Title: Hiraeth III: Saeson

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: PG-13

Keywords: story, historical au, msr, two moments of 
serious angst and several of wuv – twue wuv

Spoilers: I don't see how

Summary: Third in the Hiraeth series; Aber, North 
Wales: late winter, 1216

Silver spoon checks: Angst-o-meter: 7.1 out of 10; 
Jennifer: safe – ends in happy msr & no cd; Spooning: 
yes; Skinner head check: um, depends on who you think 
he is. 

Archive: as you like or link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html

Website: 
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html

Feedback: no

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Author's notes:
'Dana' is actually a modernized version of the Gaelic 
'Duana,' so I have corrected that – Dana has become 
Duana.  And, on the topic of names, there is no 
record of any Welshmen in the 11th century being 
called 'Ronald' or 'Langly' (surprisingly, no 'Ringo' 
either).  Since I couldn't leave out Deep Throat and 
a gunman, Rhonald and Llangly it is.

The short history lesson, courtesy of Hollywood:
Richard the Lionhearted is the warrior king that's 
always away on Crusade during the Robin Hood movies 
(Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart).  King John 
(Lackland) is his youngest brother: the not-to-
bright, self-centered brat who is always "Bad King 
John."  That king Peter O'Toole was always playing is 
their father, Henry II or Henry Plantagenet, and 
Eleanor was his wife (The Lion in Winter).     

When you see 'Knights Templar,' (or Cistercian or 
Hospitaller) think 'monastic horsemen backed by the 
all-powerful medieval Catholic Church', not 
'Camelot'.  These were disillusioned secular 
knights who became monks with swords, and, from their 
viewpoint, a holy cause – no jousting for ladies' 
hankies.  At the end of "First Knight," have Richard 
Gere put on a white robe with a red cross on the 
front, take some holy vows of chastity and poverty, 
and head for Jerusalem.   

The long version of the history lesson and how the 
fictional characters interweave with the factual 
follows the story.  It doesn't spoil it, so feel free 
to read it first if you're interested. 

Saeson
by prufrock's love

*~*~*~*

"She still stands, my lord."

Even after fifty years, or perhaps, because of fifty 
years, his sergeant's eyes were sharp – able to spot 
an enemy scout or a free tankard of mead at a hundred 
yards, so it was almost certainly the truth.  The 
dark-haired man leading the motley soldiers squinted, 
rubbed some sleep from his barely rested eyes, and 
squinted again, trying to see if he was finally 
gaining ground on home.

The morning sun had not had time to burn away the 
mists from the tops of the mountains, so white clouds 
obscured the peaks like women's veils and smoke from 
hearth fires stoked to burn until morning stayed low 
to the ground.  As the sliver moon sank, giving way 
to full daylight, Gwilym could just make out the 
stone walls of Aber Castle rising imposing and lordly 
over the sleeping valley. 
 
His sanctuary, beautiful in her simplicity and grace, 
awesome in her subtle strength, was still there – 
waiting with all her secrets.

"She still stands, Merfyn," he agreed.

Goliath must have recognized they were five miles 
from home - the horse snorted a huge lung-full of 
frosty air and tossed his head, jerking the reins 
painfully against Gwilym's injured shoulder. 
Massive hooves clopped impatiently in place in 
response to his rider's legs unconsciously tightening 
against his sides – Goliath was not the only one 
anxious to reach the castle.

Gwilym rubbed the animal's thick neck, thawing his 
fingers and promising carrots and a warm stall 
tonight.  They had seen all of Wales several times 
over, as well as most of Europe, and even a glimpse 
of the Holy Land together in their many journeys.  
Goliath was still eager to go whenever his owner 
appeared in his mesh armor and red or white tunic, 
but the miles had become longer, mundane for both of 
them.  If it was on this Earth to be challenged, 
marveled at, indulged in, or explored, Gwilym had 
done so twice over in his six and thirty years, and 
Goliath had taken him for the last ten, one long 
stride at a time.  

If he was still in God's favor, that castle contained 
a slight, red-haired, headstrong woman who spoke fair 
French and awful Welsh and tended to question him 
more than any female had a right to.  The last of 
King John's land barons had just fled Wales and 
Prince Llewelyn now ruled undisputed; it was time to 
go home – and to stay home.  Both Gwilym and Goliath 
were getting too old for such nonsense as wars and 
sieges.  

It was as though the rest of the world was an old 
shirt now, threadbare, colors bleached by the sun 
into muted hues, and very little still shone 
brilliantly.   Having heard little but Merfyn's 
cynicism and paranoia for months, he had thought it 
might be his own memory that had grown faulty, 
remembering home as more pleasant than it was, the 
same way one remembers favorite foods from childhood.  
Marzipan was not nearly as nice now that he could 
have it whenever he liked – sticky treats stolen as a 
boy had been much more sweet.

Merfyn would say this Lady Duana was much the same: 
that the having would not be so good as the wanting.  
Inhaling the icy March air to revive himself, Gwilym 
decided that perhaps Merfyn was much better with a 
blade than with women, having been married five times 
but only twice seriously wounded in battle.  He, on 
the other hand, had been mistaken for a deer and shot 
through with an arrow by his own squire while taking 
a piss one morning, although that was not the story 
Gwilym planned to tell his wife to gain sympathy for 
his shoulder.

An anchor, Duana called it – he was in need of an 
anchor and he had found it barefooted and wearing his 
borrowed bed-robe one cold night in Wales.  After 
looking the world over for many years, searching, 
finding shallow brooks instead of deep waters, he 
discovered himself drowning in a lake of blue eyes, 
glancing behind him to see who she might be looking 
at.  The surface is so calm – reflecting, deflecting 
like glass – but in the depths is the hand that holds 
Arthur's sword.  
 
A man finds where he wants to be, drops anchor, and 
there he will stay.  

Please let the wars and the raids end so he could 
stay – or, at least, let his cause finally be his own 
and let him always find his way back home again.  It 
was a simple prayer, but probably as heartfelt as any 
he had ever sent upward. 

Gauging that the horses still had a few more miles 
left in them, he tightened his reins and his calves, 
letting Goliath settle in to the slow rock of a 
ground-covering canter.  

"In a hurry, Gwilym?" Merfyn shouted from behind, 
grinning and pushing his tired gelding to catch up.

There was no response, but Gwilym let his horse bound 
down the slope at a frightening pace, splashing 
recklessly into the stream and then over a rock 
fence, taking a shortcut through Llewelyn's woods 
instead of staying on the road.  Laughing wildly at 
their own folly, his sergeant and four dozen men 
followed, scattering chickens, pigs, and dogs as they 
thundered into the village square of Aber.

*~*~*~* 

There was a blonde man in the next valley that liked 
to spend his time trying to turn lead into gold when 
he was not producing love potions for wives that 
wanted to conceive and charms for those that did not.  
Gwilym had once passed several days with the young 
alchemist, trying to form an opinion of this new 
science, should he ever be asked or find someone 
willing to listen.  He did not disbelieve Llangly's 
claims, but he did not see any gold in the cluttered 
hut, either.  

Perhaps Llangly was correct, but pursuing the wrong 
elements, for, in his own bailey, someone had managed 
to cross a woman with a chicken and marry the result 
to poor Merfyn.  

Although Gwilym could not fathom why, Elan did this 
every time they had been away, whether for a day or a 
year; waiting at Merfyn's stirrup as though she was 
about to convulse until he dismounted and then 
clucking over him like a headless hen.  The sergeant 
received a welcoming kiss that made a few men squirm 
in their saddles, was deemed only slightly filthier 
than when he left, and, winking at Gwilym, 
disappeared into his house beyond the stables with 
his wife before anyone else could even dismount.  

Merfyn was always Merfyn.  Fight the wars and marry 
the – 

Well, never mind.  Merfyn was Merfyn.
 
Most of the uchelwrs – the elite cavalry – lived in 
the village of Aber rather than the castle, so only a 
dozen or so had ridden up the steep hill.  Sliding 
gently down from Goliath and giving the big 
courser a final pat on the rump as the stable boy led 
him away, Gwilym looked for Duana in the commotion of 
families and servants greeting returning husbands.  
There was Leuan, pious robes flowing, clutching 
his cross and walking toward him with great intent, 
but he did not see his wife.  Glancing up, he noted 
the window of his- her- their bedchamber was 
shuttered, so perhaps she was still asleep.  It was 
past seven in the morning, but her babe would be 
coming in a few more months – he did not begrudge her 
the extra sleep, although it would be nice to have a 
warmer welcome, especially in front of his men.  

