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have never heard of such a thing, but then, ’tis said that the Welsh are a barbaric people,” Mary innocently responded.

      “We are most certainly not barbaric!” Averil spoke up defensively. “Many men keep other women, and sire children on the wrong side of the blanket, Mary FitzHugh. Are you English then barbaric too?”

      “I meant no offense,” the little girl said apologetically.

      “I know,” Averil told her. “You but prate what you have heard others say. But you must be more guarded in your speech, Mary FitzHugh. You might insult someone without meaning to who might not take into account that you are but a child.”

      “I think I should like to have you as a sister,” Mary said. “Did you do the embroidery on your tunic?”

      “Aye, I did,” Averil admitted.

      “Could you teach me how to do such fine embroidery?” Mary asked.

      “Perhaps, but tomorrow we leave for Aberffraw, and Prince Llywelyn’s court, so this matter between my family and your brother may be decided,” Averil said.

      “When you are wed to my brother will you teach me?” Mary persisted.

      “If I am wed to your brother, aye, I will,” Averil promised. But I should sooner remain a maid and wither away first, she thought. Rhys FitzHugh was the most annoying man she had ever encountered. His surprise that he had not stolen Merin Pendragon’s heiress and then his reluctant agreement to wed her to save her reputation was more than aggravating. She could but hope there was a man at Prince Llywelyn’s court who would agree to take her. Anything would be better than this arrogant Englishman.

      The next day they departed for Aberffraw. It was a long ride across northwestern England, and Wales’ Mary FitzHugh was left behind, for her presence was not necessary. It was Midsummer’s Eve when they reached Prince Llywelyn’s court. They had crossed the Menai Strait to the Island of Anglesey, with their horses and baggage, utilizing several small local ferries. Around them the Irish Sea washed the beaches of the island, and an almost imperceptible mist rose and fell over the landscape.

      There was nothing on the island that stood higher than a thousand feet. Here, Averil knew from the history her father had instilled in all of his children, the ancient druids had made their last stand before being massacred by a people called the Romans. Merin Pendragon knew all of this because the family from which he had descended had followed the old ways once. While they were now good Christian people, the old ways were not forgotten in his hall.

      There was an almost magical air about Anglesey. The marshes and wetlands of the island were filled with waterfowl. In the lush green meadows fat cattle and sheep grazed. There were few dwellings along the path they traveled, but those paths were lined with tall hedges. Now and again they rode through a small forest, but most of the island was bare of woodlands.

      Reaching Prince Llywelyn’s court Averil found she was not particularly impressed. Her father’s keep was more grand. She was surprised as the prince was married to King John’s daughter, Joan. The prince’s home was nothing more than a small castle of timber and some stone. About it clustered a small village with a church, and several cottages that did not appear particularly prosperous. The air about them was warm, and softer than any Averil had ever known. They were welcomed in the prince’s hall, and Averil was given a place in the solar to sleep. The prince would hear their case immediately, for there would be festivities this night to celebrate midsummer.

      Averil asked a serving woman for water to bathe her hands and her face. She rifled through her pack to draw out the clothing she would wear into the prince’s hall. Her hair was full of dust, but there was not enough water to wash it. She brushed and brushed and brushed her long tresses into a semblance of respectability. Then, having removed her travel-strained garments, she bathed as best she could, put on a clean chemise, and dressed. Her gown with its long fitted sleeves was a dark green brocade with a round neckline that was embroidered in gold threads. Over it she wore a dark green sleeveless tunic that had been embroidered at its scooped neckline and along its hemline. Her long golden hair was adorned with a simple gold chaplet decorated with stylized flowers. On her feet she wore soft leather shoes. Her only jewelry was a thin gold chain with a round gold pendant upon which was a red enamel dragon, her family’s insignia.

      Satisfied that she was respectably clean and well-garbed, Averil joined her father, Lord Mortimer and their companions in the prince’s hall. The meal was being served, and they found places below the high board where they might sit and eat. Averil ate little, and was especially careful of her garments. She thought the variety of food being offered was very generous and impressive. Here, then, would be Joan of England’s influence. She could learn from this visit, Averil considered as she watched the servants dashing about with their bowls and platters. When the meal had been concluded, the prince’s majordomo called for silence.

      “The lord Merin, of the ancient and honorable house of Pendragon, descendant of Arthur, King of the Britons, has come before the prince for a judgment in the matter of his daughter’s honor. Come forward, Merin Pendragon, and speak your piece. All those connected with this matter will also show themselves now,” the majordomo said.

      Merin Pendragon bowed before his prince and his wife. “My lord,” he began. “Several weeks ago my eldest daughter, here with me,” and he drew Averil forward so she could be seen by all, “was taken from my lands by Rhys FitzHugh, the bailiff of the manor of Everleigh in the Englishry. His purpose was to steal a bride, and he thought that my daughter Averil was my heiress, but here he erred in judgment. Averil is my eldest child, but born to my concubine, Gorawen, true-born daughter of the house of Tewydr. This offspring of mine is dearest to my heart of all my children, my lord. I had only begun to consider a match for her, and given her great beauty it would have been a very good match, you will agree. It is right and proper that Rhys FitzHugh wed with her now, having stolen her from us. But while he has said he would, he yet demurs in his duty. So, my lord, I bring this matter before you. It has been agreed among us that your judgment will be accepted by all who come before you this day in my daughter’s behalf. Lord Mortimer, Rhys FitzHugh’s liege lord, has accompanied us with his own son, who was also party to helping his friend steal my daughter. Lord Mortimer will defer to you in this matter, my lord.”

      Prince Llywelyn looked down upon them. “Averil Pendragon, what have you to say in this matter?”

      “My lord, I will accept your decision,” Averil said so softly that they could barely hear her. She did not look directly at the prince, for it would not have been considered polite. She did, however, remember to bob a curtsey to the prince and his wife.

      The prince nodded, impressed by both her beauty and her manners.

      “If, my lord, another man would be willing to take her to wife, Rhys FitzHugh could be absolved of his crime.”

      “What dower will you give with the girl?” the prince asked.

      “A herd of six young heifers, and a healthy bull. A flock of twenty-four ewe sheep with their lambs, and a breeding ram. She has a fine horse, a chest of linens, and pewter. Another of clothing in good repair. She comes with her own loom, for she is an excellent weaver. And I have set aside fifteen silver pennies, one for each year of her life. She excels in housewifery and does the finest embroidery I have ever seen. She is able to read and write her name. She can speak English and French as well as our own tongue.”

      “She has no land?” the prince said.

      “Nay, my lord. My daughter, Maia, who is my true-born daughter, will have the only bit of land that I can spare from her brother’s inheritance,” Merin Pendragon said.

      The prince nodded again. “The girl is well dowered despite her lack of land.”

      Averil looked about the hall. It had suddenly dawned on her that she was very far from home. Her gaze moved swiftly as she looked over the many men in the crowd. More men than women. Strange men. Rough-looking men. And who knew where their homes were. At least Rhys FitzHugh’s home was within two days of Dragon’s Lair, and her family. What had she done, being so damned stubborn and dramatic in

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