Hiraeth V: Bachgen

*~*~*~*

"Of course, I have never caught an amber fish, but I
think that is more believable: that amber comes from
a fish rather than sea foam," Gwilym rambled,
stroking Eimile's cheek as she dozed and sharing his
theory with Duana while he waited.  

"Um hum," she replied.

"I have also heard it said that amber comes from a
tree, but I think I would have come across an amber
tree by now. A tree would not move, but a fish could
swim away, be elusive."

"Um," came a disinterested sound from his wife as she
peered at herself in the metal mirror, trying to
decide if her hair looked best over or tucked behind
her ears.

"A peddler sold me a drawing of an amber fish a few
days past; I will show it to you tomorrow. They are
most plentiful in spring, so I thought I would go try
to catch a few next week. Would you prefer an amber
ring or a necklace? Well, you can only have a
necklace if I catch more than one, although I do not
know how much amber each fish might have."

"Oh," she mumbled, deciding her hair should be behind
her ears.

"Then I thought I would take off my clothing, paint
myself blue all over like the Highland Celts when
they go to battle, and run through Aber at midday."

"Well, be careful," Duana said, now fiddling with her
embroidered gold belt and obviously not listening.

Gwilym sighed, exasperated. "My serfs and I may wait
for you, but summer and the fairies will not. Hurry
up," he ordered Duana as she inspected herself and
her white costume in the mirror a fourth time. Gwilym
and Eimile were sprawled lazily across the bed as
they watched her dress for the festival, and she
seemed no closer to being ready than she had been
half an hour ago.

"Do not let that baby roll off the bed," she said
curtly, picking up her brush again, but otherwise
still ignoring him.

Gwilym's eyes narrowed. As though he would ever let
Eimile roll off the bed; he had three children to
her one, after all.

"Your dress is lovely, your hair is lovely, you are
lovely. Put on your crown so we can go."  He had been
bathed and dressed in his dark green tunic for MayDay
and Beltane Eve since early morning, but Duana was
making the entire castle, and therefore all of Aber,
wait.

"Come," he called in response to a sharp knock on the
door of their bedchamber.  Merfyn entered, wearing
his best cloak and a disgruntled look. "I know; we
are late. Tell the May Queen she looks fine so we can
go."

"You look fine, Lady Duana," the soldier informed her
seriously.  "You make a beautiful white lady: skin as
fair as fresh cream and hair of spun copper and gold.
The face of an angel, eyes of sapphire gems, hips of
soft ocean waves, and breasts-"

"Thank you, Merfyn," Gwilym stopped him.  "It is
always good to know you keep close watch over my
wife's breasts."

The sergeant grinned at him, unashamed, before he
stepped out again. The celebration of the beginning
of summer had even Merfyn's old blood running hot,
though Duana did not seem to pay any attention to
him, either. 
   
Bringing a sleeping Eimile with him as he got up from
the mattress, Gwilym picked up the golden crown Duana
was supposed to wear to lead the Beltane festivities.
Any young woman could be the May Queen - the white
lady - but the villagers had nominated Duana, much to
her embarrassment. "You will do fine.  Just announce
the games and award the prizes; that is all the
peasants expect."

"My hair-"

"Is beautiful." The white lady always wore her hair
loose and uncovered as a symbol of the fertility of
summer, and Duana's red mane was just past her
shoulders. She, however, insisted she looked like a
sheared sheep.

"I feel foolish. No," she decided, "No, I am not
doing this. They can choose someone else."

"Oh, for God's sake!"  Enough was enough. Gwilym laid
Eimile in her cradle, looped Duana's crown of gold
leaves over his wrist, and, throwing an arm around
her hips, heaved his wife over his shoulder.  

"You put me down!  William, you would not dare do
this!" she yelled as he carried her down the hallway,
trying to sound furious as she laughed and pounded
her fists against his back.  "Barbarian!  You big
oaf!"  

"As the green man, it is my duty to deliver the white
lady," he told her. "We just choose the most
beautiful woman we can find; we apologize that it
happens to be you, witch."

Catching sight of them as soon they approached the
outer gate of the castle, the peasants began to
cheer. In the fields, the May pole stood ready to be
decorated and the bonfires to be lit to ensure a good
harvest.  The more pagan festivities would come once
the moon rose, but Duana would not be expected to
participate in those, nor would he ever allow her to.

"Your white lady!" he announced to the boisterous
crowd, although all they could see was Duana draped
over his right shoulder, her feet kicking harmlessly.

He jumped as Duana delivered a sharp, stinging slap
to his backside, and hurried to set her down. As
Duana put on her crown, signaling the festivities to
begin, Gwilym retreated to rub his stinging ass,
still grinning.

*~*~*~*

Thus far, spring had passed without Prince Llewelyn
or the Norman boy-king ordering Gwilym to war, but it
would be rare to escape service for an entire year.
Before harvest, he would certainly have to leave
Aber and Duana and Eimile to fight whoever was deemed
the latest enemy. There was always the danger that he
would not return, especially now.

This was one of the memories he wanted to carry with
him to conjure up on those lonely nights: watching
Duana laughing as she danced among the bonfires, her
hair glistening like a living thing in the firelight
and her eyes shining with mischief.  

While he still knew little about her 'demons,' they
seemed to have melted with the winter snow.  No,
thawed: the sadness that had cloaked her after
Eimile was born was gone, but she still had her
scars, just as he did.  No one could survive what
they had and not carry the scars. They were healing
slowly, each day bringing less tears and a few more
of her quiet smiles.  

"On guard for bees, dear husband?" Duana asked,
sitting down in the grass on the hillside beside him
to catch her breath and share his ale. She picked up
the crown of green myrtle leaves he was supposed to
be wearing and placed it on his head, and Gwilym
promptly pulled it off again.  

"Witch," he muttered, handing over the cup. So he had
overreacted when a bee had stung her earlier. He had
drunk more than his share of ale and people did die
of bee stings; there was no need to tease him about
it. "See if I come to your rescue if you are stung
again." 

She bounced her shoulder against his as they sat
side-by-side, then laid her head against him as he
put an arm around her, watching the moon rise behind
the drunken dancers. The games and feasting had ended
hours ago, but the revelry would continue unabated
until the goblins and elves drove people to the
safety of their hearths.  Beltane Eve: when the veil
between this world and the next was thinnest, and no
sane Christian man would be out in the witching hour.

