Читать книгу The Dragon Lord's Daughters - Bertrice Small - Страница 9

Chapter 2

Godwine FitzHugh lay dying, his bastard son, Rhys, and his only legitimate heir, a six-year-old girl, by his side. “I trust you to look after Mary,” he gasped. “You are all she has now.” His gnarled hand clutched at his grown son.

“You know I will protect her, Father,” Rhys said quietly.

“Have her pledge her fealty to the Mortimers, and you also,” the dying man continued. He glared with dimming sight at the other man in the room. “Priest! You have heard my wishes. My son will have charge over my daughter, and over Everleigh. You must swear it before the Mortimers. Do you give me your promise?” His hands moved restlessly over the coverlet, plucking it nervously.

“I do, my lord,” the priest replied.

Godwine FitzHugh turned his attention to his children again. “Find an heiress, Rhys, marry, and get children on her quickly. Make a good match for Mary.”

“Aye, Father, I will do my best,” Rhys FitzHugh swore. But as he swore it he was thinking that obtaining a wife would probably be impossible. He had nothing to offer any woman. And an heiress? He almost laughed aloud. His father meant well. He had given him his own name, and raised him, for his mother had died at his birth. So had his half sister’s mam. His father wed late in life, having spent his earlier years keeping the peace for the king here in the Marches between England and Wales. His own birth was the result of his father’s youthful passion for Rhys’s mother.

“Steal your bride, lad,” his father whispered.

“What?” Surely he hadn’t heard correctly. He looked questioningly at his sire.

The old man grinned, looking like a death’s head as he did so. “Find a propertied lass, steal her and take her virginity,” he repeated. “The family will have to agree to a match if you do that, my son. I know your birth is against you and for that I apologize.”

“There is no honor in such an act,” Rhys murmured to his sire.

“Don’t be a fool, lad. You cannot afford to be honorable in this matter. You need a wife, and stealing one is the only way you will get a lass. Bride stealing is not really dishonorable, Rhys. It is done all the time.”

His son laughed ruefully, and then he nodded. “I will have no other choice, I suppose, if I want legitimate sons,” he said softly.

Again the death’s head grin flashed briefly. Then Godwine held out his hand to his daughter. “Take my hand, Mary, and swear on the FitzHugh name that you will obey your brother until you are wed, and bring no shame upon our name.”

The little girl took the cold, emaciated hand in her small plump one. “I promise, Father,” she said solemnly. “And I shall never send Rhys from Everleigh no matter my husband. He shall always be bailiff here. I swear it on the Blessed Virgin’s name.”

“Good,” her father replied. “Now give me a final kiss, my daughter, and leave me to die, for I shall not live to see the sunset this day.”

Mary FitzHugh bent and kissed her sire’s thin and chilly lips. “Godspeed you, my lord. I shall always pray to the Blessed Mother and our Lord Jesu for your good soul.” She curtsied and then, turning, left the room.

“Priest! Shrive me and give me the last rites of Holy Mother Church. Then you will leave me with my son,” Godwine FitzHugh commanded the cleric.

The priest did not argue, doing as he was bid as Rhys FitzHugh knelt nearby, his dark head bent. Finished, the priest bade his master farewell, and exited the death chamber.

“Come and sit by my side,” the lord of Everleigh manor said to his son. “Your presence comforts me.”

Rhys FitzHugh brought a chair by the draped bed, and sat.

“I would have married your mother, you know,” his father said, “but that she died giving you life. Her family was worthy of mine.”

“I am content,” Rhys assured the dying man.

“You should have inherited Everleigh,” Godwine FitzHugh said regretfully.

“Aye,” Rhys agreed, “but that was not the way my fate was to be played out. You have been a good father to me, my lord. I have no complaint.”

“I can leave you naught, for what silver I have must be kept for Mary’s dower. My lands are not so great, my son, that I could spare you the coin.” It was said with true regret.

“Then I shall certainly have to steal an heiress bride,” his son said with a small smile on his usually stern face.

