Читать книгу The Dragon Lord's Daughters - Bertrice Small - Страница 8

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Chapter 1

“I shall marry a great lord,” Averil Pendragon told her sisters as they sat together in their father’s hall. Her golden head nodded emphatically with her pronouncement.

“You shall marry the man our father chooses for you,” her sister Maia said.

“And he shall be a great lord,” Averil repeated.

“Perhaps,” Maia said. “But he could as easily be an old merchant to whom father owes a great debt, and wishes to pacify; or mayhap a knight father wishes to bind to our service. Your dower will be small, Averil, for though you are the eldest of us, you are still naught but a concubine’s daughter. My brother Brynn and I are the true heirs,” Maia concluded loftily with a satisfied smile.

“But I am the most beautiful of us all,” Averil shot back. “Everyone says I am the fairest of our father’s daughters. My beauty shall not be wasted on some merchant or simple knight. I may be the daughter of a concubine, but our father loves my mother, and so my value is great.”

“You are the most beautiful of us all!” their youngest sister, Junia, said with a sigh. “You are both very beautiful, and I am so plain.”

“You are not plain, Junia,” Maia said. “You are simply young.”

“Aye, I am,” Junia replied. “You have such rich red hair, Maia. And you, Averil, are descended from the Fair Folk, and have hair like spun gold. My dark hair is so common.” She sighed.

“But your features are exquisite,” Averil remarked. “You have the most perfect little nose, and a sweet mouth, Junia. As for your hair, it has the blue-green shine of a raven’s wing. It is hardly common, sister.”

“But I am a concubine’s daughter, too,” Junia wailed. “And the youngest! What sort of dower will I have by the time I am old enough to wed? Father will probably have to match me with the old merchant.” She began to cry.

“Now see what you have done with your proud boasting!” Averil snapped at Maia. “You have made the baby weep, and if we cannot stop her we will be punished.”

“What about your boasting about being the most beautiful and marrying a great lord?” Maia demanded to know. Reaching out, she pulled Junia from her stool, and into the comfort of her arms. “There, there, chick, do not fret. Father loves us all equally, and we will all have grand dowers and great lords for husbands I am certain.” She stroked her little sister’s dark head.

“Really?” Junia sniffed softly.

“Of course, you goose!” Averil said impatiently. “We are the Dragon Lord’s daughters, and descended from King Arthur himself. Even today our ancestor’s memory is still strong. But because I am the eldest I shall be wed first, and I will be fifteen next month, sisters. I think it is time for me to be matched. Most girls are wed younger than fifteen. Da just doesn’t want to let us go.”

Junia’s tears faded away. “I did hear our da speaking with the lady Argel about matches a few days ago,” she said innocently.

Maia’s arms dropped from about her sibling. “What did my mother and our father say?” she demanded to know.

“There were no names spoken,” Junia replied.

“But what did they say?” Averil pressed her little sister. “They had to have said something that piqued your curiosity, Junia, else you should not have mentioned it.”

“They said the time had come to consider marriages for you both. Father said he would follow the example of our prince, the Great Llywelyn, and seek among the Marcher lords for suitable husbands for you. That’s all that I heard. I swear!”

“What did my mother reply?” Maia wanted to know.

“She agreed. Nothing more. You know your mother, Maia. She is so kind and soft-spoken. It is rare that she disagrees with our father. My mother says we are fortunate in her for another wife might not be so thoughtful of her husband’s concubines, or allow them to live in the keep with the lady and her children,” Junia finished.

“My mother says if the lady Argel had been able to bear her children sooner we might not be here at all,” Averil remarked. Then she turned her attention again to the prospect of a husband. “We must listen more closely, sisters,” she told them, “for we shall be told nothing before it is engraved in stone. We shall have to learn everything for ourselves.”

The three heads nodded solemnly in agreement.

Several days later, however, Averil overheard something that displeased her greatly. Her father was considering making a match for Maia first because she was his legitimate daughter. Never before had Averil Pendragon known her sire to put one of his children above the other, no matter their birthright. And worse! He would make no overtures towards any family until Maia was fifteen, which was a whole year away. I will be sixteen by then, Averil considered, and too old for a good match. She sighed, and began to think what she could do, but she could think of nothing. She kept this knowledge from her sisters, but she did speak with her mother, Gorawen.

