*~*~*~* 

Duana was sitting by an open window staring out 
toward London as Fitz hovered in the doorway. "Are 
you supposed to be out of bed so soon?" he asked, 
feeling like a chastised child.  "Are you still 
fainting? Have the pains stopped?"  
She ignored him, continuing to watch the horizon. 

"He is not coming, Duana.  The Welshmen left Court 
weeks ago; William is in Aber by now. If you are able 
to ride, do you want to return to London?  Or I can 
have Isabelle moved and you can stay here.  Whatever 
you want." 

"What did you tell him, Fitz?" Duana finally said, 
still not looking away from the horizon. "What did 
you say to him to get him to leave me?" 

"I told him only what I have said to you: that I will 
not tolerate you being mistreated. But Llewelyn's 
knights or his son overheard us talking abo-about," 
he stuttered, "Continuing the search for William 
after the battle. Saw me kiss you." He swallowed 
nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the 
other. "I am not sure what Prince Llewelyn told 
William, but William was gone by morning. He did not 
even challenge me, Duana. I would have told him it 
was not true if he had asked." 

"Then William did not think you insisted I keep my 
end of our bargain. Or else, he believes I acted of 
my own will."

"Because he did not challenge me?" 

She turned her head, but kept her hands on the stone 
windowsill. "No, because you are still breathing. 
William would not bother with Norman chivalry and 
jousting; he would have just killed you." 

"You overestimate your husband." 

"Not very often. Not about that. The Welsh have no 
tolerance for Normans raping their women, and William 
is especially intolerant," Duana answered, returning 
her gaze toward fields. "Do you have any idea how 
much I hate you?" 

"Yes, I have some idea."  Fitz sat heavily in a chair 
beside the door, leaning forward and resting his 
elbows on his knees. He did not like the word 'rape' 
coming from her mouth in context with him. "I do not 
know how to fix this, Duana.  How can you still want 
to go back to him?" 

"You must never sleep, FitzWalter, with all the time 
you spend monitoring marriages in addition to running 
England.  I thought a day had only twenty-four hours, 
but you must somehow find more."  She stood, locked 
her elbows, leaning slightly out the window so the 
sun warmed her hair through her veil. "So he has a 
mistress; it is his right. So there are other women 
as well, women who can offer him things that I 
cannot. You have still caused me more hurt than 
William ever has."     

"He did hurt you," Fitz insisted.  "I heard-" 

Duana whirled, her long skirt swirling around her 
legs. "Oh for Christ's sake! No, he did not! What is 
wrong with you men? How can you think putting Lady or 
Countess in front of one's name somehow snuffs out 
passion? You lust after it in mistresses, but blush 
at it in wives. Would you like to know a secret, 
Marshall FitzWalter, Regent of England, Count of 
Pembroke and Striguil, and Lord of Leister?  We are 
all women. The only difference between a lady and a 
courtesan is what her father, her Church, and her 
lover have taught her. I love my husband, and I am 
sorry if that does not meet with your approval." 

Fitz leaned so far back in his chair that his head 
pressed against the whitewashed stone wall, his mouth 
hanging open.  

"You want to know how to fix this?" she continued 
angrily. "You send a messenger to Aber with an oath 
swearing I did not leave him or dishonor him. A woman 
can end a Welsh marriage, Fitz, and William would let 
me leave if I had asked; I do not need your knights 
kidnapping me and dragging me across the countryside. 
William thinks I want a divorce and he is agreeing by 
not coming after me.  You send a message- No, you 
ride to Gwynedd and tell him that is not true and 
answer any question he asks you. You tell him what 
you did, you tell him what I did, and then you grant 
him safe passage if he will come for me.  You do it 
immediately!" 

He gaped like a dying fish.  There was no way he 
could put aside his duties for the weeks it would 
take to ride to North Wales and back. "But I have to- 
Henry-  The Counsel- London..." 

Duana tilted her chin up slightly, daring him to defy 
her. 
	 
"Gwynedd?" he pleaded. 

"Gwynedd. North Wales."    

"North Wales," Fitz conceded, getting up from his 
chair.  At least that was weeks away from Isabelle.   

*~*~*~* 

Gwilym understood why the Druids believed every 
mountain, every tree, every river had an immortal 
soul. There was a god in nature who deserved to be 
both feared and revered. The winters were long and 
harsh, and the springs wet and cool, but then there 
came the rebirth: all things living again. Summer was 
beautiful and bountiful in Gwynedd. The fields of 
grain waved in the breeze, and the spring lambs 
bleated after their mothers. The sun brightened the 
world, rising over the mountains each morning and 
setting behind the sea. 

Gwilym loved his people, and was well-liked in 
return. Summertime brought warm houses and full 
bellies and children playing in the village squares. 
He had passed too many summers at war abroad and not 
enough in Gwynedd. He had seen the world: Paris and 
London and Rome and the Holy Land, but this was his 
home. He had never left it that he had not felt 
hiraeth: the longing to return to where he belonged. 

He had ridden through his lands at midsummer the 
previous year, overseeing them and feeling firmly 
rooted. This was his kingdom, and all had been right 
with his world. 

After listening to two of his serfs for an hour that 
afternoon, he did not care which of them had truly 
owned the sow. If both men were fools enough to turn 
it loose without notching its ear to show whose it 
was, both men deserved to lose it. He thought his 
decision Solomon-like: one farmer got the left side, 
the other got the right, and there were several nice 
pieces of pork in his saddlebag for Gwen to serve 
tonight. 

