*~*~*~*

"Did you misunderstand?" Fitz barked, again arriving
to find the doctor lurking outside Duana's apartment,
badgering the guards and probably terrifying Duana.
"She is fine - it was a mistake you were summoned.
I have paid you for your time: leave Court
immediately."

"She is unclean," Donaes de Pasquier insisted,
watching hungrily as the guards stepped aside so Fitz
could enter. "I must treat her."

"You will do no such thing. She says you are trying
to harm her."

"You would take that girl's word over mine?"

"When the girl is that woman, yes, I would.  Until
her husband can come, it is my place to see she is
safe.  The bleeding has stopped, and there is no
fever - it was my mistake.  She does not need a
doctor."  

The servant announced him, and the nursemaid
cautiously opened the door, revealing Duana and
Eimile playing on a blanket on the floor of the
sitting room, trying to get reacquainted.  Henry,
unhappy to be displaced as the center of everyone's
world, sat pouting on the sofa, glaring at the blonde
little girl.

"She is a witch - she must be purified," Donaes de
Pasquier hissed, and Duana pulled her daughter closer
as he tried to step into the room.

Losing patience with the man, Fitz slammed the door
closed again and snapped, "Enough! You will not cut
her hair, you will not bleed her, and you certainly
will not bathe her!" Nodding to the guards, he said,
"Donaes has been compensated for his time. If he
tries to approach Lady Duana again, kill him.  Is
that clear enough for you, Donaes?  She is not your
patient - you may not touch her."

"She is not your wife. You may not touch her,
either."

Before he could think, Fitz saw his own fist make
contact with the doctor's cheekbone, sending him
sprawling to the floor.

Donaes made a growling noise, flaring his nostrils
and licking his lips like a wolf sniffing the wind,
then got to his feet, stepping toward Fitz. "You will
be sorry."

"I do not think so," Fitz responded, entering and
closing the door in Donaes' face, leaving the guards
to deal with him.

Pausing, he exhaled, trying to calm down before he
spoke to Duana so he would not frighten her.  Her
assumption in the inn that he would force her - that
he was holding her down to rape her, not to stop the
bleeding - had not sat well with him.  No, he was not
going to force her into anything.  She was clear
about what she wanted, and it was not FitzWalter,
Count of Pembroke. He was one of the richest and most
powerful noblemen in the known world, and she wanted
a Welsh barbarian who mistreated her.

The night William of Aber had taken her from Court,
Duana had been abed with Fitz. Months had passed with
no word from William, even as his child grew inside
her. It was Fitz who took care of her, kept her from
harm. That night, she had come to him, anxious, but
of her own accord - saying she would marry him,
saying she would stay with him that night. She wanted
him to be her child's father, she wanted him to be
her husband. He burned to tell William that, but he
would not. Fitz feared William would hurt Duana if he
knew, and Fitz's fear for her well-being far exceeded
the pain of the wound to his pride.

If William would just let her be, she would be
Countess of Pembroke right now.

He wondered if was possible for a man's brain to
overflow, especially when pieces of his heart were
torn out, labeled 'honor' and 'duty,' and stored in
the part of his mind marked 'another man's wife.'

She stood, smoothing her new dress, and looked at him
hopefully, wanting to know if Fitz had been able to
find William yet. Behind her, Eimile scrambled up on
the sofa beside Henry, glaring back as the boy glared
at her, the same three lines appearing between their
eyebrows.

Duana came to him quickly, looking expectant, and
Fitz inhaled, smelling clean hair and the soft scents
of the nursery over female skin.  It was remarkable
how Duana always smelled exactly the way a woman
should: of comfortable homes, contented children, and
a subtle note of something mysterious and visceral
underneath. 

"Did you find him?" she asked, staring up at him with
enigmatic blue eyes. A man, given the opportunity,
could discover an entirely new country in those eyes,
and never want to return from it.

Like anything else a man covets, if he could not have
it, it was best to put it away and forget about it.
That was what Father would have said, anyway. Out of
sight was out of mind, son.

Or absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Or familiarity breeds contempt.  

No, William would be at Court by nightfall, and Fitz
would be as calm, controlled, and formal as he always
was. They would say the proper things, then William
would disappear into Duana's apartments with her,
bolting the door behind him. And familiarity did not
just breed contempt; it bred sons as well - for
William at least, not for Fitz.

FitzWalter should marry one of the French king's
sisters to help build an alliance between England and
France. Or a Castillian princess, or some duchess
from Flanders. That was his duty to the Crown. The
Pembroke lands he had given Duana  were his already.
There was nothing to be gained by marrying Duana
except Duana.

That had been good enough for Father, though, and
Father had protected her to his dying breath.

The Welshman had hurt Duana before, and he would hurt
her again. Once the door was bolted, or once she had
crossed the mountains of Snowdonia into Gwynedd, Fitz
would not be able to help her.

If William died, though, and Duana became heiress to
both Pembrokeshire and Gwynedd, marrying her forged
an alliance with the Prince of Wales and brought much
of Wales under Norman control. It seemed practically
necessary when Fitz thought of it that way.

"Fitz, have you found him?" Duana repeated, standing
close to him. "My William?"

"I have found him - William accepts the terms, he is
coming for you and Eimile," Fitz said calmly.     