"You were very gallant.  You looked heroic stomping
on a dying insect to save me."

"He could have attacked again," he tossed back at
her, still feeling sheepish. "That was a fierce bee." 

"Monstrous. The bards will sing about it for
generations."  

Hand in hand, her head against his shoulder, they
watched the last of the MayDay festivities: the
peasants driving cattle among the bonfires to ensure
a good harvest and a few brave souls, including
Merfyn, jumping through the flames for extra luck.

Thankfully, the villagers had decided to keep their
clothing on as they bounded over the fires this year;
Merfyn had singed himself something awful a few years
past, though he had been proud to show his injuries
for months afterward. It had been Christmas and the
burns long healed before Gwen had finally convinced
the sergeant to stop lowering his breeches during
supper.

"Gwen told him to put that away during meals, that
he was making her lose her appetite and frightening
the dogs," Gwilym whispered to Duana, feeling tipsy
and adding a few details of his own to the story to
make her laugh.

Eventually, some of the dancers returned to their
homes in the village and others disappeared into the
shadows, leaving the forest clearing empty as the
moon reached its apex.

When the drums began to beat and the men and women in
hooded robes began to emerge from the trees again,
joining hands around the biggest bonfire, Gwilym told
her it was time to return to the castle.  

"What are they doing?" she asked, as the figures
began to chant.

"It is late. Time for the old ways. Go inside. I
will be in soon."  

He had no intention of coupling with some strange
woman in the forest, but these ceremonies had always
intrigued him.  He had watched from a distance in the
past, but he was toying with the idea of stepping
into the sacred circle, just this once, in case this
year was his last. One part of his mind was promising
he might be privy to the ancient mysteries, whatever
those might be, while another part reminded him he
was a grown man and a Christian husband and he had
drunk too much ale: he should go to bed and leave the
ancient Beltane mysteries, whatever those might be,
to the Ancient Ones.

Even though she knew herb-craft and laughed when he
called her his 'witch', he was not sure how Duana
would react to knowing he allowed this on his land.
To the peasants, it was an extension of MayDay, but
the Church did not see it that way.   

"They are Druids?" she asked, eyes wide. "Pagans?"

"They are among the last: here, and on the Isle of
Mann. Perhaps the last in all of Europe. Each year,
there are fewer. The Church drives them farther into
hiding or hangs them as witches, but this is not
witchcraft. There is no evil, only respect for the
Old Ones. You are seeing a dying custom. By the time
Eimile is a woman, their words and ways will have
been forgotten."

She watched, fascinated, as the druids circled the
fire, the white-robed priest making offerings to the
four winds. "To the North, Earth. To the East, air,"
Gwilym translated for her. He understood the intent
more than the actual words. "And to the South, fire
and the West, water.  They honor the Earth as their
mother and the sky as their father. It is said that a
child born from these fires is breathed to life by
the Ancient Ones."  

"I have never seen such a thing. It is like fairies
or moths around a flame."

"They have come to this clearing since before my
great-grandfather's time, since before memory.  These
are the children of the Earth, even as you and I are
the children of God. If you are going to stay, wait
here. I will come back for you."

He should have known better by now.  Gwilym no sooner
joined the circle than he saw Duana beside him.  

"You should not be here," he hissed to her, taking
her hand as they moved to the left around the fire,
although, as long as the rituals were respected, the
druids had no objection to outsiders. 

"Then tell me to leave," she whispered back, taking a
drink of the strong, spiced wine before she passed the
communal cup to him.

"Three things from which never to be moved," the
priest said, his voice causing the animals of the
forest to fall silent and the leaves to stop
rustling, "One's oaths, one's gods, and the truth.
The three highest causes of the true human are
truth, honor, and duty. Three candles that illuminate
every darkness: truth, nature, and knowledge."

The cup of wine came around again, and the circle of
men and women began to turn in the opposite direction
around the bonfire. More hooded figures came to join
the ceremony. He held tightly to Duana's hand,
letting no one come between them. The Druids were
chanting again, the drums beat louder, and time began
to distort. The circle of dancers moved to the left
again, and he moved with them as the fire sparked and
crackled like a living thing. His face was hot, his
lips and nose tingled like he as pleasantly drunk,
which he suspected he was.

Suddenly, the drums stopped, and the dancers stopped
moving and chanting. The priest raised his arms, and
there were a few seconds of silence. Then, the drums
began to beat again, this time slowly, like a human 
heart.

Quietly, couples slipped away into the forest and
fields: one man and one woman.  Soon the clearing was
empty except for Gwilym and Duana, a scattering of
other couples, and the druid priest, his face hidden
deep under the hood of his cloak. 

"He will marry us, if we want," Gwilym told Duana,
feeling more than a little drunk now. "That is why
the others are waiting."

"We are already married," she answered, seeming dazed.

"A handfasting. A marriage of love rather than law.
That is another ancient rite of Beltane: couples can
be married for a year and a day.  For that year,
nothing can come between them.  Duana..." He
hesitated, but it was easier to be bold in the
darkness.  "I have never asked you: would you 
marry me?"

She nodded, and the priest motioned for them to
kneel.  

"Do not do this lightly," Gwilym warned her. He had
sworn his soul and sword to God, but, like many of
his kinsmen, he respected the old ways. "This is
pagan, but no less binding."

"I do not do it lightly," she assured him.

"Take my left hand with yours," he told her as the
druid began to speak, binding a green cord around
their joined hands. "As the Sun and the Moon bring
light to the Earth, do you vow..."

Gwilym closed his eyes, feeling the heat from the
fire on his face and Duana's hand damp in his.  His
breathing seemed overly loud to him, as though he
could feel every sensation two-fold.  The night and
the smoke were swirling around him, and he noticed
himself swaying, overpowered by the fairies or the
Old Ones or whatever watched them from the shadows.

"...for as long as love shall last.  So let it be,"
the priest finished, then turned and disappeared
silently into the shadows.  

When he looked again, Duana was still kneeling beside
him, and the cord was still tied loosely around their
left hands.  He kissed her, feeling the spark flowing
from his body into hers. Their little pagan folly was
done, and they should return to the castle, he
reminded himself. 

One of his hands found her breast and the other her
hip, pulling her against him. He parted his lips,
kissing her hungrily, and felt her respond in kind.
No, there would be no politely going to bed, he
decided. If she wanted to marry him, he would damn
sure marry her, and he would see the ceremony through.

