The Dragon Lord's Daughters

by Bertrice Small

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Her pale skin grew beet red with embarrassment.

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

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

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

  “It isn’t right!” she cried low.

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

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

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

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

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

  “You?” She was surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 5

  When Averil and her husband entered the hall of the Dragon Lord they found their entire family gathered and waiting. Normally the main meal of the day would have been served at the noon hour, but a messenger sent ahead of Merin Pendragon had warned the keep of the master’s return. The lady Argel had therefore postponed the dinner, and the cook had had time to add more dishes, for the men with their lord would eat far more than the household of women and children he had been feeding. The order of their seating had been prearranged. Averil and Rhys, the feast’s guests of honor, were placed to the left and the right of the Dragon Lord. The lady Argel sat to the bride’s left followed by Roger Mortimer, Maia and Ysbail. To the bridegroom’s left was Gorawen, Lord Mortimer, Brynn Pendragon, and Junia.

  By chance there was a traveling monk from the Cistercian order who had begged a night’s shelter from the Dragon Lord. He offered up a blessing for the meal and the young couple. Rhys FitzHugh was surprised when the servants set polished pewter plates and matching spoons before each diner. He had never seen such plates although he had heard of them. He noted the diners in the hall below the high board had the usual trenchers of bread. The servants then brought about the courses for the high board upon silver platters. There was trout broiled and set upon a bed of watercress. There was capon and venison, both roasted, and a rabbit pie in brown gravy. The last of the summer peas was served. Fresh bread, still warm from the ovens, and sweet butter were placed upon the table while other servants poured wine into the pewter cups at each place. When all had been consumed a final course of cheeses, p
ears, sugar wafers and jellies was brought forth and set upon the high board.

  When the meal had been at last finished the guests at the high board washed their hands and face in bowls of scented water brought forth by the servants. Below the high board other servants were gathering up the bread trenchers, which would be distributed to the few poor gathered at the door to the kitchen garden. Lord Mortimer was impressed with Merin Pendragon’s hospitality and gentility, which was every bit as fine as his many English friends. And in some instances even better.

  Now the Dragon Lord’s daughters got up to entertain the guests. Like most of the Welsh they were musical by inclination. Averil played upon the telyn, which was a Celtic type of harp. Maia, the pibgorn, a reed instrument peculiar to the Welsh. Junia favored the recorder, which she alternated with a small drum painted with a design, and the cymbalum, or bells, which were shaken in time with the music. She was the most skilled musician of the three sisters.

  Outside the hall the day had now waned, and the twilight was followed by the night. All evidence of the meal was now gone from the high board, and the tables below it were set against the walls with their benches atop them. The large fire pit blazed, taking the damp chill off the evening. The rushes had been swept away, and the keep’s dogs lay sprawled by the warmth of the hearth snoring, as the men talked among themselves.

  Gorawen moved discreetly to her daughter’s side. “It is time for me to escort you to your bed, Averil,” she murmured low. “Keep playing,” she instructed the other two girls.

  Averil stood up quietly, her fingers sliding over her telyn’s strings in a brief finish. Her sisters quickly took up a more spritely tune thereby distracting the others from Averil’s departure. Following her mother, she left the hall. “Where are we going?” she asked her parent.

  “To your chamber in the tower where you dressed earlier,” Gorawen replied. “The lady Argel and I prepared it for you and your bridegroom this afternoon. You will have privacy for your wedding night, daughter.”

  “But what of Lord Mortimer and his son?” Averil inquired.