Title: Adduned 

Author: prufrock's love 

Rating: R 

Summary: seventh in the Hiraeth series – southern 
England; winter, 1218 

Keywords: story, historical au, msr, angst, light 
'other' 

Spoilers: I can't see how 

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

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

Feedback: no 

Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue 

Silver spoons: Jen check – fine, have faith (no cd & 
ends msr); Skinner-head-check – um, well, um – that 
was a long time ago; Angst-o-meter 7.8 out of 10; 
Snort-o-meter: (distance coffee may spray from nose 
to keyboard) fairly safe 

Quick Note: Chester, the city on the border between 
Wales and England, and the Earl of Chester, owner of 
Lincoln Castle on the other side of England (near 
Nottingham, for the Robin Hood fans), are two 
different things.

*~*~*~* 

Adduned

By prufrock's love 

*~*~*~* 

"Christ – will they ever get that brat to stop 
crying?" Fitz asked, purposely using a voice loud 
enough that everyone in the tavern surely overheard. 
"I cannot think with all this racket! Show me again – 
where are Gloucester and Leicester's men and where 
are mine? And is the Earl of Chester's army the spoon 
or the rock – I have forgotten?" 

"It is just tired," Gwilym replied. "Look – have 
Gloucester move his army toward London from the west 
while the royal army approaches from the northeast. 
That is enough men and knights that it looks like a 
sizable force, but it is not, really. It will be days 
before you can bring the other armies down from the 
north, but I do not want to wait any longer. You said 
you wanted to use mainly mercenaries for the initial 
attack, yes?" 

Fitz rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, 
not looking at Gwilym's map on the wobbly wooden 
table. He might be ten years younger, but keeping up 
with Gwilym as he surveyed the troops and the lay of 
the land was exhausting. Gwilym always seemed to be 
thinking three weeks ahead of everyone else, and all 
this brilliance was making fitzWalter's head hurt. 

"Fitz?" 

"Yes? What? Shut that baby up!" he ordered to old 
woman trying to soothe the infant while stirring 
something in a pot over the fire.  

The tavern owner, knowing these noblemen would pay 
well to spend the night and pay even better to spend 
it with a few of the prostitutes, gestured for his 
wife to take the child outside. 

"No," one of the men said, placing his cup on the 
parchment he had been studying to keep it unrolled, 
and raising his hands. "Here.  Not out – cold."  

His wife hesitated – Norman soldiers had been known 
to kill children for sport, but this one did not 
sound nor look Norman. If they harmed the babe, they 
would surely pay for it, and it was only one of the 
whores' brats, anyhow. The innkeeper nodded his 
approval, and she gratefully handed the child to the 
dark-haired man and went back to her cooking. 

"He- she," Gwilym scrutinized the dirty baby as he 
took it. "She is just tired. And I think that is her 
mother sitting on your lap. Look at the red hair." 

Fitz petted the teenaged girl's long, vaguely clean 
locks and she smiled up at him encouragingly. "Is 
this your child?" he asked in French, then repeated 
it in English, just in case. Her green eyes widened 
and her freckled face earnestly shook 'no.' 

"Oh, she is not going to tell you if it is, Fitz. 
Whores never have children, remember? This babe has 
just gotten too tired to go to sleep easily. I do not 
think she is hungry or wet." 

"How do you know that?" Fitz asked, thinking again 
how odd Welshmen were as Gwilym leaned back, letting 
the infant nestle against his shoulder and, lulled 
by the sound of his voice and the beating of his 
heart, start to quiet down. 

How did he know that? Because the girl's chest had 
gotten damp when the baby had started to cry and she 
had 'accidentally' spilled a drink on her dress to 
conceal that. Because she watched worriedly as the 
old woman tried to cook over the fire and hold the 
child at the same time. And because this baby was two 
months old at the most, making the prostitute still 
unclean, and because the tavern they had stopped at 
desperately seemed to need the money, Gwilym was not 
going to mention any of that to Fitz. 

"I have had four children; it is hard not to notice a 
few things after four," Gwilym answered casually. "Do 
you not have any?"  

"Oh, a few bastards here and there, but no – Isabelle 
and I do not have any children." 

Gwilym looked up from murmuring to the baby, 
interested in Fitz's tone rather than his words. It 
sounded like not only did Fitz not have any 
legitimate children with his new wife, the Queen 
mother, but he would not be expecting any. 
Isabelle was not yet thirty and had borne several 
children for King John – there was no reason why she 
would not conceive again. 

"I have a king for a stepson, William; what more 
could a man ask for?" Fitz said a bit too quickly, as 
a slim blonde girl of about twenty refilled their 
cups and then, uninvited, sat down beside Gwilym. 
Under the table, out of sight, Gwilym quietly removed 
the warm hand she had placed on his thigh. 

There was an uncomfortable silence that Fitz filled 
by whispering something in English into the redhead's 
ear, and she giggled appropriately.  

"I am not looking at any more of your maps or lists 
tonight, William. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am 
going upstairs – are you coming or are you going to 
spend another evening staring at your papers?"  

"You, as always, have laid claim to the only redhead 
in the tavern, Fitz," Gwilym replied, deliberately 
sounding like the innocent fool Normans expected 
a Welshmen to be. "I thought Isabelle was a blonde – 
the most beautiful blonde in Europe, the last time I 
saw her. Do you not like to … pretend a little?" 
Then, knowing Fitz would refuse, "I will trade you – 
this blonde for your redhead." 

"Isabelle is certainly the prettiest blonde in 
Europe, but variety is nice as well." He gave the 
redhead a squeeze and, on cue, she smiled again and 
squirmed expectantly. "I was here first. Close your 
eyes and make do with the blonde." 

"I will be back by morning, then." Gwilym said, 
handing the baby off, paying the tavern owner much 
more than necessary for what he had eaten, and 
rolling up his maps. "By first light." 

"Oh for God's sake! Are you going to go off and 
pout?"  

"No," Gwilym said calmly, "I am going to ride back to 
London. We are close now - it cannot be more than 
fifteen miles. I have not seen my wife in a week." 

"Through the snow?" Fitz said to the back of Gwilym's 
head. "You are going to ride through the snow and 
ride back before dawn? It will be almost midnight by 
the time you reach London. Where is the sense in 
that?" 

"Goodnight," Gwilym called, as the tavern door swung 
closed behind him. 

"Shit!" the Kingmaker said disgustedly, and then, 
draping his arm around the redhead's shoulders, asked 
her, "Nom?" 

"Dianora," she decided, taking his hand and leading 
him toward the stairs. That was not her name, of 
course, but it seemed more exciting and exotic than 
plain 'Joan.' And she preferred men not call her by 
her real name; they always forgot it at the most 
intimate moments, anyway.  

"Close enough," he replied in French, knowing she 
would not understand. "Come on."  

*~*~*~* 

"It looks as though you had a Roman orgy in the 
sitting room, but things did not go so well," he 
whispered, pulling off his boots and chattering 
nervously as he climbed onto the bed, not sure if he 
was welcome or not. "Thirty men and only one woman – 
that is the kind of orgy King Richard would have 
preferred. It is said a knight had not really been on 
Crusade until he had been with King Richard and a 
camel, so I suppose I just wasted all that time in 
the Holy Land." 

The guards had said King Henry, when Fitz was gone, 
often wanted to sleep in the apartments across the 
hall from Duana's, which meant that Henry's dozens 
of servants overflowed and ended up sleeping in her 
sitting rooms as well. And he had seen Llewelyn and 
Gruffydd among the snoring Welsh knights on pallets 
in the floor – Llewelyn would be joining the battle 
to lead the Welsh army instead of Gwilym, but he 
wanted to stay with his son for a few more days.  

Duana rolled over, blinking as she awoke, but not 
seeming surprised to find him suddenly in her 
bedchamber. "What is an orgy? Or a camel?" 

