Читать книгу The Dragon Lord's Daughters - Bertrice Small - Страница 10

Chapter 3

The Dragon Lord was a big tall man with a strong air of command about him. He strode into the hall at Everleigh, and without being asked seated himself in the chair of authority at the high board. “Now, Rhys FitzHugh, you will explain yourself to me while I decide if I shall allow you to wed my daughter whom you have dishonored, or merely satisfy myself by killing you for the insult you have dealt to my family.” His green eyes scanned the younger man curiously. “Is this manor yours?”

“Nay, my lord,” Rhys answered honestly.

“Kill him, Da!” Averil said ruthlessly. “I tried, but only wounded him.”

“To whom does this manor belong, Rhys FitzHugh?” the Dragon Lord asked, ignoring his eldest daughter. Women could be so damned emotional. Could she not see this was possibly an opportunity?

“Everleigh is the property of my little sister, Mary FitzHugh,” Rhys replied.

“Then you are bastard born?” the Dragon Lord queried. His bastardy was not a problem, but his lack of lands could be, Merin Pendragon considered.

“Yes, my lord.” Rhys was extremely uncomfortable. This was FitzHugh’s hall, and yet here he stood like a beggar in his own home, feeling like a naughty boy before this Welshman. He glanced towards Roger Mortimer, but Rog was silent, and had that guilty look upon his face that always gave them away as boys.

“Are you your sister’s guardian, Rhys FitzHugh?” the Dragon Lord wanted to know.

“I am, my lord,” Rhys said. “On his deathbed my father told me that had my own mother not died with my birth he should have wed her. And when he finally did wed he lost another woman in childbirth. My sister, Mary, is six years old, my lord. Our father asked me to watch over her, and over Everleigh, and see her well matched one day. I will honor my father’s wishes, but it is not difficult for me to do so. I love my little sister.”

“So at least you have a place to live until the day comes that she weds, Rhys FitzHugh. When she does you will have to make certain that her marriage agreement includes keeping you on as Everleigh’s bailiff else you find yourself homeless. If you do well, then no prospective husband should object to such an arrangement.” He sighed. “Now what in the name of the Blessed Holy Mother induced you to bride-nap my daughter? I want the truth now!”

“I sought an heiress for myself, my lord. I am five and twenty years, and it was time I took a wife. Before he died my father suggested I find an heiress, and kidnap her so her family would be forced into letting me have her lest my behavior stain her honor.”

“Did you not realize that I had three daughters, and only one of them true born?” the Dragon Lord asked the younger man.

“Nay, my lord, I did not,” Rhys said, flushing and feeling the full weight of his stupidity now. “She said she was your daughter. She was the tallest, and I assumed this was she whom I sought.”

Merin Pendragon burst out laughing, and he laughed until the tears were rolling down his ruddy face.

“There is nothing amusing in this, Da!” Averil burst out angrily.

“Aye, lass, there is,” her father replied. “He seems an intelligent young man, yet he behaved stupidly, and now he must live with his error in judgment.” The Dragon Lord turned to pierce Roger Mortimer with his glance. “And you, young Mortimer, were part of this? What will your father say when I complain to him, and I will.”

“We meant no harm, my lord,” Roger quickly said, “and Rhys did not hurt the girl. I swear it!”

“He tied and gagged me, Da! He starved me!” Averil complained. She sneezed. “I think he has given me an ague, forcing me to sleep in the ruins of a barn last night. I almost froze to death, Da.”

“Your suffering is duly noted, daughter,” Merin Pendragon remarked dryly. There was a hint of laughter in his voice. Then he said to Rhys, “You will have to wed her now, though she is not my heiress, young FitzHugh. If I had caught you before nightfall we might have salvaged Averil’s good name, but you have had her with you overnight, and whatever either of you may say regarding the matter I must assume the absolute worst.”

“My lord, my men were with us, and Roger, too. They will swear that nothing untowards took place,” Rhys declared.