For pity's sake, not even the dogs troubled 
themselves to come out to greet him this morning.  
All hail the conquering hero.

"We must speak, Gwilym," Leuan said urgently, guiding 
him into the great hall and away from other ears.  
"We must speak of your wife."

He swallowed, the back of his tongue thickening as 
worry began to pool and drip down to a little puddle 
in his belly.  In truth, he barely knew Duana, but 
she did not seem one to casually shrug off the 
propriety of publicly greeting her husband as the 
lady of his castle.

He had sent her several notes in the months while he 
was away, and she had replied to each in her careful 
handwriting, saying that all was well and he was to 
take good care of himself.  One could never predict 
who might intercept letters during wartime, so he 
could not ask about the child, but the messenger who 
brought her last response had said she did look – he 
had heard it said - to be breeding.  It was not 
proper, even if asked, for the servant to have 
noticed Duana's belly or for Gwilym to quiz the man 
for details, so that was all the information he 
possessed: Duana was pregnant enough for it to be 
casually noticed two weeks ago.          

Seeing his panicked face, such as it was, Leuan 
hurried: "She is well.  I told her to remain in her 
bedchamber until I could speak to you."

Gwilym relaxed, raising his eyebrows slightly as a 
servant took his sword and helped slide his cloak off 
his wounded shoulder. "You –told- her to remain?  How 
did you manage the stones for that?"  Duana did not 
take kindly to being ordered around and Leuan tended 
to be even more awkward than he around women.

Leuan followed after Gwilym as he raised his heavy 
feet to mount the stairs, feeling every one of the 
slate steps jar into his bones and waving off Gwen's 
offer of wine and breakfast.  They had passed just 
enough time to eat supper and be polite at Llewelyn's 
Court at Dolwyddelan Castle before Gwilym had ordered 
the horses re-saddled at four this morning.  Four was 
morning, he had informed his bleary-eyed troop – 
somewhere there must be a deluded cock crowing.  He 
was planning an apology: four was clearly only 
morning when a man was twenty.  After that, four was 
the time to make a trip to the privy, peer briefly 
out at the night sky, and crawl back into a soft, 
warm bed.

Bed.  Duana was already abed.  What foresight.  What 
a brilliant woman.  

What was Leuan pestering him about?

"Well, perhaps she was up most of the night caring 
for a sick maid and then fell back to sleep and I 
told the servants not to wake her at six as she had 
requested," Leuan corrected.  "Perhaps she does not 
listen so well when I tell her the things she should 
do."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied, concealing a grin under a 
yawn.  

They were now standing outside the bedchamber, and he 
noted that the scent finding its way from under the 
door had changed, matured.  The crispness of clean 
linens and the richness of worn leather boots now 
blended with the softer note of feminine skin – his 
private rooms did not smell empty anymore.  

The priest folded his arms, barring his entrance as 
though Gwilym would not pick him up and move him 
after not seeing Duana nor slept in his own bed for 
too many nights to count.

"Leuan – what?"  

"Gwil – she - "

Whatever the old man wanted to say, he disintegrated 
into embarrassed sputters.

"What?  If she is here and she is well, then I am 
content."  Gwilym was exhausted and pained and not a 
patient man.  "I have gotten all your letters 
screaming to Heaven because she looks over the 
ledgers, as though we did not decide she could before 
I left.  That Duana has been setting far too many 
eggs to hatch, in your opinion, so we are all in 
danger of being overrun by poultry.  That she bought 
cloth for three – count them – three new dresses  - 
one blue, one green, and one russet - so she is not 
walking around in what she wore from London.  And the 
last urgent message said the entire castle is 
sinfully having bread with every meal."

"Violet.  One dress is clearly more violet than 
russet."

"WHAT is it?  Spit it out before I throttle you!"

Leuan opened his mouth and let the words fall out: 
"She looks to be breeding."   

He patted the priest's shoulder comfortingly, too 
tired to laugh.  Leuan was worse than any wet nurse 
when it came to protecting him.  "Yes.  Duana told 
me."   

"Gwilym -" Leuan warned.

"She told me," he repeated slowly so his meaning was 
clear.  If she looked pregnant enough for Leuan to 
have noticed and be concerned, King John rather than 
he was the father of her child.  She had said that 
was the case, but he had still allowed a tiny candle 
of hope to burn.  

Regardless, as Prince Llewelyn was fond of saying 
when they were boys: 'possession is the majority of 
the law.'  They had settled those disputes over toy 
swords and pet hawks easily – one of them either 
running to his tutor to 'tell' or beating the other 
senseless.  Now, three decades later, Llewelyn had 
his troops in all the Norman castles of Wales – that 
made the castles his.  Duana was Gwilym's legal wife 
– his property, according to the King's own law; that 
made her child his.  It was roughly the same 
principle.

"Think this through, Gwilym.  I know you are fond of 
her, but put your head before your heart, for once.  
What if the Court hears of this?"

"Hears that my new wife is already with child?"  He 
lowered his voice and switched to French, closing his 
heavy eyelids as he rested the back of his head 
against a stone pillar.  "Duana is slight; if the 
child is large, she could appear more pregnant than 
she is.  Perhaps the babe could even come early – 
first babies do that sometimes."  

"That is not the truth and we both know it, Llwynog."  
The priest wanted so desperately to make this right 
for his old charge.  "Open your eyes, look at me and 
tell me you think that child is actually yours.  I am 
not saying Lady Duana would ever sin against you by 
choice, Llwynog -"

"Do not call me that!"  Gwilym pulled himself up to 
his full height, tall for a Welshman, and much taller 
than any boy nicknamed 'Llwynog.'  "If I do not 
question my wife, then it is certainly not your 
place, John."

The priest took a deep breath, not at peace with this 
decision, but understanding that Gwilym was not being 
made a fool of.  "I am sorry I brought this on you.  
I knew there was little chance of her leaving Court 
without being accosted, but so did you.  I did 
not dream that this would be the result.  I would 
rather you have remained alone than risk King John's 
wrath."

"I would not," he replied, switching back to Welsh.  
"Congratulate me, Leuan – Duana and I are going to 
have a child by fall."

"Congratulations, Gwilym."  

As the wooden door squeaked open on the hinges, 
Leuan's footsteps echoed heavily down the staircase 
in accompaniment.  He would light a candle for this 
child and for them all when the King discovered it 
existed.  Gwilym was not, despite his claims, 
thinking this decision through.  Wives were much more 
easily replaced than sons.

*~*~*~*   

Now, there was just no way to maintain his lordly 
dignity in this posture: sprawled across the floor, 
flat on his back, a woman he could normally toss 
around like a child, straddling his chest with a 
knife to his throat.  Sweet Christ, Leuan would be 
beside himself if he knew any lady could curse like 
that.  Four languages, no less – she had threatened 
his manhood in Welsh, French, Gaelic, and in English, 
just for good measure – having no idea who was 
intruding into her bed in the dim light.

"It is William – Gwilym!  Duana!  Put down the 
knife," he told her, struggling to keep the dagger 
away with his left arm.

"William?"  She peered at him, trying to recognize 
her new husband under the beard and dirt, and not 
moving the blade until she was certain.  

"Yes!  I suppose this means you are not happy to see 
me?"

"William?"

"Yes.  Let me up, please, before someone hears of 
this."

She stood, helping him to his feet and offering 
apologies, mostly to his pride.  

"Croeso, Gwilym," she offered, as he stared at her 
already swollen stomach.  

Welcome, William.  

*~*~*~*                  

Whatever was in the foul tea Duana brewed for him 
when she stripped off his shirt and discovered the 
arrow wound through his shoulder, Gwilym slept most 
of the day and awoke feeling – and smelling – like 
the inside of a drunkard's mouth – as the sun set.  
As compared to Merfyn and the horses, Gwilym thought 
he smelled fairly good, but Duana handed him a bar of 
strong soap, indicating she disagreed and was far 
choosier that Merfyn's wife.   

Although it was warmer to bathe in the kitchen, 
supper was being prepared and the maids tended to 
give him sidelong glances and note things they should 
not, so the bedchamber it was.  Barbered, bathed, 
shaved – by Gwen instead of his blade-happy bride – 
and wearing one of the new shirts he had somehow 
acquired during his absence, Gwilym's belly growled 
in anticipation of the sizzling lamb upstairs, and he 
was a contented man.