Gorawen was as beautiful as her daughter was. They shared the same pale golden hair, and fair skin. But Gorawen’s eyes were silver in color, and Averil’s were the light green of her father’s. All of the Dragon Lord’s daughters had green eyes. “You were right to come to me,” Gorawen said. “Your father can wait no longer to match you with a husband. You are more than old enough, but if you must tarry until Maia is wed, who knows how old you may be. Certainly too old to attract a good match. I will not allow your beauty to be wasted on some insignificant family!”

“He has never before put her before me,” Averil said, her tone irritable.

Gorawen laughed softly, and patted her daughter’s hand. “He has always been more than fair with you all, and Argel too, but this is different, Averil. There is no avoiding the fact that both you and Junia were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“So was our ancestor, Gwydre, the founder of this house,” Averil muttered.

“I know,” her mother replied, “but that was centuries ago, and Gwydre was a man. It is different for lasses, Daughter. My birth was true, but I was one of five daughters. There was no dowry for me for either a husband or the church. My father, Arian ap Tewydr, was more than willing to give me to Merin Pendragon as his concubine. He knew your father would treat me well, and I should be safe for the rest of my days. He made your father swear on his ancestor’s name that the children born of our union would be well cared for, and you have been, Averil.”

“Why did you have no other children, Mother?” Averil asked.

“I did not want to give your father a son when Argel had not. She is a good and patient woman, but even good and patient women have their limits. Ysbail gives us all enough difficulty.”

“But Argel did give father a son,” Averil said.

“But only after many years of marriage. That is why he took Ysbail for a second concubine, however she birthed Junia much to her annoyance, but then she is a foolish woman. If she had birthed a son he would have been overshadowed by a legitimate brother, for Argel managed at last to have the son, who is your father’s heir. Ysbail would not have been happy to have any son of hers forced to take a lesser role.”

“You both might have had more daughters,” Averil said slyly.

“We might,” her mother answered, “but we did not.” Then she laughed. “I will tell you when you need to know, daughter.”

“Will you speak with my father?” the girl asked.

“Eventually,” Gorawen said. “Your birthday is not until the last day of April, my daughter. I do not want your father aware of what you heard, or that you were eavesdropping when he and Argel were discussing your fates. Let me handle this in my own way, and my own time. You will, I promise, be wed before Maia.”

“I believe you, Mother, for you have never lied to me,” Averil said.

“You must learn to cultivate patience, Daughter,” Gorawen chided gently.

“I will try,” Averil promised, and her mother smiled.

“Good. You want to show your father that you are ready to leave his keeping, and be a good wife to a husband,” Gorawen said. “Your behavior must never shame us.” Then Gorawen dismissed her only child, and considered how to deal with the situation with which Averil had presented her. The truth was that Merin Pendragon had kept his two eldest daughters too close for too long. Averil and Maia should have both been matched earlier, and their marriages ready to be celebrated. Her own child would be fifteen at the end of the month, and Maia would be fourteen on the fourteenth of May. She smiled to herself. Once the wheels were set in motion to match Averil and Maia she was certain that Ysbail would begin demanding equal treatment for her daughter. Junia would be but eleven on June second. There was time for Junia. First Averil, and then Maia. Maia’s match would be the better one no matter, but Merin would see that Averil was given a good husband. Her daughter would have a good dower portion. She would not have to be a concubine like her mother, Gorawen thought, satisfied.

She arose, and calling her serving woman for her cloak, Gorawen went out into the spring day. The courtyard of the keep was quiet but for the poultry scratching about in the dirt. Several dogs slept in the sunshine, and by the kitchen garden, her destination, a fat tabby dozed amid the new greenery. She shooed him awake and away, and taking her knife from her robes began to cut some herbs. If she was to have her way about Averil she must get Merin into her bed. Of late, she noted, his manhood did not rise to the challenge of her womanhood as it once had. He was no longer a young man. He had wed Argel late, being thirty. He had been too busy in the service of Llywelyn ap Iowerth, called the Great Llywelyn, who was his overlord, and lord of almost all of Wales. It was Llywelyn who had finally sent him home, and told him to marry before it was too late.

So Merin Pendragon had returned to his keep. His parents were gone from the earth, and he realized the prince was right. He needed a wife. He had found a good match in Argel urch Owein, daughter of Owein ap Dafydd. Argel had been fifteen when they wed. But to her distress she could not seem to conceive a child. After four years Merin had brought Gorawen into his keep, and nine months later Averil had been born. A year later Argel had brought forth her first child, a daughter, Maia. But after that there was no sign of another child.