“The Pendragon girl!” his father said suddenly. “In the Welshry. She probably has no lands, for there is a brother, but she has a good dower the rumor goes. Her father might spare some of his pastures for her. His own heir is just a bit older than Mary. The family claims descent from King Arthur. She would be a good match. Not so highborn as to be able to cause trouble with the king, or with the prince of the Welsh. Take her, breach her, and her sire will make the match. He dare not do otherwise.” Then Godwine FitzHugh fell silent, and at last he drifted into a quiet sleep from which he did not arouse again.

Listening to his father’s last few breaths, Rhys FitzHugh gazed through the chamber window. The sun was near to setting. Finally, he arose, and taking a small polished piece of metal he held it above his father’s face. There was not the slightest hint of breath upon it. Godwine FitzHugh was dead. His son bent and gave his sire a final kiss upon his forehead. Then he went to call the serving women to help his sister prepare the old man’s body for the grave. The lord of Everleigh would lie in state in his own hall the night, while his two children held vigil over him. His serfs and freedmen would be allowed until midday the next morning to pay their respects, and then Godwine FitzHugh would be buried.

The body was prepared in its shroud, and set upon its bier with tall footed iron candlesticks placed at each corner. Two kneelers with cushions were brought into the hall, and Rhys and his younger sister, Mary, knelt in prayer. As the night hours crept by, Rhys watched the child carefully, but her back was straight, and her shoulders did not slump with the weariness he knew the little girl must feel. Pride surged through him. His father had not had to tell him to watch over Mary. He had adored her from the moment of her birth.

The dawn came, and the servants came into the hall, rebuilding the fires that were almost out; bringing a meal. Rhys arose stiffly, shaking each of his legs in turn to ease them. He raised his sister to her feet. “Time to break our fast, little one,” he told her.

“We cannot tarry,” she said dutifully. “Our people will be coming. It would not be respectful to father to be eating when they arrive.”

“Hawkins will not allow any in until we have taken some nourishment,” he assured his sister, but he knew she was right. She already wore the mantle of Everleigh.

They ate, and then Mary stood at the entry to the hall with her brother, greeting by name each serf, each freedman and -woman who came to pay their father respect. At midday the coffin was nailed shut and removed from the bier to be taken to the manor church where the mass was said. Then trailed by her brother, and the Everleigh folk, Mary FitzHugh followed her father’s coffin to the family cemetery where he was buried. And when it was over she collapsed and was carried home by her devoted brother and put to bed where she slept until the following morning.

Two days later Edmund Mortimer, the overlord of the region, arrived with one of his sons, Roger, who was Rhys’s friend. He was ushered into the hall of Everleigh and seated in the chair of honor. Mary FitzHugh came to him, and kneeling placed her tiny hands in his, swearing her oath of loyalty to him, and through him, to the king. When she had finished, and been helped to her feet by her brother, Rhys then knelt and gave his pledge to Lord Mortimer as well.

“What provision has been made for you both?” Lord Mortimer asked.

“Fetch the priest,” Rhys told a servant. Then he turned to Lord Mortimer. “Our father spoke to the priest of his intentions in the presence of my sister and me, my lord.”

Father Kevyn came, and when asked by Lord Mortimer of Godwine FitzHugh’s intentions said, “My late lord put his daughter into the care of her half brother whom he knew would give his life, if need be, for the demoiselle Mary. He is to care for her, make a match for her when she is old enough, and husband Everleigh as if it were his own. There is also some small silver for a dower.”

“And for his loyal son?” Lord Mortimer asked.

The priest shook his head. “There was some advice given to Rhys FitzHugh, but nothing more.”

Lord Mortimer nodded, understanding. If there had been no little sister Godwine FitzHugh would have probably left his estate to his bastard. But the girl was his legitimate heiress. She could not be overlooked. “What advice did your father give you, Rhys FitzHugh?” Lord Mortimer asked.

“He suggested I steal an heiress bride, my lord,” Rhys answered honestly.

“And will you?” Lord Mortimer was smiling with amusement, but it was strangely good advice, for there was little else left for the young man.

“I must think on it, my lord,” came the careful answer.

Lord Mortimer laughed. “It may be that your sire gave you excellent advice, young Rhys FitzHugh. How old are you now?”

