Godwine held out his hand to his daughter. “Take my hand, Mary, and swear on the FitzHugh name that you will obey your brother until you are wed, and bring no shame upon our name.”
The little girl took the cold, emaciated hand in her small plump one. “I promise, Father,” she said solemnly. “And I shall never send Rhys from Everleigh no matter my husband. He shall always be bailiff here. I swear it on the Blessed Virgin’s name.”
“Good,” her father replied. “Now give me a final kiss, my daughter, and leave me to die, for I shall not live to see the sunset this day.”
Mary FitzHugh bent and kissed her sire’s thin and chilly lips. “Godspeed you, my lord. I shall always pray to the Blessed Mother and our Lord Jesu for your good soul.” She curtsied and then, turning, left the room.
“Priest! Shrive me and give me the last rites of Holy Mother Church. Then you will leave me with my son,” Godwine FitzHugh commanded the cleric.
The priest did not argue, doing as he was bid as Rhys FitzHugh knelt nearby, his dark head bent. Finished, the priest bade his master farewell, and exited the death chamber.
“Come and sit by my side,” the lord of Everleigh manor said to his son. “Your presence comforts me.”
Rhys FitzHugh brought a chair by the draped bed, and sat.
“I would have married your mother, you know,” his father said, “but that she died giving you life. Her family was worthy of mine.”
“I am content,” Rhys assured the dying man.
“You should have inherited Everleigh,” Godwine FitzHugh said regretfully.
“Aye,” Rhys agreed, “but that was not the way my fate was to be played out. You have been a good father to me, my lord. I have no complaint.”
“I can leave you naught, for what silver I have must be kept for Mary’s dower. My lands are not so great, my son, that I could spare you the coin.” It was said with true regret.
“Then I shall certainly have to steal an heiress bride,” his son said with a small smile on his usually stern face.
“The Pendragon girl!” his father said suddenly. “In the Welshry. She probably has no lands, for there is a brother, but she has a good dower the rumor goes. Her father might spare some of his pastures for her. His own heir is just a bit older than Mary. The family claims descent from King Arthur. She would be a good match. Not so highborn as to be able to cause trouble with the king, or with the prince of the Welsh. Take her, breach her, and her sire will make the match. He dare not do otherwise.” Then Godwine FitzHugh fell silent, and at last he drifted into a quiet sleep from which he did not arouse again.
Listening to his father’s last few breaths, Rhys FitzHugh gazed through the chamber window. The sun was near to setting. Finally, he arose, and taking a small polished piece of metal he held it above his father’s face. There was not the slightest hint of breath upon it. Godwine FitzHugh was dead. His son bent and gave his sire a final kiss upon his forehead. Then he went to call the serving women to help his sister prepare the old man’s body for the grave. The lord of Everleigh would lie in state in his own hall the night, while his two children held vigil over him. His serfs and freedmen would be allowed until midday the next morning to pay their respects, and then Godwine FitzHugh would be buried.
The body was prepared in its shroud, and set upon its bier with tall footed iron candlesticks placed at each corner. Two kneelers with cushions were brought into the hall, and Rhys and his younger sister, Mary, knelt in prayer. As the night hours crept by, Rhys watched the child carefully, but her back was straight, and her shoulders did not slump with the weariness he knew the little girl must feel. Pride surged through him. His father had not had to tell him to watch over Mary. He had adored her from the moment of her birth.
The dawn came, and the servants came into the hall, rebuilding the fires that were almost out; bringing a meal. Rhys arose stiffly, shaking each of his legs in turn to ease them. He raised his sister to her feet. “Time to break our fast, little one,” he told her.
“We cannot tarry,” she said dutifully. “Our people will be coming. It would not be respectful to father to be eating when they arrive.”
“Hawkins will not allow any in until we have taken some nourishment,” he assured his sister, but he knew she was right. She already wore the mantle of Everleigh.
They ate, and then Mary stood at the entry to the hall with her brother, greeting by name each serf, each freedman and -woman who came to pay their father respect. At midday the coffin was nailed shut and removed from the bier to be taken to the manor church where the mass was said. Then trailed by her brother, and the Everleigh folk, Mary FitzHugh followed her father’s coffin to the family cemetery where he was buried. And when it was over she collapsed and was carried home by her devoted brother and put to bed where she slept until the following morning.
Two days later Edmund Mortimer, the overlord of the region, arrived with one of his sons, Roger, who was Rhys’s friend. He was ushered into the hall of Everleigh and seated in the chair of honor. Mary FitzHugh came to him, and kneeling placed her tiny hands in his, swearing her oath of loyalty to him, and through him, to the king. When she had finished, and been helped to her feet by her brother, Rhys then knelt and gave his pledge to Lord Mortimer as well.
“What provision has been made for you both?” Lord Mortimer asked.
“Fetch the priest,” Rhys told a servant. Then he turned to Lord Mortimer. “Our father spoke to the priest of his intentions in the presence of my sister and me, my lord.”
Father Kevyn came, and when asked by Lord Mortimer of Godwine FitzHugh’s intentions said, “My late lord put his daughter into the care of her half brother whom he knew would give his life, if need be, for the demoiselle Mary. He is to care for her, make a match for her when she is old enough, and husband Everleigh as if it were his own. There is also some small silver for a dower.”
“And for his loyal son?” Lord Mortimer asked.
The priest shook his head. “There was some advice given to Rhys FitzHugh, but nothing more.”
Lord Mortimer nodded, understanding. If there had been no little sister Godwine FitzHugh would have probably left his estate to his bastard. But the girl was his legitimate heiress. She could not be overlooked. “What advice did your father give you, Rhys FitzHugh?” Lord Mortimer asked.
“He suggested I steal an heiress bride, my lord,” Rhys answered honestly.
“And will you?” Lord Mortimer was smiling with amusement, but it was strangely good advice, for there was little else left for the young man.
“I must think on it, my lord,” came the careful answer.
Lord Mortimer laughed. “It may be that your sire gave you excellent advice, young Rhys FitzHugh. How old are you now?”
“Five and twenty, my lord.”
“You should not wait too long to take a mate. Your seed is at its best right now for making sons. Have you sired any children yet?” Lord Mortimer nodded to the servant who placed a goblet of wine in his hand.
“Under the circumstances I thought it wiser not to, my lord,” Rhys answered.
“Ah, yes,” Lord Mortimer agreed, drinking down his wine. Then he arose and turned to Mary. “Your brother will, I know, take the best of care of you, demoiselle, but should you ever need my counsel or aid, you have but to send to me.” He took up her small hand and kissed it, bowing as he did so to the little girl.
“And when you need my aid, my lord,” Mary answered him, “I will do my duty as your liege woman.” She curtsied to him.
“I should expect no less of you, Mary FitzHugh,” Lord Mortimer replied.
“I would remain to visit Rhys, Father,” Roger Mortimer said.
Lord Mortimer nodded, and then he was gone from the hall.