He pulled the bed curtains closed, setting his candle 
on a shelf in the headboard, and knelt on the 
mattress beside her. "Welcome, William. How have you 
been, William? I am fine, William. Have you killed 
any Frenchmen yet so we can go home, William?" he 
supplied for her. 

She sat up, squirming as she pulled her chemise over 
her head and began efficiently undressing him. 
"Goodness, you are half-frozen." 

"Does this mean you have forgiven me?" he asked. 
Their parting words had not been pleasant and he had 
ridden away feeling both like a kicked hound and like 
the boot that did the kicking.  

"No, it means I have missed you. It is different. 
Come down here and see if you can make me forgive you 
as well." 

"I am nasty," he replied, not sounding very 
convincing as she skinned off his breeches. "I really 
planned to check on you and then sleep with the 
guards in the next room for an hour or so. And I did 
not bar the door." And he could not count how many 
days it had been since or until her flux if she kept 
touching him there. 

"It does not matter; if Henry has a nightmare he will 
pound on the door until I let him in anyway. Just try 
to be quiet."  

"I have used that same strategy," Gwilym replied, 
laying her back on the down mattress. "You are sure 
you do not want me to wash off a little?" 

"Hush," she ordered. "I will take you covered in 
honey so long as you are still alive and in one 
piece. I am furious with you, but not so furious that 
I was not worried." 

"One day, when this is all over, I will have to let 
you take me while covered in honey. That sounds 
interesting, I think." 

Always a smart woman, Duana found something else for 
him to do with his mouth, and there was no more 
thinking for a little bit. 

*~*~*~* 

"I am listening," Gwilym assured her, shifting 
contentedly. "I am awake – tell me of Aber. I need to 
leave soon; Fitz is expecting me back by dawn." 

"You cannot stay?" 

"No, not this time. We will attack in two days, then 
retreat back through London and I will see you for a 
few hours then. Once the French troops lay siege to 
London, we will be driven further inland and north 
before we divide and backtrack. Then it is just a 
matter of waiting."  

"How do you already know you are going to lose?" 
Duana asked, fitting her body perfectly against his. 
"What kind of war do you begin knowing you will 
lose?" 

"The kind where the enemy must bring food and 
supplies and fresh troops twenty miles across the 
Dover Straits from France by boat, cariad. The kind 
where, in the middle of winter, the enemy will find 
London, always sympathetic to the French, suddenly 
closes her gates. It will be almost March.  There is 
nothing to feed foreign troops except what can be 
brought from France and, while the French are busy 
trying to seize London, I will quietly see that 
nothing can be brought from France. Every English 
port will refuse French ships and every English city 
will close her gates." 

"You will lure them inland, starve them in the middle 
of winter, and then, once the French troops are 
surrounded and you have had a chance to move all your 
armies down from the north, you will attack. You are 
right, William – as long as the French cannot get new 
supplies, you will not lose."  

"Yes," he replied noncommittally, not liking one bit 
that Duana would be in London while the French tried 
to take the city. London will not fall, though – it 
had never fallen during a siege. "Tell me of Aber." 

"The messenger returned yesterday – I sent him to the 
camp to find you, but I suppose he has not yet. 
Melvin sends word that the Welsh horsemen will be 
west of London in a day and the Welsh army there in 
three weeks, as ordered. He says 'all is ready,' and 
he is 'seven days into getting his indulgence money 
back and ready to kill some Frenchmen,' whatever that 
means. He could not bring Goliath, something about 
his hock, but offers you his horse if you want it." 

"No, thank you," Gwilym replied. "Lariat and I will 
be just fine. I do not need anything else to contend 
with right now. Did – is there any word-" 

Duana let him suffer for a moment before she said, 
"Mother and Princess Joanna say both Eimile and Mab 
are well. Eimile can walk very well now and is 
chattering up a storm. Mab is rolling over, but his 
eyes are still hazel, not blue." 

"I wanted his eyes to be blue because your eyes are 
blue," Gwilym murmured, sounding like a sentimental 
fool. "I do miss the children; do not think that I do 
not. And I miss you. And I hate that you are trapped 
here like some pawn with fighting all around you."  

"I like you after we make love," she replied softly. 
"It is perhaps the only time you speak without first 
calculating every word." 

Gwilym made a sleepy grumbling sound, wishing he 
could lay in this nice warm bed for about a month. 
"No, while we are making love, I certainly speak 
without thinking; I just deny it later. But it is 
nice to know I am in your good graces again." 

"Close your eyes, William. Roll on your back and 
close your eyes." 

"Wanton, are you planning on raising the dead?" he 
protested, but rolled to his back.  

He felt soft fabric brush his face as she said, 
"Smell." 

Gwilym was starting to quip about this truly being an 
odd game, but realized what the cloth smelled like. 
"Mab. My clean, after he has a bath, baby boy." 

"Mother sent it," Duana told him, draping the baby 
blanket over his chest and throat. 

"I want to take it with me," Gwilym said impulsively, 
but realizing he was being selfish, added, "But it 
would be ruined. Better you keep it." 

"I will give you something else." 

"I do not need a hanky. If I want to ride into battle 
– watch the battle," he corrected, "while carrying 
one of your hankies, I will just ask Fitz if I can 
borrow one. I think he must have them all. Do not 
sneeze – between Pyn Dral and fitzWalter, Regent of 
England, you have no handkerchiefs left." 

"Truly, you are bad, William. No, I have something 
better for you." 

"Yes, you do," he answered, thinking maybe he was not 
so exhausted tonight after all. He could always sleep 
when he was dead. "I like very much that you have 
something better only for me."  

"Be easy," she cautioned him, as Gwilym pulled her 
down on top of him, and he promised he had no 
intention of being otherwise. Not only was she 
probably sore, he was not seventeen anymore, either. 
"And, when you dress, take the new shirt from my 
sewing basket and leave me the one you have been 
wearing." 

"It is not torn," he said, resting his hand on her 
head as she kissed a line down his body, more than 
willing to relax, enjoy, and let her lead, if she 
would. "Just dirty."  

Dear God, he was going to have to stop at Temple 
Church and thank the late Earl of Pembroke for 
teaching her this. The woman really could raise the 
dead with that mouth. 

She leaned up to blow out the candle a little later 
and then positioned her hips over his. "It is all 
right," he soothed her, feeling her hesitate. Duana 
had done this once before in the monks' stables 
before he had sent her to Ireland, but Gwilym had 
been half out of his head with grief that morning. 
Even when she was heavily pregnant, she did not like 
feeling so exposed. "Go slowly; do what feels right. 
I cannot see you in the darkness, and even if I 
could, you are beautiful. Your body looks like a home 
someone lives in and loves rather than one just for 
show. Relax. You like this, I know you do, and there 
is no shame in liking it." 

Hands on her hips, he gasped as he guided her down, 
trying to remember they had a baby that was barely 
two months old and not to thrust.  

"Now?" she asked, breathing quickly. 

"Lean down here if you feel bare," he managed, and 
felt her head against his chest. Wrapping his arms 
loosely around her, Gwilym instructed, "Now move – 
rock. However feels right. I have you: move as fast 
or slow as you like, but do not pull away. Some 
nights we make love for me, some nights for both of 
us. Tonight, for you." 

*~*~*~* 

Gruffydd had been watching from the window as the 
English troops flooded through the narrow streets of 
London since early morning, looking frighteningly 
bloodied and defeated. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" he asked Duana, 
sounding like a small child instead of a teenaged 
boy. 

"I am sure the army is only pretending to lose, but 
that is a secret. You cannot tell anyone," Duana 
said, trying to appear like she was actually sewing 
something. 

"I know secrets," Henry offered, looking very un-
kingly wearing possibly the first outfit he had ever 
chosen for himself: a borrowed, oversized tunic, his 
own heavily embroidered bedrobe, and knee boots like 
the Welsh knights he had made friends with. The 
servants, seeing London was about to be under siege, 
had scattered like rats and no one had bothered 
dressing the ten-year-old, instead sending him to 
Duana's apartments where he would be out of the way. 
"I know lots and lots of secrets," he said, waiting 
to be asked what they were. 