“Five and twenty, my lord.”

“You should not wait too long to take a mate. Your seed is at its best right now for making sons. Have you sired any children yet?” Lord Mortimer nodded to the servant who placed a goblet of wine in his hand.

“Under the circumstances I thought it wiser not to, my lord,” Rhys answered.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Mortimer agreed, drinking down his wine. Then he arose and turned to Mary. “Your brother will, I know, take the best of care of you, demoiselle, but should you ever need my counsel or aid, you have but to send to me.” He took up her small hand and kissed it, bowing as he did so to the little girl.

“And when you need my aid, my lord,” Mary answered him, “I will do my duty as your liege woman.” She curtsied to him.

“I should expect no less of you, Mary FitzHugh,” Lord Mortimer replied.

“I would remain to visit Rhys, Father,” Roger Mortimer said.

Lord Mortimer nodded, and then he was gone from the hall.

“When are we going bride stealing?” Roger asked his friend with a grin.

“For God’s good mercy, Rog, I have just buried my father,” Rhys answered him.

“I shall leave you, brother,” Mary said with a small smile. “I am learning to make soap today.” She curtsied, and left the two men.

“My father is right,” Roger Mortimer said. “You cannot wait too long. Certainly your sire, God assoil him, would not want you to wait.”

“He said I should steal the Pendragon girl in the Welshry,” Rhys answered.

“ ’Tis as good a choice as any,” Roger agreed. “Her father’s family claim their descent from King Arthur. Merin Pendragon has a son, but he’s also got plenty of coin and cattle for a daughter. When shall we go?”

Rhys laughed. “I don’t know if it is an honorable thing to do, Rog,” he replied. “To steal a maiden so her father will be forced to make a marriage and settlement on the girl does not seem right to me.”

“Bah! Bride stealing is done all the time. You haven’t got a choice. I’ll wager your old sire didn’t even leave you so much as a silver piece. He left you with all the responsibility for your sibling, and Everleigh, and naught but a bleak future.”

“I will remain as Mary’s bailiff,” Rhys said.

“Perhaps, but when Mary weds, Everleigh becomes her husband’s property. He could have a poor relation who he will want to make bailiff here. Mary may want to please him. Then where will you be? A dowered bride is the answer to all your difficulties, Rhys. With her silver you can find a small piece of property for your own so when Mary weds one day, you and your wife will have your own home to go to and be happy,” Roger Mortimer concluded.

“You have my life all settled, then,” Rhys said with a smile. “Perhaps I should prefer to go crusading when Mary is grown and settled,” he suggested.

“You’ll be too old then,” Roger said. “Crusading is difficult work.”

“So I must steal an heiress bride,” Rhys said.

“We’ll go tomorrow to scout out Pendragon’s keep and see if we can gain a glimpse of his daughter,” Roger said enthusiastically.

“Nay, we will not. My father is only just buried. Mary and I need time to mourn in peace. A stolen girl will not bring peace into our hall. She will certainly wail, and weep until the matter is settled between her father and me.”

“A week,” Roger Mortimer said. “I will give you a week. And do not argue. Both my father, and yours, would agree.” He grinned. “I wonder what she’s like.”

“Who?” Rhys replied.

“The Pendragon wench. For your sake I hope she is round and sweet.”

Rhys laughed. “Mayhap she’s too young to steal,” he suggested mischievously.

“We’ll steal her anyway,” Roger responded. “If she’s too young to breach she will be easier to train to your ways. You can win her over with sweetmeats and ribbons.

“If she’s ready to be mated then you will have to charm her, and overcome her maidenly fears with kisses. Either way a girl can always be gotten around, Rhys.”

“You sound so damned knowledgeable, Rog,” came the reply, “but I don’t see you wed yet.”

“Mayhap the Pendragon girl will have a sister,” Roger Mortimer said with a deep, wry chuckle.

“Come back in a week,” Rhys FitzHugh told his friend. “But leave Mary and me to our small mourning now.”