He had been to Llewelyn's castle first, passing a 
week or so there. There had been a great deal of 
speculation about the goings-on of London Court and 
how they might affect Wales. The boy-king had been 
crowned, and the Welsh noblemen were being summoned 
to pay homage. There was much jockeying for position 
and uncertainly about the future those days, in 
London. In London, the French were in Dover again and 
encroaching on London. In Wales, it was summer and 
the strawberries were ripe. 

He had made a circuitous route, stopping at the Abbey 
to visit the tombs, and then riding from village to 
village as he returned to Aber, each time passing the 
night at the home of one of his vassals. Gwilym 
inspected new bridges and churches, discussed the 
harvest and the hunting and the danger of wolves, 
decided who owned wandering livestock and gave serfs 
consent to marry. That last was perhaps his favorite: 
young couples - the girl often big-bellied and the 
groom nervous about speaking to his lord - hand in 
sweaty hand, earnestly trying to convince him of 
their love and their future happiness, as if he would 
ever forbid a marriage. 

There was a newly-married peasant woman walking on 
the side of the road that led from Aber village to 
the castle, carrying a basket on her hip. Recognizing 
the blonde hair and the sway of her hips, he slowed 
Goliath to talk with Muretta.  

Though it was unlikely she did not notice a black 
horse nineteen hands high clopping along beside her, 
snorting impatiently, she walked on, her head held 
high. A commoner was not to speak until she was 
addressed, and she did not have to bow her head in 
acknowledgment until she actually saw him. Muretta's 
ingenious solution was to just ignore him for several 
minutes. 

Gwilym had always like the strand of arrogance that 
wove through her. 

He could see several cabbages and a loaf of bread in 
her basket, as well as a smaller basket of berries. 
He maneuvered Goliath until the horse was almost 
touching her shoulder, unfastened his saddlebag, and 
dropped a few pounds of the fresh pork in her basket 
to round out her supper for her husband. 

Muretta stopped, turned, and looked up at him icily. 
"You will bruise my berries, my lord."

"A pretty woman risks getting more than her berries 
bruised, walking alone," he told her. "Where is your 
husband?"

"At home awaiting his wife and supper." She shielded 
her eyes from the sun with her hand. "It is hours 
until dusk, and I trust you to keep me and my berries 
safe." 

"I will see you home," he promised wryly. "Your 
berries are no longer my province."

She regarded him coolly, as if she were the Queen of 
England.  

He chuckled, and the corners of her mouth twitched. 

"How is it you can adore a man so much when he always 
smells of piss?" he teased her, referring to the 
urine her husband used to tan hides. 

"Soap cures many things. And love is blind," she 
informed him with a hint of a smile, then started 
walking again. "And whatever it is called when one 
cannot smell." 

"You are well, then?" he checked, still astride 
Goliath and pulling the reins tight to keep the horse 
at a slow walk. "And your husband?" 

"Well," she assured him. "And your new daughter?" 

"Almost as beautiful as her mother." Goliath was 
walking sideways now, his head reined in tightly; he 
could see Aber Castle in the distance, and was ready 
for his supper, as well. "There are no little ones at 
my tanner's hearth yet?"

"I assure you: we are applying our efforts daily to 
that end, my lord," she said haughtily, and Gwilym 
laughed again. 

"I will tell my wife to send you some soap to aid 
your efforts," he promised. 

She resumed ignoring him for another few minutes. He 
accompanied her around the turn in the road, with 
Goliath prancing with impatience. As they neared the 
turn-off to his tanner's little house, she observed, 
"It seems your horse is in a hurry to reach home." 

"His master is as well. We have been away for several 
weeks." 

She stopped at the beginning of a path through the 
trees, and he could see smoke rising from the 
tanner's hearth a hundred feet away. 

"Is there any news of the world?" she asked. "Of 
Londinium?"

"None that affects Gwynedd." He bid her good day, and 
Muretta patted his boot affectionately. As she turned 
away, he encouraged her, "You keep those berries safe 
for your husband." 

He heard her laugh as his tanner emerged from the 
house to greet her. 

Clear of the village, Gwilym stopped fighting Goliath 
and let the big horse settle into an easy canter. 
After a mile, the road rose above the valley, 
clinging to the mountainside as it wound toward the 
sea. He stopped Goliath one last time as he neared 
the castle gate, looking out over his land. 

Servants and knights spilled out of Aber Castle to 
greet him in the bailey, surrounding him with a 
colorful jumble of news and questions. He slid down 
from Goliath and gave the war horse a pat as they 
parted: payment for another journey completed. Gwen 
promised roasted pork for supper, Merfynn promised a 
joke so dirty it was not fit for even his own wife's 
ears, and Father Leuan looked a little constipated - 
so all was well. Looking over their heads, Gwilym saw 
his wife standing at the doorway to the great hall, 
waiting for him.

She smiled, and her face seemed to radiate like the 
mid-summer sun. 

The bustle continued as they went inside, with wine 
being brought, a bath being promised, and the dogs 
offering their bellies affectionately. Duana took his 
hand, holding it with both of hers. As the chaos of 
his castle returned to its normal level, he turned 
his full attention to her, feeling an 
uncharacteristic excitement flowing from her. He had 
missed her as well, but Duana was not a woman to 
twitter or be passionate in public. 

"I have news," she told him, the first second they 
were alone in the hall. 

"I have news, as well. Prince Llewelyn says-" 

"No, William," she interrupted. "I have news for you. 
I-" She stopped, realizing she was being 
disrespectful. 

"Go ahead, then. What is your news?" 