"It is done?" she whispered in his ear, as though
they might disturb the forest spirits.

"Not yet," he murmured to her, laying her back into
the grass.  Her pupils, as she watched him strip off
his tunic and shirt, were huge from the herbs the
druids had tossed into the bonfire and the wine they
had drunk.  Realizing what was about to happen, she
reached out her hand, drawing him down onto her as
she laid back.  

He covered her, pushing her long skirt up around her
hips, and heard no objection.

The drummers were nearby, somewhere in the darkness,
and other couples were being married and making love
in the fields and among the trees. "Close your eyes.
Feel the drums in your chest," he told her.

He had heard of something, but had never had the
inclination to try it with another woman or the
courage to mention it to Duana, since it fell firmly
into the 'sin' category.  She was a good wife - a
very good wife as of late - but there are some things
that did not belong in a Christian marriage bed.
Perhaps in the forest, as they were playing at being
pagans, though, they would be fine.

As she lay before him in the grass, the flames from
the bonfire making her face and neck flush, he pushed
her legs apart, touching her with his lips and tongue
instead of his fingers.  It took her a few seconds to
realize what was happening, but Duana immediately
told him it was wrong, although she seemed to be
enjoying it.

"You have done this for me," he reminded her, holding
her thighs open as they began to tremble. From the
sounds she was making, he assumed he was doing this
correctly, if there was such a thing.

"You must stop this," she insisted, tossing her head
from side to side as she moaned. "Please, William.
This is a sin."

He could have argued that it was a sin to deny him
anything he wanted, but his brain seemed cloudy.
Relenting, he moved up her body. "Kiss me: that is
what you taste like," Gwilym told her, pushing his
tongue deep into her mouth as he reached between
their bodies to untie the lace fastening his breeches.

Christ, he could smell her on his face, the same as
an animal catches the scent of a female in heat. She
enjoyed lovemaking, but he had never allowed himself
to lose control, to truly glory in her. Besides that
it was not proper, there was always the fear of
hurting or frightening her.

She wreathed under him, telling him she wanted
something other than sweet kisses and gentle
caresses. Begging, in fact. She still held the green
cord the priest had used. He put his left palm
against hers again, looped the cord around both their
wrists, and then lifted their joined hands above her
head and pushed them back against the grass, his hand
over hers, holding her there.

When she opened her eyes to look up at him, Gwilym
thought he might fall into those blue depths and
drown. "I am not afraid," she assured him. "Not of
you. This William, I know."

*~*~*~*       

Oh, there had been something in that wine, Gwilym
told himself, stretching and working up the nerve to
open his eyes.  Images swirled back to him like a
hundred arrows all loosed at once: the handfasting,
Duana under him, astride him, in front of him on her
hands and knees like an animal. The taste of her,
sounds of the Beltane fires crackling, the heat
dancing over his bare, sweaty skin.  Teeth, tongues,
lips, thighs.  Her breathing, her body convulsing
around his, the damp grass, the thick smoke from the
bonfire, the pulsing of the drums.  

No, that did not happen.  He could spend the next
year trying to confess all that to Leuan. They had
overseen the Aber May Day festivities as the Lord and
Lady of Gwynedd, as the white lady and the green man,
and everything else had been some vivid dream.  There
had been no druids, no pagan rites.  And certainly
not that Duana-on-hands-and-knees, putting-tongues-
in-places-tongues-did-not-belong part; he could never
look her in the eyes again if that had really
happened.

Gwilym rolled, realizing he was in their bed, which
further evidenced that it had been a dream.  He had
no memory of finally coming in from the fields last
night.  

Duana was not with him, but there was an indentation
from her body on the down mattress beside him.  From
the soreness in his knees and groin, they must have
made love last night, perhaps passionately. When he
had last seen her, her flux had come, and then he had
been away overseeing planting for more than a week.
There was no shame in making love to one's wife,
provided one did not do it in the middle of the
forest, bare-assed in the moonlight, multiple times,
quite roughly, while saying things no gentleman would
say to a common whore.   

No, that did not happen. 

In the nook at the head of their bed, beside the stub
of a candle, was a tangled grass-green length of
cord. He stared at it, then, with a moan, pulled the
furs over his head, wanting to hide. Perhaps he would
see if he could join that new Crusade the Pope had
been preaching. It generally took more than a year to
reach and return from the Holy Land. Perhaps he
could face Duana by then.  
 
*~*~*~*
 
"There is supper for you on your desk," Duana mumbled
from the sofa, having pulled the bed robe over her
like a blanket. "Unless the dogs got to it."

Gwilym froze, surprised that she was still awake. It
was past midnigh; he had been sure she would be
asleep and he could sneak to bed and then slip out
again before morning.

"I do not see it.  The dogs look guilty," he managed,
too stunned to even look. The dogs raised their ears,
puzzled as to what they had done. A loaf of bread and
some leftover venison sat on his desk beside a bottle
of wine, untouched.

"I will get you something," she said, shifting and
starting to stand, still not awake.

"No, sleep. I am fine."

Duana sat up, rubbing her eyes. Once she discerned
that he really was fine, not bleeding or fevered,
she stumbled toward their bed, dragging the robe
behind her.

He waited for her to ask where he had been since
dawn, but she was either too afraid to know or too
angry to care. Probably the latter.  "I have been
fishing," he offered, following her.

"In the rain?" she asked, pushing the bed curtains
back and folding down the coverlet.

"Fish bite better in the rain." Which was true, he
congratulated himself. Not that he had been anywhere
near water today.

"And in the dark?" Duana blew out the candle,
scooting across the bed to make room for him.

"Fish bite better in the dark," he mumbled, knowing
she would never believe that and too anxious to ask
why she had been waiting up for him. "But I still did
not manage to catch any.  Someone must be charming
them: that is all I can figure."

"Of course," she said obediently. 
 
Damn this woman!  She could not even yell at him and
make him feel better.

"I am so sorry.  I swear it will not happen again,"
he blurted out, pacing beside their bed in the
darkness.  "Not like that.  Never like that again.
That was my sin: to let you come down to the fires
and everything that happened after. You only did what
I insisted you do."

The mattress shifted, but he could not see her as the
thunderclouds passed over the moon. "I have been
thinking about it: about the fires," she said
softly, her face briefly illuminated as lightening
kissed the top of the next mountain.  "Actually, I am
not sure what to think: of the rites, of myself, of
what we did."