"Are you sure my father is fine?" Gruffydd asked for 
the tenth time, forgetting Duana had just answered 
him.  

"He is just fine," a familiar male voice said as the 
door swung open, and Gruffydd, beaming, scrambled 
down from his perch at the window.  

"We have been soundly beaten," Gwilym announced 
victoriously, unwrapping Llewelyn's arm from his 
shoulders and letting the prince slide down onto the 
sofa. "And we are now in a splendid full retreat." 

"My God, William!" she said, horrified by the blood 
and dirt and gore that seemed to cover both men from 
head to toe. "My God, where are you hurt?" 

"Nowhere," he assured her. "Llewelyn actually turned 
his ankle hurrying up the steps a second ago. We 
slaughtered a bunch of pigs and cows last night and 
painted ourselves. What?" he asked, holding out his 
arms for her to examine him, "Do I not look lovely? 
You should have seen the fine time Merfyn had tossing 
livers and hearts and pig intestines over his 
shoulder as we fled the field. I have never seen just 
a man's liver laying on the field, but Merfyn thought 
it was a wonderful idea. Henry," he added in French, 
"Fitz is just behind us. He is even a little 
cleaner." 

Duana, not yet convinced, wet a towel and, ordering 
Gwilym to sit in a chair near the window, tried to 
wipe off a layer of filth.  

"It is really me, cariad. I only got all decked out 
in case I had to go into battle, but I did not."  

Behind them, Gruffydd began wringing his hands 
nervously as Llewelyn tried to reassure him that he 
too was unharmed.

Duana kept looking back and forth between her husband 
proudly grinning at her and Gruffydd whimpering 
beside his father on the sofa.  

"You- he- I would kiss you if you were not so nasty, 
William!" 

"Kiss me anyway," he requested, licking his lips 
clean for her. 

*~*~*~* 

"Come on!" Fitz ordered from the hallway, actually 
succeeding in getting Gwilym to move half a step this 
time. 

"I am coming," Gwilym assured him from the 
bedchamber, still kissing Duana goodbye. That was his 
one saving-grace: Fitz probably suspected she was 
barely dressed, otherwise he would have dragged 
Gwilym out twenty minutes ago. "One minute." 

"William!" Fitz yelled. "We are waiting on YOU so we 
can close the city gates. Just YOU, William." 

"And I am COMING," Gwilym yelled back, then softly to 
Duana, "You know he loves this, do you not? He is 
going to have you all to himself for weeks." 

That was not really true; he was leaving enough Welsh 
guards that there was no danger of her being harmed, 
but it bothered Gwilym just the same.  

"I thought he was accompanying you?" 

"No, it seems there are things that keep fitzWalter 
at Court. Pretty little red haired, blue-eyed things, 
I suspect."  

"What is it you say about your dogs, William? 
Something about them 'barking up the wrong tree'? I 
do not think you need to worry," she promised him. 
"Swear to me one more time that you are only guiding 
the armies, which you will not fight. And then swear 
you will come back." 

"I swear it – make you an adduned, a promise," he 
said, putting his hands on the back of the door on 
either side of her head and leaning down to whisper 
in her ear. "We are old souls, cariad. If we lose 
each other in this life, I will find you in the next, 
but I do not plan to lose you in this one just yet. 
If I had to start over, I would need a new horse, a 
new cloak – and in the next life I will expect you to 
be taller." 

Christ, he should just shut his mouth and leave. 
Gwilym certainly was not making it any better for 
either of them. 

"I will see if I can grow." 

"Not too much. I like the way you fit against me, 
around me now." He kissed her again, then said 
quietly, his lips brushing hers, "We fit very well. I 
will always come back for you, cariad. Do not doubt 
it." 

"I do not doubt it," she whispered back, sounding 
very convincing for a woman who was lying. 

"I used to love so easily.  I would give my heart so 
carelessly. Then I kept losing pieces of it, one 
chunk at a time torn away until I thought I could 
never stand to lose again, so I tried to stop caring. 
It is not a choice, though – whether a man loves or 
not." 

He opened his mouth to say it, and, getting only 
breath instead of words, closed it again. 

"Go on," she told him, quickly kissing the tip of his 
nose, then stepping away from the door. "I am fluent 
in Williamspeak. Go – hurry up, or I will be angry 
with you, for making me cry." 

"William!" Fitz bellowed from the hallway. 

"Do not doubt it," he told her one last time, 
slipping out and closing the bedchamber door behind 
him. 

*~*~*~* 

"Duana," Fitz called, knocking on the door of her 
bedchamber an hour later. "William is out of London. 
He got out before the French troops had the city 
completely surrounded. He is safe – I saw him ride 
away myself. It is not dawn yet; William will catch 
up with the army easily before sunrise." 

Fitz waited for a response, knowing she was not 
asleep. Light from the candles was seeping through 
the cracks around the door and he could hear her 
pacing on the other side.  

"Duana, are you all right? Do you need anything?" 

To his surprise, the door swung open, banging loudly 
against the wall in the predawn silence of a city 
under siege and, he was confronted with the lady of 
Aber in only her long, white chemise.  

"I need my husband!" Duana yelled at him, her hair 
falling around her flushed face in red waves. "I need 
my husband and I need my children and I need you to 
let me out of this gilded cage, you son-of-a-bitch!" 

Fitz stood rooted to the floor, shocked as much by 
her temper as by seeing her in anything other than 
her lady-like dresses and veils. God, and she was 
crying. "Duana?"  

"Go to Hell!" she screamed at him, then slammed the 
door closed so hard it rattled the shutters. 

*~*~*~*

"Go, Gwil. You have one night to spend in a real bed 
instead of on the ground. Go get some sleep; I will 
be fine," Llewelyn assured him. "You have done all 
you can – really, I am fine." 

"You sound like my wife," Gwilym replied, yawning. 
"And she is generally lying." 

"It is only a small cut, and the bleeding has 
stopped. Get some sleep." 

Gwilym would not describe the gash in Llewelyn's 
thigh as a 'small cut,' but there was really nothing 
else he could do to help. He was just hovering, and 
he knew Llewelyn hated it as much as Duana did when 
he hovered. 

Certain they were several days ahead of any French 
troops as they retreated to Lincoln, Gwilym and 
Llewelyn had relaxed a bit, ridden a little ahead of 
the army to talk strategy, and stumbled across a band 
of French deserters. The group, catching both men off 
guard, had lashed out madly before they could be 
subdued and executed. Gwilym had only a few nicks and 
a minor cut on his hipbone – at least, it seemed 
minor, he had not really checked it yet, but 
Llewelyn had a nice new wound on his thigh to add to 
his collection of scars.  

Llewelyn, having lost a fair amount of blood, was 
already dozing, so Gwilym followed the servant to the 
room in Lincoln Castle that the Earl of Chester had 
offered when they had shown up pleading at the 
gatehouse two hours ago. Closing the door, he 
stripped to the skin, carelessly letting his chain-
mail shirt of armor fall to the floor, and held the 
candle close, craning to see the cut. 

No, it was not life threatening, although pulling off 
his clothes had caused it to bleed again. Too tired 
to care either way, he set the candle on a table and 
crawled naked into the bed, wondering how he would 
explain to Duana that he had just been promoted to 
General of the Welsh army. Llewelyn was not going 
to be able to ride for a week with a wound like that 
and they circled back to attack the French in two 
days. Merfyn led Gwilym's knights, not the entire 
Welsh army. There was no choice, but, still, he had 
promised her. 

He was so tired he could actually feel the bed 
spinning as he lay staring up into the darkness. 
Yawning again, Gwilym decided his brain would work 
better after a decent night's sleep, and, rolling 
over, tossed his arm over the small female form 
beside him, and… 

And jumped back so quickly he almost fell out of the 
other side of the bed. 

