into the
flames, as well. The best thing for King Henry was
for Wales to have no heir, and to fight amongst
themselves for the next fifty years rather than
troubling England.

"He is a heretic. The king-" He stopped, looking at
her frightened face. "No, I will not. I have already
given you my word," he said finally. "Nor will I harm
your son. But I will not let William take you back to
Wales, either."

She just sat, staring blankly at the bloody bed
sheet, then covered her face again, leaning forward. 

Fitz snapped his fingers for the servant to get the
parcel out of her sight.

"Perhaps he had far too much to drink," she said
hoarsely, into her hands. "Or perhaps he did not know
she was so young."

Or perhaps, last night, in her grief and desperation,
she had found a William who was not hers. Perhaps she
was dead and this was Hell.

"Perhaps," he answered. "There are many excuses, but
this is still inexcusable. I will have your things
moved. The Crown's guards, not Llewelyn's, will be
with you. You may not see William nor Llewelyn alone
until my man can speak with this girl, and I have
some satisfactory answers from the Welshmen." He
raise his hand to put it on her back and then lowered
it again without touching her. "I will deal with this
matter, Duana. I want you to rest, to care for
yourself and your child. I will speak with William."

"You will not harm him?"

"I will not harm him," he promised a third time. That
was all that seemed to matter to her: that she
suffer rather than her husband. "Duana, Prince
Llewelyn acknowledges you as his hearth wife. Do you
acknowledge him?"

She raised her face, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, I do
not know, Fitz," she answered miserably. "Whatever
William says. Whatever Llewelyn says."

"Yes, that does seem to be the way of things," he
said tightly. 

She stood, exhaling, wiping her eyes, and then
smoothing out her skirt so she had something to do
with her hands.

"I would like to go for a walk. Am I still allowed to
do that?"

"Duana-"

"Alone. I want some time to think, Fitz. William is
fine, and I- I cannot be here right now. Not with
you, not with him."

"Of course. I think that would be best. Go. My men
will ensure you are safe."

"Please have them open the castle gate."

Fitz signaled the guards, then watched, hands on his
hips, as Duana squared her shoulders and walked away,
four guards following a few steps behind her.

"Duana," he reminded her. "Tell William's men to
remain here."

She stopped, took a breath, and then turned and said
something in Welsh to the two knights in red tunics.
The gist of it seemed to be that she wanted them to
stay with William. The guards seemed reluctant, and
she pointed at the window, speaking again, then
gestured to his Royal knights.

The two Welshmen relented reluctantly, and then she
continued toward the gate, only Fitz's knights
followed her.

"My lord?" Geoffrey asked quietly, appearing beside
Fitz.  "My lord, the horses are ready. Where do we
take Lady Duana?"

"Is it right to keep a woman from a husband she cares
for, even if he mistreats her?" Fitz murmured,
talking more to himself that Geoffrey. "I am not so
sure now."

"Your orders, my lord?"

"Take her to my country estate," he finally said.
"Once they are clear of London, tell my knights to
travel slowly, to stop any castle, invoke the king's
name, and let her rest. Tell them to be careful that
she is not harmed; she is with child, and she will
not go with them willingly. Any man who harms her is
dead. Station extra guards at the gate in case Lord
William or Prince Llewelyn tries to go after her. 
And God forgive me if I have done the wrong thing."

*~*~*~*   
 
"There has been a mistake," Llewelyn insisted, as
Gwilym stared dumbfounded at the sheet and then read
the letter a seventh time. "He would not do this."

"It seems he did," Fitz answered, resting his hands
lightly on the edge of his desk. "William?"

"I-I do not remember," Gwilym said shakily. "Has
Duana seen this?" 

"Yes. She asked to leave London Court, and I gave her
safe passage. She is hours away by now. I want you to
explain this. All of this: why you would be so rough
with a young girl, why your mistress is her maid, who
truly fathered her children.  I am concerned for her;
that is all. Duana is dear to me."

Gwilym stood, letting the sheet fall to the floor,
and started to pace, feeling the room was too small
for something so awful. Those were the images he saw
in his head: the other women, Duana struggling,
crying, pulling away. Blood.