"Do not think about it. Just put it out of your mind."

"Come to bed, William, before you burst into flames
from nervousness.  I am not angry, and, before you
start asking, you did not hurt me.  I am just
confused."      

He lay down, trying to stay as far away from her as
possible without falling to the floor.  "Of course
you are confused. Duana, when the Church says for
wives to obey their husbands, the priests leave out
the part about the husbands obeying God.  I did not
do that.  You are subject to me and I am subject to
God.  You did exactly what you should have, but I
swear I will never ask you to do that again."

"Never again?" she echoed.

"No. I am sure you have spent the day in prayer,
thinking that you have sinned, when you have not.  I
have, but not you.  Do you understand?"           

"Yes," she mumbled, pulling him against her.  "No.
No, I do not understand. I have always been taught
not to question the Church, but I know when I have
sinned: when I have been prideful or disobedient or
lazy or lustful. I do not feel that way now."

Gwilym desperately wanted to know when she had been
lustful, but he did not want to interrupt.

"So it is not a sin to love my husband, as long as I
do it as the Church decrees and do not enjoy it?  I
do not understand why God would give us pleasure and
then forbid it."        

"Do you really love me?" he asked before he could
stop himself.   

"Of course I love you.  How can you be so brilliant
and so thick at the same time?"

"Still? Even after last night?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"  Duana made an exasperated
noise, punched the pillow a few times to fluff it,
and rolled away from him, taking most of the covers
with her.

Gwilym rested his head on his hands and stuck his
cold feet under a nice, warm dog as he stared up into
the darkness, very confused.  He could not make heads
or tails of all this just yet, but his wife did not
seem to be speaking to him, so he would have plenty
of time to think.  

Who needed amber fish and druid mysteries?  Lady
Duana always gave him plenty to think about.   

*~*~*~*

"Of course she is with child," Gwilym answered
Merfyn, hopefully out of Duana's hearing. "She just
does not want to tell people until she is sure."

"When does she plan to be sure?" the sergeant asked,
sneaking a glance at Duana's belly again as she
followed on her chestnut mare. "When she gives birth?"

"Only a few more months now... I suppose," he added,
trying to sound as casual as he had heard other men
be. Men who paid so little attention to their wives
they had to ask if the woman was carrying another
child, or still pregnant with the same one as before.
Husbands who rode off hunting and whoring as their
children were born, annoyed with all the noise and
mess their wife was causing in the bedchamber.

So far, this child of the Beltane fires had been
blessed. Although she had been sick early on, there
had been no bleeding that he knew of. The hardest
part still lay ahead, though, and Gwilym did not care
to hear once more how it was a woman's place to
suffer as she brought forth children. As much as
Duana wanted this baby, and as much as he needed a
son, he would trade almost anything to keep it from
ever actually coming.

"Gwilym, we have lost our following," Merfyn pointed
out, bringing Gwilym back to the present.  

Duana had stopped her mare to inspect something in a
merchant's stall, and was now in the process of
awkwardly dismounting. "Ride on," she told Gwilym and
Merfyn, "I can find my way from the village to the
castle."

He did not even bother to argue with her, just
stopped Goliath and waited.  Headstrong woman: as
though Gwen or a dozen servants could not come to
market for her. No, Duana had to do it herself,
climbing up and down from her horse and waddling
around like some peasant's wife.   

"It does not get easier. Not with the fifth, not
with the tenth child," Merfyn said quietly, seeing
Gwilym watching Duana. "Put your trust in God: his
will be done."

"His will was that your first wife died in
childbirth, was it not?" he answered, caught off
guard that Merfyn had almost read his thoughts.

Gwilym had been a boy, and it was a vivid memory:
seeing the midwives carrying out bloody sheets, and
Leuan hurrying into Merfyn's house to bless the young
woman and her child.  He had been sent back into the
castle before the bodies were brought out, the baby
having been delivered after the mother died. He
remembered finding Merfyn sobbing in the forest later
than day. It was the first and only time in thirty
years he had ever seen the old soldier cry.  He had
remarried - four times, in fact - since then, but it
was not the same as that first young love.

"I am sorry, Merfyn. I should not have said that," he
apologized, feeling ashamed of himself.  "You speak
the truth. It is not easy to watch."

"Heulyn," Merfyn murmured.  "Her name was Heulyn."

"I remember: Heulyn of the apple tarts and daisy
chain necklaces. I was eight, perhaps."

Merfyn nodded, still focusing on Duana as she haggled
over the price of spices with the merchant. "I was
Lady Duana's age, and taller then. Heulyn was
nineteen and as lovely as the morning sun. Much too
young to die like that."

"Go back to the stables. Your horse looks as though
he might be lame."  

Merfyn reined his mount toward the road leading to
the castle without glancing back, not even bothering
to dismount and check his gelding's feet. The big
chestnut was not lame and both Gwilym and Merfyn knew
it.

"My Lord! My Lord: the tanner's wife!" a young boy
called out to Gwilym, scurrying across the square,
weaving through the sheep and carts of market day and
causing quite a commotion. "My Lord, please come.
They have caught the man!  A Norman!"

"Muretta?" he asked worriedly, and the boy nodded.

Damn it, he had told her not to walk home alone. The
stretch of road from Aber to her husband's home was
secluded and thickly wooded and exactly where Gwilym
would have ambushed someone, if he had been of a mind
to.

Merfyn had already heard and was looking to see if
Gwilym wanted him to go deal with the rapist or stay
with Duana.  

As much as he disliked the idea, if the man was
Norman (or English, the peasants could not tell the
difference; all foreigners were 'Normans'), Gwilym
would need Duana to translate until Father Leuan
could come. He could speak fair proper French now,
but not the casual language used by commoners and
almost no English at all.

The first question was the obvious, as the tanner
clutched his pretty, weeping blonde wife, her face
bruised and her dress torn: Had any man seen?  He
knew his villagers well enough that Gwilym did not
question that the woman had been raped, but a woman
could not testify against a man, even in Wales.  If
there was no male witness, then there was no crime.

Duana was keeping her distance from the woman as the
crowds gathered to watch, and Gwilym sent the same
boy who had brought them to go for Father Leuan.