"Jesus! My God! My lady, I am sorry – the servant 
showed me to this room. There must be some mistake. I 
will find my… Jesus Christ! I will go. I am so 
sorry." 

She sat up, thankfully, from what he could see by 
firelight, wearing a chemise instead of nothing but 
bare breasts. "Are you William, Lord of Aber?" she 
asked. 

"I am," he managed. 

"Then you are in the right bed. The Earl of Chester 
sent me." 

Ah – Norman hospitality at its best. "How old are 
you, child?" He leaned closer to see her face as she 
leaned back, wary. 

"Seventeen," she insisted stubbornly, watching him 
with big, dark eyes. "Sixteen. Fourteen. Thirteen," 
she finally decided. 

"That is it? Do you know I have a daughter who would 
be…" He was about to embark on a fatherly lecture 
when he suddenly realized, "You speak Welsh. I have 
been speaking Welsh all this time and you have 
understood me. How is it a servant girl in East 
Britain speaks Welsh?" 

She shrugged, and his heart started to beat faster. 
"The earl knew you were a Welshman and thought you 
would like me. Have I done something wrong? I can 
take this off-"  

She started to untie the ribbon at the neck of her 
chemise and he barked, "NO! No- you have done nothing 
wrong. Tell me again: how is it you speak Welsh? 
What is your name?" 

No, this could not be her. He had frantically 
searched every inch of Wales after his daughter had 
vanished years ago. Gwen had seen her playing in the 
bailey one minute and she was just gone the next. 
They had checked every house, every cave, every 
church between the Irish Sea and the Welsh border and 
she was just gone. She had fallen off the cliffs into 
the ocean or wolves had gotten her or… 

"Lucy. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, you 
do not like me." The corners of her mouth turned down 
in a childish pout the way Diana's had when she was 
angry with him, but it is very easy for a man to see 
what he wants to see, and Gwilym knew it. 

"I really do not think the question is whether I like 
you or not, child. Have you always been called Lucy? 
Never Catyna? Never Tyna?" 

She shook her head 'no' as he tried to imagine what 
his daughter might look like today. It was plausible 
for her to have been kidnapped and sold or just 
wandered out of Wales and ended up on the other side 
of Britain. Far-fetched, but plausible. 

"How long have you lived here in Lincoln?" 

"Since I was a child." 

"You are still a child," he replied, and seeing her 
bottom lip begin to tremble, added. "You are fine – 
very pretty, in fact – but I need to sleep. Tomorrow 
night," he promised, knowing he would be long gone by 
tomorrow night. "Are you sure you have never been to 
Wales? Think hard: do you remember a brother named 
Dafydd? A father– Lucy- look at me; do I seem 
familiar to you at all? I do not usually have a beard 
and my hair would have been shorter. Do you 
remember a Templar knight who lived with you in a 
castle? Your mother died in a fire so you came to 
live within the castle on a hill. There was a priest 
named Leuan and a cook, Gwen – and a man named Merfyn 
who used to let you ride around on his shoulders. You 
had a black pony named Saul because my horse was 
Goliath and your brother was Dafydd and you would get 
in trouble for trying to get Saul to jump over things 
after I told you not to and… No, you do not remember, 
do you?" 

She just kept shaking her head no, puzzled by his 
bizarre questions. "Can I at least stay here tonight? 
The earl – he will not be happy if he knows you do 
not want me. He has been very good to me. I do not 
want to disappoint him." 

Gwilym reached for his pants, trying to dress as 
modestly as possible. "Of course; stay." 

"But you are getting dressed! You are leaving! What 
do I tell the earl?" 

"I will talk to Chester in the morning – I will thank 
him and say you were just fine. And I want to speak 
with him about where you came from. Jesus: you even 
look Welsh. If he asks you, just lie, Ty – Lucy. How 
will he ever know?" 

Lucy looked at him, wide-eyed, and he finally 
realized what the problem was. Apparently, the 
commander of the king's army was important enough to 
merit a virgin.  

"There will," he checked the still-oozing cut as he 
fumbled with the laces of his britches in the 
shadows, missing Duana's nimble fingers, "Yes, I 
think there will be plenty of blood on the sheets for 
anyone who wants to see tomorrow morning. Just lie – 
which is an awful thing for me to tell you to do - 
and I will see if Chester will let me buy you. Would 
you like to see Wales, Lucy? Maybe you could remember 
more if you could see Wales again. Perhaps you are 
someone I once knew."

"I have never seen Wales, my lord. I have lived in 
Chester since I was a little girl." 

He was not going to reiterate that she was still a 
little girl and he planned for her to stay that way, 
but, as he pulled on his boots, he asked, "But where 
did you live before that? You did not just fall out 
of the sky one day in Chester. Where were you born?" 

She wrinkled her brow, trying very hard to remember, 
but could not. "I have been in Chester since I was 
nine or so. They found me wandering – I suppose I 
could have been in Wales. Where is Wales?" 

"Home, I think. Lay down and sleep, Lucy." She lay 
down, still watching him curiously as he pulled his 
tunic over his head and gathered up his armor and 
sword. On impulse, Gwilym leaned down and kissed her 
forehead, pushing her hair back and gazing at her 
pretty face. It was not just his imagination – she 
did look like Diana. "If you are Tyna, I have missed 
you very much," he murmured. 

"I am not Tyna," Then, in a frightened little voice: 
"But I will be if that is what you want to call me. 
Is Tyna your wife?" 

"No," he told her, stepping out into the hallway. 
"Goodnight." 

"My Lord," a young Welsh knight asked, scrambling up 
from his pallet on the floor outside Llewelyn's room. 
"Are you all right? You are shaking. Is the wound-" 

Gwilym took a long, shuddery breath. "I am fine. 
Really fine, perhaps. Will you watch this door? Just 
until I can speak to the earl in the morning. I do 
not trust my eyes until I have had a little sleep." 

"Of course, my lord. And I let the maid inside with 
breakfast, yes?" 

Gwilym nodded, too dazed to laugh. "Yes. You are 
learning."  

"Shut up," he ordered Llewelyn, who grumbled oaths at 
Gwilym appearing in his dark bedchamber, shining a 
candle in his face. Gwilym wanted to make 
absolutely sure it was still the Prince of Wales 
before he crawled into the bed. 

"Are you so lonely that I am starting to look like a 
woman to you?"  

"Just shut your mouth and scoot over," Gwilym 
responded, "I might decide I prefer your hairy chest 
to the flat one in next room if you keep giving me 
ideas."  

"We cannot all be as pretty as you, Gwil," Llewelyn 
mumbled, falling back to sleep. 

*~*~*~* 

"Stop lurking and come in, fitzWalter," Duana 
ordered, pausing to tell Gruffydd to stop doing 
something, and then, "I know you are out there." 

The door finally opened and Fitz appeared carrying a 
heavy ledger, which he dropped on the table in her 
sitting room with a thud, making Gruffydd jump a 
foot in the air.  

"Have you brought me your accounts to do?" Duana said 
crisply, laying down the quill and covering the 
letter she had been writing.  

"They were my father's accounts. I can make neither 
heads nor tails of them," Fitz said awkwardly, 
knowing he was not welcome here, even with a fairly 
good excuse.  

Henry spent most of his afternoons playing in Duana's 
apartments, trying to soak up all the mothering she 
desperately wanted to bestow on her own children. 
Sometimes Fitz found the young King underneath the 
blanket-covered table, insisting he was searching a 
cave for dragons, and other times curled up on the 
sofa with a cup of tea, listening wide-eyed to Duana 
read him stories of Hercules or Camelot or Wales.
Fitz's first reaction was to say it was not 
appropriate for Henry to spend half his day doing 
little that was productive, to which Duana had 
replied being a ten-year-old boy was very productive. 
And then, to his surprise, she had apologized, 
asking if perhaps she was causing problems with 
Henry's mother. Did Isabelle dislike Henry spending 
so much time with her? Fitz had skipped over the 
details: that Isabelle had not seen Henry, nor Fitz, 
for that matter, since she and Fitz had married, nor 
did she seem to miss either of them. He had simply 
said 'no,' that it did not cause problems, and 
allowed Henry to come whenever he wanted.  

