*~*~*~* 

Duana must have been exhausted. It was half an hour 
past dawn and she had not stirred yet - had not even 
moved as he pulled back the blankets to check for 
other marks. Finding none, he simply stared at her 
while he tried to decide what to do.   

Eventually, she opened her eyes, blinking sleepily 
and trying to figure out what was wrong as she found 
him looming over her. 

"Did the table grow fingers?" he asked, trying not to 
sound as furious and frightened as he felt. "Rings?" 

She shifted her shoulders, stretching her arms. 
"William?" she began, and then stopped mid- 
yawn as she realized her face ached. 

"Who hit you?" he snapped. "Damn it, Duana - how 
could you not tell me!  Someone poisoned the guards 
and came in here and struck you! I swear to God I 
will-" 

"What, William?  What will you do?  Start hanging men 
as you please?"

"Damn right someone is going to hang." 

"This is not Wales; you will end up in The Tower or 
dangling from the end of a rope yourself.  Will you 
challenge a man younger and quicker with a sword and 
get yourself killed?  It is just a bruise. I will 
live, and I would prefer you did as well." 

She started to sit up and turn her back to him; he 
pushed her down on the mattress, so livid he was 
having trouble breathing. "You are my wife.  As 
long as we are in England, you are my property. Not 
in Wales, but here you are the same as a horse or a 
plot of land under the law. If you do something 
wrong, it is my place to correct you, no one else's. 
I could beat you senseless in the middle of 
Westminster and men would nod and say what a good 
husband I was, but no one would interfere or touch 
you without my consent.  Never!  Not for any reason. 
I do not care what you did or said. Goddamn it!" He 
picked up some knickknack from the table beside the 
bed and threw it at the wall, feeling slightly 
satisfied as it shattered against the whitewashed 
stones. "How dare you not tell me!" 

Duana closed her eyes again, turning her face away 
from him.  As he watched, a tear appeared on her 
cheek. 

"Damn it," Gwilym said, trying not to cry himself and 
mostly succeeding. "Tell me who did this. That is all 
you have to do." 

She shook her head 'no.' "I will stay here. No one 
will think you struck me. No one will even see me. 
Then we can leave for Wales." 

"Piss on people seeing you. I am going to drag you up 
on the king's dais and demand to know who did this if 
you do not tell me." 

Her head continued to move 'no.' 

He was afraid he would lose his temper completely if 
they kept arguing, so he stood up, putting some air 
between them until he cooled down. "I have to go 
swear homage to the damn brat-king," he said, using 
his distant, authoritative tone. "Do not leave here 
or open the door until I return." 

Pivoting on his toes, he stalked out, slamming the 
bedchamber door behind him. "Get up and bar the 
door!" he yelled, and heard her footsteps hurry 
across the floor and the bolt slide into place. 

Gwilym picked up his sword and sheathed it before 
opening the door to the hallway, his teeth clenched 
so hard he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. 

One of Llewelyn's guards fell in step behind him, but 
Gwilym stopped. "Stay with my wife. If you let anyone 
in that door or let her out before I get back, you 
answer to me, not Llewelyn this time," he ordered. 

"You do not want an escort to Westminster?  Prince 
Llewelyn said to escort you to Westminster and see 
you arrived on time," the young knight said, still 
dazzled by his first trip to London.  "What if there 
is trouble?  What if someone sees that you are Welsh 
and-" 

Gwilym spun around, his dark eyes snapping 
dangerously, and the knight decided this was the 
wrong morning for any foolish Norman to pick a brawl 
with the Lord of Gwynedd. 

Without another word, the guard resumed his post on 
the left side of the door to the apartments, 
swallowing nervously and watching as Lord Gwilym 
walked away. 