*~*~*~*

"Easy, Gwil," Llewelyn murmured as they were escorted
through the outer castle gate and into London Court.
"You have no cause for complaint. FitzWalter has
accepted the terms - he is not happy, but he has
accepted."

"He took my wife," Gwilym insisted.  His heart had
stopped beating among the ruins of their shabby
little cottage and had not restarted until word came
that Duana was alive and safe at Court.  It did
things to a man: entire days without a heartbeat.  He
had been dead several times now, and it had given him
some perspective on the importance of life.

He kept hearing it echoing - his angry voice yelling
at Duana not to leave the cottage and his fist
tingling as he struggled not to strike her.
Perversely intermingled with that was a haunting
memory of her whispering to him, 'You will not hurt
me?' as they made love for the first time.   

"He took back what he thought was his kidnapped
bride, he kept her safe, and he is returning her to
you as he promised. Tell me you would have done any
different."

Gwilym turned to glare at Llewelyn, his nerves as
frayed as the ends of an old rope. "Funny, you look
exactly like Prince Llewelyn.  How is it a politician
has taken over your body?"

"He could keep Duana at Court, do whatever he wants
with her, and make you dance to see her every blue
moon, but he is not doing that.  He set forth the
terms and he is honoring them.  Do not lose your
temper and make him change his mind."

Goliath snorted, responding to the tension in
Gwilym's hands and legs, and fidgeting as they
stopped in the bailey. "He is purposely making us
wait," Gwilym muttered, scanning the dim courtyard,
wondering if this was some sort of trap. 

"Yes, he is," the prince replied calmly. "You will
play his game because this is his arena.  When you
command his army, make him wait a week to find out if
he has won a battle. For now, behave."

The doors finally opened, and FitzWalter stepped out,
looking every inch the regal statesman coming to
greet them.  Gwilym hated how Fitz and men like him
never looked down and saw the blood on their own
hands, staying a step removed from guilt by
justifying their sins as their birthright. Just once,
he wanted a Norman King to hold up a severed head or
point to a shattered life and say, 'I did this,'
rather than, 'This is my right and God's will.'

Gwilym swung down from his saddle and crossed the
bailey in long, angry strides.

"Gwilym!" Llewelyn yelled after him. "Goddamn it,
Gwil!" The hotheaded fool was going to ruin
everything.

"You have something of mine," Gwilym growled,
stepping forward, then back, like an angry panther
trying to decide how best to attack.

"Behind you," Fitz said calmly, and Gwilym turned to
see Duana hurrying across the bailey with Eimile in
her arms.

The world slowed, dragging out the languid evening
into a long black thread separating them.  He took
one step, then another, then another when he realized
she was real.  There was no sound - no birds or
horses or noise from the city.  Then suddenly, it all
vanished: Fitz, Llewelyn, Court - everything except
her.  Gwilym felt something course through his veins
as his fingertips touched her cheek, and realized it
was life reawakening.  The bottom of his chest
cleared and he could breathe deeply, exhaling like a
river surging over a crumbling dam.     

"You are real?" he asked, just to make sure.  How
foolish that men believed they owned women when it
was exactly the other way around.  This was who he
was and to whom he belonged.   

"I am." Her lower lip was trembling and she bit it
determinedly to get it to stop.

"Did he harm you?"

Duana shook her head 'no.'

Sliding his arms around her thankfully, he whispered,
"Do not leave me again, cariad.  I would be alone,
adrift, and, and, and poorly dressed."

"I will not," she murmured, looking up at him.
 
Llewelyn smirked as Gwil, usually the most private of
men, kissed Duana warmly, then picked both her and
Eimile up and swung them around for all to see. Henry
appeared to join the happy reunion and get underfoot,
but Fitz stopped him, putting a firm hand on the
boy's shoulder.

*~*~*~*

"She needs to go to bed, William." 

Gwilym nodded, asking the little girl his name one
more time, to which she dutifully replied, "Dehdeh,"
giving him a puzzled look she inherited from her
mother and wondering how he had forgotten in twenty
seconds.  

"She knows you. She remembers," Duana soothed him.  

"But Mab will not," Gwilym answered, lifting the girl
off his lap and handing her to the nurse, who vanished
without a word.  "It has been too long."

Aber, with dogs and babies underfoot, the sanctity of
their marriage bed, and late night philosophical
verbal foreplay was eons, not miles away.  Normal was
a state pushed so far into memory he was not sure if
he could still function there, provided he could find
his way back at all.

"Do you really think that he has forgotten us?"   

Gwilym saw his pain reflected back at him, and
shrugged. "I do not know.  Tyna always knew me, and I
left on Crusade when she was very small.  Not long
after Diana died in the fire."

"Was that her name: your daughter with Diana?  You
had never told me."

He nodded, staring at her for a moment, still
remembering the empty feeling of seeing their burnt
cottage in Bath and being certain she had been in it,
that it was happening all over again.  He blinked,
the image vanishing into a few stray specks of green
and gold in her blue eyes.  She looked at him
steadily, calmly, waiting for some cue.  That was
true courage - not swords or chivalry, but to knowing
what was sweetest in life and what was truly
terrible, and then going forward, undeterred and
unfaltering, to meet what was to come.
 
"There are many things I should have told you and
have not." Then, after a pause, "I brought you a
birthday gift," he said casually, reaching for a
package.

