*~*~*~*

That was the problem with keeping a grip on another
man's wife - women were slippery, tricky creatures
and there was no proper place to get a decent
handhold.  Moving quickly, Llewelyn caught Duana
around the waist as she tried to dodge past him, then
lost his balance and tumbled them both into an
improper tangle of arms and legs in the snow.  He 
shied away as his forearm pressed against the underside
of her breasts - an opportunity Duana seized to twist 
away, get to her feet, kick him in the face, and 
keep running through the snowy forest.    

"Stop her!" Prince Llewelyn yelled at one of his
knights, who stared at the frozen ground and
pretended he had not heard. Even on orders from their
prince, no Welshman with any sense was manhandling
Lord Gwilym's wife until he was certain Lord Gwilym
was dead.

Cursing, Llewelyn got to his feet and chased after
her himself, catching up to Duana before she made it
to the horses.  He grabbed for the back of her dress,
then caught one of her wrists and jerked her back to
him.

"I said stop!" he yelled at her, expecting her to
cower. "Enough, woman!"

"I am not a nun!" she yelled back, looking for
another way to escape.     

"Of course you are not," he insisted tersely as she
tried to writhe and pull away. "But you should not
sleep in a hay shed with my men. Go inside the abbey.
I will come for you in the morning."

"You will leave me, as you left my daughter!" she
accused him, struggling so hard he knew he was
leaving new bruises on her wrists.  The skin was
already raw from having to tie her to keep her on her
horse and from running away at night.  As humiliating
as that was to do to a noblewoman, it was less
shameful than having her ride double with him and
less dangerous than having to track her down when she
disappeared.

"I did not leave your daughter, and I will not leave
you.  Eimile is safe in London with my men watching
over her. I will send for her as soon as I can," he
explained again, and getting the same response as he
had for three days - she continued to fight, swinging
around to verbally attack his unprotected flank.   

"You left William!  How could you?  After all he has
done for you, how could you abandon him?  How can you
call yourself his friend?"

"Stop it!" he barked at her in frustration. "Enough!
William may tolerate this from a woman, but I will
not.  You will stop this instant!"          

To his surprise, she stopped struggling, losing her
defiant gaze as he felt the muscles of her arms go
slack.  She was exhausted - she would not rest.  She
had to be hungry - she would not eat, either.  Duana
had a single-minded crusade: get back to London, get
Eimile, and get to Gwilym by any means necessary.

He loosened his hold on one of her wrists, turning it
to examine the broken, purple skin. Running his thumb
over it, he said guiltily, "Jesus, you have to stop
fighting me, Duana.  What would Gwil think of me?  I
am to take care of you."

"Is that what you want?" she asked hesitantly,
sounding ready to cry. "Is that why you took me out
of London?"

"Yes.  I will take care of you - of you and Eimile
and Dafy - but you have to stop trying to run away.
If you keep fighting me, you are going to get hurt."

"You are going to hurt me?" she asked, glancing up,
then looking at his fingers encircling her wrist.
Seeing her expression, he let go, watching her
carefully in case she ran again.   

"No. William asked me to take care of you, and that
is what I am going to do.  Whether you like it or
not," he told her tiredly. "Trust me."

"I do trust you," she murmured, stepping closer to
him, her feet covered to the ankle in the powdery
snow. "I am so tired. And afraid. I am afraid,
Llewel," Duana whispered, her voice shaky and her
body trembling inches from his. "Do you really care
for me so much?"

"Do not bother," Llewelyn said, stepping back,
ignoring the animal in the back of his brain that
told him to put his arms around her. 'Comfort her,'
it urged, trying to sound like his conscience. 

"You do not want me?" she whispered, trailing her
finger over his shoulder and down his chest. "That is
not what William told me. He said you look at me and
see someone you lost. He gave me to you. Are you sure
you do not want me, Llewel?"

"Want is a complex and expensive thing, for a
prince." He caught her wrist again, holding her hand
in midair. "As I said, Duana - do not bother. Want or
not, I have no desire to awake to a knife in my
throat and you halfway back to London."    

"Llewel..." she murmured, leaving her lips parted for a
half-kiss after she finished caressing the last
syllable.  She licked them, her tongue darting
through the pink opening. "Are you sure? Not tonight,
not any night?"

For a heartbeat, he imagined what it would be like:
to slip under the furs and know a woman truly wanted
him. Only him. Not because he was her lawful husband
or the Prince or a paying customer, but because he
was the man she chose. To love each other carelessly
and have children whenever God willed it. For there
to be no need for guards outside her door when he was
away. For there to be no whispered counting of weeks
each time she announced she was with child. Joanna
tried to be a dutiful wife. He could forgive her, but
he could never forget. He did love her, but it was
the Old King who had commanded Joanna love him.
Tangwystyl had loved him before he was the Prince of
Wales. She was gone, though. In the darkest part of
his brain, he believed, just for an instant, that
Duana could fill that void.

"Stop it!" he snapped, gripping her wrist tighter and
shaking it in frustration. "Do not do this! Tang is
dead; nothing I do will bring her back! Gwil is dead!
Nothing you do will bring him back!"  

"He is not!"  She twisted away again, desperately
trying to pry his fingers off her wrist.

"He confessed the moment you were out of London. He
has been dead for days."

"He is not!" she screamed again, the look in her eyes
beginning to frighten him.