Roger Mortimer departed, returning exactly a week later with a dozen young men from his father’s estates, all mounted upon good horseflesh. “I thought we should have company,” he told the astounded Rhys. “It will be far more impressive to have a lord with a troop of men-at-arms at his back steal Pendragon’s daughter than just two fellows on horseback,” he explained.

“You’re mad!” Rhys answered him, half laughing.

“Get your horse,” Roger Mortimer responded. “ ’Tis time to go bride stealing.”

“I don’t know,” Rhys demured. “It seems so drastic a step, Rog.”

“Your own father suggested it, and what other choice do you have?” his friend reminded him. “Perhaps some freedman’s daughter? A step up for her, but a step down for you. Get your horse, Rhys, and let’s get on with this matter. The sooner the deed is done, the sooner your future is secured.”

“We could fail. What if the girl is well guarded?” Rhys considered.

“We’ll never know unless we ride over into the Welshry and survey the situation for ourselves,” Roger Mortimer replied sensibly.

Rhys FitzHugh nodded. “Let me speak to Mary first,” he said.

“Hurry!” Roger answered him, grinning.

Rhys found his sister in the solar of their stone keep. “I have to go out,” he said. “I may be gone a day or two, dearling. Rhawn will look after you, and you have Father Kevyn, too.”

“I hope she’s pretty, and amenable,” Mary said sweetly.

“Who?” Rhys feigned innocence.

“Your heiress bride,” Mary replied, giggling. “Do you think some handsome man will steal me one day, Brother?”

“He had best not,” Rhys responded. “I should have to kill him if he did. You will be properly matched, Mary.”

“Why is Pendragon’s daughter not properly matched, then?” Mary wondered.

“They are Welsh, and half savage,” Rhys told his little sister. “Who knows why they do what they do.”

“Why, then, would you steal a girl like that?” Mary said, curious.

“Because her family, while rich in cattle and other livestock, is not an important family. They may be angered by my actions, but they will not complain too loudly, and the girl will be decently matched. As for her brother, he is too young to fight me, I am told. He is not much older than you are, dearling. Now give me a kiss and let me go, for Roger and a troop of his father’s men are waiting for me.”

“Do the Welsh really eat children?” Mary asked him nervously.

“Nay.” Rhys laughed. “Who told you that?”

“Rhawn says they do,” Mary replied.

“Rhawn is an ignorant old crone,” Rhys said. “If she tells you many more stories like that I shall have to beat her. You may tell her that I said so.” He bent down and kissed his little sister’s lips quickly. “Prepare the guest chamber for the bride while I am gone, Mary.”

“I will, Rhys. God go with you and bring you home safe to Everleigh,” Mary said. She kissed her brother’s cheek and gave him a sweet smile.

The big dappled gray stallion he rode was waiting eagerly for him in the courtyard of the keep. Rhys mounted it, and then looked to Roger Mortimer. “Do you know where we are going?” he asked his friend. “I surely don’t.”

“I know the way.” Roger chuckled.

The first thing Rhys noticed as they rode away was that the horses hooves had been wrapped lightly to prevent the sound of their passing. None of the animals was a light color, and the men were garbed in sober hues that would not draw attention. While the countryside was scantily populated, a large party would always draw attention, but these men rode seemingly without weapons, nor could the thick leather vests they wore beneath their tunics and capes be seen. A sharp eye would have understood it was a raiding party, shutting their door quickly and praying it passed them by.

The first night they camped at twilight, for the days were growing longer with the onset of spring. They carried barley cakes, strips of dried beef, and flasks with water. They lit a small fire to deter the wild beasts, the men taking turns at the watch through the night. In the morning they rode out again. Merin Pendragon’s keep was but a half day’s journey farther. As the sun reached the midpoint in the heavens they stood looking at Dragon’s Lair, which was set upon a low hill across the flower strewn field that lay at the foot of the hill upon which their horses were now standing. The field was dotted with fat cattle.

“Oh, she’ll be very well dowered,” Roger said softly. “There’s a lushness and richness about this place unlike any other I’ve seen in the Welshry. Look about you, Rhys. The rest of it is mountainous and rough upland such as we have traveled through. How did this Pendragon gain such a fine land? Mayhap the fairy who was his ancestor gave it to him.”