*~*~*~* 
 
Llewelyn was waiting outside the church, head 
pounding, watching for Gwilym to arrive, accompanied 
by four worried-looking Welsh knights. Gwilym was 
famous for telling Llewelyn, as his liege lord, to 
piss off and showing up to pay homage as he felt the 
need.  He was always there when called on to fight 
and there was no question of his loyalty, so Llewelyn 
just overlooked the absences as one of Gwilym's many 
quirks. It would not do to ignore this summons, 
though, even if they both had sons older than the 
new king. 

"Christ, Llewel - did you spend last night soaking 
your sorrows in a barrel of ale?" Gwilym asked him, 
swinging down from his saddle. He sniffed the Prince 
of Wales, then added, "Or were you dipping your wick 
in the London wares?"

The knights studied the muddy street, and Llewelyn 
glared at him. His eyes were bloodshot and the 
knuckles of his right hand were raw. His boots were 
polished and his clothing was fresh - probably thanks 
one of the knights - but he looked miserable, as 
though every inch of his skin hurt as badly as his 
head. 

"My son - you saw him." 

"I did; he looked to be drawing breath."

"You cannot understand."

"Perhaps I can," Gwilym shot back, still eager to 
pick a fight with someone. He wanted to say something 
like 'I have a tomb you can visit, if you want to 
grieve,' but tearing out Llewelyn's heart would not 
bring back Dafydd. So Gwilym said nothing, and the 
Prince just stared at him, grimacing at the sunlight 
and smelling of some Southwark brothel.  

"Let us just get this over with," Llewelyn finally 
said, and signaled the doorman. 

"Fine, but I need to speak with you after. About my 
wife." 

"What of her? Besides that she needs to learn some 
manners. There is no excuse for her locking you out 
last night." 

"It seems someone already tried to teach her some 
manners," Gwilym replied as the doors to Westminster 
opened and their names were announced to the King. 
Llewelyn gave him a pained, puzzled look, but there 
was no more time for private discussion. 

They approached the dais as commanded, waiting for 
the King - a slim, dark-haired boy of ten or so - to 
acknowledge them.  A few feet to Henry's right stood 
Fitz, acting as regent, high counsel, kingmaker: in 
reality, the ruler of England. 

"Your majesty, Prince Llewelyn of Wales and William 
of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd. You requested Lord William 
pay homage to you," Fitz supplied for the boy, who 
nodded. 

"Lou-heln. Luh- Louiselen," he tried, then started 
over. "Luh-hu-welin?" He glanced at Fitz, who mouthed 
'Llewelyn' again. "How is my sister Joanna, Llewelyn?" 

The Prince of Wales shifted uncomfortably.  "She is 
well, your majesty." 

"Lord William," Henry said eagerly, looking at 
Gwilym, "You have married the Count of Pembroke's 
widow, yes?  The Countess has become the Lady of 
Gwynedd?" 

"Yes - oui," Gwilym replied, remembering he was 
expected to speak instead of just understand French. 

"I am told she is well and that you have a daughter 
now." Young Henry seemed to have fond memories of 
Duana, just as she had of him. 

"Yes: Eimile. And a son. He is a few weeks old." He 
felt like a fool explaining this to a boy who should 
be out playing crusader and searching for imaginary 
dragons instead of sitting on a throne.  The idea 
that Eimile, Dafydd, Princess Joanna, and this King 
Henry shared a father was just too odd, even for 
Gwilym. 

Henry said something quickly in French, getting 
exited, but Fitz shook his head, reminding him that 
Gwilym's French was not good. "His name?" he asked, 
shortening his sentences. "What is your son's name?" 

"We have not chosen a given name, your majesty.  He 
is 'ap Gwilym of Aber,' of course, but we call him 
'Mab.' It means 'the male child of,' much like 'fitz." 

"David is a good Welsh name. A saint's name," Henry 
suggested. "David, son of William of Aber: that has a 
nice sound to it. Mark that down," he ordered the 
scribe, who scribbled away. 

"Your majesty..." Fitz began. 

"David was the patron saint of Wales, Fitz!" Henry 
protested, not understanding what he was doing wrong. 
"He has not yet named his son and I have helped him." 