"I did not mean to tell you like that. Duana-" he
caught her other hand as she tried to hit him and
flipped her around, crossing her arms in front of her
and holding her against his chest. "I am sorry,"
Llewelyn said hoarsely, his voice breaking.  She
kicked backward, punishing his shins until he lifted
her off the ground and she could not get leverage to
do any real harm. "There was nothing I could do. This
is what he planned. I did exactly what he told me to
do." 
  
"He is not dead!  Let me - you let me go.  Do not.
You le-let me-" she sobbed, fighting like a trapped
animal and seeming to have trouble breathing, though
he was not holding her that tightly.  Gwilym had
warned him about this: not to hold her against her
will, but there was no other option.

After a few frantic seconds, he felt her body go limp
in his arms.  Worried he had hurt her, Llewelyn
lowered her to the cold ground, holding his palm near
her mouth until he was certain she was breathing. He
pressed his finger to her throat to check for the
heartbeat. It was there, warm and strong under the
skin.  

She had finally passed out.

Swallowing, he picked her up and carried her inside
the hay shed, laying her on a blanket near the fire.
The two knights ducked inside after him, eyeing
Duana curiously. Yes, Gwil's wife was beautiful. She
had a healthy son already attributed to the Prince of
Wales and showed every sign of being able to produce
another. She was heiress to half of North Wales.  She
was also in love with a dead man. And, according word
from London, she was somehow dead herself and did not
yet know it.

Maybe that was for the best.
 
He sat down a few feet away to keep watch, exhaling
his last breath of optimism.  

*~*~*~*

As the saddle slid off his back, Goliath's chest
rumbled like approaching thunder, and the dark skin
of his haunches rippled in pleasure.  The other
horses opened their eyes and perked their ears, but
they knew him. There was no cause for alarm. They
breathed a quiet greeting, the air from their
nostrils forming twin puffs of vapor among the
snowflakes.  The night sky was littered with the
white crystals, as though pieces of the full moon had
been chipped away and were falling softly to Earth.

Emily was asleep in her little fur world, sheltered
by fox and rabbit hides against the cold.  For a long
time, he stood unseen in the doorway, holding her and
watching Llewelyn and Duana in the flickering light
from the fire.  The snow was hitting the old thatched
roof in waves, the wind slapping the shed again and
again.  Llewelyn looked up at the ceiling, listening
to the storm, then moved a little closer to Duana as
she slept.  Every few minutes, he would stoke the
orange coals, then lean over her, checking that she
was still breathing.  Then, without touching her, he
would adjust her blanket, then sit back and stare at
her face until it was time to look at the roof again. 
 
"She is beautiful," Gwilym agreed softly, catching
Llewelyn off-guard.  

Llewelyn paled as though he saw a ghost, which was
not far from the truth. He scrambled backward,
fumbling for a weapon. Finding someone's dagger, he
held it up, his hand shaking so badly he almost
dropped it. "Are you flesh?" he demanded.

"Are you?" Gwilym answered casually. 

Ignoring Llewelyn, who continued kneeling beside the
fire, gaping and waving his knife, he laid his Eimile
bundle in front of Duana and unwrapped it to reveal
the warm little girl inside.  The child opened her
eyes, blinking sleepily and reaching up for Gwilym.
"We are here, sweet girl," he told her, and Eimile
rolled, cuddled against her mother's chest, and
slipped back into innocent dreams.  Reassured there
was still something right in the world, Gwilym pulled
the blanket to cover them both, then ran his fingers
down Duana's cheek as though it was precious fabric.
"You are beautiful," he told her again. "Hello. I
love you. I have missed you."

"Hail Mary, fu-full of, full of grace...  Bless,
blessed, blessed-"

"Blessed art thou among women," Gwilym supplied, and
the prince nodded in agreement. "Really, you should
get new guards, Llewel. Yours are sound asleep."

"Among women," he echoed fervently, crossing himself. 

He stared at Duana, who was lost in the peaceful
oblivion of unconsciousness.  In his mind, he picked
her up and swung her around for the world to see,
proclaiming she was his.  In his mind, he stripped
off her dress, pushed her back on some soft bed, and
blended his body with hers until they were one person
and she could never be taken from him again.  In his
mind, he swung down from his horse, his armor
glistening, grinned sarcastically, and opened his
arms as she ran to him.  

She was alive, she was safe and warm, and she was
his; he was content.

Assuming nonchalance as though it was a shirt he
slipped on, Gwilym twisted his lips into a cocky
half-smile and sat down beside Duana, stretching his
boots toward the fire and sighing in satisfaction.
Llewelyn continued holding the knife in mid-air,
although he was pointing rather than wielding.
     
"Is she well?"

"She is asleep," Llewelyn answered warily, starting
to lower the dagger and then changing his mind. "She
is asleep.  She was tired."

"I see she is asleep.  Is she well?"

"She is as well as a woman can be when her husband is
dead."  He blinked several times, then decided, "I am
dreaming.  I was awake and I was keeping watch, but I
have fallen asleep.  This is a dream.  I am dreaming."

Gwilym pulled a leftover chunk of venison off the
spit, tossing it into the air and catching it in his
mouth. "Piss; you will wake."

"You are not a ghost; ghosts do not eat." 

"My castle ghost reads my books late at night."
Gwilym paused to lick his fingers, then went back to
chewing. "Really, Llewel, how is my wife?  She looks
pale."

Some color finally returned to his face, but
Llewelyn's lips were not working as usual. "She m-
misses you.  Is it really you, Gwil?  Am I awake?  Are
you flesh?"

"I am," he responded smugly, but the prince did not
seem convinced.  

"Prove you are flesh.  Prove you are not dead."