"You are either very early or very late." Duana
rested her hand lightly on his thigh as he unwrapped
it. "What is that? Is it a weapon?"

"It is an outlawed weapon," Gwilym answered, showing
her how to hold and aim the crossbow. "I thought you
would like it."

She examined it curiously, seeing how the mechanism
worked, then thanked him, setting in on the table and
covering it with a cloth, under-whelmed.

He frowned, disappointed, and she picked it up again,
feigning interest for his benefit.  
 
Gwilym leaned back, stretching his arms out along the
top edge of the sofa so he appeared perfectly at
ease. "The next time someone tries to kidnap you,
just shoot him.  I spend an inordinate amount of time
chasing after you in this marriage, and enough is
enough.  I am tired of having to hunt you down, and I
do not care for this fleeing-the-Crown, whose-son-is-
hose, burnt cottages, your-wife-wanted-sanctuary
drama. Let us have another story."

Taking his sarcasm at face value rather than
realizing the fear underlying it, she responded,
"William, I am sorry I am so much trouble."     

"No, that is not what I meant," he said quickly. "I
would track you to the end of the Earth, but I am
never sure what to say when I find you. What do I
say, cariad?"
 
"Just say 'hello.' 'I have missed you.' 'I love you.' 

'Hello, I have missed you, I love you," he repeated
rapidly, slipping his arm around her shoulders and
pulling her closer, then shifting her so she
straddled his hips and wondering if she would pull
away. "How was that?"

"It was a good place to begin."

"We have a beginning: it just keeps being
interrupted. We have a middle - I think we actually
began in the middle, if that makes any sense.  Now we
need diwedd, an end, cariad." 

"Not just yet," she requested, kissing a tingling
line down his neck. "Not just yet."
        
*~*~*~*
 
"Henry, stop whining and go to bed," Fitz ordered,
rubbing his throbbing temples and staring at another
letter from another land baron in need of pacifying.
Like being the Kingmaker, the letter droned on and
on until Fitz could not remember what the original
point had been or why he had even begun it.  

"But I want to see Lady Duana," the boy insisted,
slouching in the chair across from Fitz's desk.  He
folded his arms, shoving out his lower lip and
uttering one of his favorite phrases: "I am the king,
after all."

"Lady Duana is with Lord William," Fitz said tightly,
focusing on the letter instead of that image.  "I am
sure they do not want company.  It is late. Go to
bed."

"But-" 

"Now!" Fitz snapped, then added softly, "I know you
are upset, but it is past your bedtime.  I know I
told you Duana was going to stay, but that is not the
case.  I was mistaken."    

"I do not want her to leave," Henry said, his lower
lip beginning to tremble. "Make her stay, Fitz.
Please." 

"I cannot, Henry.  I am sorry.  Duana wants to go,
and William has accepted my terms.  Lord William will
be back in the spring and he may have news of Duana
then.  You can write to her if you like; I suppose
William lets her read her letters.  Go on to bed."

"I want a story," he pouted.

"All right," Fitz conceded, standing up and
stretching. "Come on. I will tell you a story."

"One of Duana's stories.  Your stories are all about
wars."

Fitz sighed tiredly. "What about one from Kym?"  He
opened the door to his bedchamber, not remembering if
he had sent for his mistress tonight or not. "Kym..."    

The small form in the bed rolled, sitting up and
pushing her long red hair back from her face.  "Yes,
my lord?"

"Come tell King Henry a bedtime story." 

She blinked in surprise, then obediently wrapped the
sheet around her and got up.  It was certainly not
the strangest thing he had ever asked her to do, and
he at least had called her by the correct name.       

"I do not want her stories, Fitz," Henry said from
behind him.  "Just because you can close your eyes
and pretend does not mean I can."

Fitz turned around, his mouth hanging open.  "You may
be the king, but I am the Kingmaker and you are not
above a spanking.  How dare you!  Go to bed now!"

Henry retreated tearfully, the picture of young
misery.  He was only repeating what he had overheard
from the servants; he did not even understand what
the joke was. 

Fitz flopped on the sofa, sprawling his legs and
staring at the ceiling for several minutes until he
decided the answers were not written up there.  

Kym ventured over hesitantly, knowing she was not
usually allowed in the office.  Fitz had been in a
foul mood for days - ever since he returned to Court
with the Welshman's wife.  Kym waited to be displaced
in his bed, but Fitz continued to send for her and
then to seem disappointed that she was what she was.
"My Lord, did you want me?"

He raised his head, managing a small smile for her
benefit.  Kym was as sweet as women came; she just
was not Duana.  She was, however, as close as he was
likely to come tonight.

"In a bit. Go on to sleep; I will wake you later."

She nodded, returning to the bedchamber where she
belonged.

Fitz hesitated, considering changing his mind as she
dropped the sheet and slid nude under the covers, but
then heaved himself off the sofa and headed for
Henry's apartment to check on the boy.

*~*~*~*

"Good evening, Count FitzWalter," a creaky voice said
from the shadows as Fitz left Henry's rooms, having
managed an embarrassing story with true love, high
adventure, and even, against his better judgment, a
happy ending. "I hope the king is well."

"He is well," Fitz answered cautiously, turning to
locate the speaker in the dark hallway.   