Gwilym opened his mouth to protest and Llewelyn gave 
him a none-too-subtle nudge. 

"Lord William had a base born son named David." Fitz 
whispered to Henry. "Remember? We spoke of it this 
morning." 

"So he has a bastard son and a legitimate son sharing 
the same name. How many bastard Henry's did my father 
have?"   

'One too many,' Gwilym thought, but managed not to 
say through some sort of God-like effort. 

"It is a Norman custom: naming sons alike," Henry 
continued, "You also said this morning that Lord 
William could use a little Norman civilizing if he 
was going to be married to the Countess. Really, 
Fitz, I do not understand you sometimes. Lord 
William, is your wife with you?" 

"Yes... Your majesty," he remembered to add, not sure 
if he should be amused by this joke of a boy or 
furious. He could call Mab whatever he wanted, but in 
London and for posterity, the young lord of Gwynedd 
would always be 'Dafydd.' There was a poetic justice 
to that, somehow. 

"Then swear your oath and let us go see her. This is 
all I have to do this morning, yes, Fitz? After the 
Welshmen, I can go play, right?" 

Fitz nodded. 

"She is unwell this morning," Gwilym said quickly. 

"You will not interrupt me! You will not argue with 
me! I am the King! I want to see the Countess, and 
you will take me to her!" Henry yelled at Gwilym. 

"You need your ass warmed until you can learn some 
respect, King or no!" Gwilym shot back, luckily in 
Welsh, and luckily in the almost-empty hall of 
Westminster. Few nobles were at Court in winter, 
though Llewelyn looked dully horrified just the same. 
Gwilym swallowed, and answered more politely in 
French, "Of course.  My wife speaks fondly of you, 
your majesty. She recalls when you were just a boy." 

That had the desired effect, and Henry relaxed, 
puffing up a bit. "Swear, and then I have a prop- a 
prop- I have an offer for you and Prince Lu-helen. 
Llewelyn. Do you want my scribe to read the oath?" 

Gwilym shook his head 'no,' quickly knelt, and 
recited: "By the Lord God, I will be to King Henry 
faithful and true, and love all that he loves and 
shun all that he shuns, according to God's law and 
according to the world's principles, and never, by 
will nor by force, by word or by work, do ought of 
what is hateful to him; and on condition that he 
keep me as I am and willing to deserve, I, 
Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber, Lord of Gwynedd, 
swear fealty and service." 

There - it was done. And, as Duana would say, the 
world had not ended. 

"That is much to remember, especially when you do not 
speak French well," Henry said in awe. "Oaths and the 
Roman Kings  Caesars: those are most difficult to 
keep straight." 
 
Gwilym's mouth twitched. He was calmer now that it 
was over and he had not felt like a complete idiot. 
His oath was to the Crown, not so much this simple 
child.

It was Llewelyn's turn to swear an oath of 
faithfulness and service, which he knelt and did 
efficiently. Henry nodded, and Llewelyn rose, then 
stood waiting beside Gwilym. 

Fitz cleared his throat and mouthed 'proposition.' 

"Yes, the prop-po-sition," Henry remembered.  "Wales 
and Dover and France and the Welsh boy in The Tower. 
Fitz, I do not remember. May I go play?" 

Fitz shook his head, but took over for the boy. 
"First, Prince Llewelyn, the King will conditionally 
release your son. Wales has been loyal for a year 
now, and the King believes you have learned your 
lesson. The sentence of execution has been repealed 
and you, if you agree, may stay in London with him 
until the King gives you leave to return to Wales. Or 
you may return for him later. Regardless, he will be 
released from The Tower." 

"Thank you, your majesty," Llewelyn said, remembering 
to address Henry instead of Fitz. Henry was busy 
trying to scratch an itch deep in his ear and did not 
seem to notice. 

