Читать книгу The Dragon Lord's Daughters - Bertrice Small - Страница 11

Chapter 4

It seemed that they rode for days although their return was actually no longer than their journey to Aberffraw had been. Each night they made camp, and Averil’s bedding was set next to her husband’s. Yet not once did he touch her, or even kiss her. And each day they rode side by side learning bit by bit about each other. Rhys spoke of his father with admiration, and how he loved Everleigh. He told Averil of how when he was eighteen his father had, to everyone’s surprise, fallen in love with the daughter of a distant relation who had been orphaned and placed in his custody. They had wed, and nine months later Mary had been born. Her mother, however, a delicate creature, had not survived the childbirth.

“Was your stepmother good to you?” Averil asked him, curious.

“Always,” Rhys answered. “When Rosellen was first brought to Everleigh it was thought that my father would match her with me, for we were close in age. She was sixteen. But Da loved her from the first sight he had of her, and she him. Their marriage was the right thing. And because she loved my father she was good to me even when she was carrying her own child. That child might have been a son and heir for my father. Still, Rosellen treated me with great kindness.”

“Is that why you love Mary so much?” Averil said.

“Aye,” he agreed, “but you will come to love Mary, too, for she is sweet by nature,” Rhys responded.

“My sister Junia is sweet, but Maia is more determined than even I am. I suppose it comes from the pride she has in being our father’s legitimate daughter although no one in our house has ever made a distinction between us. We are simply the Dragon Lord’s daughters,” Averil explained.

“And your mothers all get on with one another?” he queried her.

“My mother, Gorawen, and the lady Argel, are great friends. Da’s second concubine, Ysbail, is a good woman, but inclined to be a bit prickly. She is very concerned that her daughter Junia not be slighted. But of course, Junia never is.”

“You love your sisters,” he remarked.

“Aye, and our little brother Brynn,” Averil told him. “He is almost nine. He looks so much like Da that we sometimes have to laugh when we see them together. He is very proud that he descends from King Arthur. He knows every bit of our family’s history, and will tell you all about it whether you will or no.”

“You will miss your family,” he said quietly. It was a statement more than a question.

“Aye, but you will not forbid them Everleigh, my lord, will you?”

“Nay, they may come when it suits them,” he replied.

“If your sister is the mistress of the manor, what am I to do?” Averil asked. “I am not used to being idle. Will we live in the manor house?”

“I have always lived there, but there is a bailiff’s cottage, Averil, if you would prefer it,” he told her. “It has not been lived in for many years. The last bailiff of Everleigh was a cousin of my father’s. He had neither chick nor child. When he died I was sixteen. My father then made me the manor’s bailiff, so the cottage is mine by right.”

“If your sister and I can exist peacefully together then we shall live in the manor house,” Averil said. “But if Mary is in charge, and she has Rhawn, then I shall spend my days making the cottage habitable again for us one day. For now I shall set my loom up in your hall. Will that be satisfactory, my lord?”

He nodded. “I think it a wise thing you plan, Averil, for once Mary is wed we would do well to leave her with her husband though she should never ask us to go. Still, it will be several years before my sister is old enough to be married.”

They had chattered back and forth as they rode each day, and Averil began to consider that she had made a good match even if Rhys FitzHugh was not a great lord. How Maia and Junia would tease her over her former boasting, but then, see who they would have as husbands one day, Averil thought. Maia, of course, would make the best match, being true born. And Ysbail would certainly see that Junia was not wed badly.

They finally arrived back at Dragon’s Lair, and as they entered the hall of her father’s keep Gorawen ran forward to embrace her only child.

“I am wed,” Averil said softly.

“Has he been kind?” Gorawen asked anxiously.

“He has had no opportunity,” Averil murmured.

“Thank heavens!” her mother exclaimed low. “There is much you need to know, my daughter. There are things I must teach you before you go to his bed. I shall tell him that he may not have you yet.”