It was good news, he imagined: Eimile was starting to 
walk, or a messenger had come from Llewelyn's court, 
or she had finally managed to get those tell-tale 
grass stains out of the knees of his favorite 
breeches. 

"What?" he repeated, smiling when she hesitated, 
still holding his hand with hers. 

"I am with child." 

He looked down at her, and forgot to take a breath 
for a moment. His chest felt so warm and full that 
air seemed unnecessary. "You are certain?" 

"I am," she assured him, nodding. "Twice my flux has 
not come. Yes, I am certain."

"You are with child," he repeated, digesting the 
words. Then, calculating quickly, he said, "From the 
Beltane fires?"

She nodded again, her hands tightening over his. 

"You are with child. We are going to have a child," 
he said, and it began to seem real. "Mid-winter. We 
will have a son." 

There was much nodding and smiling at each other, and 
then, completely out of character, he put his arms 
around Duana's hips and picked her up, turning her in 
a slow, celebratory circle in the center of the 
great hall of Aber Castle. She put her hands on his 
shoulders and beamed down at him, as the servants 
stopped to stare and the dogs romped playfully around 
them, barking. 

A year ago, all had been right with his world. 

*~*~*~* 
"It is a game; I told her it was," Gwilym said, 
resting his cheek against the horse's forehead and 
then swallowing a sob. "Life takes my pieces one by 
one until the board is clear."  

The animal nudged him, trying to understand what was 
wrong. Lacking anything better to do, Gwilym would 
have answered, but how did one explain love to a 
gelding?      

"That is not the way to wrap a kilt," a woman's voice 
with a Gaelic accent called from the stable doorway, 
and Gwilym looked up, wiping the tears from the 
corners of his eyes. 

No, it was just that wanton innkeeper. He went back 
to unsaddling his mount, angry with her for 
interrupting his solitude.     

"My husband is a Highlander.  Would you like me to 
wrap it?" she asked, stepping closer, making the 
horse shy away from her. 

"No," he said firmly, jerking at the girth, but then 
deciding to leave the horse saddled: he would not 
pass the night here after all.  He did not care to be 
another woman's substitute husband. 

"You should wear nothing underneath," she observed as 
he bent over to get his saddlebags, revealing a 
glimpse of loose, linen underclothes reaching to his 
mid-thigh. "That is the Highland way." 

Gwilym, who felt like his heart was being stretched 
on a hoop so life could embroider it with rusty 
needles, stood up, his face flushed scarlet. "I paid 
your groom to stable my horse for the night. I do not 
need you to check my clothes or see that I eat or 
fluff my pillow. What is it you want?"  

"You are hurt," she answered, reaching up to touch 
the fresh cut on his cheek as the horse snorted 
nervously. "You are hurting." 

He pulled away as though her hand was hot. "It is one 
of many."     

He could cover forty miles a day with a fresh horse, 
but moving a woman, especially if she were with child 
and had to rest often, from London to Edinburgh, 
could take a month.  So he had found a nice spot in 
the treetops across the ravine from Rosslyn Castle 
and waited, knowing any travelers would have to cross 
the narrow bridge to enter the gate.  He could not 
miss her, and then it would just be a matter of 
slipping into the castle and asking if she wanted to 
leave with him - or if she wanted a divorce.  Gwilym 
suspected he knew what her answer would be, but he 
still wanted to hear her say it and see that she was 
safe. 

Gwilym had watched the castle as May became June and 
threatened July, and he had finally seen knights ride 
in with a woman.  He had traded clothes with some 
traveler and slipped inside, hoping he could pass for 
a Scottish commoner.  He did not pass for long, of 
course, but long enough to search the castle for 
Duana before the guards had roughed him up and thrown 
him out.   

Duana had not been there. The woman he had seen had 
been the lord's daughter, not Duana, and he had not 
been able to tell from so far away.   

"You did not find her, Welshman. The woman you have 
lost: you did not find her." 

"No, I did not find her," he answered, faltering a 
bit.  Gwilym could function as long as he did not 
think about it: that he had no home to return to, 
Duana could be anywhere by now, and she probably did 
not want him even if he did find her.   

Perhaps he should have just stayed dead. 

He could remember now. He could remember many 
things, but not what had possessed him to bed the 
young girl in Chester Castle, then flaunt it in front 
of his wife. Those weeks of his life were a dark 
swirl of ink in his mind: not hazy like some of his 
older memories, but just gone.      

"She is not here," the woman said sadly.  

"I know she is not here," he snapped, pain pulling at 
him like a dangerous undercurrent. "She is not here, 
and making polite conversation with you does not help 
me find her. I told you before: I have a wife." 

"You bleed for her." 

He exhaled. "Yes, I bleed for her," Gwilym replied 
tiredly, dropping his head, not even having the 
energy left to fight.   

He meant his soul, but felt her fingertips touching 
his scraped cheek.  He must have reopened the wound 
trying to wash off a few minutes earlier.  The 
Rosslyn guards, finding he did not speak their 
language, had expressed their displeasure with their 
fists, and he had let them. 

"I miss having Iohn to bleed for me." 

Gwilym closed his eyes, swearing he would not cry in 
front of a woman. "You said you husband is on 
Crusade; how long has he been away?" 

"I was fifteen when we married.  He left that summer 
and there has been no word since. I am two and twenty 
now. How many years is that?" 

"Seven," Gwilym calculated, knowing her husband was 
certainly dead and she did not realize it. Or 
perhaps, like he, against all odds, she only wanted 
to believe. "You still wait?" 

"I still hope," she answered, grazing the tip of her 
nose down the raw skin of his cheek, making a line to 
his lips. "So does your woman." 