Which also meant Fitz had a reason to check on Duana, 
although she now treated him with a formality so cool 
it chilled the room when he entered.  

"I have finally run out of things to do during the 
siege," he said weakly, "So I opened Father's ledgers 
from the country estate and found this mess." 

"I kept those records perfectly – what are you 
talking about?" She stood, insulted, walking around 
the table, and opening the old leather book she had 
once spent many hours poring over.  

"Look closely, Duana," he instructed. "You kept them 
in Gaelic. You and my father know Gaelic, but I do 
not, nor does my seneschal. Could you perhaps tell 
me what a few words mean so I know what I own and 
what I do not own?" 

Her glare softening, Duana trailed her finger slowly 
down the yellowed parchment, skipping randomly 
between memories. "This page is all payments: taxes, 
the Crown's share of his rents, retainers for two-
hundred knights, and then this is just general castle 
expenses for the spring of 1215. This, I would 
politely call a loan to King John rather than another 
extortion. It was such a large sum I went with his 
men to deliver it to Court." 

"It is the last entry," Fitz said quietly. 

"Yes, it is," Duana replied tightly. "If you will 
leave this, I will make notes for you. I am sorry; I 
never considered that anyone might need to understand 
it besides your father and me." 

"Did you love him?" he asked, then immediately wanted 
to snatch those words back. 

"He was very good to me," she replied, sounding as 
though her words were wrapped in an icy wind.  

"But did you love him? Did you love him or did you 
spend almost a decade with someone because it was 
safe and convenient?" 

"Yes, I cared for him very much," Duana responded, 
her voice starting to tremble. "Yes, I have cried for 
him, if that is what you want to hear." 

Fitz worried his lips, wanting to know and not 
wanting to know the answer to another question.  

"I have news of your William, Duana. He has turned 
the armies, bottled up the harbors, and is pushing 
the French from all sides. Everything has gone 
exactly as he said it would – the French are hungry 
and cold and thinly spread as they hurry to reconquer 
all the land from Dover to Lincoln. He is picking 
them off like ticks, surrounding London for the final 
attack. He is sure London will hold, and the French 
will have nowhere to hide." 

Her posture seemed to relax a bit. "He is well, 
then?" 

"Only a few messengers have been able to get in and 
out of London, but they say he is well."  

"If I – Gruffydd, do not pick at your hair; your 
father is fine – If I write a note, will you send 
it?" 

"Of course," then, noticing Gruffydd playing alone in 
the corner, asked, "That is Prince Llewelyn's son, 
yes? What is wrong with him?" 

Hearing his father's name, Gruffydd got up to check 
the window, then sat back down again, sighing 
dejectedly.  

"King John took a fourteen-year-old boy, had him 
beaten, and then locked in a cage for more than a
year waiting to die. What do you think is wrong 
with him, Fitz? It would probably have been 
kinder to hang him with the other Welsh boys, with 
William's David." 

"I did not do this, Duana," Fitz insisted, sounding 
like a child trying to talk his way out of a whipping 
he knew he deserved. "The Court was chaos when the 
royal counsel appointed me as regent. I did not know 
any of the boys still lived at first. I had to get 
Henry crowned, marry Isabelle, figure out-" He 
stopped short, biting the tip of his tongue. "I had 
him moved to better quarters as soon as I realized 
who he was. I never wanted him to come to any harm, 
just like I never planned to make you hate me." 

"I do not hate you, Fitz," she said sadly. "I 
understand – you are still my friend. I just want to 
go home."  

He clasped his hands in front of him, knuckles white 
with tension. "Father made it look easy: creating a 
king, creating a nation. Even your William: he leads 
armies as easily as others play chess and commands 
respect from men who would sooner spit on a Welshmen 
than follow one into battle. Father wielded 
power as though it was lightweight, but it is 
not. Power weighs a man down like heavy, wet 
clothing, and lashes him in dreams like an unexpected 
tree branch. He never thought to tell me that." 

Duana swallowed, closing the ledger and turning to 
face Fitz as they stood beside the ornate table. "A 
wise man once told me that being powerful is like 
being a lady – if one must tell people that one is, 
then one is not." 

"That sounds like one of William's odd sayings," he 
replied tiredly. 

"Perhaps, but it was your father that first said it 
to me. When the other noblewomen laughed at me 
because I did not speak French very well and was 
just learning to read and write, that is what he told 
me."  

He closed his eyes, wanting to take a break from 
living for a moment, and, without thinking, Fitz 
leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. There 
was not even time to enjoy the warm, yielding 
softness before she realized his intent was not just 
a chaste kiss and pulled away. 

"Do not-" 

"I am sorry," he said, taking one, then two steps 
back. "That was wrong." 

Duana hugged her arms around her body, looking at the 
floor and saying nothing. 

"I should not have done that. I-I do not know what I 
was thinking. I was not thinking. Duana, it will not 
happen again." 

She nodded that she understood.

Not knowing what else to say, Fitz turned to leave. 

"It will all be over in a few days, Duana," he said, 
his voice calm and even. "Listen to the city walls – 
the siege engines have stopped. The French have taken 
the field against the English army all around London. 
The battle has begun." 

Fitz-" Duana finally looked up. "You said the 
soldiers were following a Welshmen into battle. They 
are following Prince Llewelyn, yes?" 

"Of course," Fitz lied.  

*~*~*~*  

"Gwilym?" he heard a woman's voice say softly through 
the peaceful darkness. There was no pain here – the 
night covered him like a warm blanket and all he had 
to do was sleep. "My name is Owens. I am going to 
help you. Open your eyes. It is time to open your 
eyes. Do not sleep yet." 

Deciding he must be the one being addressed, he 
tried, feeling tired and light-headed. Finally 
getting both eyes open, he watched sleepily for a 
moment as the stars swirled in lazy, unfamiliar 
patterns through the Heavens. He was floating: he 
could feel the boat raising and dipping with the 
gentle waves.  

It took him a moment to realize it was a funeral pyre 
– he was lying on a soft pallet on a raft, the way 
the pagans once buried their high kings. Soon, they 
would light the kindling around him and the pyre 
would drift away until it was a tiny blaze on the 
horizon.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gwilym heard a 
priest telling him he was neither a pagan nor a king, 
but that voice seemed very far off in the distance. 
He was drifting between Heaven and Earth, and the 
heavens were much closer. 

"Get up – do not rest. It is not time," she told him. 

He blinked, started to shake his head to clear it and 
felt a pain so sharp it made his stomach tighten 
before it faded to a dull throb. 

"I cannot," he told the woman, "I am hurt." 

"Yes," she agreed, her round, matronly face appearing 
over him as he lay there. "You are hurt." 

"I do not remember what happened," he whispered, 
frightened. "Am I dead? Is this Death?"  

"You do not need to remember yet. Turn your head – 
look at the shore," Owens told him. 

He did, and was surprised that the small figure 
standing on the dock was hazy, like he was seeing her 
through a fog. There should not be fog on the lake if 
the stars were so clear. "She is so far away." 

"Not so far, really. All you have to do is go to her. 
She is waiting for you." 

"It hurts," he said, trying to find some way to 
escape the pain in his head.  

"Yes, it will hurt very much." 

"Will you help me?" 

"If you want to go back, I will help you," she 
promised. 