Gorawen knew well how to prevent conception, having been taught by her grandmother, a wisewoman. She had prevented another pregnancy in order that Argel might have time to conceive a son for their shared lord. After a while Merin grew impatient, and brought another concubine into their midst. Ysbail conceived immediately, and birthed Junia. Gorawen saw that her grandmother’s potion was fed to Ysbail that she not birth a son; and she prayed to the gods both old and new for Merin’s seed to take root in Argel’s womb again, and that it be a son. Her prayers were finally answered in the summer that Averil was six, Maia five, and Junia three. Argel birthed a son on the first day of August. He was a healthy child who was called Brynn.

After that there were no more children born of Merin Pendragon’s seed, and as the years went on the master of Dragon’s Lair Keep began to lose interest in his women. Now and again, however, Gorawen could lure him to her bed, and help him to gain pleasure. It was usually when she wanted something badly, for Merin Pendragon was no fool, and she would not shame him. So when that evening she murmured an invitation in his ear he had smiled knowingly, and nodded.

Gorawen was awaiting her lord. She had had a tall oaken tub brought to her chamber, and filled with hot water. Now having undressed Merin she climbed into the tub with him, and began to bathe him. He grunted with pleasure as she scrubbed his back with a boar’s bristle brush, and a rough cloth. She picked the nits from his graying head, and washed his locks thoroughly. “Where have you been sleeping?” she demanded. “You are flea bit on your back. You need a new mattress, my lord. I shall tell Argel.”

“Do it yourself,” he said. “She is morose of late, and can take no suggestion. She weeps at nothing. I do not understand it. She is not breeding, I know for certain.”

“Perhaps her juices are drying up,” Gorawen suggested. “ ’Tis a sad time for a woman to know she may never again bear life in her womb.”

“You and Argel are the best of friends, and make my life pleasant,” he said. “You would think kindly of my lady.” He pulled her wet, naked form against him, and kissed her heartily. “You’re a good lass, Gorawen, mother of my eldest child.”

She stood quietly in his embrace, and smiled. “You are good to me, and to our daughter, my lord. But come now, and let us get out of the tub. I have a fine treat for you.” She smiled again, and climbed out of the water, quickly wrapping a drying cloth about herself, picking up the other to wipe the water off Merin’s big body. He was yet a fine figure of a man. When they were both dry she led him to her bed, settling him, hurrying to bring a plate of sweetmeats and a cup of wine for his pleasure.

Merin Pendragon had a sweet tooth, and reached at once for the plate. He popped a sweetmeat in his mouth, chewing appreciatively. “What are they?” he asked her.

“I dried plums last summer, and soaked them in sweet wine in a stone crock all winter. Then I rolled them up, dipped them in honey, and rolled them in crushed almonds. Do you like them, my lord?” She climbed into the bed next to him, and sipped from his cup.

“You’re a clever wench, Gorawen,” he told her, unaware that the wine the plums had been soaking in was imbued with a potent aphrodisiac she made from the herbs in her garden. He reached for her as he felt his passions begin to stir.

Gorawen melted into his arms. “My dear lord,” she murmured, holding her face up to him for his kisses, tasting the wine and the plums on his breath. Her fingers began to caress the back of his neck gently, but in a way that had always pleased him greatly.

“What do you want of me?” he demanded, shifting her so that she now lay beneath him. He pulled the drying cloth open, and stared down at her big breasts.

“Later, Merin,” she said softly, her tongue teasing his ear, her breath hot, and sending shivers down his spine.

He chuckled. “A very clever wench,” he told her with emphasis. Then covering her body with his, and feeling his lust beginning to rage, he thrust into her, sighing gustily as she received him, wrapping her legs about his waist. Soon she was crying out to him with pleasure, and for the first time in a very long while Merin Pendragon felt like the inexhaustible youth he had once been. He groaned as her body shuddered with her pleasure not once, but twice. And at that second burst of satisfaction he loosed his own juices with a howl of gratification, finally falling away from Gorawen, his breath coming in quick pants.

They lay together recovering from the bout of Eros that had surprised even Gorawen. The plums were more successful than she had anticipated. At last recovered she said, “Now I will ask a favor of you, my lord.”

He laughed aloud. “And I will grant it you, sweeting, as you have pleasured me mightily this night. What is it you will have of me?”

