Title: Hiraeth X - Diwedd
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Summary: Bath, England; fall, 1218
Keywords: historical au, msr, angst
Distribution: link to: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Checks: Jen – good (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – yep, Skinner 
head check – nope, Angst-o-meter: high, Snorkameter – don't 
know yet.
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue

Diwedd
By prufrock's love

*~*~*~* 

There was nothing wrong with this particular stick, and it was 
probably immune to pain, but he liked to imagine it was screaming 
and begging for mercy, just the same.  Leaning against the outside 
of the warped cottage door, Gwilym attacked the poor piece of 
wood with his knife, methodically whittling it from a big stick into 
an equally useful little stick.

The door opened, causing him to lose his place, curse, have to find 
another stick, curse, and sit down to start all over.

"Please come inside," Duana asked quietly, sounding almost 
plaintive. "You have been out here for hours. Let me fix you some 
breakfast."

"It is not your place-" He paused to slice off a nice, satisfying curl 
of oak flesh, "to fix my breakfast.  You married a lord, you should 
be treated like a lady." Another slash and another long sliver of 
wood went flying. "Go rest." 

Duana stepped around him to get outside, then turned, crossing her 
arms and changing tactics. "I married you, big cranky oaf that you 
are, for better or for worse.  Now either come eat or be hungry, 
because I am not fixing anything else until noon."

"Was there not a part in those marriage vows about obedience?  I 
told you to go rest," he snapped. 

"I am not ill; it is not the same." She squatted down, trying to keep 
her skirts clear of the dirt. "I am sorry – I told you it was not a 
good time for me to conceive, but I did not think my flux would 
come for another few hours.  That is all it is, William: nothing that 
you did at all."

"And I told you," he started to point at her, then stopped, realizing 
he was pointing with the knife and she was flinching. "I told you to 
go inside and not bother me."  

He held his stern expression for a few seconds, then his forehead 
crumpled, teeth clench, and eyes closed, threatening to tear.  He 
jabbed his knife blade-first in the soft earth, which both Merfyn 
and his father would have skinned him for doing, and covered his 
face with his hands.  

Gwilym had a dim memory of wandering through the streets as a 
small child, not knowing who he was or to whom he belonged.  
Big, strong hands had reached down and lifted him to safety, 
thanking God that he was alive.  His rescuer was someone he knew 
and trusted, and life had begun anew.  Perhaps it was a false 
memory.  Perhaps it had only been a dream, but he desperately 
needed those hands now – someone stronger and wiser than he to 
tell him who he was and to whom he belonged.

Duana abandoned the idea of keeping her dress clean and sat 
beside him, pulling Gwilym against her, trying to comfort him.  He 
had grown increasingly distant since they left Glastonbury Abbey, 
seeking solace in hard labor and strong silence – living as far 
inside himself as their tiny, shabby hut allowed.  Or he could 
suddenly explode out of the blue, yelling at her for the slightest 
thing as if he was a Norman.  Gwil was accustomed to people 
telling him they did not understand him, but for the first time, he 
did not understand himself. 

"You are shaking, William," she murmured, stroking his hair, 
trying to figure out was wrong."  "I am sorry you got it on you, but 
it is just blood for a baby that did not form."   

"I know what it is!" He took a shuddery breath, but looked away 
when he raised his face. "Goddamn it!  I hate this. It is like my 
mind is an egg: my real memories are the yolk and my dreams – 
good and bad – are the white, and they have been scrambled 
together.  I cannot always sort out what has really happened and 
what I have only pictured in my head as someone told me.  And I 
certainly cannot sort it out when we are making love and I see…" 

He trailed off, laying his head against her breast and closing his 
tired eyes.  

Duana had not said a word about the price of being with him, but 
then, she had not said a word about much of anything.  Not about 
losing the baby or missing their children or suddenly being an 
impoverished criminal's wife instead of the Lady of Aber.  Not 
even anything about his obviously having lied to her about being 
with other women: many other women, if the images in his mind 
could be trusted.  It would be easier if she would cry and carry on 
and he could scold her, hold her, and feel better.   No, Duana was 
"fine" and he was the one acting like a blubbering fool.
 
"What are you seeing in your head?"

"A hundred things: you bleeding with Mab and with this last baby, 
a few reasonable excuses I have thought up for the girl in Chester, 
riding through a thousand villages after the Norman soldiers have 
passed through and finished with the women, you and that Edward 
in Dover.  It is all as real to me as if I had seen it, but even what I 
know I saw is not really real anymore.  Oh, shit – that makes no 
sense at all."

He stood, angrily brushing off his backside, and focusing his gaze 
on the sagging thatched roof instead of her.

"The peddler who sold me your dress had just come from the south 
of Wales, and said Llewelyn's army was camped there.  The Welsh 
border is not far – I am going ask Llewelyn to send Eimile to us. I 
will be back in a few days."

Duana scrambled up, following him to the ruined building he used 
to stable the horses. "Are you going to fight?" she said, sounding 
frightened. "You do not even have a sword."

"I am going to have Llewelyn send Eimile to us," he repeated, 
otherwise ignoring her. "I told him he could claim Mab, but I want 
Eimile."

"I thought you did not want a child right now.  You said last 
night-"

He turned to face her, his eyes snapping as he glared down.  "I said 
I do not want you with child again – that does not mean I do not 
want my daughter. You should not have to leave both our children 
just to be with me."

"Be rational, William.  What if the soldiers catch us? How would 
you protect her?"

He ignored her again, walking around the horse and straightening 
the saddle blanket on its back until it dared not wrinkle.  He was – 
or had been – Gwilym of Aber: being irrational was what he did.

Of course he was being irrational.  He was having enough trouble 
feeding himself and Duana, keeping the walls from caving in and 
the fire from going out.  Duana was still wearing the same cheap 
blue dress he bought from the peddler with the last of his money 
months ago – now worn threadbare and ragged.  Her pretty round 
face was growing thin and the eyes were more feline, the 
cheekbones more pronounced from endless days of struggling to 
survive when she should still have been recuperating.

Gwil had only a vague idea what he must look like, since the only 
mirror was the surface of the pond.  Curious, he had looked one 
day and seen someone capable of hurting a young girl for sport, 
then flaunting that in front of his wife.  Someone capable of 
turning his back on his God and King by forsaking his oath of 
service to The Crown.  Someone who had almost killed his wife – 
and had killed his child – by seducing her in a holy place.  Angry, 
he had smacked the water's calm surface with his hand, wanting 
that man to go away, but he just returned when the rippled stilled, 
staring back at Gwilym with old, tired eyes.  