“I do not know if he even wants me, really,” Averil said. “He has not even kissed me yet, Mother. While there was little occasion for coupling along our journey, surely he might have found a moment to steal a kiss, but he did not.”

“Perhaps he is shy,” Gorawen suggested with a small smile.

“He kidnapped me, Mother!” Averil said. “I hardly believe him to be shy.”

“Do you talk with one another?” Gorawen was becoming just a little concerned.

“Aye. I have learned much of him, and he me,” Averil answered her parent.

Gorawen nodded. “That is to the good,” she said. “I think perhaps your husband is giving you a chance to adjust to your new situation in life. He has shown no animosity at having to wed you?”

“Honor was at stake, Mother,” Averil responded. “And if I have learned one thing, Mother, it is that Rhys FitzHugh is honorable despite his behavior in the matter of obtaining my person.”

“But he shows no anger towards you at having made the error he made?” Gorawen persisted. “Often a man will make a mistake where a woman is concerned, and then he will blame her for his blunder. Has this been the case with you and Rhys FitzHugh?”

“Nay,” Averil said slowly. “I believe he has come to terms with what he has done. He speaks fairly to me, and has not censured me for his fault.”

“Good, good!” Gorawen said, but she thought to herself that she would watch this new son they had obtained most carefully. Averil had not her experience where human nature was concerned.

Averil kissed her mother’s cheek, and then turned to curtsey to her father’s wife.

Argel took the girl by her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome home, Averil,” she said. “I am happy that all has worked out well for you.”

“Thank you, lady,” Averil replied sweetly. “Now, my sister Maia must have a husband of her own. But let him be near, lady, so we do not lose one another.”

“And then my daughter must be matched,” Ysbail said sharply.

“Junia has several years before she should wed,” Merin Pendragon said.

“But he must be as fine a gentleman as is chosen for Maia,” Ysbail persisted. “Not some poor bailiff such as Averil has wed, though I will admit he is handsome.”

“Aye, aye!” the Dragon Lord said impatiently.

Now it was the sisters’ turn to greet the returning Averil. They rushed her with little shrieks and giggles, hugging their eldest sibling.

“What is it like?” Maia demanded.

Averil shook her head at Maia. “The hall is hardly the place to speak on such things,” she said, reluctant that her sisters know she was still a virgin.

“He is very handsome, as my mother says,” Junia remarked.

“Is he?” Averil turned and looked at her husband. “Aye, I suppose he is.”

“How could you not notice?” Junia said.

Averil grinned. “A man should never be told how beautiful he is, little one. They are vain enough about everything else.”

“I wonder if my husband will be handsome,” Junia replied.

“Your husband must be a man of some property, and good family,” Maia told the youngest of the trio. “Handsome does not count. Wealth and family are the only important factors in a marriage. You are a descendant of the great Arthur, no matter you were born on the wrong side of the blanket, sister.”

“But Averil said she would wed a great lord, and Rhys FitzHugh is hardly a great lord. He doesn’t even have lands of his own,” Junia noted.

“He is bailiff of a great manor,” Maia replied quickly. She did not want Junia pointing out that their eldest sister, indeed the most beautiful of them all, had married badly and beneath her, though certainly through no fault of her own. Why, if Averil had not protected her two sisters that day, Maia thought, it might be her now wed to a bailiff. She shuddered delicately at the idea. Rhys FitzHugh was certainly not the man of her dreams. The man of her dreams was tall, dark and dangerously handsome with an air of mystery about him. She just didn’t know who he was yet.

“Rhys tells me there is a stone bailiff’s cottage if we wish it,” Averil said. The truth of innocent Junia’s words had not been lost on her.

“But you’ve lived in a keep all of your life,” Junia said. “Will not a cottage seem small to you, sister?”

“Mayhap it is a big cottage,” Maia suggested. She glared at Junia. Would the brat not be silent? Could she not comprehend the awful truth of the situation?