"You have interfered where it is not your place,
FitzWalter!" Llewelyn spat out.

"You forget to whom you are speaking," Fitz replied
icily.

"I will remind you to whom I speak," Llewelyn hissed,
bracing his hands on the desk and looming over Fitz.
"You are not your father; she is not your wife. You
are a boy with too much power and too little
judgment. There is some mistake about this girl; I
will swear it on my honor."

"Is that the same honor that accompanies you to your
friend's bed with your friend's wife?" Fitz shot back.

"Gwil has risked everything for his wife. Word is,
she offered everything she had so you would search
for him after the battle. Yet you judge him? Know a
man for decades: watch him bleed for your cause and
weep over graves, then tell me what you would do as
his friend. When you have more than an empty bed and
a decree giving you control over a boy-king, you tell
me of marriage. Brag of your chivalry, but when you
will be laughed at for taking back your wife, or when
you will give your children away to ensure their
safety, then you tell me of love. Boy," he repeated
scornfully.

FitzWalter flushed and Llewelyn stepped back,
realizing he had said too much.

"There is rebellion in Scotland," Fitz said after a
moment, the tendons of his throat standing out
angrily. "I am sending William and his knights to put
it down.  I understand his forty days of service for
the year have passed, so I will pay him for this."

Llewelyn gritted his teeth. "Then the rebellion in
Ireland. Then perhaps the latest Crusade, providing
you do not send him to re-conquer France. You will
just keep sending him into battle until one day, he
does not return. You cannot do this. I will go to
the Royal Counsel."

"It was my father that headed the Counsel, Llewelyn.
Let us take this sheet and that convoluted story
about who fathered whose child - and perhaps this
Muretta's child - and go ask them. These are men who
have dined in our home, watched her with my father.
Do you think they want my father's widow mistreated?"

"They were not so concerned for her before," Llewelyn
argued. "If not the Counsel, then I will go to the
Templars."

"Yes, go. There is a doctor who tells of a Druid
ceremony that William took his wife to. Even in
London, they are saying how the heir to Wales was
born during an eclipse of the full moon, that the sky
was blood red even as it snowed because the babe,
like Merlin, is of the Old Ones. Witchcraft. The
Knights Templar are very tolerant of the old
religions: ask the Infidels."

"You cannot do this!"

"It is done," Fitz replied defensively, thinking this
had spiraled far beyond anything he ever intended. "I
do not want you dead, William, and I have promised
your wife you will not be charged for your crimes.
You will stay with my army as a strategist, not as a
general. Duana will be well kept, and her daughter
can join her as soon as the girl is old enough to
travel.  The boy stays in Wales as your heir,
Llewelyn. I think I owe you that: to act as if I
believe your story unless William says otherwise.
William, you may not see Duana until this matter is
resolved. She is with child; I will not take the
chance that you will hurt her." Fitz looked at
Llewelyn, then at Gruffydd standing in the shadows
staring into space, then watched Gwilym pacing. 
"Will you tell me who fathered her daughter,
William? Was it my father? Truly you, Llewelyn?  Or
was it another man?"

"No," Gwilym replied, speaking for the first time in
minutes.

"No, you will not tell me, or no, it was not my
father?"

"No, I will not lead your army and no, I will not
believe Duana does not want to see me or that she
left Court of her own free will. Regardless of what I
have done, I think she would want to yell at me, if
nothing else. I intend to see she gets to do that."

Fitz folded his arms across his broad chest. "You and
your knights will ride for Scotland within the week
or I will charge you with a felony and seize your
lands.  Under the law, that is my right."

Gwilym leaned over the desk so he was eye-to-eye with
Fitz. "Charge me," he said slowly. "Llewel has my
children, and he will keep them safe. If the Crown
manages to seize my kingdom, it will never manage to
rule it. You have my wife. That last thing is going
to change."

Fitz flinched back a hair's breadth. "You would
renounce your oath to the king?  It is true then: a
Welshman's word is worthless."  