"She is… Fitz sent soldiers to bring her to London to be with me," 
Duana finally said. "You had been gone for months, and Fitz said 
Eimile was still at Llewelyn's castle.  I did not think you wanted 
her, so I agreed.  She is in London by now.  William, I am sorry."

Gwilym froze, and instead of retreating like most women would 
have, Duana stayed, staring at the dirt and waiting for the blows.  
Even in Wales, no one would question his striking her for such 
disloyalty.  In England, where women lived by 'the rule of thumb'- 
it was in poor taste to beat her with any rod thicker than a man's 
thumb – she was as good as dead.  

"You left her?" he asked, pronouncing each word as though it was 
very heavy.  How could she think he would ever give up their 
daughter without a fight?  Or give up Duana until she told him to 
his face she did not want him? 

Deep down, it still galled him how quickly she had moved on: the 
banns for her upcoming marriage to Marshall FitzWalter Pembroke 
had been posted while she was still carrying Gwilym's child.  In a 
stroke of the quill, Duana became Countess Pembroke again, 
Eimile and the unborn little girl became Fitz's stepdaughters, and 
Gwilym was conveniently put aside as an embarrassing mistake.  
Their life together could have been reduced to, "Were you not once 
forced to marry some Welshman, Countess?  Do you even recall 
his name?"            

"No, she was not there, but Fitz told me she was coming."

"Perhaps Llewelyn has not sent her yet," he managed after several 
deep breaths. "I will check.  Wait here – there is enough food and 
firewood for several days."

"I want to come-"

"You will wait here!" he yelled at her, shoving her back toward the 
cottage so roughly she stumbled.  "You will not leave that cottage 
until I return!  Do not dare open that door!  I will not lose you 
too!"

She nodded miserably, wrapping her shaking arms around herself.

"I understand, Duana; I do not like it, but I understand," he added 
softly, embarrassed about losing his temper again and coming so 
close to hitting her. "I just need a break.  I am not angry at you, I 
am not angry about last night.  I am angry at life and I do not need 
to be taking it out on you – as I have been.  Just a few days: bar the 
door and do not open it until I return."

After checking the girth, he swung into the saddle, riding away 
quickly before she could say something or raise her eyes and 
change his mind.

*~*~*~*

With a level of comfort born during a thousand boyhood 
adventures and misadventures, Gwilym slipped inside the dark tent 
and pinned Llewelyn's hands down as he slept, leaning his face 
very close before he whispered. "I think you need some new 
guards, Llewel." 

From the shadows, Merfyn's voice replied softly, "Think again, 
Llwynog. I had you to moment you set foot in camp."

Before Llewelyn could even get his eyes open, Merfyn had tackled 
Gwilym, making undignified, delighted sergeant sounds.  

"I was beginning to worry about you, Gwil," Llewelyn muttered, 
sitting up and tiredly scratching the back of his head. "Usually you 
do not vanish for more than a week at a time. Were you dead 
again?"

"Ugh – get off me, Merfyn.  I have no desire to be your next wife."

Merfyn gave Gwilym a last affectionate cuff to the head, like a 
lioness swipes at her cub, and then offered his hand to help him up.  
"Where the hell did you go, Gwilym?  Did you take Lady Duana 
from Pembroke Castle?  FitzWalter is supposed to be beside 
himself with worry, so I figured it must have been you."

"Of course," Gwilym replied, catching the wineskin Merfyn tossed 
at him. "Tell me of Aber."

"Come see for yourself," Llewelyn replied, holding out his hand 
for the wine as Merfyn went outside to find a torch. "There is a 
little boy running around my Court and driving Joanna half-mad.  
It has been a long time since she had a baby to keep up with."

"Is he really running?" Gwilym asked wondrously, remembering 
only a tiny infant. "What about his sister?"

"Well, last time I was home, he was starting to toddle a bit.  He 
falls on his ass a lot; seems to take after his father.  And, of course, 
he is very pretty.  It is such a waste for a boy to have curls and 
eyelashes like that."

"I am glad he is well," he said tightly, raising the invisible shield 
he had lowered for a moment.  That answered Gwilym's question 
about Eimile: he had not expected Llewelyn to defy the Crown to 
keep one little girl.  If he did not mention her, she was not there.  
Without a dowry or a title, she was just another in a world full of 
dispensable children.  
  
"Come home," Llewelyn said again, finally somewhat awake in 
the violet predawn light. "FitzWalter has let the French slip back 
into Dover and the Scots have their kilts in a twist again – he needs 
a strategist.  In the last summons I received, he wanted to make a 
deal: for you to spend April through October with his army or in 
London and then winter in Aber-"  

"FitzWalter's deals are cheap trinkets polished to a high shine," 
Gwilym interrupted, "And his last generous offer did not turn out 
to be so generous.  Save it, Llewel."   

"He needs you.  He spoke the truth: he inherited an almost-
bankrupt treasury and a weak boy-king: Fitz is one lost battle or 
new tax away from the barons looking to France for a new king -
and a new kingmaker.  He needs to win and he needs you to help 
him do it.  You keep your title and lands, and Duana, if she 
consents, which of course, she will." 

"No."     

Drawing on his own most secret fears, Llewlyn asked: "Do you not 
trust that Duana would choose you?"

"I trust her," Gwil snapped back. "Besides her, I trust no one."

"Not even me?" Llewelyn asked, then wished he had not when his 
friend looked away. "I have gotten you into this, and now I am 
trying to get you out, Gwil.  I want you, not me, to raise Dafydd as 
a possible heir to Wales, and perhaps, in time, Fitz may even return 
Eimile.  Come home, bring your wife, raise your son, rule your 
lands, and live something of a normal life."

"Perhaps," Gwilym replied cautiously, wondering how everything 
could fall back into place so easily and still not feel right.  "I will 
think about it.  You said as 'a possible heir' – is Gruffydd doing 
better?"

"He is better, but still not the same.  No, Joanna is with child again.  
Having your Dafydd around made her a little baby crazy, and she 
just passed her second month.  The midwives say the baby is a son, 
but, then, they always say that."         

"Something could still happen, though," Gwilym murmured, 
hiding behind the wineskin as it came around to him again, quickly 
trying to figure if Llewelyn had actually been in North Wales two 
months ago.  In truth, it did not matter.  Mab, passing as Gwilym's 
legitimate son but Duana and Llewelyn's blood, would be 
acceptable in North Wales.  To preserve the fragile bond uniting 
North and South Wales as well as appease the Marcher Lords in 
the borderlands, Llewelyn needed a Norman son by Joanna, a 
Norman princess, and he would take one however he could get 
one.   