A man stepped out, demanding a great deal of space
for an average-sized person.

"My lord..." Fitz could not recall the old man's name,
so he left it at that. "I did not know you were still
at Court.  I am glad. I wanted to thank you and your
friend for returning Lady Duana, and apologize for
the misunderstanding."

"I understand, of course.  A man has every right to
be protective of his wife."

"Lady Duana is Lord William of Aber's wife.  She was
once my stepmother."

"Oh. I must have misread the banns. I had thought she
was to be your wife."

Fitz shook his head, shifting his weight from one
foot to the other and wondering how soon he could
escape and still be polite.  

"It is a blessing she has you to look out for her.
The Welshman left her alone in the forest - anything
could have happened.  It was only good fortune we
found her instead of someone else, someone with less
altruistic motives.  Really, she owes you a great
deal for your kindness and generosity."   

Like William, Fitz had grown up the sole heir to his
father's estate and was no stranger to flattery from
false friends seeking favors.  "My apologies, but I
cannot place your title. Who did you say you were?" 
 
"I am an alchemist: I invent the future."

"Ah," Fitz said, amused. He should remember this: Kym
would like hearing about this withered fool with skin
like a smoked ham and a voice like a snake. "How do
you manage that?"

"Very carefully," the old man answered.  "Much as you
do.  You invent a king, I invent destiny."

"Well, best of luck to you.  Goodnight," Fitz said
quickly, starting to turn back toward his own rooms.
Watching William embrace Duana, soothing Henry's
tantrum, and humoring an insane old man: he was
finished with his good deeds for the day.

"It is a pity about her child.  One would think Lord
William would not treat a pregnant woman so roughly
if he wanted the baby. She is his wife, though. I
suppose he can treat her as he chooses so long as he
does not kill her without cause. Perhaps he was
displeased to discover a wife he had seldom seen, one
who had spent so much time with you, was with child.
Perhaps the Welshman did not believe the baby was his
or Prince Llewelyn's, and she could not convince him."
The Kingmaker's jaw twitched. Duana had told him she
had miscarried, but she had not given a reason.

"Is that what happened?" Killing an unborn child - by
witchcraft or herb-craft or by purposely beating a
woman so she miscarried - was heresy. "William did
not want the child?"

"Come judge for yourself," the old man offered,
turning away.  

Deciding to play this game a few more minutes, Fitz
followed him through the narrow hallways the servants
used during the day, but which were empty at this
hour. 

"Here," he said quietly, stopping somewhere in the
bowels of the castle and sliding a cracked stone out
of the wall. "Look."

"Yes, that is a nice rock," Fitz said. "What am I
looking at?"  

"It is Lady Duana's bedchamber. William is with her.
Are you not curious?"

"No, I am not," Fitz responded, horrified. "How dare
you spy on her!"

"You must know how easy it is to hurt a woman like
that. Such a lovely creature - and bright, too.  Her
sons will certainly be great men.  It is a pity they
will never rule more than Wales."

In spite of himself, Fitz's eyes followed the
movements in the moonlit room, hearing William's soft
laughter at some private joke.  Duana was standing in
front of him, facing away as he nuzzled her neck and
caressed her body through her bedrobe. William
stepped back, slipping her robe off, letting it fall
to the floor so she was nude, her nipples rigid in
the cool night air.  She turned, wrapping her arms
around his neck and tilting her head back as they
kissed, red hair tumbling down on her shoulders, and
his big tanned hands sliding over her body as easily
as water flowed over a marble sculpture.

Though he had never seen William strike or speak
sharply to her, Duana was a headstrong, plain-spoken
woman and William was a proud man with a temper. Fitz
had pictured William being rough with her in private:
punishing and shaming her just because he could. She
had been so nervous that night she had come to Fitz.
She had been pregnant and upset about William, but
still... In the secret part of his mind, he had given
it significant thought when Duana was to be his wife:
that she would be more frightened then normal as a
bride because she was accustomed to being mistreated.
The idea of proving that he was different, he would
not hurt her, and teaching her to respond in bed had
appealed to Fitz. 

Perhaps, tonight William was trying to make amends
for past misdeeds, or perhaps he was always gentle
with her so long as he got what he wanted, but
William was treating her - not with the candles-
snuffed, beneath-the-covers politeness Norman noblemen
had with their arranged wives - but like a cherished
mistress.

It was odd seeing a man Fitz thought of as dangerous
and coarse treat a woman as gently as Fitz would
have. William even seemed a little unsure of himself
- touching her stomach and asking her something in a
quick jumble of Welsh and bad French. Duana nodded,
and William hesitated, speaking again. Fitz couldn't
follow the conversation beyond that, but
understood enough to know William had asked if she
could conceive and Dauna had answered affirmatively.
There were a few more quick sentences, the inflection
light, playful, promising, before William kissed her,
then took Duana by the hand and led her toward the
big, canopied bed. 

"He will get her with child again - it is time," the
man said, causing Fitz to jump and realize he was not
breathing. "She is telling him that. He is saying he
wants a son he knows is his. Llewelyn has his heir,
and now it is William's turn. That is their
agreement. It is far too soon, but he does not care.
It seems his pride and lust outweigh the risk of
losing her."

Fitz swallowed, looking away, then actually turning
his back so he could not see. "This is her choice."  
 