“It is not me you would have to convince,” the Dragon Lord said. “Under the circumstances I should never be able to find another husband for my daughter, and I think you will agree that Averil is far too lovely to waste on the church. I am prepared to be generous despite all that has happened.”

“Why would you be generous?” Rhys demanded to know, now suspicious. These Welsh were a crafty people, and perhaps the wench was not as pure as she appeared.

“I should rather go into a convent than marry this buffoon!” Averil declared angrily. “Take me home, Da!”

“Be quiet, Averil,” her father said softly. “This matter is not your concern.”

“Not my concern? I should like to know why not! It is my life you are talking about. My life you are so casually deciding without any care for me at all! Would my mother approve of this, my lord father?”

“Your mother has the good sense to trust my judgment, daughter,” the Dragon Lord told her. “Now, be silent.” He cuffed her lightly, warningly. He loved her, but he would not be spoken to in such a manner before strangers.

“What ho! The hall!” came a voice, and they all turned to see Lord Mortimer entering with several of his men. “Merin! You Welsh devil, ’tis good to see you again.”

The Dragon Lord arose from his chair, and coming around and down from the high board went forward, hand outstretched to meet his old friend. “Edmund, you English devil! I concur. Did you know that your son, and young FitzHugh, here, came over the border into the Welshry and stole my eldest daughter?”

“What?” Lord Mortimer feigned surprise. “I am shocked, Merin. Absolutely shocked!”

Roger Mortimer opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Well, young Rhys, you shall have to wed the Dragon Lord’s heiress if you are to salvage your honor, and hers,” Lord Mortimer said.

“I did not steal the heiress, my lord,” Rhys murmured. “It seems my lord Pendragon has three daughters, but only the middle one is true born.”

“An unfortunate error on your part,” Lord Mortimer replied, and he swallowed back the laughter that threatened to overwhelm him. How could he have forgotten that Pendragon had two rather toothsome concubines? And of course, they would have had children. “Nonetheless, the lady’s honor must be restored, Rhys FitzHugh.”

“Nothing happened to the lady, my lord Mortimer. Roger and the others will swear to it!” Rhys replied. “Will you not intercede for me in this matter?”

“No, no, my young friend,” Lord Mortimer said. “You must do what is right, and there can be no argument.”

“Let us seek Prince Llywelyn,” the Dragon Lord said. “I will set forth this matter before him. I will offer my daughter and her dower to any who would have her. If another will take her despite this misadventure, then I will accept him as husband to my eldest child. But if none steps forward, Rhys FitzHugh, you must wed Averil then and there. I can be no fairer than that.”

“A most generous offer,” Lord Mortimer agreed.

“Am I to then be sold off as if I were a heifer?” Averil spoke up.

“An unwed woman is indeed a commodity,” her father replied. “If a man cannot have sons who can fight for him, then a daughter who can be married off in the most favorable alliance possible is the next best thing.”

“Send me to a convent!” Averil cried dramatically.

“Why, child, you are far too lovely,” Lord Mortimer said soothingly. “ ’Twould be a crime against nature to incarcerate so fair a maid behind stone walls.”

“Is it agreed then that we will take this matter to Prince Llywelyn?” the Dragon Lord asked.

“You will go with us, my lord?” Rhys asked Lord Mortimer.

“Aye, I think I had best lest you lead my son astray again,” Edmund Mortimer said with a small grin.

“I think it is usually the other way about,” Rhys replied meaningfully.

“Feed us, young FitzHugh, and then we will start out again,” the Dragon Lord said.

“Better we spend the night here at Everleigh, my lords, for the hour grows late,” Rhys suggested hospitably. “Rhawn,” he called. “Fetch your mistress and have her come to greet her guests.”

“I am here, Rhys,” Mary said, coming from the shadows. She was a pretty child, her dark brown hair fashioned into two plaits, and her bright eyes a clear blue. She wore a pale yellow tunic over her orange tawny gown. “I but waited until you had completed your business. You are welcome to Everleigh, my lords, and my lady.” She curtsied prettily. “Come to table. The meal is about to be served. My lord Pendragon, you will sit on my right. Lord Mortimer on my left. Lady Averil will seat herself next to her father with my brother, and you, Roger Mortimer, will sit by your father.”