"Yes, something could," Llewelyn said, thinking the same thing 
Gwilym was. "It has before."

"Elan is with child again as well," Merfyn chimed in, sitting down 
and not planning to let Gwilym out of his sight. "That stuff from 
the alchemist does not seem to prevent children, but it makes her 
hands nice and soft."

"Llangly was right – you do need a map, old man," Gwilym shot 
back.

Llewelyn chuckled: he had already heard all about Merfyn and 
Gwilym's big contraceptive adventure.

"How is the Lady Dana?  Really, we should get our money back 
from Llangly: I hear you are to be congratulated again."

Gwilym shook his head slightly from side to side. "No."

"What happened, Gwil?" Llewelyn asked quietly, regretting being 
so callous.

"Duana is in the forest outside Bath," Gwilym replied, as though 
that was an answer. "Send word to fitzWalter:  I accept his terms.  
I will get Duana and we can go home."   

Merfyn opened his mouth to ask about the baby, but Llewelyn 
signaled him not to.  If Gwilym had wanted to explain, he would: 
trying to force him into anything was never a wise move.

"I have a big surprise for you, Gwil," Llewelyn offered, changing 
the topic.  

"Um – it is early in the morning and you just have to piss: do not 
go saying that is for me.  Anyway, I would call that only a small 
surprise and you can keep it to yourself."

Merfyn made a strangled sound through his nose, not sure if he 
was allowed to laugh at the Prince of Wales or not.  Gwilym and 
Llewelyn were noblemen; Merfyn was not.

"I thought you might show up, so I have Goliath with us," 
Llewelyn said, pretending to frown. "Would you like some 
company to get Duana? Is she even well enough to ride?"

"She is well enough.  Can you leave the siege?"

Llewelyn shrugged. "It is a siege, and I have inherited a very 
competent sergeant.  There is not much for me to do."  

He sent Merfyn to bring their horses, watching Gwilym quickly 
finish off the wine, which was not like him.  In the flickering light 
from the torch, Gwilym's eyes looked centuries old.

"Is it so bad, Gwil?" he finally asked, wishing they were still boys 
and hurts could be smoothed over by offerings of apples and 
marzipan.   

"Which part, Llewel?  There is quite a list."

"Any part I can help with."

"No," he said quietly. "You have done all you can.  I just want to 
go get Duana and have this adventure end.  We have survived 
before, I have faith we will survive this."

*~*~*~*     

The two men followed the billowing smoke through the forest, 
finding a woman frantically trying to get a terrified horse to leave a 
ruined stable.  The cottage was already blazing, and the flames 
were licking at the nearby trees.  The cinders floated gently 
through the cold autumn air, settling on the thatched roof of the 
stable and setting it afire as well.

"Give me your veil!" a powerfully built man ordered, jumping 
down from his mount.  He wrapped it around the horse's head, 
finally getting the animal through the doorway.

"Thank you," Duana yelled over the sounds of the fire, scrambling 
bareback onto the chestnut mare.  "I have to go."

"Wait," an older man said, not seeming bothered by the thick 
smoke as he stared at her red hair, his deeply lined face unreadable. 
"We will escort - Duane, stop her!"

She kicked the horse, but Duane still held the lead rope and turned 
the jittery mare in a tight circle. 

"It is all right; no one will harm you.  We will take you home."

"My husband will be back any minute," she said loudly, looking 
for some way to flee. "This was our home."  

"She is not with child," Duane informed him, coughing as he 
choked on the gray ash.  "FitzWalter said the woman would be 
with child. An Irish woman with red hair who is with child."
 
"No, it could still be her.  Where is your baby?" the old man asked. 
"Was it in the cottage?"
 
She tried to dismount, but Duane caught her before her feet could 
touch the ground, wrapping an iron arm around her waist and 
pulling her onto his horse as though she weighed nothing.

"Easy," the old man cautioned him. "Be careful with her."  He 
kneed his horse closer, squinting to see her face through the 
smoke. "I think this is fitzWalter Pembroke's bride. Are you 
Duana, my lady?  We will not harm you; all we want is the money 
fitzWalter is offering.  You seem to be worth a great deal to him."

"My name is Lyra – my husband is Robert," she pleaded, 
struggling to get away from Duane. "He will be right back!  Please 
– I do not want to go with you."

There were hoof beats and men's voices in the distance – other 
scavengers coming to pick through the ruins.  Lights from their 
torches flickered through the trees, looking blue in the morning 
fog.

"Go, Duane; get her out of sight," the man ordered, taking a last 
deep lungful of the smoke before he followed them into the forest.

*~*~*~* 

Riding with Gwilym involved a nice mixture of dirty jokes, boring 
facts, bizarre stories, and interesting side trips.  He usually seemed 
adverse to silence, and maintained a rambling one-sided 
conversation.  Generally, Llewelyn contributed only by listening 
and nodding occasionally, but that was not the case today.  
Gwilym had been quiet since they left Wales, and actually mute for 
several minutes now, letting Goliath assume a stately stroll.  

Looking back to see if his friend's mouth had suddenly closed 
over, Llewelyn discovered Gwilym was toying with Duana's gift, 
pointing it randomly as they rode through the deserted city of Bath.   

"Did you ever think of buying her a ring, Gwil? Perhaps a length 
of cloth or even a book of prayer, since she likes to read?"

Gwilym aimed the sleek crossbow again, tilting it from side to side 
to accustom his hand to the weight.  Llewelyn had no idea where 
Gwil had gotten such a thing, nor what possessed him to think to 
give it to Duana.     

"Do you know that is outlawed?  You could be hanged for even 
having it," Llewelyn persisted, sounding like a preachy older 
brother. 

"She will like it," Gwilym replied.  "She could not manage a sword 
or a longbow, but this will be fine."

"When you give a woman a peace offering, it is never wise to give 
her something she can kill you with.  That defeats the purpose of 
the gift."

Gwilym did not answer, stopping Goliath short and standing in his 
stirrups. "Do you smell that?"

"No, but you do not need to announce it to the world.  Just blame it 
on the horse or Merfyn like everyone else does."

Instead of some smart retort, Gwilym suddenly dug his heels into 
Goliath's sides, pushing the animal to a full gallop and whipping 
him with the reins to move even faster.

"What is wrong?" Llewelyn yelled after him, turning his own 
horse to follow through the forest, dodging the trees and crashing 
through the brush at a frightening pace as he tried to see what Gwil 
was chasing.

Goliath was a knight's horse, bred for strength and size as opposed 
to speed, but Llewelyn did not catch up until they reached a small 
clearing.  Gwilym had already dismounted, and was standing in the 
ruins of a charred building, the smoke still clinging to the ground 
in the damp evening air.