Slipping away from the festivity following supper to 
the quiet of the stables, Gwilym found that Goliath, 
too, was a great deal cleaner by nightfall.  The 
horse blinked placidly in his stall as he leaned a 
massive head down for the carrots Gwilym offered.  
Crunching happily, he accepted scratches behind his 
ears and under his slobbery muzzle with great 
majesty, as though it was his due – which it probably 
was.  

There were footsteps in the hay behind him, and 
Gwilym turned to find Duana making her way through 
the otherwise silent stables in search of him, his 
ever loyal dogs following her.  

"You have stolen my hounds' hearts while I was away 
fighting.  Stay away from my horse, you wanton witch,"
he teased, cutting up the last of the carrots awkwardly
with his dagger and left hand, then offering the slobbery 
hand to her.  

"No thank you," she replied.  "I had carrots at 
supper."

He should get Llangly the alchemist to design some 
sort of device so he could gauge when she was and was 
not teasing him.  

"Do you want to feed Goliath?  He is gentle."

That was silly, of course: she was not some princess 
whose feet seldom touched grass and thought of ponies 
and sheep as pets.  His tongue still did not work 
properly when she was near and his brain could not 
think of anything more interesting to say, anyway.  
Duana probably found it amusing that he was avoiding 
bed – and her - to feed treats to an old warhorse.   

She nodded, holding out an apple she had brought.  
Goliath perked his ears forward, sniffed, then turned 
up his nose at her offering, flaring his nostrils in 
disgust.  

"He will not eat it whole.  I have to cut it up."

"Does he spoil you, Goliath?  Would you care to come 
sleep in our bed and beg scraps from under the 
table?" she asked, rubbing the velvet-soft face.

"He does not speak French – he does not understand 
you.  And he snores too – you would not want both of 
us in our bed."  He liked that it had become "our 
bed" to her, as though there were no question.   They 
should not, of course, while she was with child, 
but it was nice to know that the option to sin was 
available.  Of course, if men did not whenever the 
Church said they should not, by his estimate, that 
left Thursdays – providing it was not Lent or Advent, 
or the woman was breeding or bleeding or nursing.  
And she must be married and married to that 
particular man – it must be after dark, mostly 
dressed, eyes closed, man-on-top, and no one 
had better enjoy it.  Leuan probably gave himself 
hand-cramps trying to mark down all the sins of the 
men of Aber.

That image made him smile – of the priest going from 
house to house, peeking in, and making notes in his 
ledger - and for some inexplicable reason, Duana 
smiled back.  

Gwilym watched her feed the slices one at a time 
while the stallion waited patiently, licking her palm 
carefully clean between servings for good measure.   

"He was a yearling and Dafydd was very small when 
they first came to live with me.  Dafydd named him 
Goliath after the Church story and I thought that was 
quite brilliant for a little boy.  Dafydd and Goliath 
– I used to lead him around the bailey with Dafydd 
riding barebacked and clinging to his mane for dear 
life.  Then, once the Crusades and the endless wars 
began, Dafydd and his sister would always run to meet 
me each time I returned, climbing up and requesting 
we ride off in search of dragons or Normans or 
Infidels or whoever was the enemy of the year.  It 
does not seem that a decade has passed."
 
She turned her attention from the horse to the 
master, resting a hand on the slight swell of her 
belly, and trying to understand all the nuances of 
his words.

"I tried to be a good father – to meet all their 
needs, but I could not give their mother back.  
Perhaps I was too busy saving the world to take care 
of my family.  I will not see that happen again."

Well, his tongue and brain worked after all; that was 
almost eloquent, for words inspired by a horse.

Gwilym though he had remembered her: the borderland 
at the base of her throat, the strands of fire that 
stubbornly crept out from under her veil, tormenting 
her with imperfection.  His memory must be growing 
old along with his eyesight because there were 
new curves to be explored, different things behind 
her eyes to be pondered.  He had not been able to 
watch her amidst his high-spirited men at supper - to 
pause, clear his mind, and drink this woman in until 
he was full of her.  In that way, he was still a 
hungry man.        

Goliath nudged her gently with his nose, expressing 
his displeasure at having eaten the last of the 
apple.   

"He is greedy.  He will take all that you will give."  
As would his owner.

He waited for a response, but there was only a squall 
from a cat in the hayloft as it pounced on a hapless 
mouse that had thought it found a safe haven for the 
night.

"It is late – time for bed," he hedged, not sure 
whether to use his seducing or commanding voice, as 
though one might be more successful than the other.  

"Yes."

"I am wounded.  I should not be alone."

"You took a dozen castles, led your men twice the 
length of Wales, and, as I hear it, the bunch of you 
still had the energy to terrorize Prince Llewelyn's 
woods this morning, screaming at the top of your 
lungs like wild boys, and now you cannot manage your 
boots and breeches alone?"  
 
He shrugged, immediately regretting it as pain shot 
through his shoulder.  "Those were very manly 
screams."  

Pushing up the sleeves of her dress, which, in truth, 
was much more violet that russet, above her elbows, 
Duana crossed her arms and fixed those blue eyes on 
him.  
 
"You are to blame for this – I am half out of my mind 
with all the poppy you put in that witches' brew you 
poured into me this morning.  I was wounded in battle 
while you sewed shirts and," he gestured to her new 
roundness, "grew a child, and when I return, you drug 
me and glare at me.  Perhaps I was better off in my 
tent with only Merfyn to give me the evil eye."

Gwilym was proud of himself for making it through his 
mock lecture without cracking a smile.  

"You have no need of a sword or a bow – you could 
talk the English to death, William."  She picked up 
her skirts to avoid the stable muck and made her way 
out, leaving him to follow, not sure she understood 
that he was jesting.  

"Christ, woman, can you not take a joke?  Do not walk 
away from me," he said as he caught up, tripping over 
a pail in his haste and uttering a few words that 
would make his sergeant proud.

"I am not walking away from you, my lord.  I am 
walking to bed and you are just slow.  Hurry up, 
please, or there will be no room for you with all the 
dogs."      

*~*~*~*

She scooted higher on the down tick, readjusting her 
head on his good shoulder, and tracing a warm finger 
across his chest so it made his stomach shiver again, 
although Duana was probably too naive to know that.  
Praise God, she had bought his story about his latest 
act of pissing valor and resulting wound and was 
fussing over him in a very satisfying manner.

"And this?"    
  
"An Irish spear with a very angry, although very 
inaccurate, Irishmen behind it.  King John sent the 
Welsh archers with his troops to take Dover and the 
inhabitants of the city objected strongly.  That was 
the year I came home to find my father dying of his 
wounds and Diana dead.  And probably the year you 
were taken from Ireland."

"And here?" she asked, tracing the old, raised scar 
on his thigh, obviously not wanting to comment on the 
events surrounding her being "taken."

"That one is not so good for bragging - I got it the 
first summer I was allowed to travel with my father 
on Crusade.  My uncle was Commander of the City of 
Jerusalem in the Knights Templar and I was so excited 
to meet him I fell off my horse and onto a pike.  
The wound did not heal well, so Father and Leuan 
stayed with me in Jerusalem – at the Hospital of St. 
John - instead of riding with my uncle as they had 
intended.  Near the Sea of Galilee, Uncle Rhonald led 
the Knights into what was supposed to be a minor 
skirmish with the Saracens – the Infidels in the Holy 
Land who had been accosting the pilgrims.  It was 
called the Battle of the Horns of Hattin – July 4, 
1187; the Knights Templar died to the last man, all 
captured and beheaded, my uncle among them.  I was 
eight years old."       

By candlelight, Gwilym could see her intelligent eyes 
watching him, listening.   

"You have the hurts of your life written on your 
body," she commented, "as though an artist with a red 
brush painted the worst moments into your flesh."

"I will lay here, willing and complacent, and let you 
take pity on me again, if you like, and if you will 
wait a few minutes."  He pulled her even closer to 
him, wanting to talk of more pleasant things.

"If I take pity on you twice in one night, on a 
Sunday, fully undressed so you can see all of me, and 
while I am with child, there will be a loud 'thud' 
the next time I confess because Father John – your 
warrior Father Leuan - will faint."

"I will come along and fan Leuan when you must 
finally confess that you enjoyed it."  

Gwilym said it lightly, getting sleepy, but hoped she 
would answer.  Perhaps she was embarrassed by the 
changes to her body the baby was causing, or still 
feeling King John touching her instead of him after 
all these months, but he was not fully at ease with 
her reaction to their lovemaking.  She was not so 
timid as she had been when they first married, but 
some things were still not as pleasant for her as 
they could be.