Exhaling, Gwilym leaned back and pushed his cloak and
tunic out of the way, pretending to untie the laces
of his breeches. "How much proof do you want?  I was
saving myself for my wife.  If I must..."

"Dear God in Heaven, it is you.  You must have been
too rotten to be an angel and too damn pretty to be
allowed into Hell."

Gwilym dropped his tunic back over his lap and
shrugged. "Of course it is me.  Who else would it be
at this time of night?"

"You are supposed to be dead by now."

"I am sorry to disappoint you." He tilted his chin
toward Duana, who slept on, not moving except to
breathe. "Why is she still here?  She should be in
France by now."

"She is here because she will not leave. She will not
leave you, and she thinks I abandoned Eimile in
London. I have not mentioned France to her; she
thinks I am taking her to Wales. The boat is ready
and there is a ship waiting off shore. These men," he
nodded at the sleeping knights beside the door, who
were hopefully better sailors than guards, "Have
crossed the Channel a dozen times, but I feared she
would jump overboard and swim back to England if I
let go of her."

"She cannot swim." Gwilym pushed down the blankets,
picking up a lock of the red hair that now hung just
past her shoulders. "She would try, though. Did you
tell her I was dead?"

"I did; it made no difference. What of you and King
John? What of Fitz and the trial?"

"FitzWalter came down with a sudden, severe case of
conscience, but he will probably recover, especially
if he was to discover his prize is still alive.  I am
to go back to Wales and return to win the King's wars
in the spring. In my free time, I suppose I get to
win yours, as well."      

"Did you do it, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked, stoking the
fire again and avoiding eye contact.

He smirked, pursed his lips thoughtfully, then
answered, "When I was a boy, Father used to tell me
something, but I never understood until Daffydd-
Until Duana came and King John hanged those boys.
Year after year Father would ride on Crusade, even
though I pleaded for him to stay in Aber. I would sit
on his bed and watch the servants dressing him in his
armor, dreading the silence after he was gone. Before
he rode away, he would look down at me from atop his
horse like the god of war and say, 'I would rather be
the hammer than the nail, son.' When Dafydd died and
King John wanted to take Duana, I had been pounded
enough for one lifetime - and so I would rather be
the hammer, Llewel."

"You killed King John?"

The snow blew harder, wailing as it shook the roof.
Gwilym moved back and pulled Duana's head and
shoulders on his lap, holding her protectively. "The
doctor; did you find him?"

Llewelyn looked up, but did not pursue his original
question.

"I did. He tried to grab her in London. I sent him to
Hell cut into small pieces. How did you know it was
the doctor and that he would be waiting for her?"

"A little Druid told me." Gwilym looked down,
stroking the hollow of Duana's throat and smoothing
her hair back from her face. "That doctor was a
monster.  There are so many monsters out there,
Llewel. How can I ever protect her from all of them?"

Llewelyn, earnest soul that he was, was quiet while
he tried to think of an answer, as if there was one.

"How is Mab?  How is my-  How is the boy?"

"He is well, Gwil.  We call your son Dafy."   

Gwil smiled, a little more light creeping back into
his eyes.  "Dafy.  I still remember how he smells
after his bath," he murmured.  He slid his hand under
the blanket, caressing Duana's shoulder. "Dafy," he
repeated softly to her.  Hearing his voice, she
smiled, then slept on under his hand like a contented
kitten.

"My wife writes that he has the entire castle wrapped
around his finger."

"What of the girl?" Gwilym asked, not needing to
elaborate. Obviously he did not mean Eimile.

"She is well; there was no child.  Fitz provided a
dowry for her, should she want to marry.  She is
living with a family in Lincolnshire. I paid Chester
the price he quoted you, so she is a freewoman now."

"Did you..."

"She said the Lord of Gwynedd passed the night with
her and promised to buy her from Chester in the
morning. She describes you, Gwil, right down to you
talking nonsense twice as fast as the rest of us can
think.  She said you promised you would see her the
following night, but never returned. She will be very
beautiful: tall, slim, dark eyes, dark hair. If she
was a few years older, she would catch any man's eye."

"I thought she might be one of those girls who are
twelve yet look twenty."

Llewelyn shook his head.

"Did you ask if I-"

"She says you did."

Gwilym looked down at Duana, watching the tiny
movements of her face as she dreamed. "I cannot
imagine-"

"Nor can I," Llewelyn said quickly.

He thought a moment, then added, "Your wife was
fourteen when you married her."

Llewelyn shook his head. "Wedded and bedded are
separate things. I have no taste for children," he
said, then wished he had not. He found various things
in the dark shed to stare at, then announced, "There
is still no word of Leuan.  They posted banns in
every town and checked every church in Wales and on
the Isle of Man, but there has been no word from him."

"He sent word," he answered easily. "He sent word to
me."

"When? Why did he not come?"

"He did come one night; you just not see him. He
could not stay. He has many commitments, these days."

"Oh. Well then."  

Llewelyn nodded his head purposefully, but drew his
brows together. It was his perplexed look, but it
would have passed for constipated.  His universe did
not extend past what his five senses, so Gwilym
trying to explain how he had seen Leuan would be
fruitless.  Llewelyn was one of those men who needed
pictures of Heaven and Hell painted on the church
walls so he could imagine how they looked.  He
probably thought an actual road forked somewhere near
the Holy Land - good Christians went right to Heaven
and sinners went left to Hell.  Llewelyn was brave
and loyal and honorable and everything a good man and
a good prince should be, but he did not believe any
worlds existed that he could not hold in his hand. 