"How do you know?" he managed, not moving a muscle 
either to stop or encourage her.    

"I know." She found his mouth, running her tongue 
over his chapped lips to moisten them and then urging 
his mouth open. He tasted his own blood and pulled 
away, feeling the veil of darkness she wore beginning 
to lure him in. 

"I do not want you," he insisted breathlessly, his 
heart pounding out of fear as much as anything else. 

"Why did you return if you do not want me?" she 
asked, outlining his body with her hands. "Edinburgh 
has many inns, but you returned to this one." She 
pressed him against the wall of the stable, beginning 
to gather up the gray plaid fabric of his kilt with 
her fingers. "I need a man to run the tavern. Stay 
with me, Welshman. Begin a new life, and leave your 
woman to her hopes. Hopes can be conjured, but 
reality - it is cruelly final. Leave her happy 
memories of you, and nothing more. Do not hurt her 
again." 

He stopped her hands and jerked his head back, 
hypnotized by the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. 
They burned, luring him in like a fire on a cold 
night. He knew she was some sort of witch, and he 
knew he was lying: he wanted her the way soldiers who 
had seen too many battles started to want death. Life 
just became too much to bear, and it seemed easier to 
let the darkness consume them. 

"Stay with me," she repeated, pushing Duana's cross 
aside and licking hungrily at the base of his neck. 
"Come inside. Be with me. Leave behind the man you 
once were - let him be dead, and start anew." 

FitzWalter would take care of Duana, and Llewelyn 
would take care of their children. It was foolish to 
continue hunting for a woman so she could look him in 
the face and tell him 'no.' No, she did not want a 
cruel, penniless barbarian - a traitor and a heretic 
and murderer and Christ alone knew what else. 

"You will only cause her more pain. Cause yourself 
pain," she promised him. "Stay with me. Be my 
husband."

"You husband is dead," he told her, but she did not 
deny it. 

Her dark eyes seemed to burn, crimson flecks now 
mixing with the gold. Her nostrils flared, and she 
licked her lips in anticipation. This innkeeper was 
not a woman, but a creature out of legend. A 
beautiful killer, a pretty monster, the same as he 
was. Perhaps she was a revenant: a blood-drinking 
demon. She was a thing that had returned from the 
dead to feed off of the living. He could let her 
consume him, and Gwilym of Aber would vanish. Duana's 
husband would cease to exist, and perhaps, the next 
time they found each other, things would be 
different. Perhaps he would be the man Duana deserved. 

It seemed so easy - like staying with the nameless 
woman in the forest after the battle outside London. 
He could have slipped effortlessly into a new life 
with that pretty peasant woman and her unborn child, 
and he could step just as easily into death with this 
innkeeper. He had been dead, and it was not so bad. 
Perhaps, now he too was one of the undead - so 
determined to return to his life that he did not 
realize it had ended.

As he began to relax, to surrender to her, Gwilym 
could feel Duana at the edge of his soul, tethering 
him to life like a rope to the shore. His skin warmed 
as if a ray of sun had found him amidst all the 
darkness. He could not leave her behind. 

"No, he managed, pulling back. No," he said more 
forcefully, catching her wrists and forcing her away. 
"I cannot."

"You can," she said in a low, seductive voice. 

"I cannot. I promised her I would return, and I will. 
I will face her, even if only to have her turn me 
away. This is a coward's way out."

Her eyes seemed to glow for an instant, and she 
reminded him of a wolf seeing its prey escape. "It 
will end bloody," she promised. 
 
"Perhaps." He took a deep breath, clearing his head, 
and told her, "I may be many things, but I am not a 
coward." 
   
*~*~*~* 

Since the midwives did not want Duana out of bed, 
Fitz waited in the adjacent room while the maids 
asked her if he could come in. Under any other 
circumstances, he would never have entered a woman's 
bedchamber without her husband, guards, or ladies 
present, but his gut would twist inside out if he 
waited any longer to tell her.  

He watched from a window as dozens of wagons in the 
outer bailey were loaded with Isabelle's things, 
wondering idly how fate separated the blessed men 
from the fools. FitzWalter liked systems and order, 
but life seemed to give and take love as unthinkingly 
as one flicks a bug off one's shoulder. In this 
scenario, he was not sure if he was the shoulder or 
the bug. Both, perhaps.  

As soon as he stepped into the room, Duana did not 
need to ask if Fitz had been able to convince William 
to come.  Failure, not power, was that wet cloak he 
had spoken of, and she could see it weighing him 
down.  Duana knew FitzWalter; he had been gone for 
weeks and it was not a question of whether or not he 
had tried. There was no need to say anything else, 
really.     

She bit her lip and then swallowed, focusing on her 
fingers as she smoothed the blanket. Fitz's jawbone 
jutted out as he clenched his teeth, then looked 
away. "I am sorry, Duana." 

He had taken fifty knights - northern Wales was not a 
hospitable place for Normans - and sent message after 
message to the gate of Aber, but there was never any 
response except a rain of arrows from the gray walls. 
The castle gate remained closed, even when Fitz 
finally stood outside and yelled. One messenger 
claimed William's old piss ant of a sergeant had 
dumped a chamber pot on him from the battlements: 
that seemed like an answer to Fitz.   

"If you want him, I will lay siege to the castle. 
William can come out or he can starve," he promised, 
overlooking that William's lands had already 
technically been forfeited to the Crown. It did not 
really make a difference: William was right - owning 
a castle in north Wales and actually managing to rule 
it were two separate things. "He could at least hear 
me out." 