“I want you to find a husband for Averil. She will be fifteen at the end of the month. It is past time she was matched, wedded and bedded,” Gorawen said.

“I have been thinking on it,” he said. “For both Maia and Averil.”

“Maia is your legitimate daughter, but she is the younger, my lord. She will be easier to match, but she should not be wed before her elder sister. If they had not all been raised together without prejudice in your hall it might be a different thing. But you have treated all your children, both licit and illicit, in the same loving and kindly manner,” Gorawen pointed out.

“Ahh,” he said, “I see the difficulty here, sweeting. It takes time to make the kind of match that must be made for Maia, and if much more time passes, Averil will be considered too long in the tooth.”

“Aye, she will. My lord, she is the most beautiful of your daughters. Use that beauty for a good match. Then the match you can make for Maia will be even better than you might have hoped for as she is the legitimate daughter. And little Junia will have an opportunity she might not if her sisters are married well, and better.”

“A clever wench,” he repeated for the third time that evening. “But who?”

“You have said you would follow the example of our prince and seek among the Marcher lords for sons-in-law. This may also prove useful when Brynn is of an age to take a wife. I know that the prince hopes to rid himself of this English king who is his overlord, but I wonder if that will ever happen. And we who live here in Wales must think of ourselves, and our children, first. What are the politics of great men to us?”

Merin Pendragon nodded. “You reason well, sweeting, though you be but a woman. The more we ally our family to the families of the Marcher lords the better off it will be for us. I will do as you have asked me, and find a husband for Averil first, but I will tell Argel of my decision before I do. She is my wife, and as loyal to me as are you.”

“Of course you must speak with Argel, my lord! She is mistress in this house, and I respect her as I do you,” Gorawen said sweetly. She lifted the plate of sweetmeats from the table by the bed. “Will you have another, my love?”

“Aye, I will!” he said smiling at her. “I vow, Gorawen, no one, not even my dear Argel, pleases me, or treats me as you do.” He ate three more of the plum delicacies.

“I have been happier with you than with anyone else,” Gorawen told him honestly.

He smiled warmly at her. Soon his lust was afire once more to his surprise, and he was putting her beneath him once again, and satisfying their shared desires with the enthusiasm of a man thirty years younger.

When afterwards he slept, replete with his pleasure, Gorawen arose, and took the plate of sweetmeats away. There was but one left upon the plate, but she did not want him to have it lest he associate the wine-soaked plums with his lust for her this night. It was the first time she had used such means to arouse him, and she was quite surprised by the success she had had. But he was content with her, and his own performance tonight. She smiled wickedly. He would not have the same success with Ysbail. The other concubine would have to suck his cock to a stand to bring them both any pleasure at all, and it would be quick. As for Argel, she no longer cared if her husband visited her bed. But because of this night Gorawen’s daughter would be matched first. Merin would explain it all to Argel, and Argel would not argue. She never did.

Now Gorawen began to wonder who Averil’s husband would be. There were several fine families among the Marcher lords who would do. A younger son? A favorite son born on the wrong side of the blanket? Gorawen considered what kind of dower Merin would provide for his eldest child. There would have to be just enough cattle, and sheep, to add to Averil’s beauty to make her most desirable. Since she was favored by her father, the manner of her birth would not matter. But Gorawen knew she had extracted all she dared from Merin this night. Now let him make good on his promise, and then she would haggle with him over their daughter’s dower.

The next afternoon she took Averil into her herb garden ostensibly to teach her of things she must know, but also to tell her daughter of her small success with Merin Pendragon. “You may not tell anyone of what I have said to you,” Gorawen warned Averil. “Your father has given me his pledge, and he will keep his word.”

“Who do you think it will be, Mother?” Averil asked, excited.

Gorawen shook her head. “I have no idea, but you may trust your father will do his best by you. It will surely be a son from one of the Marcher families, for the Pendragon interests lie with them if we are to continue to survive.”

“Maia said I should be given to an elderly merchant that father is indebted to, or perhaps some simple knight,” Averil said, “but I know that will not be. The better my match, the better Maia’s match will be.”

“Aye.” Gorawen nodded. Then she said, “Now, here is a secret remedy I shall teach you, daughter, so that if you desire to prevent conception of a child, you can.”

“The priest says it is a woman’s sole function to bear new life,” Averil replied.