Gwilym caressed her face again, leaving his palm on
her cheek. "I cannot protect her, Llewel; no matter
how hard I try."  He looked down at Duana's head in
his lap. "Once she reaches Fontevraud Abbey, she will
be safe. Fitz will never look for her as long as he
believes she is dead.  The nuns there read, they play
music and write verse and...  As long as she is with me, 
she is in danger, and as long as she is there and no one
thinks to look for her, she is safe. I wondered if I
should even see her again, if it would be easier to
just let her think I was dead."

"You still want to send her away?  Why did you come,
then?"

"Because I had to." 

Llewelyn shook his head, not understanding. "It will
be dawn soon. She should sail before sunrise. You
should say your goodbyes now."

"I know," he said, still staring at her peaceful face.

"I will wake the knights and we will go... We will see
to the horses. Outside," Llewelyn decided, getting
up. "We will be outside." 

"Do not bother. If I touch her, I will never be able
to make her leave."

"Then go and let me deal with her. If she sees you
alive, she will not leave."  
 
"She will."

Gwilym slid her head and shoulders carefully off his
lap, stood, then gestured for Llewelyn to come to
him. "Lie down," he asked, gesturing to the space on
the blanket behind Duana.  Llewelyn lowered himself
slowly, not touching her and looking at Gwilym like
he was insane. "Here," Gwilym said, picking up
Llewelyn's hand and putting it on Duana's hip. "Stay
there."

Duana, sensing the presence, nestled back against
Llewelyn, who continued to stare at his friend. They
were no longer boys competing for the prettiest
mistress.  One man did not touch another's lawful
wife unless her life was at stake and perhaps,
depending on her husband, not even then.             

Gwilym leaned down to kiss her, pulling away while
her mouth was still pursed for his.  He picked up
Eimile, wrapped her loosely in her fur cocoon, and
went back to the doorway of the hay shed. 
 
*~*~*~*

Though he was already standing inside, Gwilym opened
and then slammed the door, waking everyone and making
Llewelyn jump. "Have you so little faith in me,
Duana?" he said icily. "Dead or not, how could you
believe I would not come for you?"

At the sound of his voice, Duana startled under
Llewelyn's hand.  She opened her eyes and, seeing
Gwilym, pushed up on her elbow. "William?" she
murmured. "Am I awake?"

He glared at her from across the room, then squatted
down and set Eimile, barely awake, on her feet. "Go
to your mother," he commanded sternly.

"Oh my God." Duana sat up and held her hands out for
the stumbling child, then closed her eyes and
encircled the little girl in her arms. "My baby
girl," she murmured into Eimile's blonde curls,
kissing her head. "Oh, thank God. Mathair was so
afraid that doctor got her baby girl."

As Llewelyn watched, Gwilym's face and posture
softened, then hardened again.

The two knights stretched and stumbled outside for
morning business, greeting Lord Gwilym timidly as
they passed him.  Noticing Prince Llewelyn on the
floor, their eyes widened when they saw how close he
was to Lady Duana.  Looking back at Lord Gwilym's
face, they quickened their pace and closed the door,
probably pressing their ears to the other side.
Prince Llewelyn, Lord Gwilym, and Lady Duana - that
was a dangerous triangle.      

"William?" she asked, her arms still around Eimile.
She looked at him again, then said slowly, in formal
French, "Thank you for helping my daughter."

When he did not respond, continuing to stare past
her, Duana turned to see Llewelyn lying on the
blanket behind her.  Horrified, she looked at the
prince, then at her skirt, which had ridden up and
twisted as she slept, baring her legs to the thigh.
Duana touched her wild, tangled hair - her veil had
been lost in a struggle outside London. Letting
Eimile go, she looked down at her wrists, turning
them over to study the bruises. On the left one was a
clear imprint of four fingers and a thumb from a
man's hand.

"I die for you, and you cannot wait a fortnight? You
cannot wait until my body has cooled? Duana, Princess
of Wales - it does have a nice ring to it, though."

"William?" she said again, starting to tremble.

"Yes, dear wife?" he responded coldly. "I have come
for you. I would say 'welcome me,' but my place in
your bed seems taken." Then, to Llewelyn, he said,
"How did you find her? As good as Diana? Because I
have never thought so."

Llewelyn swallowed dryly and did not answer.

"I do not understand. Are you my William?" Duana
managed, clutching her daughter and scooting away
from the prince, who continued lying where Gwilym had
put him. "Llewelyn?  You told me he was dead."

"I am sorry I am not at this moment. Well, Llewelyn?"
Gwilym asked, crossing his arms. "She says she does not
understand."

"She offered," Llewelyn responded casually, beginning
to understand the rules of this game.  He shrugged,
using their old code for women who made for a nice
ride: "She has a fine trot." 

"I did no-" she began, then stopped when she realized
she had offered.

"Will you marry her, Llewel?"

"Perhaps. In time. If she conceives. If her husband
remains dead. Marrying her now risks FitzWalter's
wrath upon Wales. I was merely... Sampling the wares.
I made no promises to her, nor did I force her. She
offered," Llewelyn repeated. "She asked if I wanted
her. Well, yes: I did."

"Get up," Gwilym ordered angrily. "Right now."

Duana glanced back at Llewelyn again, then got to her
feet unsteadily and pushed her hair back from her
face.      

"Go outside, wash, and do something with your hair.
You may act like a whore, but you do not have to
look like one," Gwilym spat venomously.