"To spend her life being mistreated by a murderer and
traitor in Wales when she could again be the Countess
of Pembroke? To lose a baby because her husband does
not have the stones to ask you whether you fathered
it? To die in childbirth because he cannot find
comfort elsewhere for a few months? To be sent to the
Prince of Wale's bed anytime Llewelyn has an itch
while her own husband flaunts his mistress and beds
thirteen-year-old girls? Your father's widow: this is
a choice you allow?"

"Enough, old man.  I will see that this stone is
fixed in the morning and you will need to find
another form of entertainment."

As Fitz started to leave, he heard Duana gasp, then
murmur something urgently in Welsh.  William
whispered back, and the mattress shifted, making a
hushed protest as they lay down.

"Did you notice how much her daughter resembles
Henry?" the old man hissed quickly. "Did she not tell
you William killed Eimile's father?  The boy may be
Llewelyn's, but who do you think would dare have
touched your father's wife besides the king?"

FitzWalter stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to
the side, then slowly turned around again. "You are
implying William killed King John?"

"I am not implying anything.  Put King Henry and
Eimile side-by-side and look at them.  You need an
heir, FitzWalter, and you know you will not get one
yourself.  Think about what a son with William's
brilliance and your power could accomplish: he would
rule Europe - the greatest leader since Charlemagne.
Since Arthur. If Lord William were executed as a
traitor, that would leave Lady Duana alone, with
child, and in need of a husband. It is not that she
dislikes or fears you; it is that she believes she
loves William. She would grieve, but in time, if you
were patient, she would be as warm to you as she is
to this Welshman. He has taught her some tricks to
please a man that I had thought only Cathers and
Infidel whores knew." 

"Put the stone back," he ordered, then shoving it
into place himself to get the sounds from the bed to
stop when the old man did not move. "This charge you
are making - it is not something I take lightly, nor
is you spying on Lady Duana.  I will speak to Lord
William in the morning, and I suggest you be gone
from Court by then."  

"Until King Henry is of age, you are the law in
England - how can you let a murderer go unpunished?
Perhaps Henry will be William's next target."  Fitz
blinked, and the old man dangled the proverbial
forbidden fruit. "You and the Welshman both have dark
eyes, dark hair. Both of you are tall, formidable
men. If he is executed and you marry her quickly,
everyone will assume the son she conceives tonight is
your seed. There would be a Pembroke heir."

Fitz swallowed again, wondering how this man knew the
secrets he seemed to know. 

"I can arrange for you to go to her, if you want,"
the old man offered. "Tonight. Have Lord William
called away for a few hours, and I will make a potion
to give to Lady Duana in wine, and for you to drink.
Go to her and she will think she is coupling with her
husband.  You could say, in all honesty, you were
with her the night your son was conceived." The man
paused. "I once arranged the same for Uther
Pendragon."

"Arthur," Fitz said to himself, wondering if that was
what it felt like to be enchanted. The legend was
that Pendragon had gotten a potion from a Welsh
wizard, gone to another man's wife, and conceived
King Arthur. Arthur would return when England needed
him, and England sorely needed him now.  

"You are the kingmaker. You do not need to marry for
status or power or money. Like your father, you can
now afford to marry a woman who brings nothing to you
except herself. This time, she also brings a healthy
son. Her son with Llewelyn would rule northern Wales,
perhaps Scotland. Her son born to you could rule
southern Wales and all your lands in Normandy and
Ireland. You and Duana would raise King Henry to rule
England. You truly could unite the kingdom. Was that
not the destiny your father envisioned for you?"

Fitz heard Duana cry out faintly, but it was
impossible to tell whether if it was in pleasure or
pain. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the
discomfort in his groin. It was late. He would go to
Kym, be with her, sleep, and sort this mess out
tomorrow.

"William killed the King John," the old man hissed
seductively. "He must die; that is not in question.
The only question is: what becomes of Lady Duana and
her son. Tonight, FitzWalter. Go to her. I can
arrange it within the hour."

Fitz exhaled and shook his head, clearing it. "No,"
he said firmly. He would question William about King
John, William would deny it, and that would be all.
He would not meddle in Duana's affairs again. Or in
witchcraft. 

"Think about it: what it must be like to touch that
woman."

"Tonight, the only thing I think is that you are
insane, old man."

Fitz turned away, muttering about old fools and late
hours, angry with himself for even listening to such
nonsense.

*~*~*~*

Duana rolled over, reaching out and finding a still-
warm empty space on the bed beside her.  Looking up,
she saw Gwilym standing nude in front of the window,
silhouetted blue-black by the waning moon. She often
awoke to this - sometimes he would be watching the
dark horizon for any sign of danger, or sometimes the
stars, as though he was lost and looking for a star
to guide him.  More than once, Duana had opened her
eyes to William's steady gaze only inches above her.
He would part his lips as if to speak, then decide
against it and fill the silence by making love to her
gently, but without a word. 

"What is it, William?"

"I was just watching," he said softly, his breath
white in the frosty air.

"Watching what?" she asked, pulling a blanket around
her and padding across the floor to his side.  

"Just watching. Whatever worlds are out there." 

