The Dragon Lord's Daughters

by Bertrice Small

  “It is a very fine cottage!” Mary said excitedly.

  “And near the village well,” Averil noted. “And it has a small back garden.”

  “There is a bench in front. Rhawn would enjoy sitting and gossiping with her neighbors,” Mary replied. “What do you think, Rhys? I think it is perfect!”

  “So you want to get rid of your old nursie,” her brother teased the child.

  “Yes!” Mary said, unashamed. “I love Rhawn, and I know she loves me, but she never lets me out of her sight if she can help it. I am not allowed to ride, or to learn the things I must know from Averil, for she is jealous of your wife. But I am the lady of this manor, and I must know how to conduct myself properly. I think you very clever, brother, to give Rhawn her freedom, and this cottage.”

  “I will need Rhawn to help me some days,” Averil quickly told the child. “I hope you will not send her away entirely.”

  “If you want her aid you should have it, Averil,” Mary replied. “Yet while I may be a child, even I can see that she has gotten above her station. She is not the lady of this manor. I am. But I hope, Averil, you will take the burden of my duties from me until I am ready to accept them. I know I am too little now.”

  “And yet, Mary, you do know your duties, and you do them well,” Averil said. “Still, if you wish to be a little girl for a while longer I shall be happy to aid you.”

  “Then we are agreed,” Rhys said to them. “Rhawn is to have her freedom from her serfdom, and this cottage for her loyalty to the FitzHughs.”

  “Aye!” Mary and Averil told him.

  They returned to the manor house, and asking Rhawn to join them in the hall they told her of their decision. Instead of the arguments they had expected, Rhawn burst into fulsome tears.

  “But I must protect my child from the Welsh wench,” she cried to Rhys.

  “From what are you protecting me?” Mary said.

  “She wants Everleigh!” Rhawn said.

  “No, I don’t,” Averil spoke up. “Everleigh belongs to Mary FitzHugh. I am but her brother the bailiff’s wife.”

  “You Welsh are known to steal everything that you can,” Rhawn accused.

  “Everleigh is Mary’s, Rhawn,” Rhys said quietly. “Surely you know I love my sister. I would never harm her. If I wanted to steal the manor from her I should put her in a convent not murder her.”

  “You are bewitched by that Welsh witch!” Rhawn accused.

  “I am,” he agreed, and her mouth fell open with surprise. “But my sister is no longer a babe. She needs to ride out each day and get to know her people. She needs to learn the things only Averil can teach her about being a lady. You love her, and keep her too close, but in doing so you do Mary a great disservice, Rhawn. Your loyalty and your hard work have earned you your freedom. It pleases us to give you a cottage for your own wee home. Averil will need your help. Mary has asked her to take over the duties of the lady of the manor until she is old enough for them herself. And it is right that Averil take on these duties, Rhawn, but my wife will need your help. You have lived all your life at Everleigh, and know its ways. Averil does not.”

  “This is what I want, Rhawn, my old dearie,” Mary said, encouraging her servant.

  “I but sought to keep you safe from harm,” Rhawn responded, tears running down her lined face.

  “I know,” Mary told her, “and you have.”

  “Where is this cottage?” Rhawn finally said.

  “I chose it myself,” Mary said with a small smile. “The chimney draws well, the roof, the doors, and the windows are tight, and the thatch is new. It’s in the village. Would you like to go to see it now?” Mary held out her hand to the old nurse. “We can walk. It isn’t far.”

  “Very well,” Rhawn replied, sounding less irritable. She turned to look at Averil and Rhys. “You swear on the Holy Mother’s name that you will do no harm to my child?”

  “Aye, I swear,” Averil said quietly, her gaze meeting the old woman’s directly.

  “And I, also,” Rhys echoed.

  Rhawn nodded her grizzled head. “Very well then, my lord. I accept the gift of my freedom, and the cot you have given me.” Her lips twisted in the first smile Averil had ever seen the old woman give. She took Mary’s small hand in hers. “Show me now, child, before I change my mind,” she said.

  When they were sure she had departed the hall both Rhys and Averil laughed.