Merin Pendragon was enchanted by the little girl. The child had beautiful manners, and even at this tender age knew her duty as chatelaine. Still, she was young yet. She could die, and then her brother would inherit Everleigh despite his birth. It was unlikely anyone would challenge him for it.

The meal was simple. The bread trenchers were filled with a tasty pottage of rabbit, onions, and carrots in a thick gravy. There was plenty of fresh bread, a crock of butter, and a small wheel of hard flavorful cheese. The pewter goblets were filled, and kept filled with an excellent ale with the hint of barley.

“You keep a good table, my lady Mary,” Merin Pendragon approved.

“Rhawn, who both nursed me and kept my father’s house, has taught me, my lord,” Mary replied. “I still have much to learn.”

When the meal was over Mary bid the gentlemen good night, and taking Averil by the hand said, “You will sleep with me tonight, my lady Averil.” She led Averil up the staircase in the hall to an upper floor. “I have a fireplace in the solar,” she said, “and it is kept alight most of the year. The men will be comfortable in the hall. There are several bed spaces. They are used to rougher accommodations than are we.”

“Your brother made me sleep in a tumbledown stable last night,” Averil said with badly concealed ill humor.

“If he did, it was probably the best place he could find,” Mary responded calmly. “My brother is a good man, lady.” They had reached the solar, and Mary turned, looking up at Averil. “Are you to be my brother’s wife?” she asked.

Averil swallowed back the quick sharp retort that was on her tongue, saying instead, “I do not know. Such arrangements are the province of men; my father, your brother, and the Great Llywelyn, who is our prince.”

“So I am told,” Mary said, “but I wonder why it should be so.”

“So do I,” Averil answered her softly. Then she smiled down at the child.

“I have a little sister named Junia who is just a few years older than you are.”

“Does she look like you? You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” Mary said frankly.

“Junia looks more like you,” Averil answered her, “but that her eyes are green. We all have green eyes, my sisters and I. Maia has red hair, and Junia’s is dark. Our brother’s hair is dark too, and his eyes hazel colored. Only Brynn and Maia have the same mother. Our father has a wife, and two concubines.”

“That is immoral!” Mary said, shocked.

“No,” Averil answered her, not in the least offended. “It was of necessity. The lady Argel was barren for several years after her marriage to my father. So Da took my mother, who is called Gorawen, to his bed. I am my father’s first child. Then the lady Argel produced my sister Maia. But after that there were no other children so Da took a second concubine, Ysbail. Junia was born from that union, but the lady Argel finally produced the desired son. Your brother is bastard born.”

“That is so,” Mary replied. “I had not considered it. But our father did not wed with my mother for many years after Rhys was born, and his mam was long dead. Do you all live together?” Mary was fascinated.

“We do,” Averil said. “We are content to do so.”

“I have never heard of such a thing, but then, ’tis said that the Welsh are a barbaric people,” Mary innocently responded.

“We are most certainly not barbaric!” Averil spoke up defensively. “Many men keep other women, and sire children on the wrong side of the blanket, Mary FitzHugh. Are you English then barbaric too?”

“I meant no offense,” the little girl said apologetically.

“I know,” Averil told her. “You but prate what you have heard others say. But you must be more guarded in your speech, Mary FitzHugh. You might insult someone without meaning to who might not take into account that you are but a child.”

“I think I should like to have you as a sister,” Mary said. “Did you do the embroidery on your tunic?”

“Aye, I did,” Averil admitted.

“Could you teach me how to do such fine embroidery?” Mary asked.

“Perhaps, but tomorrow we leave for Aberffraw, and Prince Llywelyn’s court, so this matter between my family and your brother may be decided,” Averil said.

“When you are wed to my brother will you teach me?” Mary persisted.