"But," Fitz continued, "The Welsh cannot have nothing 
else to do except think up ways to rebel against 
England. The lands that should have passed to 
Countess - to Lady Duana - the King will restore the 
estates in the south of Wales to her on the condition 
that Lord William can manage to rid England of the 
Frenchmen in Kent and Dover. You figure out a way for 
the Crown to take back Dover, William, and the King 
will give you the lands in south Wales as her dowry. 
As your liege lord, Llewelyn would hold all of north 
and south Wales." 

"You cannot manage to keep peace in the south 
anyway," Llewelyn said. "You give me back my son but 
you assure that I will be too busy trying to subdue 
the Marcher Lords in south Wales to rebel again." 

"Yes," Fitz replied. "You are quick. The King does 
not have money to keep pouring into fighting in south 
Wales, so he will give it to you and let you deal it. 
As long as Wales is loyal to you and you are loyal to 
the Crown, it is a good trade.  He cannot fight wars 
against every country around him.  Lord William is 
said to be quite the military strategist; if he can 
figure out a way to get the French out of England, 
which is no small task, the Crown does not have to 
worry about Wales or France." 

"The west and south coasts of England would be 
secure," Gwilym supplied, already plotting. "Leaving-"

"Leaving only Ireland and Scotland in rebellion," 
Fitz finished for him. "In addition to your army, 
the King will supply you with knights and ships and 
whatever else you need. If your army fights more than 
forty days, the Crown will pay you for it," he said, 
knowing Gwilym's sticking point: King John had simply 
ordered the Welsh to war almost constantly for years, 
always swearing he would reimburse them, but never 
did. "There is no catch, William; it is a bona fide 
offer. The King of England is a boy. He needs as 
little war, and, in truth, as little expense, as 
possible for the next few years. He cannot have the 
French army camped ten miles outside of London." 

"There is always a catch, Fitz. I have received gifts 
from the King before," Gwilym said. 

"I am not- The King is not a fool. I will not put the 
entire English Army at the disposal of you, a 
Welshmen, without accompanying you, William. Duana 
will stay at Court, of course, just in case you 
decide England needs liberated from the Normans as 
well as the French. Your first son was not a powerful 
enough incentive to keep you in line, but I think 
Duana would be." 

"No," Gwilym replied immediately. 

"Not like Gruffydd. Not even like the other Welsh 
boys as noble foster sons who had the run of the 
Court. Duana stays here as a royal guest. She was the 
Countess of Pembroke and my stepmother; I will see 
she is treated properly. You have my word." 

"I have also had the King's word before, thank you." 

"Gwil-" Llewelyn hissed at him. "All of Wales, damn 
it. My son! Yes, Lord William accepts your offer," 
Llewelyn answered Fitz, by now forgetting about Henry. 

"No! We have two babies in Wales. Someone came into 
her apartment last night and attacked her! Struck 
her!" Gwilym argued in stilted French. 

"Who struck her?" Fitz demanded, squaring his 
shoulders. "Did you see? 

"No, if I saw, I would not be pissing around and 
discussing it with you; the man who struck her would 
be dead."

FitzWalter was shaking his head; he had not 
understood Gwilym, but he was scowling unhappily. He 
called for his knights and, leaning close, issued a 
low, tense order. 

Llewelyn looked equally angry. "What happened?"

"Duana will not say, and I cannot find out or protect 
her because I am here paying homage to the boy-king 
with you," Gwilym reminded him angrily. "I swear that 
I will remain in England and butcher whomever you and 
the Norman King deem the enemy. May I go to my 
wife?" he demanded in Welsh. 

Llewelyn exhaled unhappily, but FitzWalter was still 
speaking with his knights. When he turned back to the 
Welshmen, he said, "I mean it, Lord William, Prince 
Llewelyn - on my honor, she will be safe. Henry!" 
Fitz said sharply. The King looked up, distracted 
from a bug he had been watching. "You are finished. 
You may go see Lady Duana now. Right now. We will 
accompany you." 

"Who?" Henry asked. 

"My father's wife," Fitz answered impatiently. 