*~*~*~* 

"He is not dead," she insisted, pacing the length of 
her sitting room like a caged animal and clutching a 
piece of dirty fabric in her hand. "William tends to 
wander off, but he always wanders back eventually. 
And he is no deserter. Perhaps he is a hostage-" 

"Duana," Fitz said softly, trying to soothe her. "You 
are going to make yourself sick again. It has been 
days now. There were no hostages. The battle went 
exactly as William said it would: the English Army 
surrounded the French and butchered them. Only the 
side that wins takes hostages." 

"But he was not in the battle. William promised…" She 
stopped, looked away, and seemed to grow a littler 
smaller.

"William's sergeant has looked among the wounded – he 
is not there." 

"And the dead?" she managed to ask. 

His stern expression started to crumple, and he closed 
his eyes, trying to find a gentle way to tell her 
this. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell. Yes, we 
think so. We think he must be among the dead." 

"Then bring me his body." 

Fitz stared at the floor, not answering, and perhaps 
blinking suspiciously. 

"He is still out there and he is hurt and alone. You 
have to keep looking."  

"The other soldiers saw him fall." William had to be 
one of the dead so mutilated that he was 
unidentifiable, and Fitz did not want to share that 
with Duana. "We found his horse wandering." 

"If he was dead, I would feel it, and I do not."  

"I am so sorry, Duana. I want you to know I did not 
plan this – nor did I ever want it to happen, but it 
is God's will. Continuing to believe he somehow 
survived is just not rational. Please let yourself 
grieve and stop insisting that William is out there. 
I am not going to give you false hope by pretending 
there is somewhere we have not searched." 

She draped the old shirt she had been carrying over 
the back of a chair, rested her hand on it for a 
moment, took a ragged breath and offered, "Whatever 
you want, Fitz." 

He glanced at her, not understanding, and found her 
teary blue eyes focused on his. 

"I trust you – you will not hurt me. I will do 
whatever you want, just send out another search party 
to look for William. Just keep looking." 

The noises of the castle – the servants in the 
hallways, calling instructions, gossiping, laughing – 
they suddenly became very loud and her sitting room 
very silent as he realized exactly what Duana was 
saying. 

"You know my secrets," he murmured. "You have for a 
long time, I think." He picked up her hand, rubbing 
his thumb over hers. "If I thought it would help you 
now, ease your pain, I would have my marriage to 
Isabelle annulled in a heartbeat and marry you as 
soon as the banns could be posted. I cannot say that 
I have not thought about it: what it must be like. 
And I cannot say I care for you and then allow you to 
act against your will. He is dead, Duana. Humiliating 
yourself will not bring him back."  

"I am pregnant," she said evenly. "He is not dead." 

"I will keep looking," he replied, dropping her hand. 

*~*~*~* 

The first sensation was a sickening, throbbing pain, 
as though his whole head was a giant toothache. There 
was a flash of light and Gwilym jerked his face away, 
moaning, and swirled back into the buoyant darkness 
for a few seconds. When the hammer pounding on his 
skull subsided to mere steady agony, he tried 
opening his eyes, and found himself staring at 
daylight drizzling down through an old thatched roof.  

"Have you finally awakened?" a husky female voice 
asked, putting something wonderfully cool on his 
forehead. A hand, he realized – a woman's hand. 

He tried unsuccessfully to answer, noticing the 
coppery taste of blood in his mouth. 

"Drink," she said holding a cup to his lips and 
carelessly spilling most of it down his chin and 
neck.  

"…Happened? What happened?" he finally mumbled, 
discovering he could speak French as she did, 
although that was not the language he thought within 
his head. "Get here?" 

"There was a battle. Many men died, but you did not. 
You have just hit your head."  

Her face came into focus for an instant: deep brown 
eyes, square cheekbones and full, wide lips, and he 
reached out to touch her, trying to see if she was 
real. She took his hand and rested her jaw in his 
open palm, nuzzling as though they were lovers, and, 
on instinct, Gwilym pulled away.  "Get… Get Scully. 
Dana." 

"Who is that?" she asked, picking up his hand again 
and running her rough finger down his bare chest.  

Images and sensations taunted him as he tried to 
think, coming close to his mind and then fading into 
nothing. There was another dark-haired woman with a 
little boy on her hip and a hand on her belly, 
telling him to hurry home, that this child was his. 
Hearing hoof beats, feeling the weight of armor on 
his shoulders, and wondering if she was telling the 
truth as he rode away. A fire – the smell of burnt 
hair and the sound of a baby crying. A few too many 
women, a few too many battles: those swirled by very 
quickly. Frantically searching for something he could 
not find. A little girl; he was looking for a little 
girl but she was not in the forest anymore. No, he 
found the girl, so now he was searching for a woman 
with red hair swirling around her face in the icy 
water. She was so cold – someone had hurt her and she 
was cold and afraid, but if he held her against him 
she would be warm again. There were English soldiers, 
Templar monks, dying kings. Tombs: cool marble under 
his fingertips as he cried. Spring. Bonfires. Holding 
a minuscule baby in his arms and a woman pulling back 
the blanket to show him this was a man-child. Tired, 
happy blue eyes. And then there was blood – so much 
blood so quickly. A battle that he was not supposed 
to be in, but he was going to be very careful because 
he had made a promise – an adduned – but his saddle 
girth broke and the ground rushed at him and the 
sound of a mace whistling near his ear and then 
nothing.  

"I am hurt. Please… Get Dana." 

This time there was no response. 

Gwilym must have moved his head, because the sunlight 
darkened like a candle almost snuffed out, flickered, 
and then slowly returned. There were the stars again, 
laughing at him as they floated by, and then the 
purple and scarlet of the sunrise.  

He licked his cracked lips, and tried, "You? Who are 
you?" 

"My name is Dana," the same woman's voice answered, 
"You have been asking for me. Do you remember?" 

"No… No. Are you Dana?" He squinted at her, having 
the sense that something was not quite right, and 
started to nod 'no,' but caught himself in time.  

"It is all right." She took his hand, holding it 
between both of hers. "Just rest."

"…my name? W-who am I?" 

She leaned closer so he could see her pretty dark 
eyes, laying his hand on her slightly pregnant belly 
and then stroked his dirty cheek. "You are my 
husband." 

*~*~*~* 

Seeing him standing in the doorway of the hut, hands 
braced on the rough timber beams on either side, she 
observed, "You are up. That is good." 

"I am up. I am not sure I am good," Gwilym replied, 
waiting for the trees at the edge of the clearing to 
stop swaying.  

She smiled, wiping her hands on her mended skirt, and 
getting up from the open fire to come kiss him. When 
he pulled back after a few seconds, she asked, "Is 
something wrong?" 

"Yes. No. You are going to have a child?" She nodded. 
"We should not be together while you are with child. 
That is why I stopped you last night," he lied. "Da-" 
He kept trying to call her that and failing. "How is 
it that I call you Dana? That is not a nice name – to 
call a woman 'under.'" 

"It is my name," she shrugged, turning away to add 
more wood to the fire. 

"Tell me again: what is my name?" 

"You still do not remember?" 

He thought for a moment. "Fox." 

"That is not a name, that is an animal," she teased, 
tucking her long hair behind her ears. 

He grinned sheepishly. "So this is my life? Whose 
land is this; whose forest?" 

Her brown eyes looked puzzled for a moment, as though 
a shadow had passed over them. "The King's." 

"But who owns the fief? Who is my liege lord? You 
said there was a battle – for whom do I fight?" When 
she did not answer, he continued, "Look at something; 
I noticed this yesterday: look at my hands." Gwilym 
held them out for her. "There are no calluses except 
where I have held reins and a sword. Are these not 
the softest hands you have ever seen? There are even 
pale lines where there were rings not so long ago. 
Are you sure I am whom you say? Are we hiding from 
someone? This place seems very safe – very far from 
the world." 

"Feel," she told him, taking the hand he was holding 
out and putting it on her belly. "Your son is 
moving." 