"All right," Duana said hesitantly, sliding her hand
down his bare back, not sure if she was going to be
kissed or pushed away.  When he did not stop her, she
ran her fingertips over the lean muscles of his hips,
stroking as though he was a wild animal she expected
to shy away.

"I am sorry. I do not think I have said that to you,"
he said after a long silence. "For lying to you about
other women, for taking you into that stupid Roman
bath, for leaving you alone in the forest..."  He
glanced at her from the corner of his eye, chewing
his lip before he spoke again. "I have been in
battles where so many of my men fell, their bodies
covered the ground like snowdrifts.  Time became
surreal, and I could not think about which friend I
was stumbling over. To survive, I had to keep
fighting.  It is only after the battle that it
becomes real: the scope of the loss.  That is what I
have been feeling; for months, I have only had time
to survive.  Now, the battle is ending and it is time
to take stock of the losses."  

She waited; each word was a great weight being lifted
from him.   
 
"I did not realize I was asking you to make such a
choice: to stay with Fitz and keep Eimile, the baby,
and yourself safe, or go with me.  I knew you were
not well, but I did not think...  If I had it to do
over again, I - I would have made you go back inside
the gate of Pembroke Castle.  Or perhaps I should
never have come for you at all."

"Then I would have had to come to you," she
whispered, stepping closer and wrapping her blanket
around him as well.  "You are a terror to track down
when you take off on some adventure."

"You almost died, cariad."

"But I did not."

"Do you blame me?  Or hate me?" he asked. "I think
you must, sometimes.  The girl in Chester's castle -
that was inexcusable, and we both know you should not
have been with child again so soon, and that you lost
the baby because you fled with me.  You do not love
me as you once did, but... Is there anything left to
salvage from this wreckage?"

She hesitated, trying to find the right words.  "You
have always taken me as I am, and I have tried to do
the same.  I know I am not the best wife: I am too
proud and willful, and I have trouble obeying any man
who tells me to stay in a burning cottage," she
teased, and he smirked nervously, "But I do love you."

"Do you?" Gwilym asked softly. "Yes, you probably do,
though I have no idea why.  Perhaps you are on some
mission from God.  Are you hoping for sainthood?
Duana of the Scullys: patron saint of lost causes."

Duana laughed quietly, laying her forehead against
his shoulder. "To be a saint, I would have to perform
three miracles and die a virgin."

"Well, that is not likely," he answered lightly,
putting his arms around her. "Even when the world is
upside down, you never seem to flinch.  I think
sometimes you are much stronger than I am."  

"I do flinch, William - I just do not let you see it.
We are metal forged in a great fire: the hotter the
fire, the stronger the bond."

"I am afraid of fire, cariad," he admitted, toying
with a strand of her hair, rolling the red silk
between his fingertips.

"You have good reason to be.  Do you blame me that
King John hung your Dafydd?  Do you hate me for all
the trouble Fitz has caused?"

"No, of course not.  You are my wife."       

"And you are my William, you morose fool." She
stepped back, tugging on his hand to get him to come
back to bed. 

"Again?" he asked, only pretending to be horrified.
"Jesus, you really will be the death of me. I thought
I would go get Eimile and bring her to sleep with us."

"Do you think you can wait a few minutes?" Duana
asked, dropping the blanket and turning to crawl up
on the mattress.

Gwilym followed, stroking his fingers lightly down
the curve of her bare hip as she had his. "A few
minutes?  Do not insult me, witch."  

*~*~*~*

"You get up early, William," Fitz said, looking up
from his desk. He had been trying to fill his head
with paperwork instead of thoughts of Duana - and not
succeeding.  "Or are you just up very late?"  

"My knights said you wanted to see me, and I saw the
light in your office..." Gwilym trailed off, still
standing, since Fitz had not offered him a seat.   

Fitz paused, letting Gwilym wait, then realized the
Welshman was not going to fidget or flinch. "I
discovered an old man watching Duana earlier tonight.
I have dealt with him, but I wanted you to know."

"Thank you," Gwilym answered simply, waiting to see
if there was anything else, but only half-awake.  He
was eager to get Eimile and go back to bed before his
post-coital bliss wore off and he actually had to
think.  

"I wanted to ask about her child," Fitz said quickly.   

"It was a girl. Perhaps if there would have been a
doctor or a midwife, but there was not..."    

That had not been the child Fitz wished to discuss,
but it was interesting information.  He rehearsed the
words in his head several times, then said
carelessly, "It was just a girl, though."

"Tell that to Duana," Gwilym retorted, snapping awake
like a soldier who had dozed off on guard duty. He
tilted his chin up defiantly and added, "I am sure it
will make her feel better."

Kym peeked out of the bedchamber, wondering if Fitz
would ever come to bed, then, noticing Gwilym, ducked
back inside.  Gwilym saw her, though, and silently
took note of the long, red hair, the fair skin, and
the slight build.   

As always, Fitz had the sense this was a dangerous
animal he was trying to confine to too small an area.
He ran his hands the width of his desk, secretly
glad it was between them.  "I do not know a polite
way to say this, so I will just say it bluntly. Duana
has never done anything to dishonor you; if you have
a quarrel, it is with me. I have no right to tell you
how to treat your wife, but I will ask anyway: please
do not mistreat her or take out your temper on her."  

"I have no quarrel with my wife," Gwilym answered
cautiously, looking ahead in this maze to see where
the trap might lie. "She only did what I told her to
do."

