* * * * *
The night before we reached Brecon, we stayed at a castle set at the junction of the Usk and the Senni Rivers. It was a castle built by Llywelyn and one which he oversaw directly, through his castellan, Einion Sais. Einion had his own castles too, but this was one of the largest in the area, next to Brecon. It was also the most modern, since Llywelyn built it himself. I had to like that.
What I didn't like was the tension among Llywelyn's men. That first evening after dinner, as I rocked Anna to sleep in her cradle, Llywelyn explained.
"The closer we get to England, the worse it will get. Ten miles? Twenty miles? It's hard to know where Wales ends and the Marche begins. We've fought over this land for centuries, and we all can feel it."
No, I didn't really understand. Llywelyn shifted in his seat to lean forward, his words earnest and heartfelt, and elaborated further. "We've hallowed this ground with the blood of our ancestors. They lived here, plowed these fields, hunted in these mountains, all the way back to the time before the Romans came. Their remains are spread over every inch of this land, and for me to give that up, to negate their sacrifice because of some neglect on my part, means that I give up the very part of myself that is Welsh. It is impossible and unfathomable."
"The English don't understand this at all."
"Don't understand and don't care," Llywelyn said. "They themselves are newcomers to our shores. They conquered the Saxons, who came after Rome fell, but only after we'd already lost all but our small corner of this island. The English kings only care for the land because of the power and wealth it gives them, not because it gives them life."
"I'm English too, in that sense," I said. But I recognized the fervor in Llywelyn's voice and respected it, even if I couldn't share it. "That's what you're most afraid of, isn't it? Not dying for your own sake, but because of what Wales will lose if you do."
"Yes," Llywelyn said. "I don't want to die, of course, but you tell me that when I do die, Wales ceases to exist and that my people are subject to seven hundred years of English oppression. I can't comprehend that. I told Goronwy that you were from the future and he still doesn't believe me, but even he can see that the future you foretell is so frightening and devastating that it doesn't matter if it's true or not. What matters is that you've presented it as a possibility, and now that I've heard it, I must do everything in my power to ensure that it doesn't come to pass."
"I hope that you can, Llywelyn," I said. I rested a hand on his knee. "I hope that I haven't just given you foreknowledge of a future that you can't change."
"I think we've already changed your future, haven't we, Meg? If you were to return to your time, you wouldn't be the same woman who left."
"No," I said. "I wouldn't, but neither is Wales the same place with me in it. I still don't understand how so little of your daily life got written down."
"Didn't you tell me that history was written by the victors?" Llywelyn said. "Who wrote our history?"
"The English," I said. "I know. It would be helpful if more of your people were literate, because it's a lot harder to suppress a people when they have their own voice to pass on through the ages in books."
Llywelyn stared into the fire. "Your world is so far away, Meg. I can't comprehend the enormity of those years. I can't even begin to imagine the changes that have occurred." He transferred his gaze to me. "But then again, you're here, a young woman of Welsh descent who only invites comment because your Welsh is accented strangely. How is it that the world has changed, but the people in it have not?"
I shook my head. "I think the changes are mostly on the inside," I said, "just like we talked about before. Those changes don't show."
Llywelyn was right too, that fourteen years from now seemed a long way off-I'd be not quite thirty-five. Would I still be with him? Would he send me away like the other women who couldn't give him a child? Would I even be alive? Thirty-five was nothing to a twentieth century woman-I'd barely have started living. At thirty-five, women were often grandmothers, perhaps not ready for the grave, but old. I didn't want that to be me either.