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 wi
ll 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 b
etter 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.
The Dragon Lord's Daughters Page 8