“I thought he was descended from King Arthur,” Rhys replied.

“He is, but his ancestor’s mother was part fairy, they say, and Merlin the sorcerer brought her to this place, and together they raised up this keep we see by means of magic. Then Merlin put a spell upon these lands that they would always be fertile, and that the Pendragons would thrive. That is how the story goes, I have been told.”

“While I am willing to believe that Pendragon’s family descends from King Arthur, I am loath to think there are any fairies in the family tree.” Rhys laughed. “ ’Tis a child’s fable. There are no such things as fairies.”

Roger chuckled. “Perhaps you are right,” he replied, “but look there, in that stand of willows by the stream. Three maidens, and one with golden hair that seems more magical than real. Do you think one of them is Pendragon’s daughter?”

“Let us ride down and ask,” Rhys suggested. Turning, he said to the men behind him, “Make yourselves discreet, lads. We don’t want to frighten the little dears. Rog and I will ride down and introduce ourselves.”

Together the two young men rode slowly down the rise, moving as they did closer and closer to the stream with its willow grove. The trio of lasses looked up as the riders moved their mounts at a leisurely pace across the little brook. The look was a wary one.

“Is this Dragon’s Lair?” Rhys asked politely.

“Aye, it is,” the tallest of the three said.

He noticed that she was easing the two younger girls behind her as she spoke. Clever girl, he thought to himself. “I am Rhys FitzHugh of Everleigh, and my companion is Roger Mortimer, Lord Mortimer’s son. Will you not introduce yourself, demoiselle?”

“Have you business with my father?” Averil asked Rhys.

“You are Pendragon’s daughter?” he answered her with the query. Jesu! She was beautiful! Obviously, his luck was about to change.

“I am,” Averil said. Then she turned and said to her companions, “Run home, and tell the lady Argel that we have two guests.”

As Maia and Junia turned to go, Roger Mortimer moved his stallion between them and their path, blocking their route. The two young girls looked up at him startled, and he saw fear coming into their eyes. “I will not harm you, demoiselles,” he reassured them, “but it is not quite time for you to run home.”

“What are you doing?” Averil demanded, seeing his actions.

“You are Pendragon’s daughter,” Rhys repeated, thinking she was very beautiful.

“Aye, I am Pendragon’s daughter,” she answered him impatiently. “My name is Averil.” Why was he asking her the same question over and over again?

Rhys FitzHugh moved his horse as close to her as he could, and reaching down he wrapped a hard arm about her slender waist, quickly lifting a very surprised Averil up onto his mount before him. “You will come with me, then, Pendragon’s daughter,” he said. And turning his animal about he moved swiftly across the stream, then put his horse into a canter, calling as he did so, “Roger!”

Roger Mortimer grinned down at the two startled girls. “Now, lasses, you may run home and tell the Dragon Lord that Rhys FitzHugh of Everleigh Manor has taken his daughter. He may come to Everleigh to discuss marriage terms at his convenience, of course.” Wheeling his own horse about, Roger Mortimer followed his friend.

Averil had at first been stunned by what had happened. Now, galvanized into action by the sight of the keep growing smaller behind her she shrieked aloud, causing Rhys’s mount to rear up in his flight. She began to pound at her captor with her clenched fists. “Villian! Put me down this instant! How dare you lay hands on me! My father will punish you for this outrage! Put me down!”

Struggling to keep his startled horse under control while hanging onto this raging shrew was almost too much for him. The girl came close to falling to the ground although he doubted that she realized it. “Stop struggling, lady!” he commanded her in a stern voice, attempting to tighten his grip on her.

Averil looked directly at him, and reaching up, clawed at his face with both of her little hands.

“Oww!” he yelped as he felt her sharp fingernails breaking the skin. Yanking his animal to a sudden halt he quickly repositioned his captive, forcing her facedown across his saddle before moving on again.

Averil howled in fury at this new outrage. “Are you trying to kill me, you monster?” she yelled at him. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He ignored her question as he gained the top of the hill again where Lord Mortimer’s men were waiting for him and Roger. “Take the lady and tie her hands together, put her on the horse we brought, then bind her ankles so she may no longer injure herself or me,” he ordered the nearest Mortimer man-at-arms as he tossed the girl from his saddle. His hand went to his face. The little bitch had blooded him!