"Oh!" the boy replied happily, scrambling down from 
the dais. "Do you think there will be plums? I would 
like a plum." 

*~*~*~* 

"What is this?" Gwilym asked sharply, pointing to a 
tray of untouched food sitting on a table outside 
Duana's apartment. 

"Breakfast," the guard answered.   

"Breakfast?  Why is it out here?  It is difficult for 
my wife to eat food which is in the hall." 

The poor young knight, who had been guarding the door 
since he replaced the sick guard last night, blinked, 
terrified of Lord Gwilym's temper, but numb from his 
lack of sleep. "I have let no one past this door, my 
lord. Not in nor out. Not a soul." 

Gwilym, already furious, started to see red. "I did 
not mean the damn maid you idiot! How could you think 
I would order you not to let my wife eat? Do I look 
like a Norman to you?" 

He had his sword halfway out of the sheath when 
Llewelyn grabbed his arm, ordering him to stop. Old 
King John had starved a few prisoners to death; if 
Fitz understood enough Welsh to realize Gwilym was 
talking about Normans and starving women, there could 
be trouble. Gwilym seemed set on getting his neck 
stretched this morning. 

"I am going to kill someone very soon, and I am 
several months out of practice with executions. I 
think I will warm up on this fool!"     

"Gwil! Stop it!" Llewelyn demanded, then suggested to 
the knight, "I would get out of his sight, boy." 

No one needed to tell him twice. The guard hurried 
down the hallway, then, glancing back at Gwilym, 
broke into a trot in his haste. 

*~*~*~* 

Llewelyn brought his hand too quickly toward Duana's 
face, she flinched, and without thinking, Gwilym 
reached for his sword again. FitzWalter stepped 
forward threateningly, and the royal knights with him 
moved to stop Llewelyn. The Welsh knights drew their 
swords to protect Prince Llewelyn from Fitz's guards, 
and for a few seconds, there was a tense standoff 
between Wales and England.  

Duana continued sitting on the sofa and staring at 
the floor. 

"Take care," Gwilym reminded Llewelyn as the prince 
surveyed the mark on her cheek.  

Fitz nodded in agreement. Gwilym exhaled and folded 
his arms, standing beside Duana. Closer to the door 
to the hall, Fitz crossed his arms across his chest 
as well, and shifted his feet restlessly. The Welsh 
and English knights just glared at each other. 

Sitting beside Duana, the King of England was 
oblivious. 

Llewelyn gestured for Duana to tilt her head and pull 
back her veil so he could see the bruise without 
touching her. "Yes, that is a hand print. Who hit 
you, Duana?" he said softly, squatting down so they 
were eye to eye. "Is that all he did?" 

"There are no marks on her," Gwilym supplied. 

FitzWalter looked from Duana to the unmade bed in the 
next room, and then to Gwilym. His stern expression 
did not change, but he shifted his feet again. 

Llewelyn stood up. "Who struck her?"

"She will not say," Gwilym reminded him. 

"She is your wife. Make her say, Gwil." Llewelyn was 
angry and sympathetic, but he also wanted to go get 
his son out of The Tower. And he was hungover. And he 
stunk. Trust Gwilym to have a crisis on this of all 
mornings. 

"Llewelyn, this is Lady Duana," Gwilym introduced 
sarcastically. "Cariad, Prince Llewelyn of Wales. 
Obviously, you have not met my wife, Llewel." 

"You will answer your husband," Llewelyn ordered 
sternly. "Or suffer the consequences."

"You want me to hurt her until she confesses to me 
who has hurt her?" Gwilym responded scornfully. "This 
is why I plan the battles, Llewel."

The Prince of Wales glared at Gwilym, his head still 
pounding.  

"Enough," FitzWalter intervened, stepping forward. "I 
will deal with this."

"Please do not, Fitz," Duana pleaded, speaking for 
the first time since she opened the door and found 
three men, the boy-king, and a dozen royal and Welsh 
guards waiting in the hallway. 