He waited for a response, but there were only
Gwilym's dark eyes burning into him.  Then, as he had
done in the tavern months ago, Gwilym simply turned 
and walked away without a word.

*~*~*~*

Geoffrey spotted the idiot Welsh boy near the gate at
dusk, once again picking the leaves off the
decorative plants and tearing them into bits.
Christ, why did they not lock Griffith up 
somewhere and keep him out of trouble?  Ever since
FitzWalter had decided he would have free run of
Court, the boy had been nothing but trouble.

"Do not do that!"  The gardener would have a fit when
he saw what the young man had done to the roses. "I
have told you before.  Do you not speak French, boy?
I said stop it!"

Gruffydd ignored the seneschal, moving along the
outer castle wall and continuing his unique method of
pruning.      

"Boy, those are the king's roses," Geoffrey said,
following him. "I do not like being ignored!"

The young man looked at him, shrugged, and stepped
deeper into the shadows, still stripping the leaves
off the domesticated rosebushes.

"You impudent brat! How dare-"

As soon as Geoffrey was within a foot of Gruffydd, a
man's arm snaked out lightning-fast, pulling him into
the shadows and holding a dagger to his throat.  "Do
not cry out," a voice he recognized as the Prince of
Wales ordered.  "Keep quiet and you will live a
little longer."

"Where is Lady Duana?" another man asked in faulty
French, pressing a second knife against his ribs.
"Where FitzWalter send?"

Geoffrey started to call for help and both blades
pressed harder.  Behind William of Aber, Gruffydd
looked up from the rosebushes, proud of his role in
this ambush.

"Rosslyn," he answered, picking something that
sounded very far away. "Rosslyn Castle in Scotland."

The taller man stepped back, and leather squeaked as
William swung into a saddle. "Say 'open gate,'"
William commanded as the horse snorted.

Geoffrey hesitated, and the knife at his throat
twitched, causing a small, wet trail of blood to
flow. "Open the gate!" Geoffrey called out, careful
not to move.  "I am riding out. Open the gate!"

A few words were exchanged in Welsh, then the man on
the horse pulled his hood over his head and rode out
at a full gallop, too quickly for the guard to
realize it was not Geoffrey leaving the castle.

"I did what you asked," Geoffrey said, as the hoof
beats faded and the blade at his throat still had not
moved.

"You knew my son was locked in that cage in the
dungeon," Llewelyn responded quietly. "Yet you forgot
to tell anyone for months. I am not finished with
you."

As Geoffrey began to tremble, Gruffydd sprinkled a
handful of shredded rose leaves in front of
Geoffrey's face, smiling.

*~*~*~*

"No! Absolutely not!" the pretty blonde ordered,
shaking her head and gesturing for the knights to
ride out of the bailey. "I will not have her here."

Sir Richard, who had been reinstated as captain of
FitzWalter's knights for this mission, sighed, but
kept a firm arm around Duana in the saddle in front
of him.  Richard FitzMatthew had resorted to having
her ride with him: she kept trying to get off her
horse and it seemed disrespectful to tie her onto the
saddle. Besides, getting to hold her so close was not
unpleasant, even for an old man like him.  

"She needs to rest: she is with child," Richard
replied, and then remembered to add, "Countess." He
still thought of Fitz's wife as the girl-queen rather
than the Queen mother and the new Countess of
Pembroke.   

"She is? Well, Fitz found something to do during the
siege after all. No, Richard.  I will not have her
under my roof."

The knights, embarrassed, looked at everything except
Isabelle and each other.  It was no secret that
Isabelle despised Fitz's rigidity and sternness as 
much as he hated her petty, vain flightiness, but the
marriage had been a political necessity. Fitz found
comfort elsewhere, as Isabelle did, but everyone
except Isabelle was polite enough not to mention it.

The captain debated, then decided this was another of
Isabelle's tantrums and was best ignored. Sir Richard
slid down from his horse, then offered his hands to
help Duana.

"Careful," another royal knight reminded him, holding
up his forearm. "She bites." 