"Which is?"

"If there was no choice, she should submit. That 
she was not required to resist and get herself 
beaten to a pulp for the sake of my pride. To do
what she must to stay alive. I would rather my 
pride bleed than my wife - but my sword has a 
very long memory."

Fitz studied on that for a few seconds, then said,
"Duana said you hung Alex."

Gwilym nodded, keeping his face expressionless, but
filing that epiphany away to ruminate about later. 

"And Eimile's father?"

"Eimile is my daughter," Gwilym responded.  

"She is your daughter just a Dafydd ap Llewelyn is
your son: they are children born to your legal wife."

Gwilym gritted his teeth, knowing he was being baited
somehow.  No one in Wales would question that he was
Dafydd's father, and Llewelyn said the boy would live
in Aber; he did not need to prove a point to
FitzWalter.        

Fitz walked casually around the desk and leaned back
on it so his eyes were level with Gwilym's. "I have
never asked Duana to do anything she did not want to
do."

"That was wise," Gwilym snapped, sardonically amused
at the way Fitz justified what was and was not
coercion.  

"She said I would not still be breathing if I had."

"She is a smart woman."

"And a beautiful one," Fitz supplied, noticing the
musky female scent clinging to Gwilym's skin. He was
flaunting it: the bastard Welshman was flaunting that
he had just been to bed with Duana, and probably just
gotten her with child. "Tell me - would you really
kill me if I had forced her?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you would.  I think you would kill anyone
who hurt her, and I know enough about women to know
someone has hurt her very badly.  Not Edward and his
friend looking for a village girl to play with, but a
grown man wanting to punish a prideful woman for
scorning him." Fitz paused, watching Gwilym for any
reaction.  

Gwilym blinked, and Fitz's stomach tightened. He had
convinced himself that the old man was talking
nonsense, Gwilym would laugh, and that would be that.

"I do not understand what you want from me."

"I want the same thing I have always wanted: for
Duana to be happy and safe. As difficult as it is for
me to believe, she says you make her happy.  Give me
your word you will keep her safe."

"I give you my word," Gwilym responded, feeling a
flicker of kinship. "I would trade my life for hers." 

"Swear to me on your honor you never harmed King
John."

Caught off guard, Gwilym opened his mouth, then
closed it again. "I swear I have never raised my
sword against my king," he said.

Fitz stared at him, waiting for Gwilym to grin and
announce in his bad French that this was some sort of
joke. "The old king did not die by a sword, William,"
he said slowly. 
 
*~*~*~*

*~*~*~*

"You had cause to hate King John, but so did many
men, myself included," Fitz said, pacing the floor of
Gwilym's new caged world. "I assure you I have no
desire to take Eimile from you.  She is legally your
daughter, regardless of who fathered her.  Nor am I
eager to try you for treason, but you are not giving
me a choice."
 
Gwilym continued to stare out the small window,
looking down at the ice beginning to form on the
Thames River eighty feet below.  Fitz had ordered him
moved from Duana's apartment to The Tower, keeping
him in a comfortable corner high above the courtyard
until this 'matter,' as Fitz called it, could be
'resolved' - meaning until a plausible reason could
be devised for Gwilym to stop drawing breath.

Someone should tell a man when he is about to do a
thing for the last time - hold his son, make love to
his wife, watch a sunrise - so he would know to pause
and savor the moment.  Two of those moments had
rushed past, but one remained, and Fitz insisted on
interrupting it by chattering about details.  

"Did you know the Crown owns every swan in the
Thames?" Gwilym said, speaking for the first time in
hours as the sun peaked over the horizon.

"It is November - there are no swans," Fitz snapped,
his head pounding in protest at his lack of sleep.
He was so tired he could feel his blood pulsing
behind his eyes, and Gwilym was making observations
about swans.

"I was just wondering - how does someone own a swan
unless the swan agrees?  A cow, a pig, or a horse:
those you can own, but not a swan.  It is like
claiming to own a woman: perhaps it is the law, but
it is not worth the trouble unless she agrees."

"William, these charges: do you understand how
serious they are? I have an old man who says you
killed King John. When she agreed to marry me, I
asked Duana who Eimile's father was. I wanted to know
if it was Llewelyn or my father or someone else.
Duana would not name the man, but she told me you
killed Eimile's father. Now, Eimile's father was
obviously King John."

"Yes, I understand. Duana cannot testify in court. We
both know that."

"Answer the charge, William," FitzWalter demanded.
When Gwilym did not respond, he threatened, "My men
found a crossbow in Duana's apartments, which she
insists is hers, as laughable as that is. It could
easily become hers, if you do not cooperate. I will
send Eimile away and keep Duana here as I please. And
I will do with her as I please."

Gwilym continued watching the river impassively, as
if he had not even heard. A few minutes later, he
said, "There is the most curious thing in the Magna
Carta, in the middle of all the stipulations about
arbitrary imprisonment and illegal seizure of Welsh
lands and proper courts. There are some lines that
seemed out of place when I read it: that a widow
shall receive her inheritance immediately, and that
she cannot be compelled to marry against her wishes.
If a husband died, The King could not just seize her
husband's lands and then auction her off to the
highest bidder, as he could previously. It is a good
law, but it seemed out of place amid the talk of
water rights and standard measures of wine and ale.
Almost as if the nobleman who drew up the charter was
trying to protect a specific woman." He turned his
head, looking at The Kingmaker. "Of course, execute
your father as a traitor and those rights are
forfeit, but I respect him for trying."