"Do not protect you?" Fitz argued back. "Let him hurt 
you yet again? I should have killed Edward years ago 
and been done with it, regardless of Father." 

Gwilym's chin shot up. He had a name. "Edward?" 

"Please, Fitz," she tried one last time. 

"Edward is my stepbrother. He is... He is not sane; 
possessed maybe. My father's stepson by his first 
wife - there is no blood between us. My men 
discovered him outside the castle last night. I knew 
he would try to get to Duana, but I did not realize 
he already had." FitzWalter worried his lower lip 
momentarily, then said, "You will tell me what crime 
he should be charged with, Duana."

King Henry looked up. "That is not the law," he 
reminded Fitz helpfully, as two royal guards appeared 
with a dark-haired man a little slimmer and shorter 
than Gwilym. 

"I did nothing to her, Fitz," Edward said, not 
waiting to be asked why he had been brought from the 
dungeon to Duana's apartment. "I give you my word, 
brother." 
 
"Your word will hold no more water than a sieve, 
brother." 

"It is still my word; my word against a Welshman's 
that I struck her and not he." 

Gwilym paced behind Duana, looking dangerous, but the 
Welsh guards were keeping him corralled to one end of 
the sitting room, with the sofa and a line of knights 
between Gwilym and Edward.  

"You know quite a bit about what you are accused of 
for an innocent man," Gwilym said, feeling his chest 
rising and falling as he breathed faster. "Duana, is 
this who was here last night?"   

She ignored him, so Fitz said tersely, "You know I 
will not see you hurt, Duana. Your Welsh husband, 
however, I have no qualms about torturing. Either 
tell me what crimes to charge Edward with, or I will 
hold William in contempt of the Crown." 

Duana focused on the wall behind Fitz as she said, 
"It does not matter, Fitz. King Henry is correct: 
there is no witness, so there is no crime."

The boy-king nodded in agreement. He had been 
learning law with his tutors just last week.  

Edward looked at Gwilym and grinned triumphantly, 
which was a bad, bad idea. 

Fitz shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 
That was indeed the law. Henry would have to rule 
according to the Magna Carta, and he could not teach 
Henry to be just if Fitz put aside the law anytime he 
pleased. The best plan was to have his men follow 
Edward and kill him in secret, but that was not going 
to sit well with the Welshmen. 

"I want you out of England-" was as much as Fitz said 
before Gwilym's face flushed. Llewelyn, anticipating 
his reaction, grabbed one arm while one of the Welsh 
guards held the other.  

"That is it? We all know he struck her, and you are 
just going to banish him? You think that is justice, 
Fitz?" 

"It is the law," Fitz replied tightly. 

"It is not the law in Wales," Llewelyn argued, 
equally unhappy. 

"We are not in Wales." 

"You are a dead man, Edward!" Gwilym assured him, as 
Duana whispered to Henry to get up from the sofa and 
move away. "They can hang me, but you will not see 
another sunrise!" 

"Your French is good, for a bastard Welshman," Edward 
replied, laboring under some delusion that Prince 
Llewelyn could keep Gwilym from killing him for very 
long. "You should teach a few words to your Celtic 
women so they know how to be appreciative of an 
Norman soldier's attention." 

"They do teach us a French phrase," Duana replied, 
standing and stepping closer to Edward. "They teach 
us to ask 'is it in' so we can tell." 

The guards, both Welsh and English, were focused on 
Gwilym's struggling, so no one had time to intervene 
before Edward lashed out, hitting Duana hard enough 
to knock her to the floor. 

"Goddamn it!" Gwilym yelled, managing to get one arm 
free. "Goddamn it - stop that! I will slit your 
throat, you son-of-a-bitch!" 

FitzWalter had Edward by the neck and was holding him 
against the wall, starting to squeeze the life out of 
him, before he realized Henry was watching, 
frightened. 