"Since you lack patience, William, try to have faith.  
I do not act against my will, if that puts your mind 
at rest."

"I have heard that said about the Lady of Aber, but 
never experienced it myself.  She is the most 
obedient and meek and -" he pulled the furs up over 
their bare skin, grinning, "modest of wives to me."

His chin on the top of her head and his good arm 
rapidly going to sleep before the rest of him 
underneath her face, Gwilym hoped she was too content 
to bother to retort.  Then a thigh stirred, pressing 
gently between his legs so his breath caught.

"What is the Welsh word for this, William?  I could 
not very well ask Father John."

"Leuan would have something to pray about for weeks 
if you did," he managed, congratulating himself that 
his voice stayed steady.  "Bonllost' is a polite 
term.  Do you want to know the words for anything 
else?  This -" he ran his hand over her breast 
lightly, tickling, "is mynwes, and when I pull you 
close to me, you are at my 'asgre;' at my bosom."

"You have 'bonllost' and I have 'mynwes'?" she asked 
into his neck, her hair tickling his nose as it fell 
in red chaos over them both.

"And I thank God for that, cariad.  Stop tempting me 
and go to sleep.   Let me rest and heal, wanton, and 
we can practice your Welsh in the morning."

Deciding that the activity under the furs had stopped 
for the night and it was safe to return, the dogs 
found their usual places, nosing Gwilym suspiciously, 
as though wondering what he was doing off the sofa.      

"William – are you asleep?" Duana asked some minutes 
later.

"Um-hum," he responded, not opening his mouth or his 
eyes.

"I am enjoying my Welsh lessons.  It is just new to 
me and I learned very different before.  You are a 
good teacher."

"Umm."          

Blending himself into her as thoroughly as if an 
alchemist had stirred them together, Gwilym cut the 
rope holding him to consciousness, and, not minding 
the lack of blood flow from his liver to his left arm 
in the slightest, slept.  

*~*~*~*

He had never told Duana of the dream he had the first 
night she came: that she had changed into a red fox 
and was scurrying through his rooms, bewitching him, 
but that was still how Gwilym thought of the sound – 
as fox feet coming to keep him company.

"Go back to bed, cariad.  You are sleeping for others 
now and it is not really morning yet."  Even as he 
said it, he knew it would do no good, and was glad of 
it.   

"Yes – I slept for you and me both, and now we are 
rested and would like to see something besides the 
inside of this castle."

After stretching, she set the candle she had brought 
on his desk and maneuvered herself down on the sofa, 
trying to find a comfortable position.

"How much longer now?"  

Diana had been taller, wider through the hips, but 
she had still complained twice as much as Duana, and 
probably had half the trouble.  The midwives 
infuriatingly refused to tell men any details, but 
there had been some blood on the sheets last week, 
and he and Leuan had passed the morning in prayer 
until the midwives appeared and said all was well.  
All was not well, obviously, but as long as the 
danger was to the baby and not to Duana, his prayers 
were still effective, if highly heretical.   

"About two months by my count, fourteen weeks by your 
math."

"Well, you are much better with numbers than I.  
Raise your feet," he ordered, bringing the letter 
with him as he joined her on the sofa, letting her 
legs rest across his lap and adjusting his - her robe 
to keep her warm.  

"You have hemmed my bed-robe!"  He turned up the 
edges of the heavy fabric, examining the neat 
stitches where she had shortened his robe a good foot 
so it would not drag when she wore it.  It would not 
reach past his calves now, should he be able to peel 
it off her back ever again.

"Is that David's letter you are studying?  What 
fourteen-year old troubles has he gotten himself into 
now?" she deflected, wiggling her toes to have them 
rubbed.

"You have hemmed my bed-robe!  You witch!  There is 
borrowing and then there is thieving!  Did you take 
up the sleeves, too?"  Of course she had taken up the 
sleeves – probably embroidering little swans and 
unicorns along the edges with her nimble needle.  

"I am making you another.  Or we can share this one – 
you will look quite dignified with your knees and 
elbows hanging out.  Tell me of David."

It would be pleasant to continue this argument, but 
he would undoubtedly lose, and therefore lose his 
audience for bragging about the news from London.

"Dafydd has decided this week that he will abandon 
his pursuit of the King's serving girls and join the 
Knights Templar once he is allowed to leave Court in 
a few more years."
   
She looked puzzled, so he explained: "To be a full 
knight with the Templar Monks, a man must be both 
chaste and unmarried.  I was a secular knight, but 
the rule still applied for the length of my service.  
It is a wonderful boyhood vision of chivalry and 
courtly love, until one arrives at a certain age and 
discovers, as Leuan says it, 'why a man might have 
need of a wife." 

"To sew bed-robes?"

Now experienced enough to be certain she was joking, 
Gwilym ran a hand over the apex of her belly and 
rested it in the warmth between her legs.  "Yes, to 
sew bed-robes.  Dafydd has had this notion every six 
months or so since he was small – Gwen even made him 
a tunic like mine for his eleventh birthday so he 
could dress up as a Templar and attack the Infidel 
sheep in the bailey.  It is still in a chest around 
here somewhere.  He was much too adult at thirteen to 
take it to Court with him."  

Not 'somewhere,' actually – in the corner coffer, 
folded carefully with his own red and white tunic, a 
battered doll that had been his daughter's, and a 
heavy signet ring Diana had accepted in exchange 
for going off with Dafydd's true father.  Gwilym 
would unlock the chest one day when he was feeling 
brave and tell Duana the stories that went with each 
object, but not this morning.  
  
"How long did you ride as a Templar?"  It was a part 
of his life she knew nothing about – although it was 
not nearly as heroic as she probably imagined.  More 
like a quest to slay a dragon he never found because 
it was waiting for him at home the whole time, 
growing more angry and vengeful every year he mounted 
Goliath and rode away.

"After my father and Diana died, I thought I needed 
to take up the holy cause: to help reclaim the Holy 
Land from the Infidels, as my uncle and father had, 
until I rode home one afternoon to find my daughter 
had vanished and Dafydd was being raised at Court 
as one of King John's hostages to ensure Welsh loyalty.  
I will still fight for any cause that threatens me or mine, 
but not for other men's ideals.  I will shed blood 
for peace, but I found no peace in killing men 
because they prayed to a God that was not mine, or to 
fatten the Pope's or the Knights' coffers."

She was silent, absorbing his words for so long that 
it made him uncomfortable.

"Did you know, dear wife," he said as she blinked 
sleepily, trying to stay awake, "there are Infidels 
who believe men live again and again, each time being 
reborn in a different time until they do what they 
are destined to do?"

"I have read of such things.  Do you suppose we have 
known each other before this life?  Or that we will 
meet again after this one?"

Rubbing her calf thoughtfully, he replied, "Perhaps – 
who is to say Heaven is as the Church says it is.  
Maybe it is merely an eternity of us together until 
we find our fate."  

Seeing she had fallen asleep to his thrilling life 
story and speculation – Duana was not a morning 
person – Gwilym started to carry her back to bed, 
only to have her wake and insist she was too heavy 
now and to put her down.

"Too heavy?" he asked, lowering her feet to the 
floor.  "I should take you to Prince Llewelyn's Court 
and let you look at yourself in his wife's new 
looking glass.  It reflects as clear as the surface 
of a lake, and you would be able to see just how 
'heavy' you are."   

"To me, it seems enormous, but I would appreciate 
being taken anywhere - immediately after you take me 
to bed for a few more hours."  She took his hand and 
shuffled into the next room, making sleepy grumbling 
noises as she laid back into the soft bed.  "Stay 
with me now, William.  And promise to take me to the 
village with you later before I go mad from sitting 
around waiting to hatch."

"You are only trying to get your way, wanton.  And I 
think you are succeeding."   

"There is an empty sofa in the next room if you do 
not like my terms."  

"Witch," he grumbled into her ear, very content with 
her terms.      

"Would you say that is a Heaven or a Hell – having to 
share all our lives?"

"It would depend," Gwilym replied, obediently untying 
the laces at the neck of her chemise.  "In this next 
life, would I have my own bed-robe, Duana?"

*~*~*~*

"Word has it your wife appears to be breeding."

Llewelyn was never one to waste breaths with idle 
chatter, even when they were children; he and Duana 
would get along nicely in that way.  The Prince of 
Wales had simply appeared beside him and begun mid-
conversation, riding directly up to the front of Aber 
Castle for all to see and ruining Gwilym's plan to 
leave Goliath at the gate and sneak in through the 
stables unseen.    

"The midwives count that we will have been married 
nine months by harvest."