"Duana!" he yelled, frantically, breathlessly turning in circles to 
scan the trees, looking for any sign of life in the blackened 
remains. "It is William – come out, cariad. It is safe.  Duana!"
 
As Llewelyn watched, horrified, Gwil waded into the remnants of 
a small house and flipped aside a fallen shutter and tabletop, as 
though anyone could actually have survived by hiding under them.  
Finding nothing, he searched the thicket, still calling for his wife as 
the buzzards circled, annoyed at the racket.

"She is here, Llewel," he mumbled numbly. "I told her to stay right 
here.  She would not disobey me."

Llewelyn dismounted, leading his lathered horse through the 
scorched grass to where Gwil stood, waiting, watching like a dog 
who was just beginning to realize his mistress was never going to 
return.

"Gwil," he said softly. "I-"

"Duana!" Gwilym interrupted, coughing as he tried to breath in the 
ashy air.  "Duana, you come out right now!  I mean it!  Right this 
second!" He pivoted, scanning the motionless underbrush. 
"Duana!"

*~*~*~*

"Do you have her?" Fitz asked, barely stopping his lathered horse 
in front of the inn before he was out of the saddle.  He pivoted, 
scanning the empty street. "Duana!"  

"The reward still stands?" the old man asked coldly.  

"Yes, of course." Fitz nodded, and a soldier quickly stepped 
forward with a purse.  "Do you have her?"

"Bring her, Duane," the man ordered, reaching hungrily for the 
money.

Duane hesitated, trying to think.  The woman was ill and had said 
several times that she wanted to go back to Bath, that her husband 
was there, not in London. "Is he going to hurt her?" he called from 
his hiding place.

"Now, Duane!" the old man barked, and Duane stepped out from 
between the inn and the stable, dragging Duana in front of him. 
	
Fitz's arms were around her immediately, and the English soldiers 
accompanying him dropped their eyes respectfully. "Jesus, Duana, 
I was so scared.  Who took you?  My God – where is the baby?"

Still holding her tightly and beginning to tremble with fear and 
rage, Fitz looked up at the two men. "Where is her child?"

"We think it died in a fire."

"Duana, is that what happened?"  

Exhausted, she shook her head 'no,' weakly trying to pull away. 
"Let go of me, Fitz."

"My lord," one young knight said, sneaking a look at Duana and 
noticing the back of her skirt. "She is…"

Fitz glanced down and saw the dark red spots on her dress.  In a 
heartbeat, someone had arrested her two 'rescuers,' gone for a 
doctor, and Fitz had scooped her up and was carrying her inside 
the inn as she struggled, too exhausted and weak to put up much of 
a fight. 

"What did they do, Duana? Are these the men who took you?" he 
asked, laying her in the closest bed and pushing her back down 
when she tried to get up.  "Hush – whatever they did, it will not 
happen again.  Did they hurt you?  The baby has come early - is it 
alive somewhere?"

"No," Duana answered, refusing to look at him as he held her 
shoulders down to keep her flat, remembering what the midwives 
had said about bleeding. "Please do not do this, Fitz."   

"I am not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you," he 
replied anxiously. "I am so sorry, Duana.  Someone has gone for a 
doctor.  Just rest and try to calm down."

"He will find me, Fitz," she promised. "It does not matter what you 
do.  If he wants me, he will find me."

"No – no one is going to hurt you ever again.  I swear it."      

*~*~*~*  

"Did you misunderstand?" Fitz barked, yet again arriving to find 
the doctor lurking outside Duana's apartments, badgering the 
guards and probably terrifying Duana.  "She is fine – it was a 
mistake you were even called.  I have paid you for your time: leave 
Court immediately."

"She is unclean," Donaes de Pasquier insisted, watching hungrily 
as the guards stepped aside so Fitz could enter. "I must treat her."

"You will do no such thing. She says you are trying to harm her."

"You would take that girl's word over mine?"

"When the girl is that woman, yes, I would.  Until her husband can 
come, it is my place to see she is safe.  The bleeding has stopped, 
and there is no fever – it was my mistake.  She does not need a 
doctor."  

The nursemaid cautiously opened the door, revealing Duana and 
Eimile playing on a blanket on the floor of the sitting room, trying 
to get reacquainted.  Henry, unhappy to be displaced as the center 
of everyone's world, sat pouting on the sofa, glaring at the blonde 
little girl.

"She is a witch – she must be purified," Donaes de Pasquier hissed, 
and Duana pulled her daughter closer as he tried to step into the 
room.

Losing patience with the man, Fitz slammed the door closed again 
and snapped, "Enough! You will not cut her hair, you will not 
bleed her, and you certainly will not bathe her!" Nodding to the 
guards, "Donaes has been compensated for his time - if he tries to 
approach Lady Duana again, cut his throat.  Is that clear enough for 
you, Donaes?  She is not your patient – you may not touch her."

"She is not your wife – you may not touch her, either."

Before he could think, Fitz saw his own fist make contact with the 
doctor's cheekbone, sending him sprawling to the floor. "Get out 
of my sight!"

Donaes made a growling noise, flaring his nostrils and licking his 
lips like a wolf sniffing the wind, then got to his feet, stepping 
toward Fitz. "You will be sorry."

"I do not think so," Fitz responded, entering and closing the door 
in Donaes' face, leaving the guards to deal with him.

Pausing, he exhaled, trying to calm down before he spoke to 
Duana so he would not frighten her.  Her assumption in the inn that 
he would force her – that he was holding her down to rape her, not 
to stop the bleeding – had not sat well with him.  No, he was not 
going to force her into anything.  She was very clear about what 
she wanted, and it was not fitzWalter, Count of Pembroke.

He wondered if was possible for a man's brain to overflow, 
especially when pieces of his heart were torn out, labeled 'honor' 
and 'duty,' and stored in the part of his mind marked 'another 
man's wife.'

She stood, smoothing her new dress, and looked at him hopefully, 
wanting to know if Fitz had been able to find William yet.  Behind 
her, Eimile scrambled up on the sofa beside Henry, glaring back as 
the boy glared at her, the same three lines appearing between their 
eyebrows.

Duana came to him quickly, looking expectant, and Fitz inhaled, 
smelling clean hair and the soft scents of the nursery over female 
skin.  It was remarkable how Duana always smelled exactly the 
way a woman should: of comfortable homes, contented children, 
and a subtle note of something mysterious and visceral underneath. 

"Did you find him?" she asked, staring up at him with enigmatic 
blue eyes.   A man, given the opportunity, could discover an 
entirely new country in those eyes, and never want to return from 
it.

