A plain young girl named Anne sighed heavily. “Oh, you are so brave. How well you bear up beneath misfortune’s weight.”
“I have suffered no misfortune.” Gytha spat the words out between gritted teeth, yet none of them heeded her anger.
Her cousin Isobel spoke up in a too sweet, falsely soothing voice. “There is no need to hide how you feel. He is such a lubber. So horribly red.”
Gytha hissed softly over hearing Thayer referred to as a hulking oaf. “He is a good, strong man. His bravery has been proven ten times over.”
“Oh, there are no doubts raised about that,” said a pert blonde named Edwina. “Ah, but after sweet William? How it must pain you to find yourself wed to a man so lacking in beauty and grace. But, keep heart, fair Gytha. A man so wedded to his sword rarely lives a long life.”
Just as Gytha raised her goblet, intending to pour her wine over the fair Edwina, her wrist was grasped. She was not pleased by her brother Fulke’s intervention, glaring at him as he took her goblet away. The knowing grin he wore only added to her temper. She did not protest, however, when Fulke started to lead her away from the group.
Having kept a close, if covert, watch on his new bride, Thayer saw the brief contretemps. He followed when Fulke led his sister away from the group, Margaret hurrying after them. Gytha turned to look at him when he reached her side, and he was a little taken aback by the fury darkening her eyes. He grew curious about its cause.
Fulke shook his head even as he started to laugh, the sound destroying his meager attempts to sound stern. “Tsk, sister love, t’will ne’er do to douse our guests in wine.”
“T’was that or scratch the strumpet’s eyes out.” Gytha snatched back her goblet of wine.
“Language.” Fulke rolled his eyes in an exaggerated expression of false dismay.
Margaret patted Gytha’s arm in a soothing gesture. “They are merely jealous. They wish this was their celebration.”
“Ah,” Thayer murmured and slowly lifted Gytha’s hand to his lips, “they sharpened their tongues on you, did they?”
Calming herself slightly, Gytha stared up at the large man she now called husband. His strong hand easily enclosed hers, yet his touch was gentle. That gentleness was reflected in his fine eyes, the deep brown alluringly soft. She noted idly how long and thick his dark auburn lashes were.
“Aye, but I should know by this time that such foolishness should be ignored. I fear I have a slight temper.” She gave Fulke a mock glare when he hooted with laughter. “Ignore this fool,” she told Thayer, then took a drink of her wine.
They began to banter amongst themselves, Roger soon joining them. Thayer decided that, whatever other worries he had, he had none about the family he had married into. There was a closeness there which easily spread to include new members. It was an important benefit. A troublesome family, one beset with infighting and grasping natures, could become a lifelong plague to a man. After but a few moments in their company, he knew he could trust the Raouilles. He wished he had the confidence to trust Gytha as well.
Soon the dancing began. Thayer quickly realized that Gytha loved to dance. Unfortunately, he indulged in it so rarely that he was not confident of his skill. He obliged her a few times, however, loathe to hand her over to the many young men who eyed her so covetously. To prevent those anxious courtiers from moving in, he turned to his men. They proved more than willing to partner her. Trusting them implicitly, he was able to allow her the pleasure of dancing as well as enjoy watching her.
He was relieved, however, when the time came for the bedding ceremony. It was conducted by a small, select group. Their stay was short and their teasing remarks only slightly ribald. As soon as the door shut behind the group, Thayer turned onto his side to look at his new bride.
Although she had only briefly been revealed to the group, Gytha felt embarrassed. She clutched the sheet around herself and fought to stop herself from blushing. When Thayer held out a goblet of wine, she managed only a fleeting shy glance his way as she accepted it.
“Are you afraid, Gytha?” he murmured, reaching his hand out to gently stroke the thick mass of her hair.
“Nay. Aye. Ah me, I am not sure. I am not accustomed to being looked at,” she whispered. “I did not like it much.”
Silently, he admitted that he had not liked it much either. He had chosen Roger, Merlion, Reve and Torr as his witnesses. They had stared at Gytha in wide-eyed, silent wonder. It had pleased him no end when she had been allowed to scramble beneath the bedcovers within an instant after dropping her robe. Although he resented its presence, he knew his sense of possession was already strong.
“T’was but your kin. The men I chose are the nearest I have to kin aside from that fool, Robert. They have been with me from the beginning, fighting at my side for many a year. I cannot count the times we have saved each other’s skins. ’Tis something only done the once, sweeting, and ’tis over now.”
She nodded, relaxing a little, then looked at him as Edwina’s words flashed through her mind. “Will you continue to live by your sword?”
“Nay. I am a man of property now. There is no longer the need. I now hold the bed and board I fought to supply myself with. Howbeit, a man must fight from time to time, little one, be it for king or his own reasons. Living where we do, I doubt my sword shall rust from disuse. Aye, and the property you bring me lies even closer to the troublesome Welsh than mine. I have asked my men to stay on as my retainers.”
The relieved smile she gave him was nearly enough to make him swear to never lift his sword again. He moved his hand over her bared shoulder. Her skin was warm and as soft as the finest silk. Her lashes were long, thick, and light brown, tipped with gold. When, as she lowered her gaze, those lashes brushed her newly flushed cheeks, he bent to kiss her small, straight nose.
Briefly, guilt pinched at him as he thought of the woman he had bought so recently. He shook the guilt aside. At that time he had not been betrothed or even anticipated such a thing. It was possibly for the best as well. His blood ran too hot for Gytha as it was. He wanted to make her introduction to the mysteries of the marriage bed slow and gentle. If he been long without a woman that could have proven even more difficult than it was going to be.
Taking her empty goblet from her hand, he set it aside. “I will try not to hurt you, Gytha.”
“I know it must hurt a bit. My maid, Edna, was most exact in what she told me.”
“Your maid?” He laughed softly as he gently urged her to lie down. “Did your mother never speak to you?”
“Aye.” There was a tremor in her laughter that revealed her nervousness. “But with all her hesitations, mumblings, and talk of duty and modesty, I learned very little. I was telling Margaret about it when Edna started laughing. So I knew she knew, and I made her tell me.”