“If I am wed to your brother, aye, I will,” Averil promised. But I should sooner remain a maid and wither away first, she thought. Rhys FitzHugh was the most annoying man she had ever encountered. His surprise that he had not stolen Merin Pendragon’s heiress and then his reluctant agreement to wed her to save her reputation was more than aggravating. She could but hope there was a man at Prince Llywelyn’s court who would agree to take her. Anything would be better than this arrogant Englishman.

The next day they departed for Aberffraw. It was a long ride across northwestern England, and Wales’ Mary FitzHugh was left behind, for her presence was not necessary. It was Midsummer’s Eve when they reached Prince Llywelyn’s court. They had crossed the Menai Strait to the Island of Anglesey, with their horses and baggage, utilizing several small local ferries. Around them the Irish Sea washed the beaches of the island, and an almost imperceptible mist rose and fell over the landscape.

There was nothing on the island that stood higher than a thousand feet. Here, Averil knew from the history her father had instilled in all of his children, the ancient druids had made their last stand before being massacred by a people called the Romans. Merin Pendragon knew all of this because the family from which he had descended had followed the old ways once. While they were now good Christian people, the old ways were not forgotten in his hall.

There was an almost magical air about Anglesey. The marshes and wetlands of the island were filled with waterfowl. In the lush green meadows fat cattle and sheep grazed. There were few dwellings along the path they traveled, but those paths were lined with tall hedges. Now and again they rode through a small forest, but most of the island was bare of woodlands.

Reaching Prince Llywelyn’s court Averil found she was not particularly impressed. Her father’s keep was more grand. She was surprised as the prince was married to King John’s daughter, Joan. The prince’s home was nothing more than a small castle of timber and some stone. About it clustered a small village with a church, and several cottages that did not appear particularly prosperous. The air about them was warm, and softer than any Averil had ever known. They were welcomed in the prince’s hall, and Averil was given a place in the solar to sleep. The prince would hear their case immediately, for there would be festivities this night to celebrate midsummer.

Averil asked a serving woman for water to bathe her hands and her face. She rifled through her pack to draw out the clothing she would wear into the prince’s hall. Her hair was full of dust, but there was not enough water to wash it. She brushed and brushed and brushed her long tresses into a semblance of respectability. Then, having removed her travel-strained garments, she bathed as best she could, put on a clean chemise, and dressed. Her gown with its long fitted sleeves was a dark green brocade with a round neckline that was embroidered in gold threads. Over it she wore a dark green sleeveless tunic that had been embroidered at its scooped neckline and along its hemline. Her long golden hair was adorned with a simple gold chaplet decorated with stylized flowers. On her feet she wore soft leather shoes. Her only jewelry was a thin gold chain with a round gold pendant upon which was a red enamel dragon, her family’s insignia.

Satisfied that she was respectably clean and well-garbed, Averil joined her father, Lord Mortimer and their companions in the prince’s hall. The meal was being served, and they found places below the high board where they might sit and eat. Averil ate little, and was especially careful of her garments. She thought the variety of food being offered was very generous and impressive. Here, then, would be Joan of England’s influence. She could learn from this visit, Averil considered as she watched the servants dashing about with their bowls and platters. When the meal had been concluded, the prince’s majordomo called for silence.

“The lord Merin, of the ancient and honorable house of Pendragon, descendant of Arthur, King of the Britons, has come before the prince for a judgment in the matter of his daughter’s honor. Come forward, Merin Pendragon, and speak your piece. All those connected with this matter will also show themselves now,” the majordomo said.