“The priest is an old fool and should know better since he and his hearth mate have birthed nine younglings they could not feed were it not for your da. Surely he has had some pleasure of his mate other than just children.” Gorawen laughed knowingly.

“Teach me all you know, Mother,” Averil said eagerly. “Some say you are a witch with all your knowledge of herbs and potions. I would learn all you are willing to share with me.”

“Humph!” Gorawen sniffed. “Fools! I gained my wisdom in my father’s house at my grandmother’s knee. She thought that because I had no dower it might be an advantage to me wherever life would lead me. And it certainly has been.” She bent her head and pointed.

“The seeds from the wild carrot, mashed into a paste and formed into a pellet that can be taken each day will prevent conception, Averil. It is not wise for a woman to have babies too quickly. Two years between each child is healthy.”

“Why did you have no more children, Mother?” Averil asked.

“If I had borne a son before Argel it would have made all our lives difficult,” Gorawen explained. “And your father did not need more daughters. Three was enough.”

“You prevented Ysbail from having other children, didn’t you?” Averil said with great certainty.

Gorawen smiled, but neither did she confirm or deny her daughter’s suspicions. “Here, this is sparagus. The best stalks are those with their heads turned downward towards the earth. They have two uses. Alleviating constipation, or stimulating romantic relations. You must add a little seasoning to them after boiling or they can cause the fibers of the stomach to be damaged. A pinch of salt is enough.”

“Its uses are quite varied,” Averil noted.

Gorawen laughed. “Yes,” she agreed, “they are.”

“How does it affect romantic relations?” Averil asked.

“You boil the stalks until they are just tender, with the salt, and then you serve them in a dish of melted butter,” Gorawen said. “The sight of a woman slowly eating the sparagus, licking the stalks with her tongue, sucking upon the stumps, stimulates a manhood greatly. When you do this before your husband he will imagine you are licking his stalk, and sucking upon it.”

“Ohh!” Averil exclaimed, and she blushed. “I never realized . . .” Her voice trailed off as she blushed once more.

“You will not discuss what I tell you or teach you with either of your sisters. Junia is too young for such knowledge, and as for Maia, it is up to her mother to enlighten her. Now, with regard to a husband’s manhood, you must be absolutely certain it is clean before you touch it. Most men do not bathe regularly, but you must make certain that your husband does. Wash him yourself, which he will enjoy, or bathe with him, which is even more pleasurable,” Gorawen said. “In the finest castles and keeps the hostess is responsible for bathing her guests of honor. That is how the daughters of the house learn. Here at Dragon’s Lair, however, we have no guests. There is no reason for anyone to come here.” She paused a moment to think, and then Gorawen continued. “Both you and Maia must learn the art of bathing a man. I will speak to Argel about it. I believe you should practice on your brother, Brynn.”

“Wash Brynn?” Averil was scandalized. “That little heathen never bathes, Mother, and except in the summer when he swims in the stream I think water never touches his skin.”

“Well,” Gorawen said, rising from the garden, “you and Maia have to learn how to properly wash a male. Brynn and your father are the only men of rank at Dragon’s Lair, and I do not think it proper that you wash Merin.” Then, forgetting Averil entirely, she hurried off to find Argel and present her with this problem.

Argel was in the hall of the keep, working at her loom. She was weaving a tapestry depicting King Arthur’s marriage to his wife, Guinevere. The other of Merin Pendragon’s concubines, Ysbail, was with her, sorting out threads by color for her embroidery frame. They looked up as Gorawen entered the hall.

“The girls must learn to bathe a man,” Gorawen began. “Here, our Lord Merin is beginning to consider husbands for Averil and Maia, and they are lacking in the basic knowledge needed and known by the most common goodwife!”

“Marriages for Averil and Maia?” Ysbail screeched. “What of my daughter?”

“Junia is too young yet,” Argel said, ending any argument. “First our lord will seek a match for Averil, for she is the eldest. It must be a very good match if Maia is to have an even better one. And these two marriages will determine what kind of matches can be made for Junia and Brynn.”

“Of course,” Ysbail said slowly. Then she added, “Our good lord had best work quickly, for Averil is really getting too old to match. I want to see Junia wed at thirteen.”

“Averil’s beauty will make up for her age,” Gorawen said through gritted teeth.

“Averil is the perfect age to wed,” Argel noted quietly. “But Gorawen is correct. The girls are well versed in housekeeping, but know little of common hospitality or courtesy towards a guest. This lack must be remedied quickly.”