She stepped forward and Gwilym raised his hands in
the air as though he were surrendering, telling her
not to touch him.  Ignoring that order, she put her
arms around his waist and rested her head against his
shoulder.  For less than the blink of an eye, his
hands lowered to hold her, but then stopped.

"Do not touch me," he repeated in a tone that
threatened harm. "Fine, then you can go as you are."

He grabbed her poor wrist and pulled her outside into
the cold, dark morning, surprising the eavesdropping
knights, and walked quickly for the boat dock.
Llewelyn got up, bundled Eimile up, grabbed Duana's 
cloak, then followed them.

"She is leaving," Gwilym ordered, and the knights
scurried to obey, stumbling over tree roots and rocks
the purple pre-dawn light.     

"I am leaving?" she echoed, jogging to keep up.
"Where am I going?

"Away from me."

She stopped, digging her heels into the snow and
refusing. "I will not. William, I am sorry. I do not
remember what happened with Llewel. Please listen."

"It is 'Llewel' now?" he snapped. "Just as it is
'Fitz'?  You listen to me, Duana.  Enough of this. I
have the son I wanted and you are nothing but
trouble. An embarrassment. Fitz was one thing -
perhaps that was necessary - but seducing my
friend... How dare you! Our year has long passed. Get
on the boat."  

When she did not move, he grabbed her around her
waist and tossed her over his shoulder. He carried
her down the narrow wooden dock to the small boat,
and then set her down roughly.

"William, please... What are you doing?"

"Ridding myself of a useless wife.  My Dafydd is
dead, and Mab is gone because of you. You cannot even
manage to give me another child, though how would I
know he was mine if you did?  Enough of this."

"Jesus, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered, interfering for the
first time. 

"Where are you sending me?" she asked, beginning to
shiver in the wet darkness.

"Fontevraud Abbey. That is what you wanted."

"I did not say I wanted to go there; I wanted Eimile
to go."

Gwilym spun around, walked back to Llewelyn, and took
Eimile from him. Turning back a second time, he took
Duana's cloak from Llewelyn as though it was an
afterthought and threw it at her.

"Fine. She may go," he barked, stalking past Duana
and handing Eimile down to one of the knights in the
boat. The knight held the child at arm's length,
staring at Eimile as if she might ignite at any
moment.

"How can you do this?" Duana asked, tears beginning
to drip down her face. The fur and velvet cloak
Fitz's tailors had made for her at Court lay
forgotten in the snow at her feet.

"Why would I want King John's bastard under my roof?
You tricked me - you went to bed with me so I could
not have you annulled when you knew you were already
with child. You said you were not sure, but you were.
I should have sent both of you back to King John when
I had a chance. If had, I would still have my Dafydd.
Dry up! Stop crying!"

"That is not what happened," she pleaded.

"I told you to stop crying! Do not bother with tears
because they will not help. Are you going with Eimile
or is she going alone?"

"No," Duana yelled back, crossing her arms defiantly.
She was shivering violently, but there was nothing he
could do about it without giving himself away. 

Eimile, wanting to sleep, discomforted by the
knight's mid-air death grip, and frightened by all
the shouting, started to sob.  

Gwilym looked down at her, then at Duana, and
shouted, "Get in the boat!  I do not want you
anymore! Get in the Goddamn boat before I beat you
senseless!" 

"No," she repeated, her teeth chattering.

"I swear to God I will," he warned.

"My William would never send her away. What are you?"
She looked at Prince Llewelyn and asked in perfect
Welsh: "Do you see him? Is this your friend Gwilym?"
  
Llewelyn nodded slowly, not sure if that was the
correct response.

Gwilym pulled his knife from his waist and began
sawing through the rope holding the boat to the dock.
He could have untied it, but cutting was more
dramatic. "I am returning to Wales. Muretta can keep
her legs together when I am away; perhaps you should
have taken lessons. Eimile can go to Fontevraud Abbey
alone and you, dear wife, can go to Hell. You are
right: I am not your William anymore. If Llewel or
Fitz want to go after you, that is up to them, but I
am done bleeding for you."

She scrutinized him, wiping her eyes and watching his
face. "Show me your scars." 

He stopped sawing at the rope. "What? Why?" he
demanded.

"Because if you are my William - or any I have ever
known - you are bluffing."

"Get in the Goddamn boat!" he roared, towering over
her. 

"No," she answered, her teeth chattering. "But tell
me why you want me to go." 

He bit the inside of his lip and then shoved her
backward, toward the end of the dock. "Because I do
not want you! I have had you, Duana, and trust me:
you are not worth the trouble."

She was still watching him, so he shoved her back
again, this time pushing her forcefully enough that
she landed hard on her bottom on the snow-covered
boards. 

"I suggest you get on the boat before we reach the
edge of the dock," he told her sarcastically, as she
got to her feet. "Or not. This is England, and I just
found you abed with my friend. I must pay for
Fontevraud Abbey to take you, but that water is
thirty feet deep and ice cold. I would be free of you
within minutes."

She was about four feet from the end of the boards -
closer than he wanted to risk pushing her again.
Emily's sobbing had become terrified wailing, and
Duana's lips were getting blue. He could sense
Llewelyn behind him, debating whether to object. That
would be convincing: if Llewelyn intervened, for
Gwilym to yell at Llewelyn to take her and simply
walk away. 

Hitting her would certainly get Llewelyn to step in,
but he did not want her to fall. As Gwilym raised his
hand and tried to decide what to do, Duana took one
step, then two steps backward, so she was standing on
the very edge of the dock.

She was still watching him.