Duana stayed down, dazed, and by the time her head 
cleared, the guards were holding Edward again, and 
Gwilym was free. Llewelyn passed Gwilym a 
handkerchief, which he pressed to her bleeding nose, 
his hands shaking. Fitz was looming over her, looking 
like he wanted to take her from Gwilym. 

"Dead man," Gwilym promised Edward, cradling Duana 
against him, and, beside him Llewelyn nodded in 
agreement. If FitzWalter did not have the stones to 
execute this man, they would hunt him down as soon as 
he left London. 

"He is a dead man," Fitz said, more shaken than he 
wanted to appear. He exhaled. "We have a dozen 
witnesses. Henry, what is the penalty for striking 
another man's wife?" 

"Prison," Henry answered, twisting his fingers 
together anxiously. Henry had seen his father strike 
his mother Isabelle plenty of times, and it had made 
his stomach hurt. Now Fitz was married to Henry's 
mother: they quarreled, but Fitz did not hit her. 
Fitz did not like Mother, though - he did not say it, 
but Henry knew. Henry wondered if it was just his 
mother, or if all wives were irritating and 
quarrelsome. He had never seen Walter Marshall beat 
Countess Duana though, even when she would tease or 
disagree with her husband. They were always nice to 
each other, and Henry had liked staying in Pembroke 
castle much better than living in London with Mother 
and Father. 

"If he tried to rape a noblewoman?" Fitz asked. "What 
is the penalty?"

"Death," Henry replied, making himself a small target 
in the corner of the sofa. "Was he going to rape her, 
Fitz?" he asked, not sure exactly what that entailed. 

Fitz nodded yes, ordering the guards to take Edward 
to The Tower. 

"Wait," Henry remembered. "Did she insult him? It is 
not a crime of she insults his manhood. Did she do 
that?" He glanced nervously at Duana and Lord William 
still sitting in the floor. William lifted the cloth 
briefly to see if her nose had stopped bleeding, 
which it had not. 

Prince Llewelyn sucked in his breath disapprovingly. 

Fitz looked from Duana to Edward's defiant expression 
and back to Henry. "No, she did not insult him." 

"Good. Well, then he can be executed," Henry said 
happily, thinking maybe Duana would like a drink of 
water to help her feel better. "Take him away."

"Goodbye, Duana," Edward said, his eyes as lifeless 
as a dead fish's as he stared at her.  "I love you. 
And I have loved you, whether you liked it or not. I 
have, Father had. Poor Fitz; will it ever be your 
turn?" 

"Take him away," Fitz ordered tersely. 

*~*~*~* 

"Come," Gwilym said, looking up from the maps and 
lists to see Duana finally awake and standing in the 
doorway of the bedchamber. "How are you feeling, 
sleepyhead?" 

She opened her mouth, getting as far as "fi-" when he 
held up one finger. "Like a lunatic hit me in the 
face. Twice. Like I have just had a baby and then 
ridden across Wales and England in the snow. My brain 
is full, and my stomach is empty." 

"There is soup for you; I did not think you would 
want to chew.  Come, eat, and make me feel better." 

"Is he-" 

"Dead? Very. Fitz had him hanged by noon and you 
slept through it all. Eat. Then we will talk." 
Gwilym waited until she had sat down on the sofa and 
taken a single sip of the chicken broth before he 
observed, "You look as though you lost a fight." 

"I was supposed to lose a fight, William," she 
replied calmly. "That was the idea.  You should see 
my opponent." 

"True." He furrowed his brow. "I would have dealt 
with Edward, if FitzWalter did not. I do not like 
that you did that." 

"I never thought you would." She studied her soup for 
a few seconds before she told him, "Fitz would not 
have let him live, William. He just did not want to 
admit it in front of Henry. If you had killed Edward 
in front of King Henry, though: that would be your 
body hanging in the bailey." 

Gwilym made a noncommittal but disapproving noise in 
the back of his throat, and said nothing. 

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Why do you have all 
these maps? Are you going to war?" 

