Read The Dragon Lord's Daughters Online
Authors: Bertrice Small
The Dragon Lord's Daughters (4 page)
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.
Chapter
2
2
G
odwine 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.
odwine 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.”
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