"I have heard from the King's Court that perhaps the 
babe will come early," Llewelyn said pointedly, 
coming close alongside Gwilym as they rode into the 
bailey.  "I think of you as a brother, Gwilym, and I 
picked this woman for you as carefully as I would 
for myself, so I have dreaded bringing you so much 
bad news."  The prince looked tired, his eyes 
reddened and shoulders hunched forward.  "A messenger 
just brought word that King John's troops are already 
approaching the border of Wales to take the child."

Gwilym picked up his pace so Goliath remained 
alongside Llewelyn's young courser.  "He does not 
want the babe – he must have dozens scattered across 
his kingdom.  He wants Duana, and he may not have 
her."

"Gwil -" the older man said reproachfully.

"Again.  Fine – do you want to hear me say it?  
Again!  I know who fathered the child.  King John may 
not have her again."

"This is greater than you, Gwilym.  There are two 
choices now: either have the marriage annulled – 
saying it was never consummated – and send Duana back 
to John -"   

"No."

"I had thought you would say that.  If you claim the 
child as yours, then you must keep it from John for 
as long as it lives.  Say it died and send it 
wherever you like, but I will not allow you to bring 
down King John's wrath on Wales.  You may be my 
friend, but you are still my subject, Gwilym."   
 
"I do not understand.  Why would the king have such 
an interest in this one baby if I will not give up 
Duana with it?"    

"Gwilym, this child, male or female, will inherit or 
could be dowered with your estate.  For a king 
struggling with Celtic rebellion, the Isle of Mon and 
the northern coast of Wales - lands giving him both a 
foothold in Wales and a host of ports on the Irish 
Sea - makes this baby very much of interest to him.  
A marriage between this child and a child of 
Alexander II of Ireland would give John control over 
both Wales and Ireland, and I cannot allow that.  The 
king would never waste one of his children by the 
queen on such a minor match, but a child claimed by a 
Welsh lord with both Plantagenet and Irish blood – 
that he would be glad to offer.  All it would cost 
him is your head.  John will have Duana back and 
her child to use as his pawn.  It was not chance that 
Duana was given to you: King John knew he would have 
her before she left, and knew you would never refuse 
her as your wife.   He schemed a child with his blood 
and your estates, and I cannot let him have both.  
Either return Duana or make the child vanish."

Llewelyn dismounted, leaning his head tiredly into 
his horse's flank.  "I am so sorry, Gwilym – Llwynog.   
I had no idea it would come to this.  I had thought 
that she could have no children and that you would 
always be able to claim Dafydd as your heir."

"I do claim Dafydd as my heir, Llewelyn.  What are 
you talking about?  Dafydd will still inherit what is 
mine.  Let us finalize the marriage of my son to one 
of your daughters – we have spoken of it before.  
Dafydd will return home when he is twenty-one; that 
unites all of north Gwynedd, and -"             

Llewelyn was shaking his head slowly from side to 
side, eyes filling with tears.  He had delivered this 
news to twenty-nine Welsh noblemen previously and 
could not bring himself to form the words this last 
time to his childhood playmate.

*~*~*~*

Letting her temper get the best of her, Duana 
muttered the Welsh curses gleaned from her husband 
and sucked the drop of blood forming at the tip of 
her finger.  Her sewing needles were especially 
fierce today as she redid yet another seam to let out 
her dresses for her growing bulk, and her 
pronunciation must be improving, because her newly 
designated maid paled and crossed herself.   

He had gone off and left her, the cowardly thing!  
Arrogant, cowardly, deceitful – he was going to hear 
of this when he returned.   He could slink around the 
wine cellar and the stables, hiding like a kicked 
hound, or bring her all the silly trinkets he liked 
as peace offerings, but she had her temper honed 
razor-sharp and ready for her husband's homecoming.

William had finally relented late this morning, 
saying she could ride down to Aber with him if she 
was ready in time, and then was gone before she could 
even find her cloak.  He would be full of 
justifications, of course, when he returned: that the 
horse could stumble and throw her, or that she slowed 
him down, or, his favorite: that it was unseemly for 
her to be walking through the markets with her great 
belly like a commoner's wife.  It did her no good to 
argue that the titles were his – by blood, she was 
equal to any peasant and was thrilled at the prospect 
of waddling through the vendors to haggle over 
cabbages and turnips.  Lord William of Aber would 
look at her with those deep eyes as though he were 
contemplating her very soul, and then do whatever he 
pleased, leaving her to sit and fume.

Pricking herself again, she discovered she had run 
out of Welsh words, and switched to French, which did 
not upset the maid so much.  

"How are the babies?" the woman asked, seeing her 
belly jump as a tiny elbow or foot shoved upward.

"Awake," Duana replied noncommittally, not wanting to 
discuss William's latest wild theory with her maid, 
although he obviously had.  Twins – that was why she 
was so big already: because they were to have twins, 
as though she had been with two different men in one 
night to conceive two babies.  He had persisted with 
this insulting idea last night and this morning, 
listening to her belly and trying to count the 
heartbeats while she explained what everyone knew: 
that a woman must be with two men to have two 
children.  She had presented her evidence: a wife who 
is only with her husband had one child at a time, but 
an unfaithful wife might have more.  William had 
listened each time she had explained it, nodded 
wisely, and then continued to suggest two names 
instead of one.  
       
"What about Gwilym and Gwendolyn for a boy and a 
girl?  Or Donn and Dafydd?" her maid Elan suggested.  
"My husband says it is good for twins to be named 
alike."

Duana's eyes narrowed, thinking William was correct 
about one thing: Melvin's wife was indeed a cross 
between a female and a chicken, having inherited the 
hen's brains, but breasts enough for two women.  
Somewhere, there was a village being deprived of 
their idiot.  She was contemplating some errand to 
send Elan on to give herself a few minutes peace when 
the clatter of big hooves rose up from the bailey.  

"You are eager to see your husband, my lady?"  Elan 
called after her as Duana hurried as fast as possible 
down the staircase that spiraled around the outside 
of the Keep.  

'Eager' was such a small, misleading word.  Perhaps 
William could tell her a Welsh term that meant 'so 
looking forward to your return that I could stick you 
with pins, dear husband.'  Alternately, 'you will 
need your new robe to warm you on the sofa – which is 
where you will be sleeping until this child reaches 
majority because you left me to listen to that fool 
Elan while you rode off on big adventures.'  

*~*~*~*

Something was very wrong.  Duana thought at first 
that William was drunk, although she had seldom seen 
him even tipsy in a culture where mead and wine were 
poured instead of water.  He was pale under his tan 
with an unhealthy tint of green, and stumbled when he 
dismounted.  Ill perhaps.  She would get her herbs 
and yell at him when he felt better.

The man who had ridden in with him was the Prince of 
Wales – Duana had met him last summer at the King's 
Court.  Llewelyn reached out a hand to steady William 
and was greeted with a fist that sent him sprawling 
into the mud and a barrage of curses.

"Mary, mother of God!"  Friends or no, William had 
just struck his liege lord.  Men had hanged for less.   

Llewelyn, although still conscious, stayed seated in 
the mud, staring down while William ranted at him in 
Welsh.  Guards and servants were streaming into the 
bailey at his raised voice, and amid the hysterical 
dogs, Melvin succeeding in getting between William 
and the Prince. 

Gwen appeared from the kitchens, and her broad face 
crumbled, tears cutting through the dusting of flour 
across her cheeks at whatever they were saying.  
Father John crossed himself, lips moving in silent 
prayer as he tried to get William to back away from 
Llewelyn – finally holding one arm with Melvin on the 
other as her husband struggled weakly, his wrath 
giving way to pain.

"I trusted you.  You swore he would come to no harm 
when you said he must go," Duana thought he said, but 
could not make out the rest of his words and sobs.  
David – his David; something had happened to David.  
Christ, why could these people speak not a normal 
language so she could understand?

Llewelyn stayed down, watching as the priest and 
sergeant half-dragged William inside.

"Did they hang Gruffyd?  Did King John hang your 
son?" William asked quite clearly in French.

From his seat in the muck, Llewelyn shook his head 
'no', then rested his face in his shaking hands, not 
looking up again.  No, according to the messenger, 
King John had hung all the boys from Welsh noble 
families, but Llewelyn's oldest son – who had been 
sent along as proof that the children would be 
properly treated and educated at Court – had been the 
only one spared. 

*~*~*~*

He was going to vomit – that was the only thing 
Gwilym could think.  This was a nightmare so awful 
that he was going to be sick before he could awaken.  
Either vomit or suffocate – or do both at once.