Like anything else a man covets, if he could not have it, it was best 
to put it away and forget about it.  That was what his father would 
have said, anyway.  Out of sight was out of mind, son.

Or absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Or familiarity breeds contempt.  

No, William would be at Court by nightfall, and Fitz would be as 
calm, controlled, and formal as he always was.  They would say 
the right things, then William would disappear into Duana's 
apartments with her, bolting the door behind him.  And familiarity 
did not just breed contempt; it bred babies as well – for William at 
least, not for Fitz.

"I have found him – William accepts the terms, he is coming for 
you and Eimile," Fitz said calmly, keeping his voice soft, but 
deciding it was indeed possible to store his heart in his brain, 
especially if there was no other choice.     

*~*~*~*

"Easy, Gwil," Llewelyn murmured soothingly as they were 
escorted through the gates and into London Court. "You have no 
cause for complaint.  The contract is signed.  FitzWalter has 
accepted the terms – he is not happy, but he has accepted."

"He took my wife," Gwilym insisted.  His heart had stopped 
beating among the ruins of their shabby little cottage and had not 
restarted until word came that Duana was alive and safe at Court.  
It did things to a man: entire days without a heartbeat.  He had 
been dead several times now, and it finally had given him some 
perspective on the importance of life.

He kept hearing it echoing – his angry voice yelling at Duana not 
to leave the cottage and his fist tingling as he struggled not to 
strike her.  Perversely intermingled with that was a haunting 
memory of her whispering to him, 'You will not hurt me?' as they 
made love for the first time.   

"He took back what he thought was his kidnapped bride, he kept 
her safe, and he is returning her to you as he promised, as is 
honorable.  Tell me you would have done any different."

Gwilym turned to glare at Llewelyn, his nerves as frayed as the 
ends of an old rope. "Funny, you look exactly like my friend 
Llewelyn.  How is it a politician has taken over your body?"

"We both know he could keep Duana at Court, do whatever he 
wants with her, and make you dance like a puppet on a string to 
see her every blue moon, but he is not doing that.  He set forth the 
terms and he is honoring them.  Do not lose your temper and make 
him change his mind."

Goliath snorted, responding to the tension in Gwilym's hands and 
legs, and fidgeting as they stopped in the bailey. "He is purposely 
making us wait," Gwilym muttered, scanning the dim courtyard, 
still wondering if this was some sort of trap. 

"Yes, he is," the prince replied calmly. "And you will play his 
game because this is his arena.  When you command his armies, 
you can make him wait a week to find out if he has won or lost.  
For now, behave."

The doors finally opened, and fitzWalter stepped out, looking 
every inch the regal statesman coming to greet them.  Gwilym 
hated how Fitz and men like him never looked down and saw the 
blood on their own hands, staying a step removed from guilt by 
justifying their sins as their birthright.  Just once, he wanted a 
Norman King to hold up a severed head or point to a shattered life 
and say, 'I did this,' rather than, 'This is God's will.'   

Gwilym swung down, crossing the bailey in long, angry strides.

"Gwil!" Llewelyn yelled after him. "Goddamn it, Gwil!"  The 
hotheaded fool was going to ruin everything.

"You have something of mine," Gwilym growled, stepping 
forward, then back, like an angry panther trying to decide how best 
to attack.

"Behind you," Fitz said calmly, and Gwilym turned to see Duana 
hurrying across the bailey with Eimile in her arms.

The world slowed, dragging out the languid evening into a long 
black thread separating them.  He took one step, then another, then 
another when he realized she was real.  There was no sound – no 
birds or horses or background noise from the city.  Then suddenly, 
it all vanished: Fitz, Llewelyn, Court – everything except her.  
Gwilym felt something course through his veins as his fingertips 
touched her cheek, and realized it was life reawakening.  The 
bottom of his chest cleared and he could finally breathe deeply, 
exhaling like a river surging over a crumbling dam.     

"You are real?" he asked, just to make sure.  How foolish that men 
believed they owned women when it was exactly the other way 
around.  This was who he was and to whom he belonged.   

"I am." Her lower lip was trembling and she bit it determinedly to 
get it to stop.

"Did they harm you?"

Duana shook her head 'no,' then leaned her face against a shirt that 
still smelled like smoke and pain.     

Sliding his arms around her thankfully, he whispered, "Do not 
leave me again, cariad.  I would be alone, adrift, and, and, and 
poorly dressed."

"I will not," she murmured, looking up at him.
 
Llewelyn smirked and relaxed as Gwil, usually the most private of 
men, kissed Duana warmly, then picked both her and Eimile up 
and swung them around victoriously for all to see.  Henry appeared 
to join the happy reunion and get underfoot, but Fitz stopped him, 
putting a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

*~*~*~*

"She needs to go to bed, William." 

Gwilym nodded, asking the little girl his name one more time, to 
which she dutifully replied, "Dehdeh," giving him a puzzled look 
she inherited from her mother and probably wondering how he had 
forgotten in the last twenty seconds.  

"She knows you – she remembers," Duana soothed.  

"But Mab will not," Gwilym answered, lifting the girl off his lap 
and handing her to the nurse, who vanished without a word.  "It 
has been too long."

Aber, with dogs and babies underfoot, the sanctity of their 
marriage bed, and late night philosophical verbal foreplay was 
eons, not miles away.  Normal was a state pushed so far into 
memory he was not sure if he could still function there, provided 
he could find his way back at all.

"Do you really think that he has forgotten us?"   

Gwilym saw his pain reflected back at him, and shrugged. "I do 
not know.  Tyna always knew me, and I left on Crusade when she 
was very small.  Right after Diana died in the fire."

"Was that her name: your daughter with Diana?  You had never 
told me."

He nodded, staring at her for a moment, still remembering the 
empty feeling of seeing their burnt cottage in Bath and being 
certain she had been in it, that it was happening all over again.  He 
blinked, the image vanishing into a few stray specks of green and 
gold in her blue eyes.  She looked at him steadily, calmly, waiting 
for some cue.  That was true courage – not swords or chivalry, but 
to knowing what was sweetest in life and what was truly terrible, 
and then going forward, undeterred and unfaltering, to meet what 
was to come.
 
"There are probably many things I should have told you and have 
not." Then, after a pause, "I brought you a birthday gift," he said 
casually, reaching for a package.

"You are either very early or very late." Duana rested her hand 
lightly on his thigh as he unwrapped it. "What is that? Is it a 
weapon?"

"It is an outlawed weapon," Gwilym answered, showing her how 
to hold and aim the crossbow. "I thought you would like it."