"He is moving," Gwilym agreed in French, and then 
said in Welsh, "He will be proud his father speaks 
this language." In Latin: "And this one, whatever it 
is." He added rapidly in Gaelic, Manx, and English: 
"And this one, and this one, and this." 

She stepped back, giving him a wide berth as he 
carefully stooped down and, using his finger, slowly 
wrote in the dirt: 'Llwynog ap Gwilym.' "That says 
'Fox, son of William,' and this," he wrote, "Is that 
name in another language, and another, and another. 
Am I not the most well-educated serf you have ever 
seen…wife?" he said, drawing out the last word. "Even 
if I am a tradesman or a merchant, I should still not 
be able to read and write. And the calluses; I would 
not have carried a sword unless I am a knight." 

"You have hit your head very hard. Perhaps you should 
lay down again," she tried to persuade him.  

"Are you my mistress?" Gwilym asked, trying to figure 
out why this woman kept skirting around the obvious 
fact that he was a gentleman and she was a commoner, 
albeit a pretty one. Very pretty, but clearly a serf. 
"I am not angry with you – you have probably saved my 
life, in fact, but I do not belong here in the 
forest, in this life. I only want to know where I 
belong. You are good to me, but I feel adrift, as 
though someone cut all the ropes and obligations 
holding me and set me free. Many men would envy that, 
but I do not. If you do not know who I am, or if I 
cannot be that man any longer, at least tell me who I 
was."  

"You are my husband," she insisted, her eyes getting 
damp. 

"You keep saying that. Would you like to know what I 
think?"  

She shook her head vigorously 'no,' chestnut hair 
flying in all directions.  

"I am not angry with you; do not be afraid. I think, 
wherever this battle was, you went to the field 
afterward looking for your husband among the dead and 
found me instead. And when I did not remember whom I 
was, you found it easier to believe that I was your 
husband than to accept that he was killed. I do not 
think this is my land or my home and I will swear on 
my honor that whoever 'Dana' is, it is not you." 

"You are my husband," she whimpered. "He is not dead. 
You are my husband!" 

He reached inside his filthy, torn shirt – that had 
been his first clue: redressing and discovering the 
fabric, the fit, and the careful, tiny stitches of 
his clothing. Someone had spent a great deal of time 
and money sewing his shirt and breeches. And, given 
that his right hand seemed clumsy, it was probably 
not he.  

Unpinning the strip of dark-green cloth he had found 
there yesterday, he pulled it out, holding it between 
his hands for her to see. "Do you know what this is?" 

She looked up through her tears, then shook her head 
'no.' 

"I do. It is the cloth tied around a man and a 
woman's hands when they are married in the old way. 
And I know this piece of fabric is only for me - 
someone gave it to me. I can see her in my dreams – I 
can remember that night. And that the marriage is for 
a year and a day, and our year has not yet passed. 
And I promised her I would come back for her: that 
souls mate eternally and I would find her in this 
life or the next. But I have tried for a week to 
remember who the woman is and all I know is that it 
is not you," he said coolly.  

"You are Vernon! You are my husband and we are going 
to have a child!" 

"And who are you?" he pressed her gently, realizing 
exactly how fragile she was.  

"I am… No– no… I am…" 

"You do not know either, do you?" 

Sinking into the dirt and pulling her knees as close 
to her chest as her belly would allow, she nodded 
'no,' starting to sob. 

*~*~*~* 

The city was asleep, kings and commoners locked 
behind the safety of stout doors as a sliver of moon 
watched disinterestedly. Hearing the horses return, 
Duana went to the window, then, wrapping her cloak 
around her and signaling her guards to follow, 
hurried through the halls and courtyard to the gates. 

Fitz was dismounting, looking at least twenty years 
older in the dim light from the torches the servants 
brought to meet the search party. 

"You still did not find him," she said, more as a 
statement than a question. 

"He is not there to find, Duana. I would empty the 
Thames one bucketful at a time if I thought he might 
be at the bottom of it, but he is not. It is starting 
to rain - go inside; you are going to catch cold. 
Duana?" 

"Open the gates, Fitz," she said, telling her guards 
to wait, taking a torch from one of the servants, and 
quickly stepping past Fitz. When he did not 
immediately respond, she ordered the castle guards, 
"Open them!" 

The men were already on the verge of obeying when 
Fitz agreed: "Open the castle gates. Duana – where 
are you going?" 

She did not answer, so he hurried to catch up, taking 
long strides to keep pace with her. 

"I am not your prisoner anymore. That was the 
agreement. William won your war; I am free to go. If 
you and all your royal knights cannot manage to find 
one rather large man in an open field, I will find 
him myself." 

"You cannot-" He took three big steps, getting in her 
path. "You cannot go-" She dodged around him. "For 
God's sake! Even if I let you go run through the 
streets at night, the city gates are closed. You 
cannot get out of London until morning." 

She spun around, looking like she had grown a foot 
taller. "Watch me!" 

The English knights caught up with Fitz as he watched 
Duana hurrying away. "My Lord? Do we seize her?" 

"No – she is correct. She is a freewoman and a widow. 
She may go as she pleases. Follow her," he decided. 
"Make sure she is safe. And," he added, knowing 
Duana's hardheadedness, "Make sure she does not find 
some way around the city walls that the French army 
missed." 

*~*~*~* 

Of course she could not get out of the city. The best 
Duana could hope for was to get out of her apartments 
and away from the Welsh knights William had left to 
guard her. They stared at their boots and spoke in 
low, sympathetic voices, telling her how brave and 
noble he had been and how sorry they were. 

Even Llewelyn had come earlier, as had Melvin, so 
drunk he could barely stand up. They too, were very 
sorry. Llewelyn was sorry William went off and left 
him at Lincoln Castle while he was still busy 
bleeding, and Melvin was sorry he could not kill 
every single Frenchman in this world and the next. 
But they were both sorry. 

That he was dead.  

Duana swallowed a sob, squared her shoulders, and 
walked quickly and purposefully in no particular 
direction except away from Court. 

She knew what William would tell her to do: marry 
again, and marry before she left London. 'Just pick a 
man who will be good to the children and will not 
bother you too much.' Duana was heiress to too much 
land now to ever be able to reach Wales without being 
kidnapped and 'persuaded' to marry some opportunistic 
knight. His lands in Aber and what Fitz had given her 
in south Wales would become the property to any man 
who married her, and any consummated marriage was 
considered valid, whether she ever agreed to said 
consummation or not. Fitz, whether he realized it or 
not, had added a few more bars to her cage.  

Just pick a man. Check his teeth and his temperament 
and just pick like she was at the market.  

In that case, Duana wanted one who told the most 
awful jokes imaginable and spouted off bizarre ideas 
left and right, making people wonder how far from 
sane he actually was. Perhaps someone who could get a 
baby to calm down faster than she, yelled right back 
when she yelled at him but never struck her, and left 
gifts on her pillow and then swore fairies must have 
done it. One who called Father John to exorcise the 
sprites and then cursed and tried to look innocent 
when the fairies brought her something else the very 
next night. Yes, that was exactly what she wanted: a 
man who still became tongue-tied and blushed if she 
invited him to come to bed, but would, and probably 
had, tell the Devil to piss-off for her sake. And one 
who, if asked if he still had a heart left to break, 
would deny it and almost be convincing - unless one 
could see his eyes.  

Yes, one of those would be just fine, thank you.  

As she neared the city gates and tried to decide what 
to do next, a figure crossed the narrow street in 
front of her, his dark cloak whipping behind him as 
he hurried through the light drizzle. To her tired 
brain, he reminded her for an instant of William: the 
way he moved as though he had decided long ago where 
he was going and was simply waiting for the rest of 
the world to catch up. He paused at the corner, 
looking for someone, and not finding them, crossed 
the cobblestones, dodging to avoid the puddles. 