The tanner had seen, he told Gwilym angrily, causing
murmuring among the peasants. If the husband could
bear witness, then the rapist could be punished and
Gwilym was not known for his leniency about rape. He
had never been tolerant, but he was certainly
intolerant as of late. Also, many of the men had seen
Lord Gwilym with this woman in the tavern, before
she married, and before Lady Duana.  He had been - 
and in fact still seemed to be - fond of her. The
Norman had picked the wrong peasant women to rape,
and the wrong kingdom to do it in. The spectators
began to jockey for position to see what punishment
Lord Gwilym would dole out, because it would not be
mild.

"Where is the man?" was Gwilym's next question, and
the blacksmith appeared, dragging a well-dressed,
somewhat bloodied man behind him. The village men
seemed to have begun their own justice while sending
for Gwilym.

"Nom?" he asked, hoping the man spoke French and not
English.

"Alcek," the man spat out, followed by a jumble of
French that Gwilym did not understand.

Gwilym glanced at Duana, trying to catch her eye, but
she was staring at the ground.  If this was her Alex
- one of the names she said in her nightmares - he
was dead, regardless of his crime today. 

"He says he thought she was a prostitute," Duana
translated, passing her mare's reins to one of the
peasants and stepping into the center of the crowd,
but still not looking up. "He says he does not speak
Welsh, and he made a mistake."
 
"You do not need to speak Welsh.  When she would not
take your money or go with you, you should have known
she was not a whore anymore. Tell him that, Duana."

She did, and then translated for Gwilym, and he had
the sense that French was not the man's first
language, either. He was a handsome Bulgar or a Slav,
with skin and eyes darker than Gwilym's. The man a
very long way from home, and there was probably a
reason for that. 

"He does not deny that he forced her," Duana
translated. "He will pay the fine.  He has money."

Another murmur among the villagers: it was rare for a
commoner to receive any compensation when his wife
was attacked.

The foreigner opened the purse tied to his belt,
tossing a few shillings at the tanner.  It was more
money than the man would see in a lifetime and far
more than the usual fine for raping a woman who was
not a virgin anyway, but the gesture did not seem to
sit well with their lord.

"I do not think he wants your money. I think he wants
his wife untouched."

Duana repeated what Gwilym had said, and earned a
torrent of words that sounded vulgar, even to Welsh
ears.  

"I judge you guilty of the rape of this woman, based
on your own admission and her husband's word. Let all
here bear witness. Hang him," Gwilym ordered, nodding
to Merfyn. "Now."

Duana had barely finished translating that as someone
appeared with a rope and the crowd began to back the
foreigner toward the nearest tree.  

"That is not the law!" the man shouted, obviously
having a basic command of Welsh, which Gwilym had
suspected he did to be wandering this far into
northern Wales.  And, with winter almost upon them, a
gentleman would be supervising his own land, not
traveling. This was a well-dressed thief or mercenary
who had been exiled.

"When you rape a woman in my kingdom, you are under
my law. I will send your head to Prince Llewelyn if
you would like to object. The rest of you can feed
the pigs."

The villagers murmured their approval; enough Welsh
women had been abused by outsiders. It would be
different if it had not been a foreigner, but this
sentence, though extreme, was fine with them. Let him
strangle, then burn in Hell.

"I want an ordeal!" the man protested as Merfyn
blithely tossed the noose over a tree branch. "A
priest! This is not the law! I will pay the fine!"

"Why trouble God? There is no need for an ordeal when
you admit your own guilt. No amount of money will
give this man back what you have taken from him,"
Gwilym told the foreigner, and then noticed that
Duana was trembling. "Come away," he told her, taking
her hand.  

"You Welsh bastard! You barbaric whore-son!" the man
screamed as Gwilym turned his back and helped Duana
onto her horse. "How dare you!  You would not dare
hang me over some peasant cunt!"

Later, Gwilym would remember the next sequence of
events as though everyone had been moving and
speaking through honey, as though actions happened
much slower than normal:

Merfyn finished tying Alex's hands behind his back
and slipped the noose over his head, telling him that
while Lord Gwilym had only ordered him hanged, he
would die a eunuch if he did not shut his mouth in
Lady Duana's presence.

After Duana was in the saddle, Gwilym reached for the
reins.  The excitement of the crowd and Duana's
trembling was making the animal nervous, and it was
fidgeting.

Gwilym fingered his dagger with one hand and
considered cutting Alex's tongue out.

Alex, scarlet with rage, kicked out, striking Duana's
mare's haunches and causing the normally gentle
little animal to bolt.

Gwilym held onto the reins, keeping the mare from
going very far, but still throwing Duana over the
sidesaddle and onto a pile of stones that had been
gathered to build a fence.

He heard his own voice shouting 'No!" as she lay
perfectly still except for a trickle of blood coming
from her nose and forehead.  

Merfyn pulled his own dagger and simply, expertly,
slit the foreigner's throat.

*~*~*~*

There were people everywhere: standing uselessly in
the inner bailey, loitering in the great hall, and in
a gaggle of kitchen maids and grooms blocking the
base of the steps. Everywhere Father Leuan looked, 
the castle hummed with whispered gossip. Gwilym was
far to lax, and his people took advantage of that, 
though Lady Duana generally saw to it that they 
were about their business. Even a half-dozen knights
had their heads together, muttering.

This was nonsense, and he would have to speak to
Gwilym about it, as well. He could not expect Lady
Duana to single-handedly supervise all of Gwynedd
right now, while Gwilym was off in search of unicorns
and fairies and excommunication.

As he tried to push his way up the steps, one of the
grooms grabbed his robe and blabbered, "You must tell
him that mare is docile, Father! The most docile I
have ever known."

"You will unhand me," Leuan said sternly, taken
aback. "I am a man of God."

The young man seemed too stupid or frightened to
comply, but the marshal of the horses and another
groom succeeded in prying his fingers loose, then
pulling him away.

"You will make it worse, you fool," someone chastised
him.

Leuan looked at the men from the stables, then at the
knights, then realized he had seen Goliath outside,
lathered and ridden hard and untied, waiting
patiently for someone unsaddle and rub him down.
There must be a dozen men in the room that should
have seen to Gwilym's favorite horse already, yet
none had, nor had the men outside. That was reason
enough to be terrified: cobwebs and cold food Gwilym
tolerated, but not mistreating his horses. Or his
children. Or his women.

He had thought Gwilym had taken Duana riding this
morning, but he had not seen her mare outside. He
would have assumed it was in the stable, but every
man from the stable was in the castle.