Averil laughed softly. “Perhaps he will become a great lord one day,” she said, a twinkle in her light green eyes.

“Oh, sister, I am sorry!” Maia replied low.

“Do not be,” Averil responded. “I have had the many weeks we rode across the land to Aberffraw and back to think on it. Rhys is an honorable man, and I believe he will be kind to me and the children I give him. He has a home, and a respected position. It is unlikely he will ever lose either. We are well matched, and another man might not have been as accepting of me despite the fine dowry Da has offered.”

Maia nodded slowly. “You have gained some wisdom in these weeks away from us,” she said. “Though we are but a year apart, you seem older to me now.”

Averil laughed. “I do not know if it is wisdom, or the simple acceptance of the facts that stare me in the face now,” she admitted ruefully. And then she laughed softly.

“Well,” Junia put in, “if he cannot be a great lord, or a wealthy man, then it is certainly a good thing that he is handsome, isn’t it?”

Her two elder sisters laughed, and Averil cupped the girl’s face with her hand.

“Is that what you shall seek in a mate, Junia? A beautiful man?”

“I think it a more obtainable goal than a great lord,” Junia murmured dryly.

Maia chuckled. “Clever puss! She may be right.”

“I want a bath,” Averil said. “My nose has become numb to my own stink, and that of the horses we rode. My bottom has turned to leather these past weeks!”

“Yes,” the lady Argel said, overhearing. She turned to Rhys FitzHugh. “You, too, will certainly want a bath, my lord. I will have it made ready. Your wife will bathe you herself. I am happy to say that all of our daughters know how to properly conduct themselves with guests.” She signaled to a servant.

Maia and Junia looked at Averil mischievously. Their eldest sister swallowed hard, but then she said, her voice smooth and calm, “Yes, my lord, it is a wife’s duty to bathe her husband when he needs it. I shall go and oversee to the preparations so that all is done properly. My mother will bring you to me when all is in readiness.” Then, with a brief nod of her head, she glided gracefully from the hall.

“You’ve done better than I would have thought, young FitzHugh,” Lord Mortimer noted with a grin. Then turning to the lady Argel he said, “We will avail ourselves of your hospitality tonight, my lady, and I thank you.”

“Of course, my lord Mortimer. You and your son are welcome. Would you like baths, too? Our daughters and I can see to it.” Her mild brown eyes were twinkling.

Roger Mortimer looked most enthusiastic, but his father quickly said, “We shall wait until we return home, lady, if you can bear with our stink. And again, I thank you.”

The lady Argel tilted her head graciously. “I must go see that the cook has enough for the supper. We were never certain when you would return. Gorawen, go help Averil. Ysbail, I will need your aid. Daughters, go to my solar and rest yourselves. We will leave the hall to the men for now.”

“Those who call the Welsh barbarians have never visited your home, Merin Pendragon,” Lord Mortimer said. “Your wife is most obviously a treasure. And your two women!” He smacked his lips lightly. “How you have managed to keep the peace between them, I do not know.”

“Each has her place in my house and my heart,” the Dragon Lord told his old friend. “They are assured of it, and thus coexist. If they did not they would go, for Argel is my wife, and she is a good woman.”

“But Gorawen has most of your heart, my friend,” Edmund Mortimer said wisely.

Merin Pendragon said nothing, but he did smile briefly.

Gorawen. His wife’s mother, Rhys FitzHugh thought. He could see from where Averil had obtained her looks, but for her green eyes.

“Do you wish us to send for your sister, Rhys FitzHugh?” the Dragon Lord asked. “We will be celebrating your marriage to my daughter for the next few days.”

“We shall celebrate at Everleigh as well,” Rhys answered. “I think it best Mary remain on her own lands. It is a long trip for one so young, and there is no place to shelter but for that ruins. My sister is yet tender.”

The Dragon Lord nodded. He understood. “My son and I shall accompany you and Averil back to Everleigh,” he said. “It will be a fine adventure for Brynn. You have not met him yet. He is a good lad. And strong. Perhaps we might consider a match between your sister and my son one day.”