The English knights, already unhappy at following a 
woman around on such a miserable night, cursed as 
they had to jog to keep up. This was silly, Duana 
assured herself, picking up her pace: following some 
man on his way home from a tavern because he walked 
like William. She should think of the baby and the 
sickness in the night air and go back to the castle 
so Fitz could scold her for being such an impulsive 
child. 

"William – William!" she called, chasing him through 
the dark city, and figuring that the worst he could 
think was that she was mistaken or insane. Half the 
men alive were named John, Richard, or William, so 
the odds were in her favor. 

He paused, as though he was not sure if he had heard 
his name or not, then, seeming to decide not, turned 
and faded into the shadows and mists as though a 
cloud had passed over the moon and the moon was 
simply not there afterward. 

Rounding the corner, Duana sidestepped quickly to 
avoid tripping over a man sitting on the bottom step 
of a church, hunkered down against the cold, damp 
night. Standing in the middle of the deserted street, 
she looked, frantically turning in circles to survey 
every brick, every stone, as her torch sizzled in the 
rain, but he had vanished. Perhaps he was never there 
in the first place. She was tired and alone and 
afraid and her mind was playing tricks on her. Or 
perhaps she had just seen a ghost. William did tend 
to wander off – trust that man to wander completely 
into the next world without her and without even 
thinking to look back. 

Well, at least she had a few seconds alone to cry 
before Fitz's idiotic guards caught up with her. 

"Are you lost, my lady?" the man asked from behind 
her, standing up and rubbing his hands briskly over 
his damp shirt sleeves to warm his arms. He watched 
her, but kept back, making sure not to frighten her. 
"I saw a castle nearby – did you lose your way?" 

Duana whirled around, inhaling sharply at the hideous 
French spoken with a strong Welsh accent and pushing 
back her hood in disbelief. "William? My God – 
William! Where- Why- How- My God!" Losing all sense 
of propriety and forgetting about the royal posse 
following her, Duana dropped the torch onto the wet 
street and threw her arms around him. 

"I have the feeling you have missed me," Gwilym said, 
tentatively putting one hand, then both hands on her 
back. 

"Missed you?" she echoed, finally letting him up for 
air. "Where have you been for the last week and a 
half? I do not know whether to kiss you or knock you 
silly, William!"  

"Am I William?" he asked, looking down at her. "I had 
thought so, but I was not sure." 

"You are hurt." She peered at him, noticing the cuts 
and bruises on his face. As the guards arrived with 
more torches, she discovered, "Your head. Yes, you 
are William," Duana assured him. "Lord William of 
Aber." 

"I did not believe I was William of London," he 
answered thoughtfully. "I was just looking around, 
trying to decide. I am looking for my home, but I do 
not think this is it. It was the closest city, but I 
hope I do not live here. It smells foul." 

"No – this is not your home. There was a battle: we 
have been searching for you. You must have somehow 
found your way into the city. Damn it, William: you 
terrified me! And, and," she picked at his torn 
sleeve, starting to cry, "You have ruined another 
shirt. Really, I cannot take you anywhere," she 
sniffed. 

Gwilym watched her, his dark eyes lighting up. "You 
are Dana. No - Duana," he decided. "I have been 
looking for you, Duana." 

*~*~*~* 

Fitz listened to Llewelyn's complicated story, 
slouching in his chair behind the wide desk, and 
nodding slightly every few minutes.  

Standing in the background, having sobered up enough 
to mumble the appropriate responses to the 
appropriate questions and thus shredded his and 
Lady Duana's honor, Merfyn started to fidget. He did 
not understand what Llewelyn was explaining in 
French, and, in truth, he really did not want to, 
either. Just the basics of the lie and the look on 
Gwil's face the day he had accidentally admitted he 
wanted no woman other than his wife – that was enough 
to turn a strong man's stomach. 

"Count the weeks, Fitz; Eimile is not William's," 
Llewelyn said calmly, having rehearsed the words 
several hundred times. "Duana is my mistress. I 
married her to William because King John wanted her 
married. There is no bad blood between us, and 
William is very fond of her, but the children are 
mine." Fitz did not seem convinced, so he added: 
"William's mistress Muritta is even staying at my 
Court while she is with child so Duana will not be 
upset. Muritta is a pretty blonde commoner, a tavern 
wench before she conveniently married his tanner. 
William could never marry a woman like that – I am 
sure you understand. We are very polite about it, 
really." 

"Father," Gruffydd called from his usual perch on the 
windowsill, watching some commotion in the bailey. 

"I am here, son. It is fine," Llewelyn assured him in 
Welsh, hoping the boy could not understand the 
conversation. "Just a minute."  

"So the two children are yours – what about the child 
she carries now?" Fitz asked. 

Llewelyn blinked, caught off guard. Gwilym had not 
specified that part of the plan. "Mine as well," he 
guessed, hoping that was the correct answer.  

He wanted nothing more than to turn to his right and 
find Gwil as he had for more than two decades, 
looking morose or sarcastic as the mood struck him, 
but thinking ten steps ahead of any other man. He 
knew he was not a good liar, this story was 
convoluted at best, and that Fitz was agreeing a 
little two easily. Llewelyn desperately needed his 
best friend alive so he could ask Gwil why that 
might be. 

He held his breath, praying he had done the right 
thing. Llewelyn just kept telling himself this was 
what Gwilym wanted, this was what Gwilym wanted: to 
ensure his children were safe and that Duana could 
live her life as she pleased. Llewelyn did not have 
to understand the plan, he just had to act his part 
and rely on Gwilym's brilliance one last time. 

"Father," Gruffydd said again in Welsh, making 
Llewelyn and Merfyn almost jump out of their skins. 
"Uriah is here. There is no Bath-Sheba for King 
David." 

"Just a minute, son. FitzWalter, you have my word as 
well as Sir Melvin's. It does not matter what Lady 
Duana claims. She is a good wife; of course she 
would not dishonor her husband's memory."  

Fitz considered a moment, and then nodded his 
approval, allowing Llewelyn to exhale. "I will have 
it entered in the record. Do you want the boy to be 
'Mab' or 'David'?" 

"David," Llewelyn decided, thinking that if there 
were any justice left, perhaps that was it: "Dafydd 
ap Llewelyn, heir to Wales." 

Fitz made a note, then stood, looking very tired. 
"Are we finished?" he asked, as though he was not the 
most powerful man in England.  

"He is back, King David – you do not get Bath-Sheba 
after all," Gruffydd said cryptically in his singsong 
voice, still speaking Welsh, although he was fluent, 
or had been, in French. 

"What is it, Gruffydd?" Llewelyn finally asked, 
thinking his son was just talking nonsense again. 
Uriah was the soldier in the Bible that King David 
had sent out to die in battle so the King could have 
Uriah's wife, Bath-Sheba.  

"Uriah," the young man said sadly, pointing out the 
window. "Too bad for King David." 

Llewelyn, needing something else to think about 
besides having just sworn he had dishonored one of 
the most honorable men whoever lived, leaned over 
Gruffydd's shoulder to see. He forgot to breathe for 
a moment, and then said shakily, "Not Uriah, son - 
Lazarus. That man does make the most dramatic 
entrances."  

Fitz looked out just in time to see Duana and a 
battered William walking hand-in-hand across the 
bailey. "Jesus Christ," he said slowly, "I should 
learn not to underestimate Duana when she says she 
will do something. Jesus!" 

"No," Llewelyn replied, exhaling and grinning 
broadly, "Jesus only took three days; William took 
eleven."  

Hearing the name, Merfyn pushed his way through so he 
could see this with his own eyes. Llewelyn grabbed 
him quickly, reminding the old man that while 
jumping out the window might be the fastest way to 
reach Gwilym, it was possibly not the wisest. 

"Of course," Merfyn finally managed to say as they 
hurried down the stairs three steps at a time. "Of 
course it took him eleven days instead of three to 
return from the dead – Goliath is still in Wales. 
Gwil had to borrow a horse." 

*~*~*~* 

End: Adduned