Duana was there, cradling his head gently against her 
belly as he curled up on the floor of their 
bedchamber like a child, unseeing.  Leuan and Gwen 
were trying to comfort him, but only succeeding in 
making it worse until Duana finally screamed at them 
to "get the hell out!"

"John hung them – all the boys he demanded as 
hostages last spring.  They were boys, Duana, none 
more than fifteen, and some as young as six or seven.  
As revenge for Llewelyn reclaiming the castles that 
were his by law – by that damn Magna Carta we fought 
for, the King said we had violated the charter and he 
hung our children like common criminals," he sobbed 
into the bosom of her dress.  "Royal hostages are 
never executed – Dafydd lived at Court the same way 
he lived here – and got into just as much trouble.  
He had begun his training as a squire, and wrote that 
his tutor had punished him for sneaking out at night 
just like I did at his age, and that he had seen you 
when you were at Court, and…"

She petted his hair, tears streaming down her face 
and meeting to fall from her chin as she listened.  
Occasionally, her lips moved silently, but no prayer 
could exorcise this demon.  It sat like a heavy stone 
on his chest, crushing him, keeping him from drawing 
a deep breath.  

The sun was setting and Duana's mare were being led 
into the bailey when the demon finally returned to 
Hell, leaving Gwilym empty, as though he had been 
bled or purged to death.  Llewelyn was going to order 
Merfyn to come get Duana and take her from Wales if 
Gwilym did not go downstairs soon and concede that he 
would do it himself.    
 
Still seated among the floor rushes beside the bed, 
still sniffing, Duana watched him unlock the coffer, 
pushing old shirts aside as he searched for the pouch 
containing the ring.  Fingers faintly cooperating, he 
untied the drawstring and shook out the gold man's 
ring into his hand.  It was covered in soot, as he 
had found it after the fire that killed Diana – too 
filthy to make out the royal lions of a newly crowned 
King John, but Gwilym knew they were there.  She was 
always too quick to trust the wrong men, Diana was; 
too quick to look for material gain and believe empty 
promises from whomever had her ear.  

If he were passing through a village at twenty, like 
the King, Gwilym would have quickly noticed Diana's 
tightly cut dresses and loose hair flowing down her 
back, falsely advertising virginity.  He would have 
ridden by Duana in her modest veils without really 
seeing her.  At almost forty, though, he again agreed 
with King John: Diana was good for a night, Duana for 
a lifetime – this one or the next – and any bloodshed 
to keep her was merely a scratch.

The ring, now warmed back to life by the heat from 
his hand, was returned to the pouch and the pouch 
slipped into the side of his boot.  Finally able to 
draw a deep breath, he found the old white tunic, the 
red cross on the front assuring him safe passage as a 
monk to wherever he wanted to ride, and then, 
fighting against the urge to press his face into the 
fabric and cry, pulled out the one that had been 
Dafydd's.  Every king had a right to know when he 
hanged his own bastard son, no matter whether he 
remembered the mother or not.  

*~*~*~*

There had never been any doubt that, should the boy 
Llwynog live to become the man Gwilym, he would be 
worthy of his father's name and as formidable as 
Charlemagne or Henry Plantagenet – if either had been 
blessed with being Welsh.  The only question had been 
whether Llwynog would manage to survive boyhood.  

It was his tendency to question anything and 
everything, trusting no one, which caused all the 
trouble.  Birds could fly, so why could he not, he 
had asked the August of his fifth year, having just 
jumped from the top of the stable, and mercifully 
landed in soft hay.  Leuan had explained that the 
trick to flying was to aim for the ground and miss, 
and that Llwynog seldom missed anything except his 
lessons.  That was an omen of how the next three 
decades would pass: a never-ending battle to keep his 
student alive and focused on tasks worthy of a 
nobleman instead of strange notions which could only 
get his neck stretched.   

The priest could probably blame the frequent pain in 
his knees on hours spent in prayer, seeking guidance 
on how best to direct a recklessly youthful 'Gwilym,' 
as he insisted on being called from the age of nine 
on.  The Old Lord had joined his brother Rhonald's 
cause in the Holy Land, leaving Leuan to oversee his 
son's education, so the priest was either to be 
blamed or congratulated for his tutelage.  

He had certainly overseen.  There was the time Gwilym 
bloodied Llewelyn's nose in a squabble over a 
borrowed and lost ball at the age of eleven, and it 
was good that the Prince of Wales did not seem to 
hold grudges.  Then there came the discovery of 
childhood girlfriends suddenly seen in a new light – 
among them, a pregnant peasant wench named 'Diana' 
that the priest had never heard of his Gwilym being 
with.  He had overseen the passage from boy to squire 
to knight with great pride, christening both of 
Gwilym's children himself and saying the funeral mass 
for their mother.  Then, he had heard a final 
confession and performed the last rites as Sir Gwilym 
became Lord Gwilym of Aber at his father's death.  

Leuan's first thought when he entered and saw Gwilym 
in the alchemist's hut wearing his Templar tunic was 
that the Old Lord had come back to life.  There might 
be some question about who his mother was, but 
certainly not his father.  The set of the jaw was 
the same, the frightening intensity of the gaze – 
Gwilym was his father's son.  

With the exception of instructing Leuan to find his 
own Templar cloak instead of the brown one he usually 
wore, to saddle his horse, and to meet them in the 
next valley, no one had shared any news except that 
the Young Lord was dead and the English soldiers were 
coming for Lady Duana.  Gauging the look in Gwilym's 
eyes and the power behind the white Knights Templar 
tunic, the priest felt that old fear for his student 
in his chest – someone was about to lose and he hoped 
it was not Gwilym.       

She was fully covered in breeches and a shirt when 
she emerged from behind the screen, but Leuan dropped 
his eyes to the dirt floor, not accustom to seeing a 
woman in clothing that showed the shape of her legs 
or with her hair unbound – especially not a woman 
with legs nor hair like that.  Gathering a ponytail 
at the base of her neck, Gwilym hesitated with the 
scissors, giving them instead to Duana and letting 
her lop off her waist-length hair.  

Llangly, an odd man who seemed to be created out of 
triangles instead of ovals, put some mixture into her 
cropped hair that dyed it a dark reddish brown.  
Leuan sat on a rickety stool, watching Gwilym trail 
his fingers through the pile of shorn hair on the 
scarred table, not seeming to understand he could not 
save it and reattach it later.  The hair should be 
burned before some witch used it to put a hex on Lady 
Duana, but Leuan could not bring himself to take it 
from Gwilym and throw it into the hearth.  

The alchemist cleared his throat, indicating he had 
finished with Duana, and turned his attention to 
measuring, pounding, and mixing ingredients from the 
cobwebbed jars that lined the shelves above their 
heads.  By lantern light in the hovel, Gwilym helped 
her put on Dafydd's old Templar cloak and tunic, 
slitting the sides to accommodate her belly, and the 
transformation was complete.  Lady Duana and Lord 
Gwilym had vanished and two Knights Templar had 
emerged – one tall and slim with bloodshot eyes, and 
one younger with reddish-brown hair and a decided 
thickening through the middle.         
 
He knew Duana did not like to be touched, even to be 
lifted onto her mare, by anyone except Gwilym, so 
Leuan led the horse to a tree stump for her to mount 
while Gwilym was inside with the alchemist.  His own 
horse was less cooperative, not accustom to being 
ridden, and he danced in circles, one foot in his 
stirrup and one on the ground for several seconds.  
Finally in the saddle, his ancient green Templar 
robes announcing he had passed his life as a 
priest of the sacred order and was never to be 
challenged, he was ready to ride to wherever it was 
that they were going.

Without speaking, Gwilym fastened a small package to 
his saddle, mounted, and nudged Goliath alongside 
Duana's mare, pulling her onto the saddle in front of 
him.  When she asked, Gwilym replied that he had 
traded her horse to Llangly for the alchemist's help 
and silence, although Leuan could not fathom why he 
had bought so much silence – the entire hovel, 
Llangly included, was not worth half of that mare.

Giving her the reins, as though any woman could ever 
manage a horse like that, Gwilym wrapped his arms 
around her waist, resting his forehead for a moment 
on Duana's shoulder before saying, "West; St. Mary's 
Abbey is West from here in Aberconwy.  Goliath knows 
the way, even in the dark." 