Averil found herself on her rump in the grass. Faster than they might have anticipated she scrambled to her feet and attempted to run back down the hill. Rhys jumped from his own mount, tackling her almost immediately. He then hauled her kicking and screaming in her barbaric Welsh tongue back to where a gentle gelding was waiting saddled for her. Hoisting her onto the creature’s back he grabbed both of her wrists in an iron grip. “Bind her!” he yelled, and was instantly obeyed, one man wrapping a strip of narrow leather about her wrists, while another tied her ankles together beneath the horse.

Averil screamed at the top of her lungs, and was rewarded by having a slender piece of silk brought for the occasion being tied about her mouth to gag her. The girl’s green eyes glared furiously at her captors, and the man tying her wrists crossed himself when he had finished, so fierce was the look she gave him.

“Best to hurry,” Roger said. “Those two little lasses are running swiftly. Pendragon and his men will be upon us quickly. ’Tis best we put as much distance as we can between ourselves and them. If we can outrun them the rest of the day, we’ll escape them tomorrow, I’m certain.”

Rhys nodded, and remounting his stallion took the lead rein he was handed. Then they galloped off, heading for the English area of the Marches. Roger and the men followed. They did not stop for several hours. In late afternoon they heard the sound of a pursuing troop behind them, but those following were not yet in sight. The man they had sent ahead galloped up.

“Up ahead!” he said. “There is shelter. Hurry!”

“We’ll hide,” Roger Mortimer told the men-at-arms. “You go ahead and lead them astray for us, but for mercy’s sake, don’t get caught!”

“I’ll leave two men with you, my lord. Your father would skin me alive if I didn’t,” the captain said, nodding at the two men by his side. Then, without waiting for an answer, the captain and the rest of the troop galloped speedily off.

The scout was one of the two men-at-arms. He brought them to the ruins of what had obviously been a religious house, and dismounting, the men led their horses, and their captive, into the half collapsed wreck of a farm building. Averil’s leg bonds were released, and she was dragged, struggling, to a pile of moldering hay, and secreted beneath Rhys’s dark cloak while he sat upon her to still her fruitless attempts at escape. And they waited.

They could hear the baying of hounds and the thunder of horses’ hooves coming nearer and nearer. There were shouts, and the sounding of a horn. The horses with them stirred nervously, but were soothed by the three other men so they did not whinny to alert their pursuers. And then the sounds of pursuit moved on by them, and soon it was quiet once again.

“They’re gone,” Roger said.

“They’re sure to return this way,” Rhys replied. “I smell rain on the wind. It may be safer remaining here. I don’t want to begin our journey again only to meet the lady’s outraged father returning home, and have no place to hide her. Do you think your father’s men can outrun the Welsh?”

“Aye. They’ll have no trouble. Pendragon is unlikely to even catch sight of them except briefly. They’ll be into the Englishry by nightfall, and I doubt the Welsh will follow them there. The Dragon Lord will accept his heiress has been bride-napped and will have to come to make a settlement.”

“We’re not at Everleigh yet,” Rhys said wisely. “I would remain well hidden for now.” He stood up, and as he did he realized his captive had ceased her struggles. He pulled his cloak off her. Averil had fainted. He bent to make certain that she was breathing, sighing with relief at the sight of the rapidly beating pulse in her slender throat.

“Nay, you didn’t kill her.” Roger chuckled. “She is a beauty, isn’t she? What luck you have had, Rhys!”

“Aye, she’s pretty enough,” he admitted. What had he done? He had stolen this highborn girl from her family, and the possibility of a good match with some nobleman. He was a baseborn son, and would never be more than a bailiff. Her family would kill him for this, but the die was cast, and the girl did have the most kissable lips.

“Pretty? She is beautiful! Look at that hair! It’s like spun gold. And her figure, slim, yet nicely rounded where it should be,” Roger enthused. “Her features are very fine, not at all coarse. What a lovely little nose she has. It is straight without a hook on its end or a bump in its slim little bridge. I wonder what color her eyes are.” He sighed. “Aye, you bagged yourself a truly fair maiden, Rhys.”