Before he could speak, she took a third step back,
letting herself start to fall from the dock. Llewelyn
and the knights gasped, but Gwilym reached out,
lightening fast, grabbed her wrist, and jerked her
back to him.

"Damn it!" he yelled at her. "God damn it, Duana - do
not do that!"

He felt her shaking against his chest, and realized
she was laughing. 

At him.

Exhaling, he put his arm around her, holding her
close. He still held his dagger in his other hand,
but he made no move to continue cutting the rope.

"Perhaps you are the unconvincing actor, Gwil,"
Llewelyn called from behind him. 

"Why do you want me to go?" she asked his chest. "Am
I in danger?"

"That doctor - he has been cutting up red-haired
women and Fitz mistook one of the bodies for you.
Fitz thinks you are dead, so there is no gain in
executing me, for the moment. There is a ship
offshore waiting to take you to France. Fontevraud
Abbey. Or to Ireland, if that is what you want. I
will pay for you to go to one of the convents there,"
he said tiredly. "If you want Eimile, you- you may
take her."

Her head shook 'no.'

"No, you do not want her, or no you will not go?"

"No, I do not care which William you are," she
answered. "Or what Fitz thinks. I am going home to
Wales, and I am taking you and my daughter with me."

He stepped back and looked down at her, thinking she
did not understand. "And what happens when FitzWalter
discovers he has been tricked and you are still
alive? Aside from my head quickly becoming separate
from my body. Messengers ride between Wales and
England all the time. The villagers and knights would
recognize you. Sooner or later, word would reach the
King."

"Take a red-haired hearth-wife for comfort after your
wife's death," the Prince of Wales suggested. "Insist
on calling her Duana, or in your grief, insist she is
Duana. You would not be the first man to do that, and
we all already think you are a little insane."

"You are not helping, Llewel," he shot back. "I am
only to winter in Aber; the rest of the year I will
be with the King's army or in London," he told her.
"You cannot accompany me. I cannot write to you; you
cannot write to me. You are risking everything to see
me barely at all. What if we would have another
child, cariad? What of when I die? I cannot live
forever, even for you. What would happen to you?"

"Nothing would happen to her," Llewelyn assured him.
"If the Lord of Gwynedd dies without an heir, the
Prince of Wales designates one. I designate Dafydd,
unless your mysterious red-haired hearth-wife has
another son. Then, we make that son heir to Gwynedd.
Perfectly legitimate in Wales. Piss on Norman law."

"I like his plan," she responded.

Gwilym looked back at Llewelyn unhappily, then at
Duana. "Llewel could not plan to hit ground if he
fell off a cliff. I will come to you," he conceded.
"If you will get on the boat, I will come to you.
What is the difference between hiding in Aber and
hiding in France or Ireland? In a few months, I will
bring the children and we will visit you in secret.
We will winter with you," he offered. "But you have
to go, cariad! You are not safe here."

"You will come to me no matter where I am," she said
with great certainty. "But I prefer you come to me in
Aber."

Gwilym slid his dagger back into the sheath on his
belt and looked up at the violet sky, dawn just
beginning to break. "Christ on the Cross - I do not
think you get to accuse me of being irrational ever
again, Duana. This is nonsense. Just get on the boat."

She shook her head again, refusing.

He put his hands on his hips, trying to decide what
to do. "I will make you to go, Duana," he told her,
meaning it. 

"You will not," Llewelyn said commandingly, and
Gwilym glanced back. "Let this woman be."

"Risk her chance at freedom so you can order me to
surrender her to Fitz a few months from now?" he
responded angrily. "Your scheme has some tragic
flaws, Llewel. First, Fitz is not a fool. Yes, we can
trick him - for a time. For a winter, perhaps for a
year or even two. But what of when he realizes he has
been duped? When there is another child? When I am
five hundred miles away from Aber? When I duck too
slowly in some battle and my mysterious hearth wife
becomes a widow? You are the King's vassal, and I am
yours. Will you defy the King - start a war with
England over my wife? No. Nor would I ask you to."

"Your Christian wife is dead. We all grieve. Her son
born of the Druid bonfires, I acknowledge as my heir.
I have sworn it, and I am the Prince of Wales. If the
Crown would discover Lady Duana still lives, she must
be returned to me. Lord Gwilym's new hearth wife: I
do not know who she is, but she cannot be Lady Duana.
If the you or the King insist she is Duana, I will
reclaim my hearth wife and Wales will rejoice. If she
is not Lady Duana, leave her in peace."

Gwilym turned and stared at Llewelyn. He started to
object, but then closed his mouth and tilted his head
thoughtfully. 

"I am still to say she was my hearth wife, yes,
Gwil?" he checked.

Gwilym nodded. "That is imaginative, tactful, and
thorough. Comprised of sound, yet completely
incomprehensible logic that will make Fitz's head
spin. Druid bonfires and 'piss on Norman law'? That
smacks of treason and heresy. Your plan is daring,
bloodless, subtle, and politically risky. And yet it
is hopelessly romantic. This is very unlike you,
Llewel."

"I know," the prince answered, grinning a little
before he remembered himself and his stony
expression returned. "Say it was your idea. I am the
Prince of Wales."

Duana took Gwilym's hand, toying with it. Her cheeks
were scarlet in the cold, and her eyes were enormous
when she looked up at him. He touched a lock of her
tangled hair. "You know, I am a fool for girls with
big, blue eyes."

"It is miserable morning, my lord. Where are you
riding on such a day?" she asked.