St. Mary's was a Cistercian Abby – and a major port 
for the Templar Knights' fleet.  That was Gwilym's 
plan; to hide his wife among the monks until the baby 
could come and then send it far beyond anywhere the 
British King could ever find it.  When the soldiers 
reached Aber Castle, they would find servants who 
only knew that their Lord and Lady had gone to the 
Church with their priest to grieve the loss of Dafydd 
and never returned.  Should the soldiers think to 
search the abbey, they would find monks who regarded 
King John as slightly lower than a leper – and could 
honestly say only that three Templars had stayed in 
their abbey: a knight, a squire, and the old priest 
of Aber.  

She clucked twice to the big horse, gave him a 
determined kick, and was rewarded with a hesitant 
trot.  Leuan followed, thinking if the trot got any 
slower, it would be a walk.  They would reach St. 
Mary's by winter instead of within a few hours unless 
Gwilym instructed his horse to act properly.  Gwilym 
did not look up, one hand still around Duana's middle 
and one playing with her hair in the moonlight.

There was a smart slap as the leather reins met with 
the horse's neck, indicating she meant business, a 
final snort as the horse acquiesced into a canter, 
and two hours later they had reached the abbey.
 
*~*~*~*    

It was too much of a risk to take her inside the 
priory house.  She would pass for a teenaged boy at a 
glance or on a horse, but not at closer inspection.  
And even with him, she would not like being among so 
many men in the close sleeping quarters of the abbey.  
Had Gwilym been able, he would have made a few 
comments about Mary and Joseph and a manger, but 
instead, he just gave Leuan the money to make a deal 
with the Abbot and focused on unsaddling and grooming 
Goliath so he would not be expected to converse. 

Leuan brought several of the monks' unbleached wool 
blankets out to them in the stables, and, choosing 
the loft instead of an empty stall, Duana spread them 
over loose straw in a semblance of a bed. 
 
When she began to undress, the numbness he had needed 
and welcomed since this afternoon finally left his 
brain.  There was something he wanted to feel tonight 
- release.  His wife, acceptance, and reelease.  He 
wanted to be able to die inside her and feel the 
glory of his death mingling with the new life she 
carried.  And he wanted to forget – both the future 
and the past – just for a moment.

No pretenses, no sweet words or silly jokes – he 
could not manage the gentleness or the rhythm of 
them.  Ducking his head to avoid the crossbeams of 
the roof, he had simply gone to her in the corner, 
stripped off her clothing, and pulled her down into 
the straw with him.  Gwilym had always been so 
careful of her, so careful to make it at least nice 
for her, but this time he only managed a 'please.'  
Duana closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around his 
neck, and, exhaling, let him quickly empty his mind 
into her body.  Before she had fallen asleep, she had 
kissed him gently, assuring him he was loved and that 
morning would eventually come.  

He had never done anything so good in his life that 
justified God giving him this woman.  Fortunately, 
for Gwilym, neither had any other mortal man.  

Now he was letting his thoughts float in the musty 
air, bouncing gently off the stone walls, and did not 
hear the fox feet approaching until Duana draped his 
cloak over his shoulders against the coolness of the 
abbey chapel.

"Go back to the stable and sleep, cariad.  The monks 
will want to sail after morning Mass and it will be 
dawn soon."

"Come with me."  When he did not move from his knees, 
she held her torch up to the stone effigy so she 
could read the name and said, "This is your father?"

"And his father and his before that.  Now Dafydd's 
body will lie here, as will mine one day."

"It is not your time to die.  It only feels like it 
tonight.  I have felt it and it passes."  Emptying 
his lungs, he stood and took her hand, letting her 
lead him out into the late summer night.  The moon 
was huge, close, watching them impersonally as it 
came to rest beyond the Irish Sea.  "You are not 
getting on the boat with Father John and me, are you, 
William?"

"I will come for you, but I want a few words with the 
King first.  If that man rules by God's will, then 
God is off governing other worlds."     

Gwilym could feel her mentally crossing her arms and 
fixing those eyes on him, trying to think of some way 
to beg, bribe, threaten, or drag him onto the Templar 
ship.  To hush her lecture, he kissed her brow, then 
rested his forehead tiredly against hers in the doorway
of the stable.  "I have found where I want to be and 
I intend to stay, cariad.  I told you I dared any man 
to say otherwise."

He helped her climb the short ladder to the loft and 
lay down on their makeshift straw bed, undressing her 
again slowly as the bells called the monks to morning 
mass.  Only a few minutes – just once more and then 
he would leave.  This must be a bit of Heaven: 
watching her moving above him as her chest suddenly 
flushed crimson in the purple dawn.  Too tired to 
wait, he followed her, and then pulled her down 
against him, still telling himself that he would 
leave in one more minute.   

One more minute.  He could count it out in his own 
heartbeats.

"I have always heard that angels sing, but I have 
never imagined monks at Mass," she whispered into his 
neck, her breathing slowing.  "Please do not do this, 
William – if you want the King dead, just send me 
back to him.  I know the proper plants to give 
him.  No one would ever suspect me and no one would 
want me once he is dead."

"I just want him to know Dafydd was his son.  My 
child, but his blood.  Knowing he watched his own son 
hang – and living knowing that – I think that is 
worse than death."

"You will tell him he was the father of Diana's child 
and then join me in Ireland?"

"Yes."  He did not meet her eyes as he dressed.  "I 
have sworn my allegiance to John as my king – I will 
not raise my sword against him."

She pulled the rough blankets around her, picking the 
pieces of straw from her hair, and watched from the 
loft as he resaddled Goliath below.  "You are lying."

*~*~*~*

Christ, he had not foreseen this when he sent Duana 
into hiding with Leuan – that the Knights Templar 
would hide her so well that Gwilym could not find 
her.  His reasoning had been that if he was caught 
and tortured in England, if he did not know her or 
the child's location, he could not give it away.  
Leuan had Gwilym's signet ring, and enough gold and 
Templar credit to take Duana wherever he thought was 
safe, and he certainly had.

The monks of St. Mary's could only tell him that 
Father Leuan and a Templar squire called 'Scully' had 
boarded a ship for Dublin three months past.  She - 
or 'he', rather, was not with nor had he been with 
the Cistercians or the Templars or in any of the 
nunneries or other monasteries in Dublin.  He was 
considering riding to Dover to find what remained of 
the Scully Clan when a barkeeper mentioned the 
Knights of Saint John had built a new Hospital 
nearby.

"A young man named 'Scully'?  Perhaps.  King John has 
not been kind to Ireland; we have many people in need 
of care because of him," the abbot hedged, pushing 
his black cowl back so he could see Gwilym clearly 
through the gates.  "We do not care for the Saeson, 
for the Saxon outsiders here. Who is it that asks for 
'Scully'?"

The two knights flanking the abbot stepped closer, 
hands on their swords.  Obviously the King's men had 
been thorough in their search for Duana.  

"Gwilym.  I am Lord William of Aber."  

Please, please, please.  If she was not here, then 
the Knights and Leuan had decided the danger was so 
great that they had sent her further into hiding – to 
France or the Holy Land and it might take him years 
to find her.  

"I do not see a lord; I see a monk of the Knights 
Templar.  Tell me of this 'Scully' – perhaps I have 
seen him."

"Small, with red-brown hair cut to the chin.  Fair 
skin and blue eyes.  He was ill about -" he had to 
pause to count, "one month past.  Very ill.  He is my 
squire and the man with her is an old Templar priest 
named 'John'." 

The abbot caught that Gwilym had slipped, saying 
'her' instead of him.

"Perhaps 'Scully' is using another name.  We often 
give sanctuary to souls fleeing the cruelty of the 
Crown.  Sometimes I hear their confessions myself."

He took the gamble, rolling his proverbial dice: 
"Duana.  Lady Duana of Aber.  She was with child." 
The Abbot shook his head – he did not recognize that 
name.  "Duana of the Scully Clan.  Countess Duana?" 
He did not know her late husband's name.  "Countess 
Duana of, uh, London."  No – there was no Earl of 
London.  What lands had her husband owned?

"We do not worry so much about lands and titles here.  
Perhaps there is a name only those close to 'Scully' 
know."

Breathing a little easier, fairly confident he only 
had to guess the password to be allowed into the 
monastery hospital, he offered the obvious: "Cariad' 
– I call my wife 'cariad."

"That is very sweet, my lord, but many Welshmen call 
their wives 'beloved.'  Perhaps another name?"

It was no sooner out of Gwilym's mouth than the Abbot 
and the two monastic knights with him became much 
more cooperative: "Witch.  I call her my wanton 
witch."