Merin Pendragon bowed before his prince and his wife. “My lord,” he began. “Several weeks ago my eldest daughter, here with me,” and he drew Averil forward so she could be seen by all, “was taken from my lands by Rhys FitzHugh, the bailiff of the manor of Everleigh in the Englishry. His purpose was to steal a bride, and he thought that my daughter Averil was my heiress, but here he erred in judgment. Averil is my eldest child, but born to my concubine, Gorawen, true-born daughter of the house of Tewydr. This offspring of mine is dearest to my heart of all my children, my lord. I had only begun to consider a match for her, and given her great beauty it would have been a very good match, you will agree. It is right and proper that Rhys FitzHugh wed with her now, having stolen her from us. But while he has said he would, he yet demurs in his duty. So, my lord, I bring this matter before you. It has been agreed among us that your judgment will be accepted by all who come before you this day in my daughter’s behalf. Lord Mortimer, Rhys FitzHugh’s liege lord, has accompanied us with his own son, who was also party to helping his friend steal my daughter. Lord Mortimer will defer to you in this matter, my lord.”

Prince Llywelyn looked down upon them. “Averil Pendragon, what have you to say in this matter?”

“My lord, I will accept your decision,” Averil said so softly that they could barely hear her. She did not look directly at the prince, for it would not have been considered polite. She did, however, remember to bob a curtsey to the prince and his wife.

The prince nodded, impressed by both her beauty and her manners.

“If, my lord, another man would be willing to take her to wife, Rhys FitzHugh could be absolved of his crime.”

“What dower will you give with the girl?” the prince asked.

“A herd of six young heifers, and a healthy bull. A flock of twenty-four ewe sheep with their lambs, and a breeding ram. She has a fine horse, a chest of linens, and pewter. Another of clothing in good repair. She comes with her own loom, for she is an excellent weaver. And I have set aside fifteen silver pennies, one for each year of her life. She excels in housewifery and does the finest embroidery I have ever seen. She is able to read and write her name. She can speak English and French as well as our own tongue.”

“She has no land?” the prince said.

“Nay, my lord. My daughter, Maia, who is my true-born daughter, will have the only bit of land that I can spare from her brother’s inheritance,” Merin Pendragon said.

The prince nodded again. “The girl is well dowered despite her lack of land.”

Averil looked about the hall. It had suddenly dawned on her that she was very far from home. Her gaze moved swiftly as she looked over the many men in the crowd. More men than women. Strange men. Rough-looking men. And who knew where their homes were. At least Rhys FitzHugh’s home was within two days of Dragon’s Lair, and her family. What had she done, being so damned stubborn and dramatic in her refusal to accept her fate and take Rhys FitzHugh for a husband? And how was she going to escape being snapped up and married to a complete stranger? She bit her lower lip in her vexation as she considered the possible courses open to her.

Joan of England leaned over and whispered something in her husband’s ear.

The prince spoke once again. “Averil Pendragon, were you harmed in any way by Rhys FitzHugh?” His meaning was very clear and it was the single straw she needed to save herself. She snatched at it. A blush suffused her pale cheeks. Her golden head drooped, and she was perfectly silent. She dare not lie, but she knew what her silence would imply, and so she remained speechless.

The men in the hall looked at one another and nodded, some shaking their heads, murmuring regretfully. A man wanted a virgin for a wife no matter her dower portion. With this girl they could not be certain until the wedding night, and even if she was proved pure, no one would ever believe it under the circumstances described this evening.

“Nothing happened between us!” Rhys FitzHugh burst forth.

“Averil Pendragon, will you not speak to us?” the prince encouraged her in his most kindly tones. The poor lass was obviously very shamed.

Averil’s golden head drooped even lower, and she turned as if to hide her face in her father’s broad chest. Her slender frame appeared to tremble.

“Damn it, you wicked wench,” Rhys cried, “tell them the truth!” He was furious as he realized what she was doing. She had decided to have him, but she would regret it.

Averil pressed closer to her father as if seeking his protection. Her shoulders shook visibly. Merin Pendragon forced his face to remain serious, but oh, how he wanted to laugh. Averil had obviously decided that after dragging them across Wales to Aberffraw she would, after all, have Rhys FitzHugh as her husband. He wondered what had caused her to change her mind. He put an arm about his daughter, reinforcing the very impression Averil wished to make. “My lord?” he pressed the prince.