"Wales," he answered after a few seconds. "I am going
home. I have been away far too long. It is an epic
story, but now my daughter and I are returning home.
Her son lives, but my wife has just died. She was
murdered."

She pursed her lips sadly. "That is tragic. You poor
man."

"You resemble my wife. Though you are likely less
stubborn and troublesome."

"I assure you I am equally stubborn and troublesome."
She dropped his hand, then stepped around and past
him, starting to walk away. "So, I suppose, good day
and ride on, Sir Welshman."

"But I like a challenge," he told her, pulling her
gently back to him. "And I am insane with grief:
everyone says so. If I were to, on impulse, take you
home to Wales to console myself, how long do you
think you would be content to stay with me?"

"I do not know," Duana answered calmly. "How long do
you think we have? A winter? A year? A thousand
years?"

"Be careful what you wish for," he warned.

The icy breeze off the water blew her hair wildly.
She was so cold that her lips were purplish-blue, but
she smiled that lovely, mysterious smile as if she
knew a secret that she was not telling. 

Gwilym wrapped her cloak around her tightly and held
her against him for a minute, warming her. Llewelyn
leaned over to pick up Eimile out of the boat, much
to the relief of the poor knight who thought he was
going to have to hold the screaming child all the way
to France.

Eventually, Duana took Eimile with one arm and held
Gwilym's hand with the other as they walked back to
the hay shed. 

"Gwil," Llewelyn said, reminding them he was still
present. "I think you have just lost a battle. And to
a woman."

"Perhaps I did." Gwilym held open the door while
Duana ducked inside with Eimile. "Or perhaps some
battles, I plan to lose." 

*~*~*~*

"Tell it once more," Merfyn requested, motioning for
Gwilym to turn around as he checked the armor one
last time. "I will get it this time."

"I am a strange creature, for I satisfy women,"
Gwilym repeated slowly, and Merfyn nodded, hanging on
every word. "I grow very tall, erect in a bed. I am
hairy underneath. From time to time-"

Duana entered carrying his sword and scabbard, and
cleared her throat in disapproval.  She had already
heard this riddle, and Eimile and Dafy were playing
with the dogs at their father's feet and listening to
every word.  

Gwilym grinned mischievously, and raised his arms for
her to fasten his sword as he continued, "From time
to time, a beautiful girl dares to hold me, grips my
reddish skin, robs me of my head, and puts me inside.
When the girl who has confined me remembers our
meeting, her eye moistens."

Merfyn shook his head, squinting as he tried to
think. "Again, Gwilym."

"No, not again," Duana interceded, smoothing the
chain-mail over his shoulders and pronouncing him
ready for service. "Enough riddles. The King's men
are almost at the gate."   

He looked out the window to see the royal knights
winding up the mountain, their banner flying. From
April to October, Gwilym guided the English armies;
those were the terms of having his land and title
returned. Fitz had sent a royal escort, in case
Gwilym forgot to appear at Court as he frequently
'forgot' to pay homage.  Grieving his 'dead' wife was
no excuse to escape service to the King.     

Merfyn shifted awkwardly, knowing they wanted
privacy, and then vanished on the pretense of
checking that Goliath was ready. 

"You promise to be careful?" Duana asked again,
looking around the bedchamber to see if he had missed
packing anything.

"I promise to be careful," Gwilym repeated
obediently, squatting down to gather up a child in
each arm.  Eimile came eagerly, but Dafy was
hesitant, not sure if it was really his father under
all the chain-mail and armor. "It is me, Dafy.
Dehdeh has to go win wars for the Normans; that is
the deal. It is a very long, exciting story, and I
will tell it to you someday, little prince."

"And me," Eimile chimed in, wrapping her arms around
his neck possessively.   

"Yes, you too, sweet girl. You are in the story
almost from the very beginning."

"And Mathair?" she demanded, still showing no signs
of having mastered feminine submissiveness.

"Oh, and Mommy too," Gwilym assured her, and Eimile
scrambled down, hurrying off to find important two-
going-on-three-year-old things to do.

"Are you going to tell me goodbye?" he asked Dafy,
and the toddler looked at him warily, with big hazel
eyes that took in every nuance. "All right, then."
Gwilym kissed the little boy's forehead, then ruffled
his brown curls affectionately.

"Bye-bye," Dafy finally decided, folding and
unfolding his hand.

"Bye-bye, little prince," Gwilym said quietly,
standing up, hearing the gate squeal as the soldiers
entered the outer bailey. 

"You have your maps? A spare shirt?" Duana asked,
needlessly fussing over him. "That collection of gray
patches you call a cape?"

"I have everything," he said, resting his forearms on
her shoulders and watching her eyes watching his.  "I
will see you in six months.  Until we meet again..."

He kissed her, then pulled away, knowing he was not
good at farewells and hoping that was eloquent enough.

"William - yes. You asked last week, and - yes, I am
almost certain."

"Yes?" he echoed.

"I thought you would want to know before you left,
since I cannot write to you." Duana hesitated, now
needlessly readjusting the leather straps beneath one
side of his breastplate. "I will be big by the time
you see me again, with the baby coming by New Years."

"I thought we were being mindful of the moon," he
answered, breathing a little quicker. "I thought we
planned to wait a bit longer before another baby."

"Dafy is more than a year old, and it has been more
than six months since..." She looked up, searching his
face. "You are no pleased, are you?"

"This is not unplanned, is it?" he surmised.
Regardless of the risk, she wanted another child.
Preferably a son he could say was his alone.

"I thought you would be happy."