They sat and waited until eventually, as the sun was sliding into the long May twilight, they heard the sounds of horses again passing them by, but this time going in the direction of Dragon’s Lair. One of the men-at-arms had slipped out at the first sign of Pendragon’s return, and hidden along the track to make certain of who it was riding by. Finally, when all had been quiet for several long minutes, he returned.

“ ’Twas the Welsh, my lords,” he confirmed. “And the lord of them all was swearing something fierce as they went by.” The man chuckled.

“We’ll wait a bit longer,” Rhys said, “before I remove the lady’s gag so she may eat and drink.” They sat in silence again as the faint rumble of thunder could be heard heralding the approaching storm. Finally, Rhys bent and untied Averil’s gag.

She glared up at him. “You have almost killed me,” she snarled.

“Are you hungry or thirsty?” he asked her, ignoring her complaint.

“I have to pee,” she snapped.

He flushed at her words. But then he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll have to go with you,” he said. “For some reason I do not feel I can trust you.”

“I cannot pee with you standing there watching,” Averil told him. “Put me in that closed stall there. Untie my hands so I can hike my skirts. Then close me in. There is no means of escape there, and I will have my privacy. Or do you wish to embarrass me in some futile attempt to master me?”

“Lady,” he told her, “I have only your best interests at heart.”

Averil sniffed dismissively, and held out her hands to him. He untied them and did as she had bid him, leading her to the closed stall and closing the door behind her. He heard Roger snicker and glared across the glooming of the stable at him.

“I’m finished,” he heard Averil call.

He opened the door and led her out. She moved slowly and stiffly, having been confined for the last several hours. When he had returned her to her place he moved to tie her wrists together again.

“How can I eat if I cannot use my hands?” she demanded of him.

“I do not trust you, lady,” he told her bluntly. “I will feed you myself.” He bound her hands together again.

“I shall be battered and bruised,” Averil told him. “My da will kill you when he catches up with you.”

“Your father has come and gone. He will come to Everleigh sooner than later to make a marriage settlement with me for you, lady. I have stolen you, and you are now mine.”

“I will never be yours, my lord! I should sooner enter a convent than be your wife!” Averil cried. She was furious, for she had never felt so helpless in all of her life.

“Before your father comes, lady, you and I will be well and truly mated. No convent will have you, for you will most certainly not be a virgin,” Rhys said harshly. “Now still your foolish protests or I will consummate this union here this very night before these witnesses.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Averil said, but then seeing the threatening look in his eyes she grew suddenly silent, and sat quietly.

“There is but soldier’s rations,” he half apologized, bringing her a barley cake, which he broke in small pieces and fed her.

“Wine?” Averil demanded.

“Water,” he said, putting his horn flask to her lips.

“Can you not afford wine?” she replied scathingly.

“Do you want the water or not?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Aye. I must remain alive so I can watch while my father kills you slowly for this outrage you have perpetrated upon me,” she said sweetly. Then she drank thirstily.

Roger Mortimer laughed aloud hearing her words. “She has spirit, Rhys. You will breed strong sons on her.”

Averil shot him a look of pure venom, and Roger laughed again. “If you only had a sister, lady,” he said.

“I have two,” she snapped. “ ’Twas my younger siblings with me when you kidnapped me. I am the eldest of Pendragon’s three daughters and a son.”

The May moon had begun to rise through the trees as the twilight deepened into night. The storm that had threatened them earlier had passed over without rain. Averil slept atop Rhys’s cloak, curled into a protective ball. Roger had put his own cloak over her when she had fallen asleep. The five men took turns at the watch while the horses browsed in the grass behind the entrance of the half-standing structure where they sheltered, the moonlight silvering their hides.

When the morning came mist hung in the air, but the blue sky above promised a fair day for their ride. They arose before the sun, ate, drank and attended to their personal needs before starting out once more. By midday they had crossed the invisible border into the Englishry where they found Lord Mortimer’s men waiting to escort them the rest of the way. They arrived at Everleigh in late afternoon. Rhys cut the bonds holding Averil, and lifted her from her horse.