  “With a stance like hers,” Averil said, “she had to be freed, husband.”

  “See a mattress is made for her bed quickly, wife,” he told her. “And give her bowls and cups and spoons for her dresser. Whatever she may need that we may be free of her all the sooner.” And he kissed his wife, lifting her up and swinging her about.

  “Put me down, you great fool!” Averil scolded him. “She will come into the house by day. I need her to teach me how to run this household of yours properly so I may teach Mary.”

  “When is our child to be born?” he asked her softly.

  “If all goes well, in May,” Averil said. “But do not speak on it yet lest you bring bad luck upon us.”

  He nodded, understanding. “You are certain?”

  “Aye, but perhaps you might send for my mother who is wise in such things,” Averil suggested to him.

  He agreed, and Gorawen was sent to come from Dragon’s Lair. Arriving, she examined her daughter and concurred that Averil was with child.

  “The babe is well rooted,” she told Rhys. “Your seed is strong, but my daughter’s womb is also a strong safe place. The child will be born in May.”

  “Tell me of my sisters,” Averil begged.

  A small shadow passed over Gorawen’s brow. “Maia had several suitors this summer, but she is not yet interested. Next year when she is fifteen is a better time.”

  “What is it?” Averil asked, sensitive to her mother’s mood.

  “Your father is not pleased that she is so finicky,” Gorawen said.

  “She is simply not ready to give up being a girl yet,” Averil said wisely.

  “It is time for her to wed,” Gorawen said sharply.

  “Maia will do the right thing for Maia,” Averil replied. “Do not fret over her, Mother. Think on the grandchild I am to give you and Da.”

  “Am I not still too young and beautiful to be a grandmother?” Gorawen teased them, and Rhys agreed diplomatically that it was indeed so.

  Gorawen departed, having stayed but a few hours. Merin, she explained, did not like her gone from him for too long.

  Rhawn was pleased with her new state, and to their surprise, with her cottage. She came to the manor house almost every day, but then, as the winter set in, she came less and less. She did not like walking in the wind, the rain, and the snows that fell now and again. Mary rode to visit her one cold winter’s day, and found her old nurse sitting contentedly by her fire sewing.

  “For your brother’s coming infant,” she said. “I can yet serve while in my own cottage, Mary child. Why have you come out in such weather? The rain is icy today. I can see it through the cottage window.”

  “You have not been to the manor in four days, Rhawn. I missed you, and I feared for your safety,” Mary said. Then she sneezed.

  “Ah, you have caught an ague!” the old woman said.

  “Nay, ’tis nothing.” Mary laughed.

  “You cloak is wet,” Rhawn said, spreading it before the fire to dry.

  Mary visited with Rhawn for an hour or more, and then she rode home in the rain. When she arrived she was sneezing again, and her forehead felt hot to Averil’s hand.

  “Foolish child,” Averil scolded her. “You should not have gone out. You did not come to ask me because you knew I should have said nay to you.” She and Dilys stripped Mary of her wet clothing, putting her in a dry chemise, and tucked her into her bed. “Keep the fire going, Dilys,” Averil instructed her servant. “I will brew a healing draught for Mary.”

  But Mary FitzHugh grew sicker as the night wore on. She de
veloped a deep cough in her little chest, which Averil rubbed with a mixture of sheep’s fat and camphor, and then covered with a flannel cloth. Her temperature rose with each passing hour. Averil made barley water, which she strained and, after adding sugar to sweeten it, fed it to Mary. She made a cough syrup of vinegar, honey and finely ground licorice, which she fed to her little sister-in-law to ease her cough. In an effort to bring down the child’s fever she boiled a second batch of barley in spring water, strained the water off into a stone jar, and reboiled the barley once again with more spring water. Then, straining the water into the stone jar with the first batch, she added honey. The mixture was fed to Mary, but still her fever would not cease. Averil wept with her frustration.

  Rhys rode out and fetched Rhawn from her cottage. The old woman came, and seeing the child lying on her bed so flushed with fever, she shook her head.

  “What have you done for her?” she asked Averil.

  Averil told her.