Isabelle's eyes flashed and she tossed her long hair
angrily.  She had never accepted the idea that only
virgins and queens wore their hair loose and
uncovered in public, and she was no longer either. 
"Did you not hear me?  I said-"

"FitzWalter said she was to stay here. We have been
riding for days," the captain said tiredly, making
sure Duana had her balance before he let her go. "She
needs to rest." Richard added in a softer voice to
Duana, "Just a few minutes more and you can lie down.
Will you make it inside?  I can carry you."  She had
not come as easily as the knights had anticipated,
and he was terrified they had injured her trying to
wrestle her onto a horse and then in and out of every
castle between London and Pembrokeshire. For a woman
said to be fleeing her barbarian husband, it was like
manhandling a lioness. That, in combination with her
repeated attempts to escape and Count FitzWalter's
promise of a death sentence if there was one mark on
her, had made for a long week.

Duana shook her head 'no' staring at the ground. "I
am fine."

"Yes, you are: fine, that is." Isabelle held her
torch up to examine Duana, who ignored the other
woman. "How is it men continue to turn me out of
their beds to chase you? Me!  Turn me out!  First my
John, and now Fitz.  Fitz is too besotted with you to
even think of me. They say Llewelyn, Prince of Wales,
covets you as well. Fathered your son, in fact. It
seems the greatest men of our world believe
themselves in love with you, when you are only
exotic. Nothing more." Isabelle leaned close, hissing
at Duana. "I think it must be witchcraft: that you
could please a man so well he would sell his soul to
you."

Several of the younger knights shifted uncomfortably.
Isabelle was still pretty and persuasive with her
blonde curls and big blue eyes. Several of the
king's men had risked his head to spend a night with
her, only to have her extract her pound of flesh
afterward.  Having Isabelle was like being loaned
gold in female form, but she demanded interest for
her favors one bloody shilling at a time.  If there
was a woman capable of stealing a man's soul, it
wasn't Lady Duana.

Isabelle waited for a response, for Duana to defend
herself, and then flushed furiously as she continued
to be ignored.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?  You try to
take two husbands from me, you carry Fitz's child,
and you do not have the courtesy to pretend you are
ashamed?"

She raised her hand to slap Duana, and the captain
grabbed it quickly. "Enough!  We are going inside.
She stays here; those were Count FitzWalter's orders.
If you disagree, discuss it with your husband,
Countess."
  
Isabelle jerked free, so livid at this insult to her
pride she was trembling.  

"Sir Thomas?" she said evenly as the men escorted
Duana inside, leaving Isabelle standing in the
bailey. One of the knights topped, shoulders hunched,
staying behind. "You will tell my husband we are
going to have a child," she instructed.

Thomas did not turn around to look at her, but his
head fell forward as though waiting for the
executioner's ax. Fitz had not seen Isabelle in
months. Not since the wedding, and he had not even
bothered to pretend to spend the night with her then.
But Thomas had... seen her.  Once; two months ago.   

"Tell FitzWalter he is going to have a child, Thomas.
Tell him I am not so easily annulled now."

"Yes, my lady," Thomas replied, and then walked
quickly into the castle without looking back. 

*~*~*~*

Gwilym heard snores, recognized them as his, and
realized he must have fallen asleep against the
horse's flank as he tried to groom this latest mount.
The stable was quiet, the horse was warm and smelled
better than the last place he had slept, and the
snoring had a nice melody, so he decided to rest his
eyes for a few more seconds.  

He had covered the hundreds of miles between London
and Edinburgh riding flat out and trading or buying
horses as needed, trying to ensure he was ahead of
the guards moving Duana toward Rosslyn Castle. It was
too chancy to challenge so many knights in the open,
but as long as he knew their destination, all he had
to do was beat them there and then wait.

At least, that was what he hoped. One man against a
party of knights was not good odds, but he had little
left to lose.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, waking him and
startling the horse. "Asleep," a woman said in poor
French, dodging back quickly as though she expected
him to swing at her.  