“Welcome home, lady,” he said. “This is Everleigh.” He led her into the house.

“It is yours?” she asked, looking curiously about the hall where they now stood. It could be worse, she thought.

“Nay, it is my sister’s. Mary is our father’s legitimate heir. She is six, and I have charge over her. I am my father’s bastard.”

Averil began to laugh.

“You find that amusing, lady?” he said, half angrily.

“Nay, my lord. I find it an incredible coincidence,” Averil answered him, regaining control over her emotions.

“A coincidence?” he said, his handsome face wearing a look of puzzlement.

“What is coincidental about my birth, lady?”

“I, too, am my father’s bastard,” Averil told him.

“You are Pendragon’s daughter? You said you were!” he cried.

“I am Pendragon’s eldest daughter, born to his concubine Gorawen. Am I not, then, what you sought, my lord?”

“I sought the Pendragon heiress,” he said slowly.

“That, my lord, would be my second sister, Maia,” Averil told him. “The little one with us was Junia, the youngest, who is the child of our father’s other concubine, Ysbail. Oh, dear! You have indeed made an error, haven’t you?” She smiled sweetly at him.

“I will send you back immediately!” Rhys said. This is what came of not following his own instincts, he thought to himself.

“You cannot send her back,” Roger said, shaking his head.

“Why the hell not?” Rhys demanded.

Averil was giggling now.

“Because having stolen her you are bound to wed her lest you bring dishonor upon yourself, your family, upon her, and upon the Pendragon family,” Roger said. He looked to Averil. “Are you in favor with your sire, lady? Will he come for you and settle a bride price on you?”

“My da loves all of his daughters equally well,” Averil said. “As I am the eldest of his children I am probably his favorite. He will dower me when I wed, but I do not intend upon marrying with this buffoon who has kidnapped me! In fact, I shall help da to slaughter you, Rhys FitzHugh of Everleigh, and I shall enjoy every minute of your demise.”

Rhys was struck dumb by the tangled situation, but Roger kept his head. He spoke up again saying, “Lady, you, too, have no choice in this matter. No other man will have you now, nor the church, either. You will be considered tainted goods.”

“But why?” Averil wailed. “Nothing has happened but that this village idiot stole me away. I am as pure as I was before I ever laid eyes on either of you.”

“Lady, your word would not be enough to convince another man. You are a woman. Women lie. And men, caught in impossible situations, lie as well. Neither my word as Rhys’s best friend, nor his, will be accepted in this matter, I fear. You will have to wed one another or both be disgraced forever.”

“Then I shall be disgraced forever!” Averil cried dramatically.

“But I cannot be, for my sister’s sake,” Rhys said slowly. “I will marry you, lady, even if you are not your father’s heiress. Mary’s good name must be protected.”

“I will not marry you!” Averil shouted, and she hurled herself at him, pulling his dagger from his belt and striking at him.

Roger leapt forward and knocked the weapon from her hand, wrestling the girl away from Rhys who was now bleeding from his shoulder. “Be still you little Welsh savage!” he ordered her, calling for the servants with his next breath to attend their master. The servants ran into the hall, and seeing that Rhys was wounded set up a hue and cry. “Attend to his injury,” Roger commanded them. “The blade did not go deep. He is not dying. Give him some wine. God’s wounds, lady, you have blooded him twice now in the last day. Have mercy!”

Rhys, pale now, sat while his wound was treated and bound up by Rhawn, his sister’s nursemaid. “Where is Mary?” he asked her faintly.

“Where this barbarian you have brought back with you cannot harm her,” Rhawn said balefully, glaring at Averil.

“Do not set the evil eye on me, old crone!” Averil snapped. “I have not come willingly with this fool who is your master. And now he has ruined any chance of happiness I might have had by his impetuous actions.”

“I will wed you,” Rhys said, thinking she needed his reassurance.

“Did you not hear me?” Averil said. “I will not marry you.”

“Aye, you will, daughter!” her father’s voice said grimly. And Merin Pendragon entered the hall at Everleigh, his men at his back.