  “All the right things,” Rhawn said, nodding. “ ’Tis my fault. I should not have left her. If she had not ridden out in that icy rain yesterday. Ahh, woe is me!” And she wept.

  Averil found herself putting a comforting arm about the old woman’s shoulders. “Fetch the priest,” she said to her husband.

  Rhys rode to the priest’s house and banged on the door. The priest’s pretty hearth mate opened the portal, and curtsied to the bailiff. “Father Kevyn, come quickly. My sister lies ill and we believe she is dying.”

  The two men rode back from the priest’s house to the manor. Seeing him, Rhawn wept even more. Looking at Mary the priest knew her brother was correct. The child was dying.

  “Mary FitzHugh,” he called gently. “Open your eyes, and tell me you confess all of your sins.”

  Mary opened her blue eyes, focusing on the priest. She smiled weakly and nodded. “I do,” she whispered.

  The priest made the sign of the cross over the child, startled when Mary’s little hand reached out to grasp his sleeve. “What is it my child?” he asked her. “You are indeed forgiven if that is what troubles you. Today you will be in paradise with your own good mother, your father, and our Holy Lord and sweet Mary for whom you were named.”

  “My brother,” Mary whispered.

  “Your brother?” The priest was confused.

  “Everleigh. My brother’s now. Swear!” She then fell into a fit of coughing.

  Father Kevyn digested Mary’s words for a long moment, and then he understood. “You give Everleigh, and all its goods and chattels to your brother, Rhys FitzHugh. Is that it, my child?”

  “Yes!” Mary said, relieved, and then with a great sigh she breathed her last.

  “I will swear to it,” the priest said, and then he once again made the sign of the cross over Mary FitzHugh.

  It had happened so quickly. One day Mary had been fit and hearty, and now suddenly she was dead. Outside the manor house the wind rose, keening as if it were itself mourning. The cold rain beat against the windows, now turning to sleet. Rhawn wept bitterly, huddled by the fireplace.

  “I should not have left her,” she repeated over and over again.

  Both Averil and Rhys were stunned by Mary’s swift death. They sat together at the high board staring out into the hall. Finally old Rhawn arose, and coming to Averil she took her hand.

  “We must prepare her, lady,” Rhawn said bleakly.

  Averil arose slowly, nodding. “I know,” she said in a wan voice.

  “I will help you, lady, for you must not put a strain on yourself now that you carry the next heir to Everleigh,” Rhawn remarked.

  “She should not be distressed at all,” Rhys said, standing. His handsome face was wet with his tears, and drawn now in his sorrow.

  “Mary was the lady of Everleigh,” Averil said to Rhys. “She welcomed me to my new home, and loved me for your sake. But I loved her too. The child I carry is a strong child. He would want me to do my duty and prepare his aunt for her grave.”

  Rhys nodded, and Rhawn looked at Averil with new eyes. Perhaps the Welsh weren’t all bad, she considered.

  “You will help me with the child when it comes?” Averil asked Rhawn.

  “I will, my lady,” Rhawn said, “but I must still be free, and have my cot, for Mistress Mary chose it for me.”

  “I should have it no other way,” Averil replied, and together the two women walked up the stairs to the solar where the body of Mary FitzHugh awaited them. Shaking his head Rhys watched them go. His father had died exactly a year ago this day. He wondered if anyone remembered it. And when his father had told him to steal the Dragon Lord’s daughter he had certainly never imagined what would happen in one short year. He would have served his sister forever, but it had not been meant to be. He was now the lord of the manor. He would have a child in the spring. But he had lost a beloved little sister in this turn of the wheel of fate. He put his head in his hands and he wept. He wept as he knelt the night before his sister’s bier now set up in the hall of the manor. He wept by her graveside as she was buried into the cold winter earth. Each day he visited Mary’s grave, and he thanked her for Everleigh. His sorrow eased as the spring came, but he knew it would never abate.

  But then came the day that Averil Pendragon delivered his son, and old Rhawn, her weathered face wreathed in smiles, put the boy in his arms. Rhys looked down at the infant and for the first time since his sister had died, he smiled. And his eyes met those of Averil’s, and she smiled, too. With the birth of this child the past was behind them.

