“Surely Aunt Bertha spoke to you. You must know what to expect.”
“Aye—I think. She did talk to me. Howbeit, t’was monstrous difficult to understand her. All those blushes, hesitations, and flutterings.”
Again Margaret laughed. “I can just see it. Poor Aunt Bertha.”
“Poor me. Still, the matter that most occupies my mind is that I must disrobe. I cannot like the sound of that.”
Concentrating on doing up the laces on Gytha’s wedding dress, Margaret hid a grimace. She did not like the sound of it either. Gytha’s figure was of a style to set a man’s lusts raging. Although Gytha was apparently unaware of it, that was one of the reasons she had been so fiercely sheltered. Somehow Gytha managed to be lithe and slender as well as voluptuous and sensual. More times than she cared to count, Margaret had seen a man’s eyes grow hot at the mere sight of her cousin. So too had there been incidents, despite careful watching, when Gytha had had to make a hasty retreat to preserve her virtue. Placing a naked Gytha before any man was highly dangerous, let alone before one who knew he had all right to her. Poor Gytha could find her wedding night a violent and painful experience.
“He must disrobe as well,” Margaret finally muttered. “There.” She stepped back from Gytha. “Ah, you will make such a lovely bride.”
“’Tis a lovely dress.” Gytha turned around slowly before the mirror. “It needs no adjusting. The girdle sits perfectly. Have you ever seen Sir Robert?” She smiled a little at Margaret’s startled look, knowing she had changed subject without warning, a habit she found hard to break.
“Aye, and so have you. The young man acting as squire to Lord William on his last visit?”
“Aye, I but sought your opinion.”
“Well, he is slim and fair. Quiet.”
“Mmmm. Very. As unobtrusive as possible. I cannot help but wonder when he was knighted and why. I cannot say he gives much honor to the title now. Most of his time was spent being cuffed by William or by his own uncle or desperately trying to avoid both.” She sighed. “Ah, well. At least I need not fear he will be a brute.”
“There is a lot to be said in favor of that.” Margaret helped Gytha get out of the gown.
“Mayhap without his cousin or uncle about he will show a better side to his character.”
“There is a very good chance he will.”
It was not long after Robert arrived that Gytha began to think there was no chance at all. Robert’s uncle, Charles Pickney, stayed close by at all times. All she did discover was that she could not like Charles Pickney, not in the slightest, no matter how hard she tried. As soon as she had the opportunity she slipped free of her husband-to-be and his shadow to seek out Margaret, dragging her cousin off in search of flowers.
The day was sunny and warm, the fields beyond the manor covered with blooms. Gytha’s mood was swiftly improved. She loved the springtime, loved its promise of life and bounty. Laughing and dashing about with Margaret helped her forget her worries. In no time at all, she looked more like a rough, unmannered girl than a lady on the eve of her marriage, but she did not care. For just a little while she intended to forget Robert, his uncle, and the wedding.
Thayer spotted the two maids romping in the field and reined in a few yards away from them. He quickly signaled his men to do the same, knowing that the more impulsive of them would charge towards the maids like bucks in rutting season if he let them. Despite the girls’ tossled state, he knew they approached no peasant wenches. The gowns were too fine. Not wishing to frighten the maids, he started towards them carefully, his men following suit. Their approach was soon spotted. As he reined in near them, Thayer felt himself struck hard by the beauty of the little blond.
“Hallo, mistress.” The smile she gave him took his breath away. “Do you gather these pretties for the bride?”
“Aye. Do you ride to the wedding, sir?” Gytha found it easy to smile at the big red man, even though he towered above her as he sat atop his massive black destrier.
“That we do. ’Tis my cousin who weds on the morrow.”
Openly flirting with the two maids, Roger asked, “Does it promise to be a revel worth the journey?”
“It most assuredly does, sir.” Gytha held sway over the conversation, for Margaret was apparantly struck dumb. “The wine and ale promise to flow like a flood-swollen river. The food is plentiful and unsurpassed in flavor. There are minstrels who play as sweet as any lark might sing.” She could not fully restrain a laugh over her elaborations.
“’Tis fitting, as my cousin claims he weds the angel of the west.” Thayer caught his breath over her sweet, open laugh.
“An angel is it?” Gytha glanced at Margaret, who had emerged from her stupor enough to grin. “I could not really say.” She grasped Margaret by the hand. “We will see you at the manor,” she called as she raced off, towing a laughing Margaret after her.
“’Tis a shame we cannot follow their path.” Roger glanced at Thayer. “This fête becomes more promising by the moment.”
Thayer felt the heavy weight of depression settle over him. Every part of him had been drawn to the delicate maid with the thick hair the color of sunlight. Her response to him had been more than he had gained from a gently bred maid in many a year. He knew she would go no further, however. Not with him. He began to dread the festivities ahead. It was a struggle, but he conquered the sudden urge to bolt. William was his favorite amongst what few kin he had, and he would not allow a tiny maid with wide blue eyes to keep him from attending William’s wedding.
“The little blond had many a smile for you,” Roger said as they started on their way again.
“She was polite, nothing more.” He urged his mount ahead of Roger’s, curtly ending the conversation.
Roger inwardly cursed. Thayer had great confidence in his wit and skill, almost to the point of arrogance. When it came to women, however, Thayer had no confidence at all. The blame for that Roger set squarely at the feet of Lady Elizabeth Sevielliers. One could argue that Thayer had been a fool to love such a woman. However, the damage that witch had done was indisputable. Even if he could get Thayer to believe the little blond had shown an interest, it would only make the man take to his heels. Thayer was the scourge of any battlefield, but a pretty, well-born maid put the fear of God into the man. Elizabeth had been a pretty, well-born maid.
Deciding not to waste his breath arguing, Roger muttered, “Aye, mayhap. Let’s go and see William’s angel. ’Tis clear that a fair crop grows in this land.”