Clever, Edmund Mortimer thought to himself. Then the Pendragons would have lands in both the Welshry and the Englishry. Old Merin is ambitious of a sudden.

“Mary is too young yet for me to consider matching her, my lord,” Rhys replied.

“She would be lady of Dragon’s Lair,” Merin noted. “Her husband would have his own lands and cattle.”

“My sister is lady of Everleigh. She has lands and cattle in her own right,” Rhys replied. “When she is older we will speak on it, my lord, but I make you no promises.”

“Well said, young FitzHugh,” Lord Mortimer agreed approvingly. He was considering that little Mary might make a fine wife for his youngest son, John. A man had to look after his own, and he had not the influence or wealth of his more powerful Mortimer relations who lived at court.

Merin Pendragon knew his old friend Edmund Mortimer well enough that he understood he would have a rival for little Mary FitzHugh and her lands. But he felt no animosity towards the Englishman. The heiress was a choice bit. As long as one of them won her for their family, and not some stranger, Averil and her husband would be safe.

In the bathing room of the keep the servants were lugging buckets of boiling water and dumping them into the great round, gray stone tub. Gorawen poured a small vial of fragrance into the hot water. The scented steam rose up, wafting the smell of lavender about the chamber. In the hearth the fire burned hot. Averil had already pinned up her long golden hair, and divested herself of her garments save her chemisette.

“Will you help me, Mother?” she asked her parent.

“I think not,” Gorawen said. “You have been well taught and are capable of washing a man by yourself. Because he is your husband you must get into the tub with him, Averil. You, too, need a bath. Besides, it may encourage Rhys FitzHugh to a greater familiarity of your person. Your marriage must be consummated sooner than later, my daughter, and I believe sooner would be best for both you and Rhys.”

“But I thought there were certain things that you wanted me to know, Mother,” Averil protested softly. The idea of getting into a tub with Rhys FitzHugh was startling.

“Aye, there are. But when I consider what I can teach you, I know it is better that Rhys FitzHugh find you as pure a virgin as you really are. Once he has taken his first pleasure of you, and has no doubts as to your innocence, then I shall teach you the many delights a woman can share with her husband, and the pleasure she can give him. Rhys will not be unhappy in his wife, my daughter.” She looked about the room. “The bath is ready. I will go and fetch Rhys. Warm the drying cloths on the rack by the fire, Averil. Have you already forgotten what you have learned?” Giving her daughter a pat of encouragement, Gorawen hurried from the bathing room.

Averil looked about her to be certain all was in perfect readiness. She hung the large clean cloths over the wooden rack by the fire as her mother had instructed her to do. She checked the temperature of the water with her hand. It was quite hot. She moved the little oak steps one more time. With a round tub it didn’t really matter from which direction one entered it. Her brushes lay in orderly fashion upon the stone tub’s rim. There was a clean washing cloth, and a bowl of soft soap. Everything was as it should be.

The door to the bathing room opened, and Rhys FitzHugh stepped through, a surprised look upon his handsome face as his gaze swept the chamber. “You have a room just for bathing?” he said, astounded.

“Don’t you?” she asked him.

“Nay,” he said. “We have an oak tub, or we bathe in the stream near the house.”

“And yet you English infer that we Welsh are barbarians,” Averil murmured.

“Not all Welsh houses have such rooms,” he defended himself.

“Perhaps not, my lord, but this is how I have been raised. Please sit down on that stool now so I may remove your boots and clothing,” Averil told him, sounding far braver than she actually was.

He obeyed, and she quickly pulled the muddy, well-worn boots from his feet. Her little nose wrinkling with disdain, she unrolled his foot coverings and dropped them onto the floor. Indicating that he should now stand she began to remove his garments. First his cotte, a calf-length tunic from which she shook the dust and laid carefully aside on a chair back. Beneath it he wore a chemise. It was laced up the front. Averil’s slender fingers undid it quickly. For a moment she stopped. Beneath the open chemise his chest was broad and smooth, devoid of hair. When she took the garment from him he would be quite naked. She considered how to remove the chemise.