She examined it curiously, seeing how the mechanism worked, 
then thanked him, setting in on the table and covering it with a 
cloth, under-whelmed.

He frowned, disappointed, and she picked it up again, feigning 
interest for his benefit.  
 
Gwilym leaned back, stretching his arms out along the top edge of 
the sofa so he appeared perfectly at ease. "The next time someone 
tries to kidnap you, just shoot him.  I seem to spend an inordinate 
amount of time chasing after you in this marriage, and enough is 
enough.  I am tired of having to hunt you down, and I do not care 
for this fleeing-the-Crown, whose-son-is-whose, burnt cottages, 
your-wife-wanted-sanctuary drama."

Taking his sarcasm at face value rather than realizing the fear 
underlying it, she responded, "William, I am sorry I am so much 
trouble."     

"No, that is not what I meant," he said quickly. "I would track you 
to the very ends of the Earth, but I am never sure what to say when 
I find you.  What do I say, cariad?"
 
"Just say 'hello.' 'I have missed you.' 'I love you.' 

'Hello, I have missed you, I love you," he repeated rapidly, 
slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, 
shifting her so she straddled his hips and wondering if she would 
pull away.  "How was that?"

"It was a good place to begin."

"We have a beginning: it just keeps being interrupted. And we 
have a middle – I think we actually began in the middle, if that 
makes any sense.  Now we need diwedd, an end, cariad." 

"Not just yet," she requested, kissing a tingling line down his neck. 
"Not just yet."
        
*~*~*~*
 
"Henry, stop whining and go to bed," Fitz ordered, rubbing his 
throbbing temples and staring at yet another letter from another 
land baron in need of pacifying.  Like being the kingmaker, the 
letter droned on and on until Fitz could not remember what the 
original point had been or why he had even begun it.  

"But I want to see Lady Duana," the boy insisted, slouching in the 
chair across from Fitz's desk.  He folded his arms, shoving out his 
lower lip and uttering one of his favorite phrases: "I am the king, 
after all."

"Lady Duana is with Lord William," Fitz said tightly, focusing on 
the letter instead of that image.  "I am sure they do not want 
company.  It is late – go to bed."

"But-" 

"Now!" Fitz snapped, then added softly, "I know you are upset, but 
it is past your bedtime.  And I know I told you Duana was going to 
stay, but that is not the case.  I was mistaken."    

"I do not want her to leave," Henry said, his lower lip beginning to 
tremble. "Find a way to make her stay, Fitz.  Please." 

"I cannot, Henry.  I am sorry.  Duana wants to go and William has 
done nothing against the law.  William will be back in the spring 
and he may have news of Duana then.  And you can write to her if 
you like: I suppose William lets her read her letters.  Go on to 
bed."

"I want a story," he pouted.

"All right," Fitz conceded, standing up and stretching. "Come on – 
I will tell you a story."

"One of Duana's stories.  Your stories are all about wars."

Fitz sighed tiredly. "What about one from Kym?"  He opened the 
door to his bedchamber, not remembering if he had sent for his 
mistress tonight or not. "Kym…"    

The small form in the bed rolled, sitting up and pushing her long 
red hair back from her face.  "Yes, my lord?"

"Come tell Henry a bedtime story." 

She blinked in surprise, then obediently wrapped the sheet around 
her and got up.  It was certainly not the strangest thing he had ever 
asked her to do, and he at least had called her by the correct name 
this time.       

"I do not want her stories, Fitz," Henry said from behind him.  
"Just because you can close your eyes and pretend does not mean I 
can."

Fitz turned around, his mouth hanging open.  "You may be the 
king, but I am the kingmaker and you are not above a spanking.  
How dare you!  Go to bed now!"

Henry retreated tearfully, the picture of young misery.  He was 
only repeating what he had overheard from the servants: he did not 
even understand what the joke was. 

Fitz flopped on the sofa, sprawling his legs and staring at the 
ceiling for several minutes until he decided the answers were not 
written up there.  

Kym ventured over hesitantly, knowing she was not usually 
allowed in the office.  Fitx had been in a foul mood for days – ever 
since he returned to Court with the Welshman's wife.  Kym waited 
to be displaced in his bed, but Fitz continued to send for her and 
then to seem disappointed that she was what she was. "My Lord- 
did you want me?"

He raised his head, managing a small smile for her benefit.  Kym 
was as sweet as women came; she just was not Duana.  She was, 
however, as close as he was likely to come.

"In a bit. Go on to sleep; I will wake you later."

She nodded, returning to the bedchamber where she belonged.

Fitz hesitated, considering changing his mind as she dropped the 
sheet and slid nude under the covers, but then heaved himself off 
the sofa and headed for Henry's apartments to check on the boy.

*~*~*~*

"Good evening, Count Pembroke," a creaky voice said from the 
shadows as Fitz left Henry's rooms, having managed a most 
embarrassing story with true love, high adventure, and even, 
against his better judgment, a happy ending. "I hope the king is 
well."

"He is," Fitz answered cautiously, turning to locate the speaker in 
the dark hallway.   

A man stepped out, demanding a great deal of space for an 
average-sized person.

"My lord…" Fitz could not recall the old man's name, so he left it 
at that. "I did not know you were still at Court.  I am glad – I 
wanted to thank you and your friend for returning Lady Duana, and 
apologize for the misunderstanding."

"I understand, of course.  A man has every right to be protective of 
his wife."

"Lady Duana is William of Aber's wife.  She was once my 
stepmother."

"Oh. I must have misread the banns. I had thought she was to be 
your wife."

Fitz shook his head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other 
and wondering how soon he could escape and still be polite.  

"It is a blessing she has you to look out for her.  Her husband left 
her alone in the forest – anything could have happened.  It was 
only good fortune we found her instead of someone else, someone 
with less altruistic motivations.  Really, she owes you a great deal 
for your generosity."   

Like William, Fitz had grown up the sole heir to his father's estate 
and was no stranger to empty flattery from false friends seeking 
favors.  "My apologies, but I cannot place your title. Who did you 
say you were?" 
 
"I am an alchemist – I invent the future."

"Ah," Fitz said, amused. He should remember this: Kym would 
like hearing about this withered fool with skin like a smoked ham 
and a voice like a snake. "And how do you manage that?"

"Very carefully," the old man answered.  "Much as you do.  You 
invent a king, I invent destiny."

"Well, best of luck to you.  Goodnight," Fitz said quickly, starting 
to turn back toward his own rooms.  Watching William embrace 
Duana, soothing Henry's tantrum, and humoring an insane old 
man: he was finished with his good deeds for the day.