"Sorry," Gwilym apologized, blinking and discovering
he was still holding the brush to groom the horse.
Out of habit, he started to move his hand again while
watching the slim brunette out of the corner of his
eye.  He had left London with a good deal of money in
his saddlebags and he did not want her stealing what
remained.

"Will you come inside for the night?  I have a room."

"I have a wife," he replied politely, not interested
in a prostitute, although her Gaelic accent reminded
him of Duana.  Whores did not get paid to talk,
though. "Thank you for the offer, but I will sleep
here.  Alone," he added for clarity.

"I have a husband," she said easily. "Iohn is on
crusade, so I run the tavern while he is away.
Please come inside.  You look as though you have not
rested in weeks."

"I did not mean to insult you.  I am not passing the
night, just resting the horse.  Or I will buy another
if you have any to sell."

"I do not, but you cannot push this horse any more or
he will drop.  It would be a pity to ruin such an
animal."

Gwilym, who could not have told anyone the color of
his current mount without looking if his life had
depended on it, just shrugged.  "It does not matter.
Rosslyn Castle is only a few more miles, yes?"

"Yes.  About six miles; follow the River North Esk."

He turned to look at her, noting she reminded him of
someone else as well.  Dark hair and eyes: probably
Diana. He had finally assigned that name to one of
the women he remembered.  He did not recall Diana
looking so haunted as this Highlander woman, though,
but what he recalled was questionable these days.

"You are far from home. You are looking for someone,
Welshman," she said, fingering the crude cross of
Duana's he had tied around his throat.  "Someone you
have lost. I pray you find her."

"So do I," he answered, stepping back out of her
reach and looking away.  "Will you leave and let me
pray?"

She nodded, leaving the stable and sliding the door
closed after her so it blocked out the crimson sunset
and the darkness returned.

*~*~*~*  

Fitz could not even get his foot out of his stirrup
before Isabelle pounced on him about Duana, digging
at his conscience and then twisting her claws.

"She is not my mistress," Fitz assured her for a
tenth time in a row, using the polite, aloof tone he
had cultivated for French ambassadors. "I will have
Duana moved as soon as it is safe for her child.  She
left London very quickly..."

Isabelle was glaring at him, and he decided it was
not worth wasting his breath.  The only person
Isabelle had any sympathy for was Isabelle.  

"How dare you insult me? How dare you continue to
keep that woman under my roof?"

Fitz cocked his head to the side, gritting his teeth.
Not a word from Isabelle asking about him or her son
Henry after not seeing either in months.  His
seneschal had vanished to God-knows-where, the Royal
Counsel was having marathon meetings about nothing in
particular, and Fitz had a spring head cold - the
last thing he wanted to do was smooth Isabelle's
ruffled fur. "My roof," he said evenly, pointing to
the castle battlements. "Pembroke Castle.  Marshall
FitzWalter, Count of Pembroke. Under my roof."

Static crackled in the air between them as Isabelle
calculated, her narrowed eyes and flared nostrils
looking out of place on her pretty face. "Do not
dismiss me so easily," she warned.

"I do not dismiss you; I am only saying there is no
insult to you. Lady Duana needed sanctuary and I gave
it.  That is all.  This was once her home."

If she even heard that, she gave no sign of it. "We
are going to have a child," she informed him.

He took a few breaths before asking, "We?"  

There was no 'we'; there had never been a 'we.'
Marrying Isabelle had soothed the Royal Counsel and
cemented him as kingmaker, but Fitz was now firmly
established as regent and she was nothing but an
annoying embarrassment.  If the need ever arose -
say, in the form of a pretty, pregnant redheaded
widow - Isabelle was easily annulled.  But once there
was a child, an easy annulment was not possible.  The
marriage had been consummated.  There was the option
of charging her with adultery and treason against him
and having her executed, but Fitz could never bring
himself to do that.  

"We?" he repeated.  "Would you like to tell me which
man constituted my part of this 'we' while I was in
London?"

Isabelle smiled, revealing her even white teeth; God
had overlooked nothing in making this woman perfect
except a heart. "No, I would rather you wondered."

*~*~*~*