Making the decision for her, Rhys FitzHugh took Averil’s two small hands and held them to his chest for a moment. “I think, wife, we must now become acquainted with one another,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let your dainty hands explore, Averil. There is no wrong in it, and it would give me pleasure.”

Averil felt her cheeks suffused with warmth. “My lord.” Her voice was a whisper. “I am a virgin.” She could not look at him.

Rhys FitzHugh tipped her face up so that their eyes finally met. “I know that,” he said softly. Then, dipping his head, he brushed her lips with his just briefly.

Her little mouth made an “O” of surprise, and she gasped.

He smiled. “You have never been kissed,” he said.

“Of course not!” The tone of her reply was indignant. “I was meant to be wife to a great lord, Rhys FitzHugh. I could not go to a great family with my honor besmirched.”

“Then I am fortunate to be the recipient of your chastity,” he replied dryly.

“Yes, you are!” she said indignantly. “And I am rewarded for my good behavior by being wed to a manor bailiff with naught to his name but a stone cottage! What in the name of Holy Mary made you steal me away other than you thought I was my father’s heiress?” she demanded of him.

“I needed a wife,” he said, “and my father told me before he died that a rich wife was a sight better than a poor wife.”

“Then you have been cheated, too,” she responded.

“Nay, I have not. You may not be your da’s heiress, Averil, but you are well-propertied for a lass born on the wrong side of the blanket. And, you are extravagantly beautiful. You will be desired by many who see you, including some who are great lords, but you are my wife, and I know your own sense of honor will not allow you to betray me or the FitzHugh name. My father did give me his name, you know, and our children will be true born.” He smiled down on her. “I like the feel of your hands on me, wife.”

Averil blushed furiously once again. Rhys FitzHugh was a most infuriating man, she thought. She drew his chemise from him, saying as she did, “Get into the tub, my lord, before the water grows cold.” Her eyes were everywhere but on him, now.

He could not refrain from chuckling. “Aren’t you getting into the tub with me?” he asked her mischievously, his eyebrows waggling wickedly at her.

“I can wash you quite well without getting into the tub,” she said sharply.

“You can, but you won’t,” he told her. “I am your husband. I want you in that great stone tub with me.” Then, before she might protest further, he picked her up in his brawny arms, mounted the two steps, and climbed into the tub.

Averil shrieked with her surprise. “Put me down!” she cried to him.

He complied, gently dumping her into the hot water with a grin. “I would be well washed, wife,” he said.

Averil grabbed a scrubbing brush, and whacked him smartly on his dark head. “Why, so you shall, my lord husband!” she told him. She dipped her hand into the stone soap crock, and slapped the runny soap on his hair. “I won’t bother picking the nits today,” she said. “A good soaping should rid you of them.” She had stepped up on the tub’s little stool that sat beneath the hot water. Her fingers dug fiercely into his big head as she scrubbed his dark—and she was noticing—somewhat curly hair.

“Ouch! You shrew!” he yelped. “You will take my scalp off!”

“Your hair is filthy. Close your eyes!” She dipped a large scoop of water and dumped it over his head. Then she added more soap and began to scrub again.

“I’ll smell like a field of flowers when you get through,” he protested. “The bees won’t be able to restrain themselves from me.”

“A clean head will be a great improvement for you,” she snapped. She began dipping water again, and rinsed his dark head until there was no more evidence of soap.

“God’s mercy,” he said, “but you have sweet little titties, wife.”

“What?” Her cheeks grew hot again as she raised startled eyes to his face.

“The way your sheer little chemisette clings to them is quite provocative, Averil,” he murmured, moving nearer.