  “He’s a brawny little lad,” Rhys said, his big finger touching his son’s cheek. “What will we call him?”

  “Rhys the younger,” she answered quickly. “And in a year or two as God wills it we will give him a sister who we shall call Mary.”

  “You are certain of that?” he teased her with another smile.

  “I am certain of it,” Averil said, and she wondered if he recalled that it was this very day a year ago that he had stolen her away. “Very, very certain,” she concluded, and Averil Pendragon smiled up at him. He was not a great lord, this Rhys FitzHugh, but he was her husband, her lover and her friend. If there was more to life than this, she knew not what it was. Nor did she care.

  Part Two

  Maia

  Chapter 7

  The Dragon Lord looked about his hall at the worthy young men who had come to seek his daughter Maia’s hand in marriage. There was one of the Great Llywelyn’s bastards. The lad’s mother, a Corbet, was the legitimate daughter of an English Marcher lord, and had been taken years ago in a raid. One of Gorawen’s Tewydr cousins had sent a younger son for their inspection. To the Dragon Lord’s surprise there were three young men from English Marcher families. Roger Mortimer, Robert FitzWarren, and John Ashley. Any one of them would have been more than suitable. Even the English. But Maia had no interest in any of them, and Merin Pendragon would not force his daughter into marriage. It had frustrated him that his eldest, Averil, had been boxed into a match not of her choosing no matter how well it had worked out. He would see that Maia and Junia made their own choices no matter what others might think of his decision.

  “The lass is a fool,” his concubine Ysbail muttered. “What does she want, in the name of Blessed Mary? All without blemish, and strong of limb. Choosing might be difficult, but certainly she can do it.”

  “My daughter wants to love the man she weds,” Argel said quietly.

  “Bah!” Ysbail snorted. “What does love have to do with anything? And what is love? ’Tis a lot of foolishness you speak, and do not glare at me, Gorawen. I can have my opinion as you indeed have yours.”

  “Do you not love our lord Merin?” Gorawen said sharply.

  “Does he love me?” Ysbail countered. “No, he does not! He took me for a concubine because he hoped to get a son off of me, and nothing more. I like him well enough. And I respect him, but love? Bah!”

  Finally, as the summer waned, Maia’s suitors departed, disappointed. Roger Mortim
er was the last to go.

  “You are certain,” he said with a visible air of regret, “that you could not love me, Maia? I vow I should make you a very good husband, my pretty maid.”

  “I am sorry, Roger,” Maia told him. “I do like you. I like you best of all who have come, but it is not enough for me. I must love the man I marry with all my heart and soul. That is how it must be for me. I should die otherwise.”

  “Then I don’t suppose it would be wise to bride-nap you,” he teased her with an engaging grin, his blue eyes dancing.

  Maia laughed. “Nay. Be warned, Roger, that I am always armed, and I should have to kill you if you attempted to steal me. That should sadden me as you are my brother-in-law’s best friend.”

  “If your aim is as good as your sister’s, I should not be afraid,” he replied.

  “My aim is quite sure,” she warned him. “Averil was never any good with a dagger. She is in too much of a hurry.”

  Roger Mortimer took the girl’s hand in his, and kissed it lingeringly. “Then I must bid you a reluctant farewell, my lady Maia. I hope you will soon find your heart’s desire, and live surrounded by love forever.”

  “What a lovely thing to say to me!” Maia exclaimed, genuinely touched, and she watched as he rode off, thinking it a pity that she couldn’t love Roger Mortimer. But she couldn’t, and she knew it. She could only love the faceless man who had haunted her dreams these past months since she had turned fifteen. Who was he? And why would he not come to her?

  She had first dreamed of him on her birthday. Initially she had been afraid, but his low and musical voice had assured her he meant her no harm. He took her by her hand, and together they had soared over the landscape until they had come to a beautiful castle on an island in the midst of a lake. This was where they would live when she was his, he had said. The castle was like no other she had ever seen. Its towers were round, and soared into the star-filled night sky. The gardens where they strolled were filled with roses, and all manner of flowers in rich, sweet bloom. That was the first night.