Duana shook her head. That was just too humiliating.      

"I sent knights to Llewelyn's Court to escort your 
daughter to London.  She had an earache; her nurse 
did not want her to travel yet, but the girl will be 
here by harvest. As for William - I did try, and I 
will keep trying. Perhaps he will change his mind." 

"Or perhaps not," she replied shakily. "It may seem 
he believes every story the bards sing, but William 
actually trusts very few people. He doubts as 
powerfully as he believes, and now he doubts me. I 
doubt him.  It is a very little word: doubt. In 
Welsh, 'amau' - such a small breath for something 
that can end so much."    

Fitz started to respond, but Henry scampered into the 
room, wrapped in a child's obliviousness to the adult 
world, and happily pounced on Duana's bed.    

"Sit in a chair, Henry," Fitz ordered more sternly 
than necessary, pulling a seat across the floor. 
"Either that, or stand. You are not a child; you may 
not sit on the bed." 

Henry frowned at Fitz, not budging from beside Duana, 
who was looking away. "Why? Why can I not sit here?" 

"Because it is not proper. You should not even be in 
here. Go visit your mother before she leaves." 

The boy folded his arms, pushing out his lower lip. 
"I have seen Mother; now I want to see Lady Duana. I 
am the king, after all." 

Duana sniffed, then tilted her head to whisper in 
Henry's ear. "Your face will freeze like that: birds 
will perch on your lip and roost in your nose. We 
cannot have a king with a bird in his nose."     
   
The empty wooden chair protested as Fitz rocked it, 
reminding Henry. Sucking his lip back to its proper 
place, the boy crawled down, sitting in the chair but 
leaning over to prop his elbows on the bed. Fitz 
decided it was wiser to praise an improvement than 
dwell on an infraction, and let him be. 

"You are going to have a baby, yes?" Henry asked, 
resting his chin on his fists. 

"I am," she managed, her voice wavering. 

"My mother believed she was going to have a baby, but 
she was wrong, and now she must leave." 

Fitz readjusted his hands on the back of the chair, 
frowning as he stood behind Henry. "That is not quite 
what happened, Henry." 

"Can I feel it?" he asked, ignoring Fitz, who cleared 
his throat disapprovingly. "When my dog had puppies, 
I could feel them moving inside her." 

"Not yet. A little longer until the baby moves. Then 
you may feel." 

"Then how do you know it is in there?" Henry asked, 
staring at the blankets covering her abdomen 
suspiciously. 

"All right!" Fitz announced, turning Henry, still in 
the chair, toward the door.  "Enough rude questions. 
Either go see your mother or run and play. I want to 
talk to Lady Duana." 

Henry did not seem inclined to budge, so Fitz tilted 
the chair forward, threatening to dump him in the 
floor. "Bore!" the child said, grinning at Fitz. 

"Royal rascal," Fitz shot back, managing a tight 
smile. "Go play: you do not have to see your mother 
again if you do not want to." 

Henry seemed to like that option and skipped out 
happily, pausing to slam the door for effect. Fitz 
immediately got up and reopened it for propriety's 
sake, then returned to Duana's bedside. 

"He is a good boy," she said, wanting to talk of 
anything else except William. "Your father would be 
proud.  Henry adores you." 
 
"And he adores you," Fitz replied, taking Henry's 
vacant seat, but scooting farther back from the bed. 

"But I am not his mother. Fitz, it is easy to be 
wrong, especially when a woman knows it is important 
for her to have a child. Are you sure you want to 
have Isabelle annulled so quickly?" 

"It is not so simple, Duana," he answered cautiously. 
"I never expected to marry a woman I loved, but 
Isabelle and I cannot even manage a civil 
conversation.  We make each other miserable. She was 
not with child; she was only bluffing, and I do not 
appreciate her bluff. She thought that if you were 
with child, then she could be as well."   
  
She started to object, so he just opened his mouth 
and said it: "Duana, when men ask, I lie, but the 
truth is no woman I have ever been with has 
conceived. Isabelle knew that." 

She had been busy trying not to think of Wales 
and Welshmen and closed castle gates, but Duana 
understood. Doctors believed it was always the 
woman's fault when a couple did not conceive, but 
many supposedly barren widows found themselves 
pregnant by their second husband. 

"Are you certain? No one?" She looked dubious. "I 
knew you when you were a squire. None of those 
girls?" 

He looked down at the floor, red-faced. "I have been 
paying attention for some time now. None of them. 
Ever. I did not think it right to marry Isabelle and 
not tell her what I suspected - just in case. So she 
knew. And now you know." 

"Isabelle's child was not- Could not be... Oh, Fitz, 
I am so sorry." 

Fitz shrugged, embarrassed, but Isabelle was the 
least of his worries. "It is done.  She is going back 
to her father in France, and she will be happier 
there.  Henry barely knows her; he is more attached 
to you..." Losing his nerve, he tried another 
approach: "Can I ask, since I have none of my own 
blood - how is your child?" 

She rested her hand lightly on her stomach, feeling 
the beginning of a belly. "Fine. I was having pains 
earlier, but they have stopped. The midwives are just 
being careful." 

"I should let you rest, then." 

Duana nodded, wanting to be alone. 

He started to stand, and then sat back down, shifting 
his feet restlessly. "I know you hate me," Fitz said 
quickly. "If I had not been too angry with William to 
see straight, I would have acted differently. I will 
not condone what William has done, but I...  Many 
wives live with worse.  I never expected him to 
simply walk away, especially from this child, but he 
will not listen. I told him you were with child 
before he left Court; he does know." 