Llywelyn the Great shook his grizzled head. “We can ask no other to take her under these circumstances, Merin Pendragon, despite her generous dower and her great beauty. Rhys FitzHugh, having stolen Averil Pendragon from her father’s protection, you must wed her now if you are to restore her honor and yours. This is my decision.” He turned and looked at Lord Mortimer. “Edmund Mortimer, I know you for a man of honor. Will you see that your liege-man does his duty?”

“I will, my lord prince,” the Englishman said quietly.

“Bring a priest forth, then. This couple shall be united forthwith,” the prince ordered.

Oh, Holy Mary, Averil thought! She had only meant to make it impossible for another man to claim her. Now she was to be wed to Rhys FitzHugh immediately. There would be no escaping him or his ire. She peeped at him from beneath her dark lashes. He looked very angry. Would he beat her for this wicked trick she had played on him? Probably he would. Averil shuddered nervously, and seeing it Rhys smiled a slow, wicked smile, his eyes making contact with hers, and holding her in his thrall. Now, you wicked little bitch, the look said, you will regret your perfidy this day.

“Oh, please, my lord prince,” Averil said in her sweetest tones. “Could we not return home to Dragon’s Lair first? I would have my mother, my sisters and brother with me when I wed this man.”

The Great Llywelyn appeared to consider, but Merin Pendragon spoke up first.

“My daughter is sentimental about our family, my prince, but I believe it best the marriage vows be said now. We will all return home to Dragon’s Lair afterwards, and celebrate this union before Rhys FitzHugh may take his bride home to Everleigh. It would allow us time to bring his sister, the lady Mary, to our home to join in these joyous festivities.”

“Then so be it!” Prince Llywelyn said in a jovial voice. “A Midsummer’s Eve wedding before our own celebrations begin. Where is the priest?”

Averil turned to her father. “Da! Why are you doing this?”

“Do you think I do not know you, Averil?” he replied softly. “If I allow you to return home unwed you will find some excuse to avoid this marriage. And believe me, daughter, no other will have you now because of this misadventure.”

“But it wasn’t my fault, Da! And nothing happened! I swear on the Blessed Mother than I am still a maid,” Averil told her sire.

“I believe you,” the Dragon Lord replied, “but no one else will until the bloodied sheet is taken from your bed and hung for all to see.”

“Oh, my God!” Averil gasped. “Oh, Da! Do not make me sleep with him tonight, I beg you! Not here in this strange place.” Her green eyes filled with tears.

“I will speak with him, Averil. I’m sure Rhys FitzHugh is no more anxious for a coupling than you are. Not yet. But he will be, my daughter.” He turned away from her, and reaching out, drew the subject of their conversation forward. “You will wed her tonight, but you may not have her until she is ready. Do you understand me, Rhys FitzHugh? For all her spirit she is inexperienced and young. She has not her mother to comfort her in this situation, and she is afraid though she would deny it.”

“I am not a monster, my lord. This is not her fault. It is mine. My father meant well when he advised me to steal an heiress bride. But I could have ignored that advice. I could have refused to go with Roger when he came with his troop of men for me. I did not. I might have learned a bit more about the family whose daughter I meant to take.” He smiled a brief, rueful smile. “Nay, ’tis my sin, not your daughter’s. She might have saved us all the trouble of traveling half of Wales, however, but then, I was not eager, either. It is indeed my fault, for I should have known better.”

“I may come to like you, Rhys FitzHugh,” the Dragon Lord said, “and so I will give you this bit of advice, which you would be wise to take. Averil is headstrong, and she has a temper, but she is a good lass with a kind heart. She will try your patience, but she will be loyal to you. Treat her with kindness and she will reward that patience.”

Rhys FitzHugh nodded. “You have given me good counsel, my lord. I will try to heed it, but I suspect that your daughter will not make it easy for me.”

Merin Pendragon chuckled. “Nay, she will not. But she is a prize worth winning like her mother, I assure you.”

The priest arrived in the hall. He listened to the Great Llywelyn, his master, and then turned to the Dragon Lord and his party. “Let the bride and groom step forward,” he said. “There is no blood impediment to this marriage?”