"What has happened?" Leuan demanded, and no one
answered. 

The nervous whispers resumed.

"See to his horse," he ordered, and a crowd of men
surged past him to comply.

That cleared a path, and Leuan hurried up the stone
steps as quickly as his knees allowed, wanting some
answers. "Llwynog!  What in the Devil has gotten into
you? I do not care what woman it is, what is this
about not troubling God? A village boy is saying you
just hanged some foreigner without-" 

Father Leuan reached the doorway of the bedchamber
and stopped short, seeing Gwilym and Gwen hovering
over Lady Duana as she lay on the bed. Gwilym could
have just walked off the battlefield from all the
blood soaked down the front of his tunic and smeared
on his forearms.

"Come, Leuan," Gwilym ordered, his voice shaky.
"Hurry. Tell me what she is saying, what she wants. I
do not know this word. Bad hard. She keeps saying
that, but I do not think that is what she means."

"What has happened?"  

"She fell from her horse. Hard. I have sent Merfyn to
find a doctor, but the cut on her forehead is bad.
She is bleeding... The baby..."

"I think Lady Duana may be asking for something in
Irish Gaelic," Gwen took over for Gwilym. "'Mathir'
is 'mother.'"

"Do you want your mother, cariad?  I will send for
her, but it will be some time.  You have to stay
strong until she can come."  

Gwilym turned, picking a wide-eyed servant at random
and dispatching him to Dublin or Dover with vague
instructions to find a woman among the Scully clan
with a daughter named Duana.  One who was or had been
a mason's wife. "There's a cross she said she wore as
a child. Take it from her jewelry box and show it to
her mother so the woman will know you are telling the
truth. Catrin. Her mother's name is Catrin! Send
back the alchemist named Llangly," Gwilym yelled
after the poor servant as an afterthought. "And a
midwife!"  

Duana mumbled the foreign word again, then "Froid."
Cold.  

Christ, this was Gwilym's nightmare come to life. She
was already pale, with blue lips, and her breathing
was shallow. Gwilym had seen soldiers with belly
wounds look like this in the hours before Death took
them.

"Mulad," Leuan guessed wildly. "Melancholy.' She is
sad and she is cold."

As though the bed was not already heaped with
blankets and furs, Gwilym took off his old gray cloak
and tucked it around her, then sent for hot tea.

The cloak, too, was stained with blood.

"What else, Duana? What do you want?" he asked her
urgently.

Those words again, and then in French, "What has
happened?"

"Mullach: the summit?  Mathir: mother?" Leuan
guessed. "Melinydd: the miller? A stone mason?
Mealladh? Gwilym, mealladh na minnseach is an herb
used by witches." 
 
"You fell. You have a cut on your forehead and the
baby is coming," Gwilym told her, ignoring Leuan.
"What do we do?"  

Duana just mumbled the same words again. It was one
word, he realized: a name. A foreign man's name. She
was asking for a man, saying she needed him.

"Cariad, I do not know this 'Malder.' 'Moldau.' He is
not here. Tell me how to stop the baby from coming.
It is too soon."

"William?" She opened her eyes, pupils huge and
staring at nothing. "I cannot see you."

"Yes, William. Gwilym.  Herbs to stop miscarriage:
I have seen you give them to other women. What are
they?" 
 
"Yarrow for bleeding. Black haw and cramp bark to
relax the womb. Wild yam as well. William, I am so
cold."

Gwen already had Duana's chest of herbs open and was
rooting through the carefully labeled pouches.  

"You put yarrow on my shoulder, I remember. Willow
bark and poppy for pain. What is this other:
mealladh? Muldah? Mulder? Is that a person you want:
is that a man?"

He did not care who it was; if the man was alive and
could be found, Gwilym would bring him for her.

"No," she answered weakly, "Mealladh na minnseach is
for shifting a man's shape.  That is witchcraft.  No
willow until the baby is safe; it will make the
bleeding worse.  No poppy, either." 

"Gwen is mixing now, cariad," Gwilym said,
maneuvering so her head rested on his lap. "It seems
she has been paying attention to your herb-craft. I
am holding you, and Father Leuan is here."

If last rites became necessary, he thought, but did
not add.

"Breathe, William," she mumbled.  "I am only fooling
you. It is not so bad."

Of course Duana would interrupt her bleeding to
reassure him.

"No, it is not so bad," Gwilym lied. "You did not
have me fooled for one second."

Duana turned her head, seeing something beside their
bed that he could not. "Mulder," she said, and smiled
tiredly, seeming relieved.

Assessing the situation with liquid brown eyes, the
dogs lay down with their muzzles flat on the floor,
making themselves small, and began to whimper. 

The candle guttered, and, though it was midday, the
dark hair rose on Gwilym's arms as if there was a
chill.

There was no need to figure out the name or send for
anyone. Whoever the man was that Duana wanted, he
seemed to have arrived, unseen to all except her.

*~*~*~*

"Come feel," Gwen whispered, causing Gwilym to jump
and shake himself awake in the dark bedchamber. "The
babe lives."  
     
"She is not fevered?" he asked.  Now that the
bleeding had stopped, the most danger would come from
fever either in the wound or if the baby had died
inside her.  

As Duana slept soundly, he put his hand on her belly
where Gwen indicated. After a moment, he felt a
strong kick.  

"It is a boy.  A girl would be more docile."

"Perhaps a girl who takes after her mother," Gwilym
suggested, and allowed himself to draw a deep breath.
"Do you think we could give her the tea now?"

The alchemist and midwife had known little of Duana's
herb-craft, but had left a lapis stone for her to
hold in her hand against miscarriage and agreed that
willow bark was good for pain. Llangly had advised
Gwen, who refused to leave Duana's bedside until the
doctor could come, to be careful of poppy. Too much
poppy was deadly, he had said, eyeing Gwilym. Poppy
and belladonna and hemlock and cyanide and foxglove;
all should be avoided in large quantities. But willow
bark tea should be safe once the bleeding stopped.

Reassured, Gwilym had fallen asleep across the foot
of their bed as Gwen kept watch and Leuan knelt
beside it in prayer.  With all the windows shuttered
against any sickness in the night air, Gwilym could
not tell if a second dawn had come yet, but Leuan had
finally passed out, exhausted, on a pallet on the
floor.

Duana rolled to her left side under his hand now, and
the baby gave another kick as his tiny world shifted.  

"When she wakes, we will give her the tea," Gwilym
decided.