"I-" she started, then stopped. "He does know. I am 
not sure he believes he is the father, though," she 
said quietly.

She had replayed in her mind the morning after she 
had found William, realizing how her words and 
actions must have seemed to him. Duana had meant 
'perhaps' she was with child, she was not certain 
yet, not that 'perhaps' he was the father. She had 
behaved like a wanton mistress, and this William did 
not know that she was not. 
 
He had hinted that Diana was unfaithful - that he had 
not been certain his daughter was his until he had 
seen her. How easy it would be to believe Duana would 
do the same, especially if William did not remember 
ever being with her before. Especially if one of his 
knights or Gruffydd have overheard her offering 
herself to Fitz. 

"I have thought of that. I can swear that William 
told me he was riding to London to see you. I can 
have my knights swear they saw him enter your chamber 
that night, and that he was there again before the 
siege. I would even swear to what I said to you:
that your child cannot be mine, even if I had touched 
you. But Duana, he never challenged me. He never even 
asked me.  There was no chance to protest your 
innocence because he just walked away. I am sorry." 

"I know," she said softly. 

"Duana, I will say it." Fitz had rehearsed this, 
so he took a deep breath and just spoke: "I cannot 
undo what has been done, but I can see that your 
child is well cared for. I have no heir; if William 
does not want to acknowledge your child, I would like 
it to inherit my lands, either by right as a son or 
as a dowry for a daughter."    

"That is not le-"  

"It would be legal if you were my wife."   

"Oh," she said simply, and looked away again. 

"Just hear me out: whatever you want, Duana.  You 
said we are friends and there is no reason for that 
to change unless you want it to. As I said, you know 
my secrets, but you have also known me since I was a 
squire. I only want you and your child - your 
children: the girl, as well - to be safe. Well-cared 
for. Loved," he added softly. "I am not going to 
force you to do something you do not want." 

"That is a generous offer, but" 

"Do not say 'no' yet. Think about it; you have some 
time.  As long as we marry before your baby comes, it 
is legitimately my heir.  Let me post the banns so 
William can object if he wants. Perhaps then he will 
realize what he is losing.  Please consider it." 

"I will think about it," she conceded, looking around 
the dead end alley in her cluttered mind and trying 
to find a way out.

William was not coming for her. She could refuse to 
marry again, go to a convent, and have her child be a 
bastard, or marry a stranger, or marry Fitz and have 
her child inherit half of England, Ireland, and 
Normandy from its doting father. Nor would Eimile 
ever know cruelty or want if Duana married Fitz; the 
Pembroke and Plantagenet cloak would shelter her, as 
well. 

Fitz stood, started to reach for her hand, but then 
decided against it. "One thing. Eimile's father: it 
cannot be William. I suspect it is not Prince 
Llewelyn, either, regardless of what he claims. Is 
she my father's child? Or another man's? If you are 
going to be my wife, it is my right to know." 

Isabelle's game of letting him watch and wonder which 
of his men had been with his wife had its desired 
effect, and Fitz did not want to play it ever again. 

"He is dead. You hanged Edward, and William hanged 
Alex and killed Eimile's father. Your father and 
William - I have been with no one else.  William has 
acknowledged Eimile. In Wales, that makes him her 
legal father, though he must have changed his mind if 
he is letting her leave Llewelyn's castle. If he does 
not have Eimile with him in Aber... He does not want 
her. Just as he does not want me." She looked away 
again.  

"I do want you, Duana," he reminded her. His voice 
was gentle, like his father's. There was no pressure 
or even passion: just an honest statement of fact. 

She blinked, her throat tightening. "Please go, Fitz." 

"I am sorry," he replied, then pulled the bed 
curtains closed and quietly walked away. 

*~*~*~* 

"Are you all right, my lady?" Richard FitzMatthew 
asked, seeing Duana sitting alone in the manicured 
courtyard, staring at the castle walls.   

"I am fine," she replied politely, not looking like 
that was the case. "And you?" 

"My shin and pride have healed well," he answered, 
smiling and referring to a kick she had given him as 
he had tried to persuade her to leave London. "It is 
good to see you are feeling better.  May I sit down?" 

She nodded, and was surprised when he sat, not on the 
bench across from her, but close beside her. "I am an 
old man now, I do not keep up on the world outside of 
London. When FitzWalter said you wanted safe passage, 
I did not realize it was from William of Aber," he 
said smoothly. "I had thought Will died years ago. We 
were friends in our youth - as close to friends as 
any Norman and a rash, barbaric Welshman can be." 

"Perhaps you mean my hus-" she faltered, "The Lord of 
Gwynedd is Llwynog ap Gwilym of Aber - Fox, son of 
William of Aber.  Are you thinking of his father?" 

"I must be.  The boy lived, then?  I did not know; I 
thought he died with the others.  I suppose he would 
be a man by now." 

"He is a good man," Duana said, staring at her lap.   

"You asked for sanctuary from a good man? You did not 
seem willing to leave."  She did not respond, so 
Richard offered, "My eyes are old; perhaps they 
deceive me.  I think I see things I do not, 
sometimes.  In the treetops, for example: I could 
have sworn I saw a ghost yesterday, but now I think 
it must only be an animal." 

"It must be," she answered, wondering that in the 
world they were talking about.  The silver-haired old 
man must be feeble.   