“None,” Merin Pendragon said.

“The dower portion is agreed upon, and the parties are both willing?”

“The dower has been pledged before witnesses in this very hall, and aye, they are willing,” Merin Pendragon replied.

“Then they shall be joined according to the rites of Holy Mother Church,” the priest said. Then he looked out over the hall. “Be silent, all of you! This is a sacred and proper rite of the church. You may resume your pagan celebrations of midsummer when I have finished, but not a moment before!”

The hall grew quiet as the priest joined Averil Pendragon and Rhys FitzHugh in holy matrimony before her father, Edmund and Roger Mortimer, Llywelyn the Great, the prince of the Welsh, Joan of England and their court. Finally they knelt for a blessing, and then the priest departed as the hall once more grew noisy with revelers celebrating Midsummer’s Eve.

Averil found herself alone briefly with her new husband. For once in her life she was struck dumb. She felt very foolish, but she simply didn’t know what to say to him.

“You might have agreed to this several weeks ago, wife, instead of dragging me across Wales,” Rhys finally said, breaking the heavy silence between them. “What made you change your mind, Averil?”

“I looked about the hall and decided there was no other as suitable as you, my lord,” she told him, at last finding her voice.

He laughed. “Then I suppose the trip was worth it,” he told her.

Averil flushed. “I’m sorry I’m not the heiress,” she said sharply.

“So am I,” he agreed dryly, “but your dower is quite good, and we’ll manage.”

“Why did you not breach me that first night?” she asked, curious.

“I was advised to, but it would not have been honorable,” he told her quietly. “And as you have brought the subject up, I would have you know that I am a patient man, Averil. And this is neither the time nor the place for our cojoining. When we get home to Everleigh we will discuss the matter.”

Unable to help herself Averil put her small hand on his big one, and looked up into his face. He was very handsome, she thought, but not in the pretty way that Roger Mortimer was. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You have green eyes,” he noted with a small smile.

“All my sisters do, but Maia’s have a hint of emerald in them, and Junia’s are a dark green. Your eyes are silvery blue. They are very pretty,” Averil said, and then she blushed again.

“Your father says you have a temper, but also a good heart,” he told her.

She nodded. “I do.”

“You are honest,” he said with another smile. “I have seen your temper.”

“I try to be fair, my lord,” Averil answered him.

“Do you want to join the festivities?” he asked.

“Perhaps we might share a cup of wine,” Averil suggested, “but I really am so very tired, my lord. I want nothing more than a good night’s sleep in a real bed, or on a mattress before we must spend our days traveling home, and our nights on the hard earth.”

“Agreed,” he said.

He found a servant who brought them a large goblet of wine mixed with potent, honied mead to share. It was very strong, and to her embarrassment Averil found her head spinning. Her legs began to give way beneath her, but Rhys sensed it. Catching her up in his arms before she fell, he cradled his new wife, surprised by the feelings she aroused. Calling to a servant, he asked to be shown the way to the solar where Averil was staying. With the servant going before him he climbed a flight of narrow stairs. Averil’s eyes were closed, and she was murmuring softly. She was indeed very lovely, Rhys thought. Perhaps he had not gotten such a bad bargain after all. And there was silver as well as kind in her dowry. Silver could buy him his own land, and more silver could be made breeding the sheep and cattle her father was giving him. Nay, it was not a bad bargain at all. If they could learn to get on, then all would be well.

Arriving in the solar he said to the serving woman sitting by the fireside sewing, “The lady is indisposed. Where am I to put her?”

“Ah,” the woman said, “the Dragon Lord’s child. Lay her upon that small cot by her pack, my lord. Is she all right?”

“Two sips of wine with mead,” he told the servant. “She is very tired. Our journey has been long, and tomorrow we must return home.” He set his burden down where he had been instructed. Taking the little chaplet from her head, he laid it aside.

“Poor lass,” the servant replied. “I will look after her, my lord.”

