* * * * *
So Llywelyn left Brecon with an army. For the first time in my months in Wales, I was alone, with just Anna. At first, I didn't know what to make of myself. There seemed everything and nothing to do. Anna and I could entertain ourselves well, and a certain part of every afternoon required a nap for both of us, but the absence of Llywelyn in my bed left me with an ache in my heart I couldn't assuage. More than one evening, I found myself sobbing after I put Anna to bed, sure I would never see Llywelyn again and I would be forever lost in the thirteenth century.
Anna, at least, was a delight. She would be three years old in August and time was passing more quickly than I could have imagined. We played in the kitchen garden, walked along the river, and tried not to get underfoot. Because Llywelyn and I weren't officially married, I was not the mistress of the castle-that role belonged to Tudur and a man named Madoc who ran things when Llywelyn was somewhere else. That left me at loose ends, with no real tasks.
The castle was also on the edge of a war zone, so few women and families lived there, as at Castell y Bere. The good part of that was I didn't have to spend time in the women's solar, sewing. The bad part was there wasn't anyone to talk to. Not that I had anything in common with thirteenth century women anyway.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. I was pregnant, and that fact alone was enough to prompt comment from everyone at every turn. I found it strange to be pregnant, and yet have no ultrasounds, no blood work, no monthly visits to the doctor. I just lived as I had before, but with a growing life inside me.
What made me the most uncomfortable was the idea of having the child without a doctor handy. Anna's had been a natural birth in a birthing center with no drugs, but the hospital had been only seconds away and I'd felt safe. Here, it was up to me to make sure everyone washed their hands and boiled whatever instruments they might want to use. I'd talked to the midwife, Alys, already. She'd raised her eyebrows at what I'd said, but not disagreed. Carrying the future Prince of Wales had its uses, after all.
A c-section, though, was not going to be possible. Whenever I thought of it my mind shied away. I'd brought it up with Llywelyn, though, before he left.
"I'm scared," I said, flatly. "Scared for you, right now, scared for me later."
We lay in bed together and he'd pulled me to him and tucked me under his chin. "I'm scared too, not so much for me. This adventure with Clare isn't without peril, but not of great concern to me. But you ..." he stopped.
"The birth with Anna went well. I've no reason to think I'll have a problem, and yet ..." I stopped too, as afraid to articulate our fears as he was.
"You're afraid you'll lose the baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're afraid you'll die and leave me and Anna alone."
"Yes," I said, releasing a breath. "It isn't so much dying itself that worries me, though I surely don't want to. I don't want her and you to have to go on living without me. I've left too much undone."
"Every man feels that way," he said. "When I raise my sword and order my men to charge, my last coherent thought before the fire of battle overtakes me will be of you, and what I lose if either of us doesn't survive the year."
"And as always, in your case especially, what Wales loses," I said.
"Yes. Always that." He paused. "The priests tell us that we should pray for the Will of God. That's hard to do, when so often what comes out is, 'Please Lord, I need to live.'"