"I was fortunate; I grew up knowing the cousin who 
would become my wife," Richard rambled. "But love was 
not so easy for some of my friends. A Jewish woman, 
for example, would be a poor choice, even as a 
mistress. For a Knight Templar, such a thing would be 
heretical. He would have to see her in secret, and he 
could never tell a soul, even if there was a child. 
You are too young to remember, but King Richard took 
special pleasure in tormenting the Jews.  Once, when 
a Christian baby was found dead, he said they were 
responsible and ordered his knights to kill every Jew 
in the London ghettos and then to burn the remains. 
There was no warning for them and nowhere to run. I 
did not think a child could possibly have survived." 

"William's mother was a Jew, then?" 

"Will told me a man cannot choose who he loves."    

Duana looked at Richard's dignified face. William had 
once said almost those same words to her. 

"I suppose the son is much like the father," he 
continued, as though she was not scrutinizing him. 
"Will had some odd ideas, and he always followed his 
heart over his head, even when his friends warned him 
not to. If I may say, you are very beautiful. Men 
must covet you, especially powerful men, but you have 
another admirer as well.  Even the treetops seem to 
watch you as you walk in the courtyard." 

"I do not understand." 

Except for a few maids and guards, there was no one 
to overhear, but Richard lowered his voice anyway. 
"There seems to be a fox in the treetops. Slowly, 
look past me and above the tower. He has been 
watching you since yesterday." 

"Oh my God!" she whispered, scanning the trees 
outside the castle walls.  A branch moved, and she 
saw William's face among the leaves. 

"I am guarding the gate tonight, but sometimes I doze 
off and it is easy to slip past me, especially at 
midnight when everyone else is asleep." 

"Why are you doing this for me?"  

"I told you: your William's father was my friend. 
This is his son FitzWalter has taken you from, and I 
do not believe you wanted to be taken." 

She shook her head slightly 'no,' not believing that 
was the whole story. If it was discovered that this 
man let her escape, he would hang. 

"FitzWalter wanted to ensure you and your child would 
be safe and treated gently, so he assigned me to lead 
the men. I do not usually ride anymore. Years ago, 
though, I was Captain of the Guards for Count Walter 
Marshall and, thus, for King Richard."  

"You were one of the knights King Richard ordered to 
burn the ghetto. William's mother - your friend's 
mistress - was inside." 

It was Richard's turn to look away. "I am old; my 
memory fails," he lied.  

*~*~*~*    
           
"Come," Fitz called in surprise when the servant 
announced her. He looked up over the stacks of 
ledgers and parchments on his desk. "Duana? Should 
you not be abed? Is something wrong?" 

"I could not sleep," she answered. "What is all 
this?"  

Duana found a flat surface on his desk and set down a 
goblet she had brought, then sipped from her own cup. 

"Records, taxes, charters: just the business of 
England."   

"It cannot wait until morning?" she asked, then 
watched him over the rim of her goblet. 

Fitz looked at her, then laid down his quill and 
picked up the cup. "I suppose. I never seem to make a 
dent, anyway. Duana, you brought me brandy?" 

"Your father liked it, and I thought you did as well. 
Come: leave the business of England, and sit and talk 
with me for a little bit."  

No one was going to let her out to the forest to look 
for herbs, so Duana had to work with what she could 
find in the kitchens.  She was not sure how quickly 
the sedative in his wine would take effect.  Without 
Fitz to give orders for a few hours, the castle 
guards would be unsure of what to do when they found 
she was missing. Duana bought herself a little more 
time to try to convince William.  

Unfortunately, Fitz took one sip, then set his goblet 
on the table, sitting down and stretching his legs 
out to the fire. 

"You do not want your drink?" 

"It makes me sleepy," he answered, rolling his tired 
shoulders.  

"It helps calm my nerves," she replied, thinking 
quickly, and sat beside him. 

He turned his head to look at her, and realized that 
she was blushing. "Why are you nervous?"  She glanced 
up, dropped her eyes, and Fitz, no stranger to women, 
picked up his cup. "You come to my apartments alone, 
late at night; if I were not the Count of Pembroke 
and said to be a fearless knight, I should be the one 
who was nervous.  Are you trying to steal my virtue, 
woman?" 

Duana chuckled. She had never loved Fitz, but she had 
always liked him, and often thought Walter had once 
been similar - young, idealistic, ready to right the 
world - before Walter had discovered the world was 
not the chivalrous place he wanted to believe it was. 
Unlike his father, Noble Fitz had yet to have life 
laugh at him; it did change a man. 

"Of course," she said lightly. "My plan is to get you 
drunk and seduce you. Then you will have to marry me." 

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, then purposely 
reached past her to set the glass on the opposite 
table, brushing against her. "That is about twelve 
different sins all at once: we cannot be married for 
another two weeks, you are with child... Do you know 
how much absolution I would have to pay for?" 

"Would it be worth it?" she asked, trying to sound 
bolder than she felt.  By her calculations, he needed 
more wine then that - at least half the cup. 

"Every penny, every second." He stayed close to her, 
watching her face in the firelight. "You have changed 
your mind then: about the marriage?" 

She nodded 'yes,' hating to lie to him while he was 
looking at her with those soft brown eyes.   

"And about me?" he asked, deciding he could use a 
little more brandywine after all. 

Duana heard his voice hesitate. That was the key: he 
was anxious about her, of all the silly things. 

"I am just nervous." 

"So wait, Duana." He moved away, leaning back against 
the sofa. "We are not married yet. Even once we are, 
there is no hurry. You are with child, you have been 
ill. We should wait." 

"No, the longer I wait, the more nervous I will get."     

He took a longer drink, then set the goblet down. 
"Tonight, then? You are certain?" 