Reaching into his pouch Rhys drew forth a coin. “Thank you,” he said, pressing the large round copper into the woman’s hand. Then he left.

When Averil finally awoke it was daylight again. The solar was filled with chattering women. Her gown had been eased, and her slippers had been removed from her feet. Her mouth felt very dry, but before she could even sit up a serving woman was at her side with a cup of clear water.

“Drink it all, child. There is a potion in it to restore your energy, which has been badly drained,” the woman said, and cradling Averil’s shoulders she helped her into a half-seated position, putting the cup to her lips.

“How long have I slept?” Averil wondered aloud.

“Why, all of last night, and into this morning,” the servant said. “The first mass has already been said, and they are breaking their fast in the prince’s great hall.”

“I must get up!” Averil exclaimed. “We are leaving today.”

“You should rest, lady,” the woman responded. “You are very pale.”

“I am always pale,” Averil replied, and she drank the potion down.

“Are you of the Fair Folk, then?” the woman asked.

“They say I have an ancestress who was one of them,” Averil told her.

The servant nodded. “Aye. Every few generations it is said the strain reappears in a son or a daughter, lady. Very well, I will help you.”

Averil asked for a basin of water, and while she waited for it to be brought to her she removed her good gown and tunic, packing them away with her chaplet and shoes, changing into a tan gown and brown tunic, and a sturdier pair of leather shoes for riding.

She bathed quickly, scrubbing her teeth with a rough cloth, and wove her long golden hair into a thick, single plait. She set a sheer cream-colored veil over her head, fastening it down with a chaplet braided with brown silk and gold threads.

“I will bring your pack and your cloak to the hall, lady,” the serving woman said.

Averil looked distressed. “I have no coin to reward you,” she said regretfully.

“Your man did that last night, lady. He was generous,” the serving woman said, smiling. “Go along, now. When you need them, your possessions will be brought to you.”

“Thank you,” Averil replied, and she hurried off to the hall to find her father and the others. The others. Her husband. She was a married woman now. And he had been kind last night. She wondered if he would continue to be kind.

Her father found her first. “Hurry and eat, daughter,” he said. “We want to be off Anglesey and onto the mainland before midday. Where is your husband?”

“I don’t know,” Averil said. “He brought me to the solar and left me last night.”

Averil sat down at one of the tables below the high board. A servant slapped a hollowed-out trencher before her, and filled it with oat stirabout. Another servant gave her a piece of buttered bread, and set a cup before her.

“Wine, ale, or cider?” he said.

“Wine,” Averil told him. The hair of the dog to calm her belly, and her nerves. She ate slowly. Her father had disappeared again, probably seeking the others.

“You slept well?” Rhys FitzHugh had seated himself by her side. “Wine,” he told the attendant serving man.

“Yes, my lord, thank you,” Averil replied.

“Good! When you have finished your meal we will ride.”

“Did you have a good night, my lord?” Averil asked him.

He grinned. “Roger and I got very drunk,” he began. “What happened after that I do not know, but I woke up on a hillock in a meadow outside the castle.”

Averil reached out and drew a piece of grass from his dark brown hair. “I think, my lord, that my bed was more comfortable.”

“As would mine have been if you were in it,” he said softly.

“You promised!” she cried, flushing.

“And I will keep that promise, Averil,” he assured her. “I have merely remarked that a man sleeps better with a woman by his side.”

“I have never even kissed a man,” she told him.

“Good!” he told her. “Then mine shall be the only lips you ever know.”

“Do you want to kiss me?” she demanded to know. “You but touched my forehead with your lips after we had been wed yesterday.”

“If you want to be kissed, Averil, I will kiss you,” he said.

“If I must ask you then it is not worth it,” she told him quickly. “I am finished with my meal.” She stood up. “We had best be going, my lord.”

“You will ride by my side today, lady, so we may learn to know one another,” he told her. “Come along now.” And he took her hand in his, leading her off and out of the hall to where their party awaited them.