He considered whether or not it would be possible to 
extract any information about Edward from her, and 
decided it was about as likely as men flying to the 
moon. 

"I am playing a very large game of chess with real 
pawns and castles and knights.  You, it seems, are 
the queen of hearts."     

He brought the largest map with him, sitting on the 
floor in front of the sofa so she could see over his 
shoulder.   

"War?" she asked again. "Fitz is sending you to war?"

"A little one," Gwilym lied. "You will stay at Court 
until I return." 

He pretended to study the parchment until the silence 
from behind him was unbearable.   

"Welsh Court? With Prince Llewelyn?" 

"No, here in London." 

"And, and Mab? And Eimile?" she asked, her voice 
making his throat tighten. 

"They will stay with your mother and Llewelyn's wife 
in Wales. I will not risk bringing them through the 
mountains in February. Perhaps in the spring, cariad." 

"London spring in April or-" Her voice kept getting 
smaller and smaller, "Aber spring in late May, 
William?" 

"Watch: the King wants the French out of Dover here 
in the south. My troops are wintering here," he said 
and indicated to Wales. "The Norman armies are here 
above London. If I-" he began before Gwilym heard 
something suspiciously like a sob. "Do not cry.  I 
forbid you to cry." he ordered, and discovered he was 
talking to her back as she walked quickly to the 
bedchamber.   

Abandoning his maps, Gwilym followed her, finding her 
face down among the pillows.   

"Go away," she ordered him, which he ignored, 
climbing onto the bed, boots and all, and sitting 
beside her. "How can Fitz do this? How can you do 
this?" 

He reached his hand out several times before he 
settled it on her back, rubbing gently. "I did not do 
this. We would leave tomorrow if I had my way. The 
King wants me to help him win a war, and he plans to 
hold you here until I do it.  If I win, Llewelyn can 
take his son home and the King will give him, and me, 
most of the land in south Wales." 

"That does not even make sense, William," she said, 
her words muffled by the pillow. "Do not say 'the 
King' when you mean 'Fitz.' Fitz will keep me here 
while he sends you off to die." 

"No," he insisted, turning her over. "No, I tell 
them what to do, nothing more.  The other generals 
will lead the armies. I will never ride into battle, 
I promise." 

She sniffed, looking up at him with her red-rimmed 
eyes and poor, swollen cheek. "That promise is like 
that gray cloak I cannot peel off your back: so thin 
that I can hold it up to the sun and see sunlight 
through it. You told me once you had been too busy 
saving the world to take care of your family, your 
'echen.' You said you would never let that happen 
again. That is exactly what you are doing now. That 
was one of the first Welsh words I learned because 
you said it so much - talked about your family. Your 
'echen' and your 'cariad.' I am always 'cariad' - you 
must make that distinction to everyone, including me: 
I am cared for indirectly, casually, conveniently. It 
is not the same word, William. Beloved, because you 
had no choice in marrying me, but not loved."   

"You are too tired; you know that is not true." 
Gwilym wrapped his arms around her, pulling a stiff, 
unwilling Duana against him. "And you know I have no 
choice. This war is a game of strategy, like I said. 
What happened the first time we played chess?  What 
did I do?"  She buried her face in his shoulder, 
not wanting to answer. "No, Duana: what did I do?" 

"You, you lured me. You attacked and then retreated 
until I was sure I could beat you, so I attacked. 
Then you surrounded me and moved in from all 
directions." 

"Do I ever lose?" 

"No, William," she sniffed, reaching up to stroke his 
face, "You never lose. No matter what it costs, you 
never lose." 

He watched her damp eyes in the candlelight, trying 
to think up something brilliant to say to make this 
better, but words did not come.   

"Do not lose, William.  Our year is not yet up." 

"What year?" 

"For a year and a day nothing can come between us. 
The Druids - the ceremony.  Our year has not ended. 
Do not break that vow to me." 

"I will not," he promised.   

*~*~*~* 
 
End: Hiraeth VI: Echen