She looked down, and gasped with her shock. Standing on the stool so she might wash his hair put her but waist deep in the water. The soft fabric of her garment clung to her flesh, molding it in a very sensual manner. Not only her breasts, but her torso as well.

Her pale skin grew beet red with embarrassment.

“Take it off,” he said in a low, hard voice.

“What?” She could not have heard him correctly.

“Remove your chemisette, or I will rip it from you, Averil,” he told her. “I want to see you as you were made.”

“It isn’t right!” she cried low.

“I am your husband,” he told her, his voice gentler now. Jesu! The sight of her beneath that wet fabric had roused him mightily. He had forgotten for a moment that she was so innocent despite the unorthodox household in which she had been raised. Merin Pendragon might keep a wife and two concubines, but Rhys FitzHugh had seen no evidence of licentiousness in his house.

“We may be naked for one another?” she questioned him.

“We may, and while your chemisette needed laundering, Averil, I would see you without it.”

Averil slipped down into the water, and then drew the garment from her person, wringing it out and tossing it onto the bathing room’s stone floor. “I must continue bathing you, and then bathe myself,” she said. Her heart was beating very quickly now.

He nodded, appreciating her modesty. He would see her soon enough when she had to exit their bath. “Let me wash your hair first,” he suggested.

“You?” She was surprised.

“Your tresses are beautiful, Averil, and in as much need of soap and water as were my unruly locks,” he told her.

She hesitated a moment, but then said, “Very well, my lord.” Then she stood quietly as he unpinned her long hair, rubbed in the soap, lathering it into suds, rinsing it, soaping and rinsing a second time. When he had finished Averil twisted her rope of golden hair free of water, and pinned it up once more.

“Now you smell like a field of flowers,” he said with a small smile.

“Let me wash you now, my lord, as I have been taught,” she replied. She took up another brush, soaped it, and began to scrub his back. Her hands moved swiftly, sliding beneath the warm water to wash with the cloth what she could not see. After she had laved water over his clean skin she turned him about, and washed his face, his neck and ears, his chest and his arms. “Now,” she said as she finished, “you must do the rest.”

“Will you not do it?” he asked. “Your mother said you knew well how to bathe a man, Averil.”

“Would you have me handling the private parts belonging to our guests, my lord?” she countered.

“I am not a guest, Averil. I am your husband. Now finish your task, wife, or I shall have to tell your parents that I am displeased with you,” he threatened. “And, Averil, from now on you will wash no other men. Only me.”

She swallowed hard. Then taking up the soft cloth she soaped it again, and plunged it beneath the water. She swirled her cloth about his flat belly, moving down to his groin. She rubbed gently over his pubic mound, which was covered with thick wiry hair. Delicately she washed his manhood and the pouch of life beneath it. The manhood was large, and it was very hard. It seemed to have a life all its own as it throbbed in her hand. Averil swallow nervously again. “I believe I am done,” she said, low. Then she began to wash herself.

“I want to take you here,” he said in a rough voice, and his lips were pressing against the damp nape of her neck. He pulled the cloth from her hand, and soaping it began to rub it over her breasts. “You are so damned tempting, Averil. I am not sorry that I stole the wrong girl.” His arm fastened about her waist, and he pressed himself against her body. “Did you ever think you would lose your virginity in a tub of warm water, my beautiful young wife?”

“You cannot!” she gasped. “You will shame me if you do this now!”

“How?” he demanded. The cloth had dropped away, and he was fondling her round little breast, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching the nipple lightly to make it pucker.

“There will be no bloody sheet for my da to fly. People will assume you had me when you first stole me. Or they will say I was no virgin at all, and speculate if I had a lover. Please, Rhys FitzHugh! Not here! Not now! If my virtue is questioned my sisters may suffer as well.”

He groaned. For just the briefest moment he had forgotten that she was a virgin. She was so incredibly desirable. “Get out of the tub, Averil, and wrap yourself in a drying cloth,” he said.

“But I must dry you, my lord,” she protested.