"Of course I am happy." Gwilym stroked her cheek,
producing a smile for her benefit. "Just surprised. I
love you. Take care of yourself, cariad. Wait here;
do not let the soldiers see you."  

She nodded, still watching as he turned away.  On
impulse, he stopped, stepping back inside the room. 

"What, William?"

"Did you know that the Celts had no way to say
'retreat' or 'surrender' until the Romans came? The
closest word was 'lose.' When we went into battle, we
either won or fought to the death; there was nothing
else."

"Is this another riddle?"  

"No, I was just considering it: that if there is no
concept of something, then there is no need to have a
word for it."

She nodded. "I suppose that is true."

"That is why we have words other languages do not; we
think differently, and we need a way to say it. Like
'hiraeth' - there is no French or English word for
that, nor to they need one."

"Longing," Duana supplied. "Homesickness."

"No, not just longing. Hiraeth: to feel you belong to
a certain place or person, and then to know you are
away. To feel incomplete and adrift until you can
return, but to know yourself and who or where it is
you long to return to. Like Plato's split souls:
always connected, even apart. Truly belonging: it is
a concept known only to y Cymry: the lost people."

She nodded. "You cannot be lost if you have never had
a home."

"You cannot be adrift if you have never had an
anchor. And your soul can never long for its other
half until you know there is one. Once you know,
though... You cannot explain it to others; only those
who have been y Cymry can understand.  I thought you
would understand," he added, feeling sheepish. "Or am
I being foolish?"

"No, I understand this hiraeth very well. I love
you," she murmured, squeezing his hand and then
letting him go, closing the bedchamber door behind
him. 
 
Gwilym trudged down the stone steps, through the
great hall, and out into the inner bailey, pausing to
admire Aber Castle awakening with the first breath of
spring.  Outside the castle, the snow still tipped
the blue peaks, creating an untouchable beauty that
seemed foreboding to outsiders.  In the valley
though, husbands quietly stepped out of their homes,
rolled their shoulders, and prepared to take on
another year. Wives carried new babies with them as
they returned to the fields, and young men looked
toward the sea and dreamed of adventure and
immortality.  Aber was reborn as life hummed through
the fertile valleys and the blood of its people with
an intensity that made one whisper with awe.    
 
"Lord William - greetings from his majesty the King,"
an old man leading the knights said in courtly
French, stiffly remounting his horse. "I am Richard
fitzMatthew.  My men and I will see you safely to
London."

"Greetings," Gwilym answered cordially, swinging into
the high saddle in a single practiced move. "How did
you get assigned as my nursemaid?"

"I requested it. My condolences on your wife's death.
I met her in London, spoke to her at Pembroke Castle
- such a lovely woman.  Very tragic."

"Thank you," he said politely, picking up the reins
and turning Goliath toward the gate. A dozen of his
knights followed, and the rest were amassed in the
valley, ready to fight for a cause that was not
theirs.

"That horse is a little long in the tooth," Richard
observed, feeling awkward and not knowing what else
to say. "Although he must have been something in his
prime.  Are you planning to ride him all the way to
London?"   

"I think we have one more adventure in us. What do
you think, old boy?" he asked Goliath, who, having
finally conceded to learn French, snorted in
agreement and tossed his head.    

"An onion - the riddle: it is an onion," Merfyn
announced victoriously, emerging from the castle with
Dafy on his hip.  

For the first time, Merfyn would not be riding beside
him to war, choosing to remain in Aber with his
children and grandchildren as he edged toward his
sixtieth winter. Leuan, who also would be reaching
his twilight years, had never returned except in
dreams.  Father Leuan had vanished into the mists
with his Norse wife and his twin girls.  The Beltane
fires would come soon and, if Gwilym had been in
Aber, he would have gone among the Druids and
searched for a ginger and gray beard.  He was certain
his old friend was not so far away; Leuan never let
Gwilym out of his sight for very long.    

Perhaps Leuan had been the Druid Priest who married
him and Duana.  Perhaps his father and grandfather,
who allowed the Old Rites on their lands, had also
gone among the rituals.  Gwilym would remember Leuan
telling him how the Welsh blended the old and the new
religions and lived happily, and Gwilym would think
perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, until in his mind, his
childhood tutor said tiredly, 'Oh hush, Llwynog; you
do not have to question the meaning of every moment
of life. Just try to find some peace in it, and if
you are lucky enough to find it, hold it tightly so
it does not escape.'

"It is an onion," Gwilym conceded, circling the horse
and kneeing Goliath sideways so he could lean far
down to rub noses with the toddler.  

"This is your wife's son?" Richard asked, taking
stock of how many years had passed. "The Welsh heir,
I mean - Dafydd ap Llewelyn?"

"My little prince," Gwilym answered, grinning as Dafy
pursed his lips in distaste at the silliness, looking
exactly like Duana.

"I knew your grandfather, little prince," Richard
informed the child, who watched him curiously. "And
your father when he was about your age."

Gwilym raised his eyebrows as he straightened up in
the saddle, but did not ask, thinking Richard was
speaking of Llewelyn. He waved bye-bye to Dafy again
and glanced up at the open window of his bedchamber.
Richard followed his gaze, seeing only shadows, but
then, he did not know what he was looking for.  Lord
William certainly seemed to see something.

"Are you ready, then?" Richard asked. "You Welshmen
travel lightly: do you have everything?"

"More than you know," Gwilym replied, tightening his
legs against Goliath's sides.

*~*~*~*

End: Hiraeth X: Diwedd
End: Hiraeth