“We’ll have to use Brynn,” Gorawen said.

Argel and Ysbail burst out laughing.

“I know, I know,” Gorawen said with a grin, “but we have no one else, do we?”

“Nay, we do not,” Argel said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “We will begin this evening. I shall have the large oak tub set up in the hall, and they can begin to learn. Junia may also take part in these lessons. She is not too young for that.”

“Poor Brynn,” Ysbail said.

“He will survive,” Argel said dryly. “And who knows what we will find beneath those several layers of dirt. They’ll have to pick the nits from his head.”

“There is much to learn,” Gorawen said, “as our daughters will soon find out.”

In early evening the tub was brought into the hall and set before a fireplace to be filled with hot water. Cloths for scrubbing, brushes, cloths for drying, and soap were placed on a small table that had been set at the tub’s edge. Averil, Maia and Junia, long aprons over their chemises, were waiting for their brother to be brought into the hall. They looked at each other, and began to giggle as he was dragged in forcibly, howling with his outrage. At eight years of age, Brynn Pendragon was the image of his father. He was tall for a boy of nine, with long gangly limbs, and thick black hair.

Seeing the tub he struggled all the harder. “I’m not taking a bath!” he raged. “Bathing is for weaklings and Norman coxcombs!”

“Shut your gob!” his father roared at him, and he cuffed the boy sharply, stilling his outrage and struggles. “A proper chatelaine of the house always bathes her guests. Your sisters have had no experience in this art as we rarely receive visitors. You and I are the only men of rank here, and I don’t intend on allowing my daughters to wash me. I am not yet that feeble. So ’tis you, my son, who will submit with good grace, or I’ll beat the hide off of you. I am about to seek a husband for Averil and then Maia. Would you have them disgrace the name of Pendragon by being ill-mannered in matters of hospitality?”

Brynn said nothing, but he was still now. He had received one or two beatings from his father in recent years. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

“Do you never change your clothing?” Averil said as she came up to him, and began to peel his garments from the boy’s frame. “Ewww! And you stink, little brother! For shame! You are a noble’s son, and should have more care of your person.” She handed the boy’s clothing to Maia and Junia, instructing them to toss them in the fire.

“That’s my favorite sherte!” the boy protested.

“You could poison soup with it, you heathen,” Averil scolded him.

Their father and his women chuckled, but made no move to stop her.

When the lad was brought naked Argel said, “He should stand in the tub, lasses, while he is thoroughly washed. Then he is to sit in the water while the nits are picked from his head prior to washing his hair.”

The three girls set about to bathe their brother, scrubbing him vigorously until his skin was pink again.

“Do we wash all of him?” Maia inquired nervously.

“All!” the three mothers chorused.

Maia looked at her little brother’s masculine apendage, then her eyes met Averil’s.

“You do it,” she said. “He is my brother.”

“He is my brother, too,” Averil noted, “but I’ll do it today. You will have to do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Brynn yelped! “You’re going to do this tomorrow, too?”

His mother laughed. “Every other day until the girls can bathe you properly. I’m sorry, Brynn, but they must learn. If we had guests they would have already learned, but we are so isolated here in the Welshry, and only those with business at Dragon’s Lair come to Dragon’s Lair.”

Averil took up the washing cloth, soaped it heavily and washed her brother’s male member, pushing the foreskin on it up to wash beneath the skin. Her hands moved quickly and efficiently beneath him to soap his seed pouch. She splashed water on him, rinsing the foam away. “That wasn’t so bad,” she noted to Maia.

“A grown man’s equipment will be bigger, lasses,” their father warned them.

“Sit down,” Maia instructed her brother, and when the boy had, the three girls began picking the nits from his head and hair.

He squealed as their fingers dug sharply into his scalp and pulled along the locks of his black hair. “Ouch! Have a care, sisters! Ouch!”

“Your hair is filthy, Brynn,” Averil told him. “You are old enough to know you need to wash it, and yourself, regularly.”

“Too much bathing is not good, the priest says,” he told them. “He says it is a vanity to wash too much.”

“Listen to the priest in matters concerning your soul, my son,” Merin Pendragon advised, “but where the body is concerned, listen to your women. You’ll get a lot farther with the lasses smelling like a rose than like a dung heap.”