Fitz's face flushed. "My father was no traitor."

"I agree. I would have liked to meet him."

"Keep mouthing nonsense about my father and swans
rather than answering my questions, and you may meet
him quite soon," Fitz threatened.

Gwilym tipped his chair back, balancing precariously
on two legs. "Do you not want to torture me?  Surely
you want to torture me, Fitz."

"All I want is the truth," Fitz responded, rapidly
losing patience.  

"It does not matter what the truth is; I am a dead
man regardless."

"It is beginning to look that way."
  
*~*~*~*
 
"What is it?" Llewelyn muttered in response to the
hand shaking his shoulder.  

Joanna thought it was a crisis each time one of their
daughters sneezed, and whether they were speaking or
not, she insisted on waking him.  Gruffydd was the
oldest of Llewelyn's seven children - nine children,
if he was supposed to count Gwilym's two little ones
- and Rhys was the youngest. Of his own volition, he
would not lose sleep over a case of the sniffles.

"Come to bed, briela," he mumbled, pulling her toward
him lazily. "Demonstrate your affection for your lord
husband."

He expected the bed to shift as Joanna joined him,
but instead a woman's voice  pleaded in Welsh "Wake
up, my lord," and continued to jiggle him insistently.

Tang - it was his precious Tangwystl; he could see
her hair through his half-open eyelids.  He sighed
contentedly and went back to sleep, knowing he was
dreaming.

"It is Lady Duana.  Please wake up, my lord."

"Duana?" He opened his eyes. That was a name that did
not belong in his bedchamber.

"Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she whispered, pulling
him up to sitting and handing him his breeches. The
knights and squires bedded down on pallets or sofas
near the hearth stirred, grumbling at being awakened
so early. Behind Duana, one of Gwilym's men held a
torch high, casting long shadows across the
unfamiliar bed.

Ah, he was at London Court.  Something about leaving
a siege so he could ride with Gwilym - who was not
dead after all - and Fitz wanting to make a deal with
Gwilym, except that Duana - who was not with child
after all - had died in a fire.  No, that was Diana
who died in the fire, because word came that Duana
was at Court, and Llewelyn had finally gotten Gwilym
to get up, sober up, stop talking out of his head,
and go get her.  

Gwilym should get wives with names that did not sound
so much alike.   

Christ, it was early.

Llewelyn stared alternately at his bare legs, his
breeches, and Gwilym's wife, waiting for his brain to
catch up with his body. He ran his tongue over his
teeth, swallowed, and asked sleepily, "Why are you
here? Does Gwilym know you are here?"

"I told you: Fitz has arrested Gwilym.  I am here
because my guards said this was where you were," she
answered as Llewelyn continued to stare at her. "Wake
up!" she ordered, and dodged as someone threw a boot
at her.

"Fitz has arrested Gwilym?" he echoed, trying to
focus through the one eye he had managed to open.
"And you are here?  And I am not wearing any
breeches?" 

No, something about that was not right; a pox on
morning people.

"Fitz found the crossbow in my apartment, and he will
not believe it is mine, not Gwilym's," Duana
continued, pulling his shirt over his head
efficiently. "Gwilym is in The Tower, and Fitz will
not see me. You must talk to him."

"Talk to whom?" Llewelyn asked, waving her away as
she started to help him with his breeches. He was
accustomed to servants dressing him, but it was early
in the morning and this was Gwil's pretty wife who
smelled of lovemaking; he could manage his own
breeches, thank you. "Talk to whom: FitzWalter or
Gwil?"

"Talk to Fitz.  Fitz has arrested Gwilym," she
repeated, holding out his boots. 

On the floor at the foot of the bed, his manservant
finally sat up and scratched at the back of his head
tiredly. Across the room, Llewelyn could see the two
knights he had posted to stand guard peering in the
doorway, curiously keeping tabs on Lady Duana. A few
others roused as well: opening their eyes,
appraising the situation, and then, recognizing Lord
Gwilym's wife beside Llewelyn's bed, feigning sleep
while they watched through half-closed eyelids.

If his enemies wanted to assassinate him, the best
plan might be to just give a pretty woman a knife and
a map to his bed. The battle-hardened knights sworn
to protect Llewelyn with their lives would let her
walk right in - so long as they could listen.

Perhaps both he and his men had been away from home
far too long.

"All right. All right." Llewelyn blinked, then stood
and turned away as he tightened the laces on his
breeches. 

"Put your boots on. I have your tunic," Duana
ordered, somehow forgetting she was addressing the
Prince of Wales. "Hurry up."

"I am hurrying," Llewelyn promised, hopping on one
foot as he jerked on his other knee boot. "What is it
I am to tell Fitz?"

"That the crossbow is mine."

He nodded, getting his facts straight. "I am to tell
Fitz the crossbow is yours. Where is Marshall
FitzWalter?"

"In The Tower with Gwilym! Jesus!" she said in
exasperation, sounding like she wished she had been
born a man, or at least something more important than
a royal lapdog.

*~*~*~*