“Aye. William will soon breed an heir. I have no doubt of that. He has proven his skill at that many times over.”
“You sound little concerned that you will remain a landless knight or become some lordling’s castellean.”
“It troubles me little. Only a fool would think a man like William would never wed or sire an heir. Far better that the chore falls to him than to me. ’Tis a duty I would be hard set to fulfill.”
“You belittle your worth. I have never seen you lack for a wench to warm your bed.”
“They check the value of my coin first.”
Thayer ignored Roger’s cluck of disapproval over the bitterness he had been unable to fully hide. Roger did not see him as a woman did. He saw a valued fighting companion, a friend and someone who was like a brother to him. Roger found nothing wrong with the wealth of flame-red hair. In a man’s eyes, the mat on his broad chest, the healthy tangle of curls around his loins, and the furring on his strong forearms and long, muscular legs were merely signs of manliness. Men also saw his large, robust frame as something to envy. Many a man would like to stand head and shoulders over other men. They did not understand that dwarfing many a pretty young lady inspired more fear than admiration.
Neither would Roger see what was wrong with his face, a visage as strongly hewn as his body. Years of living by the sword had begun to turn Thayer’s lack of beauty towards ugliness. When Roger saw how several breakings had left his strongly angled nose faintly crooked, the man simply recalled the battles that had caused it. Thayer knew that possessing all his own teeth was something to take pride in, yet that pride was dimmed by the knowledge that his thin-lipped mouth was beginning to show scarring from all the times it had been split. Idly he fingered the ragged scar that marred his high-boned cheek. Here too Roger would see little fault, recalling only the glorious battle that had caused it.
He tried to put some order into his hair, which had the unfortunate tendency to curl. Even if Roger was right—that he could capture a woman’s heart—it did not matter. He had no place to house it. If he found love, he would only see the woman given over to another. Few men wanted to give their daughters to a landless knight.
“Come, Roger, help me truss my points. We must soon be away. I am eager to see the one William calls an angel.”
Gytha slammed the door behind her as she strode into her room. Flinging herself upon her bed, she began to curse, colorfully and continuously. Her full red mouth, so often praised by her suitors, spat out every foul oath she knew. When she ran out of ones she knew she made up new ones. As always when she indulged in such a venting of her temper, she finally mouthed one that struck her as funny. Chuckling softly, she watched her door open and grinned when her cousin Margaret cautiously peeked inside.
“Are you done?” Margaret slowly entered the room, easing the door shut behind her.
“Aye. I just put a curse on every man in the kingdom. Then I thought on what could happen if it took hold.” She giggled again.
“There are times when I feel you ought to be doing a great penance.” Smiling faintly, Margaret placed an elaborately embroidered gown on the bed. “Your bride’s dress. ’Tis finally done. Let us see how it fits.”
Sitting up, Gytha gently touched the gown, recognizing and appreciating its beauty but not very pleased to see it. “You must be the best seamstress in the land. You could be dressmaker to the queen.” She smiled faintly when her cousin’s pretty face turned pink.
In fact, she mused, Margaret was not only pretty, with her wide hazel eyes and light brown hair, but nearly eighteen. She too ought to be wed. While it was true that Margaret could not reach too high, it did not mean the girl lacked all prospects. Her uncle had endowed Margaret, his only bastard child, with an admirable sum as a dowry. Perhaps, Gytha thought, there would be a suitable man for Margaret amongst her husband’s entourage. She would have to look into the matter.
“Nay, Gytha, you will cease making plans for me. Right now.”
Attempting to look innocent and knowing she failed, Gytha murmured, “I would never be so impertinent.”
“Humph. Cursing and now lying. Your sins grow. Shall we try on this gown?”
“I suppose we must. The wedding is tomorrow, after all.” Gytha did not move but continued to stare blindly at the gown.
Sighing, Margaret collected a hairbrush, sat behind her cousin, and began to brush out Gytha’s thick, honey-gold hair. Even pouting, Gytha was beautiful, yet the girl was never vain. Margaret felt her cousin deserved better. In truth, she really believed that a girl like Gytha should be allowed to choose her own mate, to marry for love.
Gytha’s beauty ran to her soul. While her wide, brilliantly blue eyes, perfection of face, and lithe yet sensuous figure could leave men gaping, Gytha’s loving spirit softened even the most cynical. Along with her stunningly handsome brothers, Gytha saw her beauty as a gift from God, something to be briefly appreciated then set aside as something of no great importance. Quite often, after escaping the arduous pursuit of some lovestruck swain, Gytha saw her looks as more a curse than a blessing. What Gytha needed was a man who could see beyond her lovely face to the real treasure. Margaret felt certain Robert Saitun was not that man.
Shaking free of her sulk, Gytha murmured, “Somehow it seems wrong to wed William’s heir so speedily.”
“I am not sure ’tis so speedily. I think William died some time past. Even so, to halt all the preparations now would cripple your father’s purse.” Helping Gytha stand to remove her gown, Margaret asked, “Do you know Robert at all?”
“Nay. Why do you think I spent so long here cursing all and sundry? I am unprepared for this.”
“Many would have said Lord William needed little preparing for.”
“True, he was fair to look upon, strong and steeped in honor. Howbeit, marriage is a large step. Some time to think on it is best. In but a day’s time, I must wed a man I know not at all. I know nothing of Robert’s character.”
“You were lucky to know William as well as you did. Few women have such an advantage.”
“True enough, but it seems a monstrous way in which to conduct the business. A woman is kept sheltered and pure all her growing years. One day she is set before a man, marched up before a priest, and told, ‘Off you go to do all we have told you naught of with this stranger who is now your husband, your lord and master.’ I fear I shall do something very silly due to nerves. Mayhap I shall even swoon.”
A soft laugh escaped Margaret. “You never swoon. I daresay you never will.”
“Pity. It would relieve me of a great deal of awkwardness.”