Gwen twisted her hands together nervously. She had
never been blessed with a child, not even as a young
woman when she had shared a bed with Gwilym's father.
After the Old Lord had left for the Crusades, she
had contented herself with the kitchen and doting on
a young Llwynog ap Gwilym.  Though she had never
understood the workings of Gwilym's mind, as a boy or
as a man, he was as close as she had ever had to a
son, and the child Lady Duana carried, the closest to
a grandson.  Eimile was beautiful with her blonde
curls and blue eyes, but Gwen had seen the marks on 
Lady Duana, and she could count nine months, the same
as the rest of the castle. Eimile was no more Gwilym's 
child than Dafydd had been.

She had overheard some knights, well into their cups
one night and far, far from Gwilym's ears, speculate
that the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed Prince Llewelyn
had fathered Eimile, and Gwen suspected that was
indeed the truth. That would explain Gwilym not
sending Eimile away to a nunnery, but also what had
happened last year when the Prince of Wales had
brought news that the Dafydd was dead. Though Gwen
could not see how Lady Duana's child was any more
legitimate that the Prince's other sons, she did not
know Norman law, and she was certain Prince Llewelyn
had wanted Lady Duana and her unborn baby to leave
with him. He had wanted the baby enough that he had
been willing to have his men challenge Gwilym and
take Lady Duana by force, but Gwilym had struck some
bargain with the Prince. Gwilym had taken Lady Duana
on a pilgrimage to Ireland with him, saying it was
to pray for Dafydd's soul, but returned to Wales
only after the baby was born and was merely a girl. 

Gwen had seen Gwilym and Lady Duana among the MayDay
bonfires, which meant she had been among them
herself. She knew Prince Llewelyn visited Aber often,
talking with Lady Duana and sometimes holding Eimile.
Gwen had told herself that, like most Welshmen,
Prince Llewelyn was fond of children. Particularly
his own. This child of Gwilym's that Lady Duana
carried now, though: it was blessed and it was a son.
She knew it as certainly as she knew east. And Gwen
knew the presence that had come to Gwilym's
bedchamber two days ago to protect it had been
powerful magic. She thought it might have been the
Old Lord coming to keep watch over his unborn
grandson. Gwen had never been able to give the Old
Lord a child, but she could do everything in her
power to protect this one.

"Do you really think she will wake?" Gwen whispered.   

"She is my Camelot. She is not dead, she only
sleeps," he replied, and got a puzzled look from the
old cook. "I think she will wake, Gwen. I know she
will. Go to sleep," Gwilym assured her. "I will sit
with her. Sleep."

Gwen gave Leuan a nudge with her toe, telling him to
get up and go sleep in his own room above the
kitchen. If no one was dying or speaking French,
Leuan was only in the way.  As the priest mumbled
some unpriestly words and stumbled out, Gwen settled
her bulk on the pallet on the floor and, lifting her
head one last time to check on Gwilym curled up
behind Duana in the big bed, relaxed and closed her
eyes.

*~*~*~*

"Ready?" Gwilym asked, as Gwen held a blanket in
front of the roaring hearth to warm it.

Duana nodded, not really willing to get out of her
bath yet, but the water was beginning to cool.

"Up," he said, lifting her out of the water and
holding her upright just long enough for Gwen to wrap
the blanket around her nakedness, getting his shirt
and tunic soaked in the process. Once she was
covered, he carried her back to bed while Gwen, Elan,
and two other women began the laborious task of
carrying out the bathwater pail by pail.

"And down," Gwilym narrated, sliding her under the
furs. "One clean Lady Duana.  Better?"

"Better," Duana replied, sounding contented and
sleepy.  It had been four days since her fall, but
she was still seldom awake for more than a few
minutes at a time. She seemed to linger at the edge
of consciousness, and he wondered who or what it was
that lingered with her, secret and unseen, but 
comforting to her. A dead lover? An angel? One of the
pagan Old Ones, perhaps, standing guard over the
child He had helped create?

"Gwen made some soup for you. Cariad, try to stay
awake and eat."  

She opened her eyes again, and Gwilym pushed her hair
back from her face and helped her scoot up on the
pillows.  "I am awake.  I am fine."

Of course. 

"Change your clothes before you chill," she ordered.

Gwilym obediently stood, stripped, and decided he
could use a bath himself.  Looking down, he realized
there was blood dried across his stomach: her blood
from when he had held her and ridden back to the
castle days ago.  Leuan had convinced him to change
his filthy, blood-soaked tunic and shirt, but it had
seeped through to his breeches and linen braies
underneath. 

So much blood. It was going to stain.

The numbness that had insulated him for the last few
days was fading, and his fingers began to shake from
the realization of how close he came to losing her.
Not to kings or war or childbirth, but to something
as common as a jittery mare and a misplaced pile of
stones. 

He was supposed to tell himself that it was the will
of God.

Gwilym fiddled with the string lacing the front of
his breeches, noticing Duana was watching him from
the bed, actually seeing him this time. "Shall I
dance for you?" he asked her, his brain mixing anger
with fear and coming up with sarcasm.  "Put a jewel
in my navel and sway my hips like the Infidels'
women.  Some of those men have a dozen wives. Did
you know that?"

Duana replied tiredly that no, she did not know that,
and yes, he was welcome to dance.   

"It is called a harem: having all those wives," he
told her, regaining some control and ashamed of
himself for snapping at her.  She was lying in bed
too weak to walk and he was feeling sorry for himself.

Raising his eyebrows at her mischievously, he climbed
bare-chested and nasty onto the clean sheets, looming
over her. "I should do that.  I will find eleven more
women and live like a sultan. That is the husband.
We will need a bigger bed.  The dogs will be
horrified.  They get that puzzled look on their faces
when they watch us now."

"Um," Duana replied, so impressed with his half-
naked, filthy splendor and sense of humor that she was
nodding off. "That is you the dogs are watching." 

"With so many women, I would not have time to give my
heart to any one of them," he continued, pretending
he had not heard her. "One could die and I would not
notice."

"You would notice.  There would be a lull in the
nagging," she replied, smiling at him before she
closed her eyes.

"I do not think I could stand a dozen women all
telling me what to do. Squabbling lustfully over my
body: all that noise would make my head hurt. And I
would not want to upset the dogs. I suppose I will
have to content myself with only you, cariad."