"Anyway, it is a pity about her child.  One would think Lord 
William would have more sense than to treat a pregnant woman so 
roughly, but the soothsayers must have told him it was only a girl, 
not a son.  She is his wife, though – I suppose he can beat her as he 
chooses so long as he does not kill her."

The kingmaker's jaw twitched. Duana had told him she had 
miscarried, but she had not given a reason.  Christ, was there 
nothing she would not tolerate, or was she just too proud to admit 
it?  

"Is that what happened?"

"Come see for yourself," the old man offered, turning away.  

Deciding to play this delusional game a few more minutes, Fitz 
followed him through the narrow hallways the servants used 
during the day, but which were empty at this hour. 

"Here," he said quietly, stopping somewhere in the bowels of the 
castle and sliding a cracked stone out of the wall. "Look."

"Yes, that is a very nice rock," Fitz said. "What am I looking at?"  

"It is Lady Duana's bedchamber.  Are you not curious?"

"No, actually I am not," Fitz responded, horrified at the 
implication.  "How dare you spy on her!"

"You must know how easy it is to hurt a woman like that.  So 
fragile.  Such a lovely creature – and bright, too.  Her sons will 
certainly be great men.  It is a pity they will never rule more than 
Wales."

In spite of himself, Fitz's eyes followed the movements in the 
moonlit room, hearing William's soft laughter at some private 
joke.  Duana was standing in front of him as he nuzzled her neck, 
caressing her body through her bedrobe.  William stepped back, 
slipping her robe off, letting it fall to the floor so she was nude, her 
nipples rigid in the cool night air.  She turned, wrapping her arms 
around his neck and tilting her head back as they kissed, red hair 
tumbling down on her shoulders, and his big tanned hands sliding 
over her body as easily as water flowed over a marble sculpture.   

"He will get her with child again – it is time," the man said, 
causing Fitz to jump and realize he was not breathing.  "She is 
telling him that in Welsh, that it is too soon, and he is saying that 
he wants a son and she had better manage to carry this child to 
term.  Or else."

Fitz swallowed, looking away, then actually turning his back so he 
could not see. "This is her choice."  
 
"To spend her life being mistreated by a murderer and traitor when 
she could again be the Countess of Pembroke?"

"Enough, old man.  I will see that this stone is fixed in the morning 
and you will need to find another form of entertainment."

Fitz started to leave, hearing Duana gasp, then murmur something 
urgently in Welsh.  William whispered back, and the mattress 
shifted, making a hushed protest as they lay down.

"Did you notice how much her daughter resembles Henry, but not 
Lord William?" the old man hissed quickly. "Did she not tell you 
William killed Eimile's father?  Who do you think would dare 
have touched your father's wife besides the king?  Perhaps it was 
not his right to force her, but it was Prince Llewelyn's – because 
William did not care enough to pay the fine.  It seems he saves his 
shillings to buy thirteen-year-old girls."

FitzWalter stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to the side, then 
slowly turned around again. "Why are you implying he killed King 
John?"

"I am not implying anything.  Put King Henry and Eimile side-by-
side and look at them.  You need an heir, fitzWalter, and you know 
you will not get one yourself.  Think about what a son with 
William's brilliance and your power could accomplish: he would 
rule Europe – the greatest leader since Charlemagne.  If Lord 
William were executed as a traitor, that would leave Lady Duana 
alone, with child, and in desperate need of a husband.  It is not that 
she dislikes or fears you; it is that she believes she loves William.  
She is not a woman quick to admit defeat, and she is ashamed." 

"Put the stone back," he ordered, shoving it into place himself to 
get the sounds from the bed to stop when the old man did not 
move. "This charge you are making – it is not something I take 
lightly, nor is you spying on Lady Duana.  I will speak to Lord 
William in the morning, and I suggest you be gone from Court by 
then."  

"Until King Henry is of age, you are the ultimate law in Britain – 
how can you let a murderer go unpunished?  Perhaps Henry will be 
William's next target."  Fitz blinked, and the old man dangled the 
proverbial forbidden fruit. "Just think about it: what it must be like 
to touch that woman."

"The only thing I think is that you are insane, old man."  

Fitz turned away, muttering about old fools and late hours, angry 
with himself for even listening to such nonsense.

*~*~*~*

Duana rolled over, reaching out and finding a still-warm empty 
space in the bed beside her.  Looking up, she saw Gwilym standing 
nude in front of the window, silhouetted blue-black by the waning 
November moon.  She often awoke to this – sometimes he would 
be watching the dark horizon for any sign of danger, or sometimes 
the stars, as though he was lost and looking for the Pole Star to 
guide him.  More than once, Duana had opened her eyes to 
William's steady gaze only inches above her.  He would part his 
lips as if to speak, then decide against it and fill the silence by 
making love to her gently, but without a word. 

"What is it, William?"

"I was just watching," he said softly, his breath white in the frosty 
air.

"Watching what?" she asked, pulling a blanket around her and 
padding across the floor to his side.  

"Just watching." 

"All right," Duana said hesitantly, sliding her hand down his bare 
back, not sure if she was going to be kissed or pushed away.  When 
he did not stop her, she ran her fingertips over the lean muscles of 
his hips, stroking as though he was a wild animal she expected to 
shy away.

"I am sorry – I do not think I have said that to you yet," he 
murmured after a long silence.  "For lying to you about other 
women, for taking you into that stupid Roman bath, for leaving 
you alone in the forest…"  He glanced at her from the corner of his 
eye, chewing his lip before he spoke again. "I have been in battles 
where so many of my men fell, their bodies covered the ground 
like snowdrifts.  Time became surreal, and I could not think about 
which friend I was stumbling over.  To survive, I had to keep 
fighting.  It is only after the battle that it becomes real: the scope of 
the loss.  That is what I have been feeling: for months, I have only 
had time to survive.  Now, the battle is ending and it is time to take 
stock of the losses."  

She waited, each word a great weight being almost visibly lifted 
from him.   
 
"I did not realize I was asking you to make such a choice: to stay 
with Fitz and keep Eimile, the baby, and yourself safe, or go with 
me.  I knew you were not well, but I did not think…  If I had it to 
do over again, I – I would have made you go back inside the gates.  
Or perhaps I should never have come for you at all."

"Then I would have had to come to you," she whispered, stepping 
closer and wrapping her blanket around him as well.  "And you are 
a terror to track down when you take off on some adventure."

"You almost died, cariad."

"But I did not."

"Do you blame me?  Or hate me?" he finally asked. "I think you 
must, sometimes.  The girl in Chester's castle – that was 
inexcusable, and we both know you should not have been with 
child again so soon, and that you lost the baby because you fled 
with me.  You do not love me as you once did, but… Is there 
anything left to salvage from this wreckage?"  