"I am not certain of anything right now, Fitz," she 
said honestly. "Except that I am going to have a 
child in barely four months, and I want my child to 
have a father." 

He hesitated, not sure how to make contact.  Finally, 
he rested his hand carefully on her abdomen. "I 
noticed it the other day: you are beginning to show. 
I guess if I am going to be your husband, I get to 
make observations like that." 

Duana watched his hand, finding it tolerable. 
William seemed to spend most of her pregnancies with 
one hand on her belly, so this was not a new 
sensation. 

"Can you tell yet if it is a boy or a girl?" he 
asked, trying to get her to relax.  He was nervous, 
but the poor woman was about to jump out of her skin. 

"Honestly, I have never been able to tell." 

"It does not matter." He slipped his hand farther 
around her waist, pulling her to him. "A son would be 
wonderful, but as long as you and the child are 
healthy, I am content." 

He should have had enough of the sedative to start 
getting sleepy, but she was not positive.  These were 
not her herbs that she could know how potent they 
were. 

He brushed his lips against her forehead, and Duana 
swallowed. She could do this, she told herself. She 
could. She could go to bed with Fitz if she had to. 
He was careful with her, patient - a good lover, 
tender even. Fitz would never force or hurt her. Even 
if he did, it was just flesh, just a few minutes. 

He kissed her lips gently, then again, wanting her 
mouth to open. She could feel one of his warm hands 
still on her abdomen, and his other hand took hers. 

"It is all right," he whispered to her soothingly, 
his lips still close to hers. "Try to relax. I will 
not hurt you." 

"Fitz, I, I-" she stuttered, and he stopped kissing 
her, waiting, his fingers still interlaced with hers. 
"I am not one of those women who bear children 
easily, and you know I have been ill. It is not good 
that there are already so many problems.  It is 
possible that you will end up with an heir, but no 
wife.  Are you sure that is what you want?  If 
William does not want this child, I can think of no 
better father than you, but do you want to claim a 
child that is not yours if I die?" 

Fitz pulled back, his eyes frightened. "Do not say 
that! You will be fine."   

She blinked, again wondering how she managed to say 
things to Fitz that she could not tell William. She 
suspected she, this child, or both of them would not 
survive. 

"You will be fine," he insisted again, then put his 
arms around her carefully. 

"I do not think I will," she said softly, putting her 
hand over his. "Would you want me if there was no 
child?" 

"You know I would," he assured her, his breath warm 
against her cheek. 

"Would you want this child if there was no me?"

"God would not do that," he whispered into her ear, 
then kissed her neck. "Duana, stay with me tonight. 
Just sleep, nothing more. Will you do that?" 

She nodded, and he stood, then led her through the 
passageway to his bedchamber, stumbling slightly.   

"That wine did make you sleepy," she commented, 
guiding him back to the bed and pulling off his 
boots. "Raise your arms so I can get your shirt off." 

"Later," Fitz mumbled, laying down on the pillows and 
reaching his hand up for her. "I am too sleepy.  
Stay with me, Duana." 

"I am right here," she said, sitting beside him, 
stroking his dark beard and thinking how much he 
looked like his father.   

It was only a few moments before his breathing slowed 
to the calm rhythm of deep sleep. Duana folded the 
blankets over him and closed the bed curtains, 
whispering that she was sorry as she slipped out. 

*~*~*~*  

She had seen him; Gwilym was certain of it, but 
Pembroke Castle was a fortress, and there was no way 
past that castle gate. Even if he could get in, he 
could not get her out safely. 

Of course, being Gwilym, that still meant he was 
going to try.   

"Do not do it, Welshman," the old man on guard duty 
growled, and Gwilym froze, knife in hand, certain he 
was still in the shadows and had not made a sound as 
he approached. "Be patient. Your father must have 
told you never to underestimate a woman, and that 
they are always late." 

He debated what the knight could mean, but did not 
respond, not willing to give himself away.  As he 
watched, the gate opened just enough for a small form 
to slip beneath it. Someone had greased the chains 
and hinges so it would not squeal. 

The knight said something to the woman, and she 
turned toward Gwilym, her face hidden under her 
hood. "Gwilym," she whispered in Welsh. "Are you 
there? It is safe." 

Trusting her, Gwilym stepped out, and the old 
knight's eyes lit up.  Gwilym felt like he was being 
appraised, but he did not have time for small talk. 
Any second, a servant might discover Duana was 
missing, and soldiers would swarm like angry ants. 

"I saw the banns posted in London: do you want to 
marry him?" Gwilym asked, trying to talk around the 
huge lump in his throat. 

She shook her head vigorously 'no,' not able to get 
her tongue to cooperate. 

"I have horses in the forest. I will take you 
wherever you want to go." 

"Home," she managed. "This is your child; I want to 
come home." 

"There is no home," Gwilym replied, stepping closer. 
"There is no more Lord and Lady of Gwynedd or castles 
or courts.  I am a traitor against the Crown." 

Duana hesitated, wondering if he meant the Welsh or 
English Crown.

"Go back, cariad; go back while you still can." 

"Another sentry is approaching," the old knight 
warned from behind the bars of the gate. "I must 
close the gate. Either run now or come back inside." 

"Duana?" Gwilym said urgently, surprised at how 
easily the word still rolled off his tongue. "Get 
back inside. Get back before someone sees you with 
me." 

"Go," she said, grabbing his hand and heading for the 
trees. "Now!" Duana ordered him. "Hurry: run!" 

"Go!" the guard ordered, closing the gate. Gwilym 
turned, following Duana into the dark forest. 

*~*~*~* 

End: Hiraeth XII: Amau