"I suppose," she mumbled, rubbing her belly and
nestling deeper into the pillows. 

"Then you cannot leave me.  Ever. With only one wife,
I would be lost without her."  He stayed face to face
with her, watching her features relax as she fell
asleep.  "Especially when I have done such a common
thing as falling in love with her."

*~*~*~*  

"Some fever, but not so bad," Leuan answered,
thanking God Merfyn had been able to find a doctor so
quickly. Apparently, the sergeant and his knights had
physically dragged the man out of Chester and across
the Welsh border when the promise of fifty shillings
did not persuade him. "The bleeding stopped days ago,
but she is still very weak."

The physician looked over Duana critically as she
slept, reaching out to twist a strand of her hair
between his fingers and then stroking her hand like a
lover.

"This girl has too much black bile. Her skin is dry.
I will bleed her to balance the humors," the doctor
announced slowly, as if he were speaking to a child.
"It will help the fever to cut her hair.  It is only
by God's grace that you have not killed her with your
barbaric herbs and soups and teas.  After I have
bathed her, I will need topaz, garnet, fragrant oils,
powdered hartshorn, black crab claws, the kidney
stone of a goat and the semen of a goose. Mugwort and
dill to protect me, as well. Several lengths of
strong rope. I have my own knives."

Merfyn had been nodding along as Leuan translated for
him, making a mental list, but was a little stunned
by one item: "Semen of a goose?"

Even Gwen paused from lighting all the candles the
doctor had requested, although why he wanted candles
at midday was beyond her. Lady Duana never wanted
this when someone was sick. The doctor cleared his
throat and Gwen, thoroughly intimidated, 
continued with her assigned task.  She was not a
doctor, after all.

"We bathed her yesterday, so you will not need to do
that," Gwilym spoke up. By now, he was accustomed to
men staring at his wife, and it was true: she was
laying on their bed with her hair down, but this
Donaes de Pasquier was still making him
uncomfortable.  Something about the way the doctor
watched her, fixating on her hair, but not breasts
or face, that was not the way one would normally
admire a pretty woman.

The big man looked back at Gwilym slouching in the
shadows of the bedchamber, wanting to see who had
dared to cross him.

"Duana does not like to be touched by strangers,
especially men," Gwilym explained as Merfyn left the
room, mumbling about a goose and looking puzzled. "My
wife had a bath yesterday," he repeated for emphasis,
standing up straighter.  

Gwilym had been told that Court doctors could
diagnose and treat women without ever laying a hand
on them, and he did not see why this man could not do
the same, since he claimed to have been a physician
to kings.

"I will not be questioned by some Welsh devil.  If
you want your wife to live, you will do as I direct,"
the physician replied, his voice low and melodic, as
though he cared little one way or the other.  "Or I
can leave and let her die."

Gwilym, his patience stretched thin by fear, lack of
sleep, and being left out of the conversation,
automatically put a hand on his dagger.

"Gwilym!  Donaes has come a long way at your request!
Lady Duana is sick," Leuan intervened.  Then in
French, "My apologies, Donaes de Pasquier. Lord
William is quite devoted to his wife.  We will do as
you request."    

"Yes, I am and no, we will not," Gwilym protested.
"I do not like this."  

There was a commotion in the bailey below: Welsh
curses combined with frantic honking and flapping as
Merfyn, another knight, and the stable boy tried to
catch one of the geese Gwen had been fattening for
the Christmas feast.   

"Your wife is a witch," Donaes explained to Gwilym,
speaking slowly so he could understand.  "The herb
your priest said she asked for, mealladh na
minnseach: that is only used by witches."

"Duana is good with herbs, but she is no witch.  She
is an iachawr: a healer.  We were only guessing at
what she was saying. Probably she was asking for her
mother or a man she had known," Gwilym said.
  
Leuan translated for clarity, nodding in agreement.
Donaes was beginning to make him uneasy as well. Of
course Lady Duana was not a witch; her herbs had
helped his gout and the pain in his knees, but that
was just folk medicine, not witchcraft. 

"Watch," the doctor said, holding a red stone on a
thin chain over Duana's belly as she slept.  "You are
simple people, but you should understand this.  If it
swings side-to-side, the child is of man. If it
swings in a circle, it is a changeling."

As Leuan and Gwilym watched, the stone pendant
circled the swell of her stomach. "This baby is a
demon spawned. That is why she is still sick after
her fall. There is no shame for you, my lord; the
devil can take many forms. Your wife probably thought
she had coupled with you.  If I can purge the evil
from her, she may live. If not, she will at least die
purified."

Leuan began to object on a dozen different levels,
none the least that destroying the child was a mortal
sin, but before he could speak, Gwilym interrupted.

"It is a blessed child of the Beltane fires, not a
changeling," he said quickly, wanting to convince
Donaes that Duana was not a witch.  Witches could be
tortured and then stoned or hanged once they
confessed and were redeemed. Many women did not even
survive the ordeals that proved them innocent. "A
child of the old Druid ways. That is what your
pendant is detecting."

The priest looked from Lady Duana in the bed to
Gwilym standing in the corner.  "Llwynog!"  

Gwilym shifted from foot to foot, immediately
realizing he should not have admitted that. "She did
nothing wrong. Duana only did what I told her to do.
There was a ceremony. Wine. We wanted to be
married-"
  
"What are you thinking?" Leuan demanded. "You are
married. I married you. How, how could you take your
Christian wife in the forest like some whore!"

"Duana did nothing wrong!" Gwilym yelled back.

"But you have!" Leuan switched to the tone he had
used to scold a ten-year-old boy who had been caught
stealing apples. "Get out. Go to the chapel and pray.
I will hear your confession, but I cannot even think
as to how to absolve you. And you-" he turned to the
doctor, "You will not touch Lady Duana.  It is not
proper, and I think we have already had enough
impropriety."

Donaes opened his mouth to protest, but it did not
seem wise to question the priest. Later. There would
be plenty of time to deal with this girl later.

Gwilym stomped through the hallway and down the
stairs, ignoring the servants' questioning looks. As
he crossed the bailey, dogs and chickens scurried out
of his way. Merfyn triumphantly held up the big bird
he had finally caught.

"Any ideas?" Merfyn asked.

Gwilym just stalked past him.  
 
The sergeant's face fell.  Well, at least he had a
goose. Someone else could figure how to get... That
from it.  Now, how to tell which goat might have
kidney stones.

*~*~*~*