She hesitated, trying to find the right words.  "You have always 
taken me as I am, and I have tried to do the same.  I know I am not 
the best wife: I am too proud and willful, and I have trouble 
obeying any man who tells me to stay in a burning cottage," she 
teased, and he smirked nervously, "but I do love you."

"Do you?" Gwilym asked softly. "Yes, you probably do, although 
I have no idea why.  Perhaps you are on some mission from God.  
Are you hoping for sainthood?  Duana of the Scullys: patron saint 
of lost causes."

Duana laughed quietly, laying her forehead against his shoulder. 
"To be a saint, I would have to perform three miracles and die a 
virgin."

"Well, that is not likely," he answered lightly, putting his arms 
around her.  "Even when the world is upside down, you never 
seem to flinch.  I think sometimes you are much stronger than I 
am."  

"I do flinch, William – I just do not let you see it.  We are metal 
forged in a great fire: the hotter the fire, the stronger the bond."

"I am afraid of fire, cariad," he admitted, toying with a strand of 
her hair, rolling the red silk between his fingertips.

"You have good reason to be.  Do you blame me that King John 
hung your Dafydd?  Do you hate me for all the trouble Fitz has 
caused?"

"No, of course not.  You are my wife."       

"And you are my husband, you morose fool." She stepped back, 
tugging on his hand to get him to come back to bed. 

"Again?" he asked, only pretending to be horrified. "Jesus, you are 
trying to kill me, wanton.  I thought I would go get Eimile and 
bring her to sleep with us."

"Do you think you can wait a few minutes?" Duana asked, 
dropping the blanket and turning to crawl up on the mattress.

Gwilym followed, stroking his fingers lightly down the curve of 
her bare hip as she had his. "A few minutes?  Do not insult me, 
witch."  

*~*~*~*

"You get up early, William," Fitz said in surprise, looking up from 
his desk. He had been trying to fill his head with paperwork 
instead of thoughts of Duana - and not succeeding.  "Or are you 
just up very late?"  

"My guards said you wanted to see me and I saw the lights in your 
office..." Gwilym trailed off, still standing, since Fitz had not 
offered him a seat.   

Fitz paused, letting Gwilym wait, then finally realized the 
Welshman was not going to fidget or flinch. "I discovered an old 
man watching Duana earlier tonight.  I have already dealt with 
him, but I wanted you to know."

"Thank you," Gwilym answered simply, waiting to see if there was 
anything else, but only half-awake.  He was eager to get Eimile 
and go back to bed before his post-coital exhausted bliss wore off 
and he actually had to think.  

"And I wanted to ask about her child," Fitz said quickly.   

"It was a girl.  Perhaps if there would have been a doctor or a 
midwife… but there was not."    

That had not been the child Fitz wished to discuss, but it was 
interesting information.  He rehearsed the words in his head 
several times, then said carelessly, "It was just a girl, though."

"Tell that to Duana," Gwilym retorted, snapping awake like a 
soldier who had dozed off on guard duty. He tilted his chin up 
defiantly and added, "I am sure it will make her feel better."

Kym peeked out of the bedchamber, wondering if Fitz would ever 
come to bed, then, noticing Gwilym, quickly ducked back inside 
without having to be told.  Gwilym saw her, though, and silently 
took note of the long, red hair, the fair skin, and the slight build.   

As always, Fitz had the sense this was a very dangerous animal he 
was trying to confine to too small an area.  He ran his hands the 
width of his desk, secretly glad it was between them.  "I do not 
know a polite way to put this, so I will just, uh, say it.  Duana has 
never done anything to dishonor you: if you have a quarrel, it is 
with me.  I have no right to tell you how to treat your wife, but I 
will ask anyway: please do not take out your temper on her."  

"I have no quarrel with my wife," Gwilym answered cautiously, 
looking ahead in this maze to see where the trap might lie.  "She 
only did what I told her to do."

"Which is?"

"That if there was no choice, she did not need to make it even 
worse for herself."  It was the same thing he had told Diana, which 
was how she ended up pregnant with Dafydd.  Even without knives 
or fists, when King John decided he wanted a woman, there was no 
choice. Diana had submitted and been rewarded with a pretty ring; 
Duana had resisted and gotten nightmares. "That I would rather my 
pride bleed than my wife - but my sword has a very long memory."

Fitz studied on that for a few seconds, then said, "Duana said you 
hung Alex."

Gwilym nodded, keeping his face expressionless, but filing that 
epiphany away to ruminate about later. 

"And Eimile's father?"

"Eimile is my daughter," Gwilym responded quickly.  

"She is your daughter just a Dafydd ap Llewelyn is your son: they 
are children born to your legal wife."

Gwilym gritted his teeth, knowing he was being baited somehow.  
No one in Wales would question that he was Dafydd's father, and 
Llewelyn said the boy would live in Aber; he did not need to prove 
a point to fitzWalter.        

Fitz walked casually around the desk and leaned back on it so his 
eyes were level with Gwilym's. "I have never asked Duana to do 
anything she did not want to do."

"That was wise," Gwilym snapped, sardonically amused at the way 
Fitz justified what was and was not coercion.  

"She said I would not still be breathing if I had."

"She is a smart woman."

"And a beautiful one," Fitz supplied, noticing the musky female 
scent clinging to Gwilym's skin. He was flaunting it: the bastard 
Welshman was flaunting that he had just been to bed with Duana, 
and probably just gotten her with child. "Tell me – would you 
really kill me if I had forced her?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you would.  I think you would kill anyone who hurt her, 
and I know enough about women to know someone has hurt her 
very badly.  Not Edward and his friend looking for a village girl to 
play with, but a grown man wanting to punish a prideful woman 
for scorning him." Fitz paused, watching Gwilym for any reaction.  

Gwilym blinked, and Fitz's stomach tightened. He had thought the 
old man was talking nonsense, Gwilym would laugh, and that 
would be that.

"I do not understand what you want from me."

"I want the same thing I have always wanted: for Duana to be 
happy and safe.  She says you make her happy.  Give me your 
word you will keep her safe."

"I give you my word," Gwilym responded, feeling a flicker of 
kinship. "I would trade my life for hers." 

"And swear to me on your honor you never harmed King John."

Caught off guard, Gwilym opened his mouth, then closed it again.  
"I swear I have never raised my sword against my king," he finally 
said.

Fitz stared at him, waiting for Gwilym to grin and announce in his 
bad French that this was some sort of joke. "The old king did not 
die by a sword, William," he said slowly.  

*~*~*~*