The Dragon Lord's Daughters

by Bertrice Small

  “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 M
ortimer 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!”