"Scully has his own quarters below St. Michan's 
Church, just north of the River Liffey.  The birth 
was difficult, but he is well now.  The child is with 
him, and your priest left for Wales to find you when 
we heard - we were afraid of what might happen when 
we heard the rumor that the Old King had died, so as 
soon as the danger of more bleeding has passed, we 
moved your Scully in case the Saeson soldiers 
returned."

Gwilym paused long enough to pour money into the 
man's outstretched hand, then remounted.   

"I had to carefully choose which of my knights I sent 
to St. Michan's to guard your squire.  He is an 
amazing youth, my lord – there was quite a commotion 
among my monks.  If a face like that belonged to a 
woman, kings would pursue her the ends of the Earth, 
even if she were content as another's wife."

That earned no comment from Gwilym, but it held his 
attention.

"You said you have just come from Britain, my lord?  
It is the Templars here that say King John has died – 
it that true?"  Gwilym nodded, and the abbot 
continued, "It is said that his death was quite 
painful – poisoned by a monk, in fact."

"I hear the same, Father, but I'm sure it is just a 
rumor – about the monk.  King John died of dysentery 
in his bed, abandoned by his family and friends, and 
crying like a cowardly child.  I am sure he confessed 
his sins before he passed – all of them.  Long live 
King Henry III."

"Long live the boy-king, Lord William," said the old 
abbot, stepping back from the monastery gates.  "May 
it take him many years to grow up enough to trouble 
the Celts."

"Wait."  He fished in the side of his boot, pulling 
out the pouch and then the ring, now polished so the 
King's lions could be easily seen, even by a dying 
man.  He kneed Goliath close to the bars, handing the 
heavy gold ring through.  "Smelt this and put it to 
better use, Father."
*~*~*~*

He was making an utter fool of himself – pulling 
Duana hard against him, then almost dropping her when 
he realized she had just had a baby.  He finally 
settled for kissing her thoroughly enough to upset 
the monks who had shown him to her chambers secreted 
below the church.  

He was complete.

"Fontevraund Abbey, William," she informed him, 
gathering her things to leave. When he looked 
perplexed, she added: "The Abbey where Eleanor of 
Aquitaine is buried in France.  I have read of it 
and the monks here say the nuns are taught to read 
and write and play music from childhood.  You told me 
I could decide where my child is sent.  I want her to 
go to Fontevraund."

"Cariad -"  

"Can you wait a moment, William?  I want to feed her 
once more before we go.  The monks say they know of a 
wet nurse, but I do not want her to be hungry."

"Duana -"

"Only a minute.  You do not have to see her.  She is 
just in the next room."

"Duana!"  

"Just one damned minute!  I only want one more minute 
with her and then I will go!  The midwife does not 
think I can have another, so Christ forbid you wait 
one Goddamned minute before I have to leave my 
daughter!"

He finally succeeded in getting her attention by 
grabbing her wrist, jerking her back to him.  She 
flinched, expecting to be struck, and he felt like 
the rags tied to a beggar's feet.

"Is there anyone besides you that knows King John 
ever forced you? The entire Court knew you refused, 
so is there anyone who can say King John did not just 
change his mind and want you back, rather than that 
he fathered your child instead of me?"

She considered, and he could see her obediently, 
methodically listing names in her mind, not 
understanding why he was asking.  "No – I have told 
you and confessed my sin to the abbot at the Hospital 
when she was born, but there is no one else but you 
and King John."

"Well, King John is dead.  He died last month; word 
is only now filtering this far north.  If you can 
ride, go get your daughter and we can go home."

Having been married to him for almost nine months 
now, Duana could have an entire castle packed and 
ready in ten minutes, so collecting a tiny baby and 
Dafydd's cloak presented no problem.  By the time she 
stopped sniffing – denying that she was even crying, 
he was giving more coins to the monks and whistling 
for Goliath.     

"What is this child's name, cariad?"

"Eimile.  Here – give her to me before you drop her."

"No.  I have held little girls before."   

He actually did have to hand the bundle to her long 
enough to mount, and she stubbornly refused to give 
the baby back, saying he could either hold the reins 
or the baby, but not both.  Obviously, motherhood had 
not made her more docile.

"How did the King die, William?  I have not heard of 
any battles."

"There is something carved in the church, cariad.  
Can you read that to me?  My eyes are getting old."  
He paused to let her decipher the Latin on the 
cornerstone of St. Michan's Church, knowing full and 
well what it said.
 
She was better with French or Gaelic than Latin, so 
his plan succeeded – she had to stop questioning him 
to translate: "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, 
women the strongest, but truth conquers all."

"That is how the Old King died, cariad.  It is time 
to go home.  I have a son to bury and a daughter to 
acquaint myself with."  Picking up the reins, and 
turning the horse toward the coast, he asked,  "What 
we spoke of that last night in Aber – about being 
fated to certain paths – do you believe that?"

"Why do you ask, William?"   

"Because I have just changed ours for this lifetime.  
We shall have to see how it goes."  One of her arms 
wrapped around his waist, the other holding the baby 
securely against her as he pressed his heels lightly 
into Goliath's sides and clicked his tongue against 
his back teeth.  "One more time old boy – and I hope 
it will be the last. Take us home."

*~*~*~*    

End – Hiraeth III: Saeson


Author's notes: long history lesson & links:
Don't go looking for Aber Castle – there isn't one in 
Snowdonia, although Prince Llewelyn did have a Court 
at Dolwyddelan, and Aber Castle is modeled on his 
other castle, Dolbadarn, built in 1230.  Both are 
still standing and pictured at:
www.castleswales.com/home.html

The Welsh sieges capturing Carmarthen and many other 
castles did happen December 1215 through January 
1216; however, King John was busy losing his father's 
empire to France and almost didn't notice.  John did 
retaliate against the Welch nobles several years 
prior for an uprising as described, but it was not 
the 1215-1216 campaign, nor for a violation of the 
Magna Carta.  This account is lifted from "Here be 
Dragons" by Sharon Kay Penman rather than actual 
original research.  Suffice it to say, King John 
was a nasty, heartless man, and Prince Llewelyn did 
deliver the news personally.
 
The Knights Templar, Cistercian, and Hospitaller were 
overlapping orders of monastic warriors which 
attempted to assist pilgrims, and to capture and hold 
the areas around Jerusalem during the Crusades, much 
to the dismay of the Muslims, who found the Holy Land 
no less 'holy' than the Christians and happened to be 
living there.  Not much has changed between 1096 and 
Y2K.  In Europe, the Templars also served as 'the 
bank' during the Middle Ages – the only place besides 
the Jews where one could borrow large sums of money 
(noblemen who became full monks gave all their wealth 
and lands to the order and secular Knights like 
Gwilym often made large donations as well.)  Because 
the Pope endorsed the order (he tended to endorse 
anyone willing to go on Crusade) and the monarchs 
were always deeply indebted to them, the Knights 
Templar were extremely powerful and almost 
untouchable.  For more than anyone ever needed to 
know about the Knightly orders and the Crusades:
www.merlin-deux.legend.org.uk/~lhudson/
 
The 'truth' quote comes from Rosslyn Chapel in 
Scotland, built in 1440 and purported to be one of 
the places the Knights Templar fled to with their 
treasure and holy relics after Philip IV of France 
arrested them as heretics on Friday the 13th of 
October, 1307.  For the historical account of Rosslyn 
Chapel:
www.rosslynchapel.org.uk/
or for the much more interesting and, um, imaginative 
version:
www.mids.org/sinclair/templar/index.html

One of King John's early escapades when he was still 
Prince John Lackland was as Governor of Ireland – and 
he treated the Irish very badly, allowing his 
soldiers to pillage and rape as they pleased, just as 
they did in Wales.  As a result, both the Irish and 
the Welsh (this is a quote from a historian who 
helped me research) "from the lowest rag picker to 
King Rory" (of Ireland) tended to do everything they 
could to spite King John.  St. Michan's Church still 
stands, with a vault below it containing several 
well-preserved bodies that are said to be Knights 
Templar.  
www.trantex.fe/staff/heikkin/knights/portcull.htm

St. Mary's abbey, built in 1186 in Aberconwy, was 
moved in 1283, and then destroyed when Conway Castle 
was built by Edward I – the son of King Henry III, 
grandson of King John.  Buried there are Llewelyn 
Fawr, the great Prince of Wales who died in 1240, 
and his oldest son Gruffydd.  William Mulder, Sr., is 
not – don't think I didn't check.
www.members.tripod.com/~caryl_williams/conwy-7.html

*~*~*~*