Chapter Fifteen
Meg
I was glad Elisa wasn't with me. She would have had dark words for me about being with Llywelyn. Mom, on the other hand, once she got over the existence of time travel and all that, would have been just as starry-eyed over Llywelyn as I was. He's the Prince of Wales! Our beloved, lost Llywelyn!
Elisa thought I should have gotten therapy after I left Trev. The idea that I'd married Llywelyn-at least in our own eyes-would have sent her running for the phone book. I could hear her in my head: "You've known him for how long?" or "You're on the rebound" or "He's too old for you. You're still trying to replace Dad." She was probably right. I didn't have any answers for her, other than that I loved Llywelyn. Back in Radnor that might not have been enough. Here in Wales, it most definitely was.
Nobody treated me any differently than before, but I felt different about myself. By the first week in March, I'd been with Llywelyn for over a month. Each day we woke, traveled a little further on our journey to Brecon, and went to bed at night, whether that was in a castle, a manor, or one time in a tent on the ground. None of this was worthy of notice or comment by anyone other than me. I was surprised, even, by how easily Llywelyn's men accepted me. I was Llywelyn's woman, always there, and that was enough to be going on with.
The difference was how I treated myself. I knew what it was to be Trev's wife, but it was a very different thing to be Llywelyn's wife. Llywelyn's wife was competent, thoughtful, and treated well by all. I never had to worry about Llywelyn hitting me, even when something happened over the course of the day to make him lose his temper. I didn't have to manage him-to walk on eggshells half the time and avoid him the other half. Llywelyn told me what he was thinking, and why, and what made him angry was that I hadn't expected it.
"I thought you told me that men and women were equal in your world," he said.
"They ... are," I said. "They can be-even supposed to be, I guess. It's just that I wasn't when I was with Trev."
"Humph," Llywelyn said. That was generally his response every time Trev came into the conversation, which fortunately wasn't often. "Well, it's time you started being as equal as a thirteenth century woman, then. I don't have much patience for the twentieth century if there are still men like Trev in it. We have enough of his kind here."
By sheer necessity, I began to fit in.
I hadn't worn a watch the day I'd come to Wales, and I realized that I didn't miss it. I loved how time moved, slowly or quickly, but without being marked in small increments. There was more time for Anna. Each day had a natural rhythm. Things happened, and if something didn't get finished, tomorrow would come soon enough. In winter in particular, the days weren't very long, and people thought nothing of sitting over dinner for hours in the evening after a long day of riding or walking, because there was nowhere else to go and nothing better to do but listen to a forty-five minute tale sung by a bard.
One of the few nights we tented in the middle of a forest, I found myself sitting on a log, sandwiched between Goronwy and Llywelyn, with Anna curled onto my lap, dozing in the warmth of the fire. I'd put away my guitar for the evening, once my fingers got too cold to play. Marshmallows and hot chocolate would have made the moment perfect.
"You're happy here, aren't you?" Goronwy said.
A quick glance at Llywelyn showed him pretending to ignore us and focusing intently on a stick he'd stuck in the fire. "I am, Goronwy," I said. Llywelyn eased a touch closer to me. I hid my smile and kept talking. "I miss my mother and my sister, but I do love it here, even if it's not at all what I would have expected."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know if I can explain," I said. "You know that the way we live in America is very different from Wales, right?"
Goronwy shrugged. "Prince Llywelyn has spoken with me of this."
"We dress differently, most people know how to read, people die of fewer diseases, though we have different ones too, and as a rule, women have a better lot in life. But people who live in that world don't realize what they've lost along the way."
"And that is?" Llywelyn said, proving his ears were as wide open as I'd suspected.
"People are more aware of how others feel and what they think. Everyone is adept at reading everyone else, and genuinely interested in figuring them out."
Neither man was impressed. "Of course," Llywelyn said. "We have to live together, don't we? That's not the case in your world?"
"No," I said, shaking my head at how obvious it was to him. "As a rule, you'd never look at or talk to a person you didn't already know-whether on the street, at a meal, or in a shop. Everybody behaves as if they are completely alone, even when-or especially when-surrounded by a crowd."
Both men gaped at me. Even in the flickering firelight, I was good enough now at reading people myself to see the disbelief reflected plainly in their faces. "Why?" Goronwy said. "How could that be?"
"Because chances are, you'll never see any of those people again. It isn't worth the time and effort invested." And then the real reason struck me. "It's because we don't depend on each other anymore."
Goronwy shook his head. "Every man depends on every other, from the lowliest serf who hoes the field, to the knight who rides into battle, to the monk who prays for our souls."
"And when a man dies, he has companions to remember and celebrate his life, and to mourn him," Llywelyn said. "I don't see how your people could imagine otherwise."
"Yes, well," I said, "that's another difference. People in my time don't think about death."
"That's just foolish," Llywelyn said. "People don't die in your time? You yourself said that your father and husband died."
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself and snuggled closer to Llywelyn. "They die but nobody talks about it. Death here is part of daily life in a way it isn't in the twentieth century, at least in America. Here, it's always at the table with you, like an uninvited guest who insists on staying for dinner. It doesn't matter if people die from disease, battle, or childbirth-death is always with us."
"Of course," Llywelyn said.
"You say 'of course'," I said, "but it's not 'of course' where I come from! Here, people don't shy away from talking about it and they don't pretty it up with phrases like 'He's moved on' or 'She passed away' which everyone in my town uses. For you, it's 'He's dead and I'm sorry (or not sorry) for it,' or 'Me mam died last winter. I miss her.' You just say it straight out."
I was unusual for a young woman in the twentieth century in that I had seen death, in both my husband and father. I didn't know a single classmate whose parent had died, or if they had, they didn't talk to me about it. Death was swept under the rug and you were supposed to get over it in whatever fashion you were able and get on with your life.
Here they did all get on with their lives, but nobody forgot. In fact, everything important to the Welsh I lived with revolved around people who'd died: they wove tapestries and rugs depicting past battles; most of the songs were about famous, dead people; and most of their mythological stories ended badly. You couldn't pay me to read a book that ended with the hero dying, but the people around me assumed that he would-and yet, they went about their lives with the quiet hope that this time, just once, he wouldn't. The entire country was full of optimistic pessimists.