The three sisters were finally satisfied with their nitpicking, and poured a dish of water over Brynn’s head. He gasped and sputtered, but they paid him no mind, instead lathering his head with the rich soap, rinsing it, washing and rinsing it a final time. Then they yanked him up, ordering him to step from the tub onto a cloth, which he did. The three girls then set about drying their brother off.

“Get in between his toes,” Gorawen suggested.

Finally, Brynn Pendragon was cleaner than the day he had been born. “I smell like a flower,” he grumbled.

Averil handed him a clean sherte. “You can roll in the pig byre on the morrow, little brother,” she told him with a grin. “Then we shall have something worth washing the day after tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” he warned her, glowering.

“Don’t worry, Brynnie, we will,” she answered him in dulcet tones.

“Go seek your bed, my son,” Argel said quietly. “Your father and I would speak with your sisters now.” She kissed the top of his dark damp head.

“Good night, Mother. Good night, aunts. Good night, Da,” the boy said, and left the hall without further protest.

“That was well done, lasses,” Argel praised them, “but your skills will need some refining. Your brother will be bathed every other day until I am satisfied that you are knowledgeable in this. You may go to your beds now. God protect you and give you sweet dreams this night.”

The three sisters curtsied to the lady of the castle, and then each girl kissed her mother, and their father, before leaving the hall. They slept together in a large bed in a room at the top of the keep. Reaching their chamber they removed their skirts and tunics, washed their faces and hands, and cleaned their teeth with a cloth. They took turns brushing each other’s hair out and plaiting their locks into a single braid for the night. Then they climbed into their bed, drawing the curtains about it, and pulling up the fur robe that kept them warm.

For a long time they were silent, and then Averil said, “Did you note our brother’s manhood? It seemed small, though father did say a grown man’s is larger.”

“He isn’t even nine yet,” Maia defended her little brother. “It does get larger, my mother says, when he becomes a man. She wanted me to know that so I wouldn’t be shocked when I had to bathe a man.”

“How big does it get?” Junia wondered. “It seems to me a useless piece of flesh, dangling there between Brynn’s legs. What use has it other than to pee?”

The two older girls giggled.

“My mother says when roused the manhood grows in length and thickness. It becomes as stiff as a piece of wood,” Maia said.

“Why?” Junia demanded to know.

“Because, you goose, the man puts it into you, and makes a baby. If it were all flaccid he could not do it,” Averil said.

“Where does he put it?” Junia asked, fascinated.

“We’ll show you,” Averil replied, making eye contact with Maia, who, leaning over, held her little sister down while Averil pushed up her chemise, and put a finger on Junia’s hairless little slit. She pushed the fingertip past the two nether lips, saying, “It goes in there. Deep. I don’t want to put my finger any farther lest I damage you, Sister.”

Junia’s eyes were wide with both surprise and shock as her older sister pulled her chemise back down again. “Where I pee?” she gasped.

“Nay, not there. There is an opening farther along. That is where the manhood is lodged, little one,” Averil explained.

“Does it hurt?” Junia wondered.

“My mother says the first time it does, for the manhood shatters your maidenhead, which is hidden within you,” Maia said. “But after that, she says, when the girl has been made a woman, there is pleasure if a man is skilled. She says our father is very skilled, and wishes the same happiness for all of us.”

“I wonder who our husbands will be.” Junia sighed.

“That is something you won’t have to think about for a while,” Maia told her. “Averil will be the first of us to wed, and it must be soon, for she is fifteen on the last day of this month. And then I will be wed, probably next year sometime if Da can find the right husband for me. But you aren’t quite eleven, Junia. You have several more years before a husband will be chosen for you, and you are wed.”

“I shall miss you both when you are gone!” Junia replied.

Averil laughed. “But you will have this bed all to yourself, and you know you have always wanted that. You are forever complaining that Maia and I crowd you, and kick.”

“But I will be so very lonely,” Junia responded. “I shall have no one to talk with before I go to sleep. Or to remind me to say my prayers. And I really like sleeping in the middle between you both.”

“Well, you will have us both for a while, chick,” Averil said, giving her little sister a kiss on the cheek. “Now, let us all settle down. I am fair exhausted from bathing our brother this evening.”

“Gentle Mary, may you and your son, Jesu, watch over us this night,” Maia said.

“May angels guard us through the dark hours,” Junia replied.

“And bring us safely to another day so we may walk in the path that God has set out for us to walk in,” Averil concluded. “Amen.”

After a few moments of restlessness the three sisters slept.

The Dragon Lord's Daughters

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