“If you put one more finger on me, wife,” he told her, “I cannot prevent myself from having you, here and now. If you want that bloody sheet displaying your innocence to fly from your father’s tower in the morning, you will do what I tell you. Now!”

Averil scrambled from the tub, taking one of the large drying cloths and wrapping herself in it, her back to him, as she toweled herself free of water. Her body was tingling, especially her breasts. The blood coursing through her veins right now boiled, she was convinced. She had been but briefly kissed. Lightly fondled. But she knew she was more than ready to lie with this man. He might not have her love yet, or her trust, but he had certainly engaged her lusts.

“Come out, now, my lord husband,” she finally told him. “I think you can trust me to dry you without further ado.”

“Aye,” he agreed as he climbed from the water. “I have managed to quiet my big boy, but not for very long, Averil. This union of ours must be consummated, you will agree.” His manhood still looked very dangerous.

“I do,” she admitted as she swiftly and efficiently dried him off. The conversation was perturbing, she considered. There had never been a man in her life before but for her father, her brother, the keep’s servants and men-at-arms. No one had ever looked at her with desire. Averil was the Dragon Lord’s eldest daughter. She was untouchable until Rhys FitzHugh had stolen her away, and ruined her chances of a rich marriage. She should be angry at this man, and she was. Yet he excited her, and the teasing glimpses he had given her of what lay ahead in their marriage bed were tempting.

He took the drying cloth from her and wiped his face. “What are you thinking?” he asked her.

Caught in her reverie she looked at him and said, “You need to scrape the whiskers from your face, Rhys FitzHugh. You look like a bear just come from its winter cave. You will find what you need on the shelf there. I must go to the chamber I share with my sisters and dress now. I will send my mother to bring you clean clothing.” And Averil hurried from the bathing room.

Outside she met her mother. “He will need clean clothes,” she said.

“Where are you going, daughter?” Gorawen asked.

“I must dress myself, Mother,” Averil replied.

“Your possessions are no longer with your sisters. While you are here you will sleep with your husband in the small room at the top of the west tower. It is already made up. Go and put on fresh garb. When you are presentable you may both return to the hall where a feast will be set to celebrate your marriage.”

Averil nodded, for she suddenly found she could not speak. She was to no longer be with Maia and Junia. She was to sleep with this husband she had gained in so reckless a manner. She almost ran up the narrow staircase to the tower chamber. Inside she found her clothing and brushes and her dower trunk. She pulled a clean chemisette from it, and removing the drying cloth from about her form she pulled it on. Her gown was of olive green silk with long tight-fitting sleeves. Over it she drew a sleeveless tunic of the same shade embroidered with gold threads. She had never before seen these garments, but she knew they were gifts from her mother on her marriage. Gorawen had exquisite taste, and was known for her generosity.

Sitting down on the bed Averil undid her hair, and taking up her brush began to brush out the long damp mass until it was reasonably dry. Then plaiting it she wrapped the braids about her head, afixing them with polished bone hairpins. She had never before dressed her hair this way but now she was a married woman, and might. She found slippers to match her gown, and slipped them on. Then she looked about for Rhys FitzHugh’s clothing, but she could find nothing for him. Hurrying from the tower room she sought her mother.

“There are no fresh garments for my husband in our chamber,” she told Gorawen.

“He has no clean garments,” Gorawen said. “Have you not noticed that he has been wearing the same clothing since you left for Aberffraw? You are his wife. It is up to you to see what garments he has are made presentable before he dresses again, Averil.”

“He must have a clean chemise and leg coverings, Mother, or washing him will have been a waste of time,” Averil replied.

Gorawen nodded. “I agree,” she said. “I have some clean chemises and leg coverings that belonged to your father when he was younger. I had saved them for Brynn for when he is older, but we may spare some for Rhys FitzHugh. Come along and we will fetch them.”

“Let me tell him lest he put on his dirty clothing,” Averil replied, and running to the bathing room she opened the door and stepped through. “Do not dress yourself yet, my lord,” she said to her husband who was still scrapping the whiskers from his chin. “I will bring you some clean garments.” She picked up his boots and cotte. “I will have the servants clean these.” Then she was gone before he might even speak.

She gave Rhys’s boots to a serving man, instructing him to clean and polish the worn footwear and then return them to her lord in the bathing room. She handed the cotte to another servant, telling her to brush the garment clean and return it to its owner in the bathing room. Then Averil hurried on, a small smile on her face as she thought of her new husband’s reaction when her father’s servants entered the room unannounced.

Gorawen went to the solar where all the women liked to gather. From a trunk set in an alcove she drew out a beautiful linen chemise, handing it to her daughter. “I believe this will fit Rhys,” she said, and bending down again she drew out a pair of braies, giving them to Averil. “You must give his old garments to the servants to launder, but you may keep these.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Averil responded, and she hurried off back to the bathing room to help her husband dress.

Neither his boots nor his cotte were ready when she returned to him. He had finished taking the whiskers from his face. “You are handsome,” Averil said. “My sisters have said it, and now I see it. Here is a clean chemise, my lord, and a set of braies. They are yours now. Put them on while we wait for your cotte and boots,” Averil suggested to him with a small smile. She let her eyes slip quickly over him. He was a big man in every respect, well muscled and straight of limb.

Rhys FitzHugh slipped the undergarment over his now very clean frame. He sat down upon a three-legged stool to pull on the dark woolen braies. “Where did you find these?” he asked curiously.

“They were my da’s when he was younger. My mother put them aside when he outgrew them for Brynn, but says she can spare them, for you are now her son,” Averil told him. “My mother has taught me not to be wasteful.”

“Your mother is very beautiful. But for your eyes you resemble her muchly,” he replied. “She is from the house of Tewydr?”

“Aye. My bloodlines are good, my lord. You will have no cause for shame in me, though you stole the wrong maiden. Actually, my blood is better than that of my true-born sister, Maia, though I should never say it aloud to others,” Averil explained.

He nodded, and then the door to the bathing room opened, and a serving maid entered carrying his cotte and his boots. She handed them to Averil, curtsied, and withdrew from the chamber.

Averil handed her husband his boots. “Put them on, Rhys FitzHugh. They are of better quality than I suspected now that I see them clean,” she noted. Then she looked at his cotte. “It is blue. I could not tell before. But it is very threadbare, my lord. Have you the material at Everleigh for me to make you another? You are the bailiff of a fine estate, and cannot go about looking like a poor man.”

“But I am a poor man,” he reminded her. “Everleigh belongs to my sister.”

“You have cattle and sheep through your marriage to me, my lord, and a purse of fifteen silver pennies, one for each year of my life,” Averil reminded him. “You are no longer a poor man, and you must have a new cotte.”

He laughed. “I am surprised to find that despite your great beauty, my wife, you are a girl who will care well for me, and our children. You are not overproud, or haughty, Averil. My sister will do well to follow your instruction. Rhawn, her old nurse, cannot teach Mary how to be a lady, but you can.”

“I am indeed haughty, my lord, but only where required,” she responded.

He laughed again as he straightened his cotte. It was threadbare. It would be good to have a new one. “There is fabric aplenty at Everleigh, my wee Welsh wife. While you ripen with our first child this winter you will sew me a new one,” he said.

“Even a well-brought up virgin knows it takes more than wishing to get a child,” Averil said pithily, yet there was a small smile upon her lips.

He yanked her into his arms, and kissed her heartily. “As you will learn this very night, Averil, my wife. But for now we are expected in the hall that your family may properly celebrate our union.”

Rosy with her blushes Averil nonetheless spoke up. “Then let us go, Rhys FitzHugh,” she said to him. Perhaps marriage to this man would not be so bad after all. If he was not a great lord he was a charming man. That had to count for something.