Avery woke as the light of sunrise began to filter through his study’s single narrow window. With substantial regret, he pushed away a pleasant dream about the blue-eyed bride who had improperly imposed her pleasant presence the previous night. It was hard not to credit the pleasant memories to a dream as well; he could remember his initial introduction to Johanna, the blushing woman staring at his feet as she wore that very same lavender dress festooned with lace.
Yet last night, bright blue eyes had boldly stared up at him out of the same face and above the same dress, forcing him into blushing stammers as she knelt before him and pleasurably banished his worry-wrought insomnia in a most wanton way. He shook his head, turning to look at where the sunbeam painted a spot on the wall next to where his old bed had been. The bed had been disassembled when the room had been converted to a study, and he’d moved—briefly—into the old duke’s chambers.
Briefly, because his future brides had already taken them over, exiling him to his study for the time being. Not that his nights on a cot in his room would last long; today he would marry, and from that point on he would be spending his nights upstairs in the old duke’s chambers or the sitting room that Sabine had converted into her own private chamber. He eyed the tangled hose lying on the floor, the stitching around the waistband popped on one of the sides. Filled with a new desire to make as positive of an impression as possible upon his brides on the day of their wedding, he wondered if he would have time to finish having his new ceremonial armor fitted. It would look better than his battle armor.
He reached out through his mental connection to Marcus, his seneschal and illegitimate cousin. Marcus—I think I should have breakfast and a bath brought up to my study. If it would be possible to finish fitting my ceremonial armor after that, I’m sure Aunt Maude would greatly prefer that to my getting married in my battle armor.
There was a long moment before Marcus replied. Your Grace, there are some matters related to the wedding—I had wanted to ask you a few things. Lady Maude has her opinions, but…
I trust your judgement implicitly, Avery said. And if you are unsure—while my foster mother may disapprove of the multiplicity of my impending marriage, I feel quite confident that she does not wish to embarrass me. I just realized she was right about the ceremonial armor—I trust she will apply her century and a half of wisdom in my interests. I am the closest she has to a son.
Marcus sent a quick wordless affirmative, the mental equivalent of a quick nod. Avery folded up his cot, putting it out of the way, and then felt a deft familiar touch on his mind. Isolde.
You had to ask for a morning bath drawn, didn’t you? Isolde’s voice sounded exasperated. The servants only brought one tub up here so far—Sabine’s maidservants already commandeered another—and I’m sure Helen and Althea will also be demanding morning baths as soon as they wake. Five brides make for a veritable madhouse up here. There are baths to be taken, hair to be washed and combed and styled, dresses to be fussed over, charms to activate, and jewelry to be polished to its brightest shine. Rose has already been up and down the stairs half a dozen times for one thing or another.
The door to Avery’s study opened as a pair of servants carried in an empty washtub, setting it next to the fireplace before going back out to fetch water from the kitchens.
I’m surprised that you are awake already—it’s scarcely dawn, Avery sent back to his cousin. And you finally have your chamber to yourself. Did they come down to pester you?
No—I slept in Johanna’s chamber to keep her company, and she’s eager enough today to have beaten the sun to rising, Isolde sent back wryly. You would not believe how eager she is for the day of her marriage.
Avery remembered a pair of brilliant blue eyes looking up at him. I think I would believe, he sent, carefully guarding his inner thoughts to avoid leaking things he did not want his foster sister to hear.
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Althea blinked sleepily. “What was that?” she asked aloud, not quite sure what had woken her up—but there was morning light, and she could hear the muffled rhythm of arguing voices through one of the doors that connected her chamber with the rest of the duke’s solar.
The pair of arms wrapped around her stomach stirred, and Helen mumbled in Althea’s ear. “I dunno, let’s go back to sleep.”
Althea shook her head. “It’s morning already,” she said. “I don’t know how late in the morning, but I think we were up too late last night.”
“When it comes time for the groom to kiss the brides, you’ll be glad we spent all that time practicing,” Helen said defensively.
Althea wiggled out of her friend’s sleepy grasp and stood. Following the sound of arguing voices, she walked over to the door to Elizabeth’s room and knocked gently. The door opened, and Althea was surprised to find a naked Johanna on the other side.
From her narrowed emerald-green eyes to the arms crossed over her pert breasts, Johanna was the picture of annoyance. She also looked like a wild woman: Her light brown hair was long and loose, and her unclad frame showed more muscle than Althea had expected, particularly below the waist. Althea felt suddenly certain that Johanna could easily bowl her over in spite of Althea’s modest advantage in height.
“You’ll have to wait your turn—I’m next, as soon as they’ve finished refilling the tub,” Johanna said. “Anna’s called the next after—I shan’t stop you from trying to pull rank on her if you wish to try.”
Althea nodded reflexively, caught off-guard by the woman’s forcefulness. Was this really the same woman who hadn’t been able to look up from her feet while swearing her oath to the duke? And why did the bathwater need to be changed already if only Elizabeth had taken a bath so far? Instead of asking the questions she wanted to ask, Althea turned away from Johanna’s emerald-green eyes, peering into Helen’s blue eyes instead. “I think we can wait for our turns.”
“Um. Yes, we can,” Helen said, staring through the open doorway with a fixed expression, one hand idly twirling a strawberry-blonde lock of hair.
Althea looked back over her shoulder. Through the open door, she could see Johanna’s retreating aft end, her gently padded but well-developed lower body musculature on display; she could also see that Elizabeth’s room was filled by what seemed like everyone except Elizabeth herself. The petite Northumbrian must have retreated after her bath to dress in one of the other rooms of the duke’s solar.
Isolde was wearing a nightgown and Rose was wearing a proper dress, but Anna was already dressed for her turn in the baths, wearing only her dark curly hair and a green-eyed glare. Fiona and Merilda were similarly attired; the two of them were helping draw a fresh bath for Johanna, the large blonde woman taking buckets of cold water from an annoyed-looking servant standing in a doorway while the slender quarter-elven redhead waved a wand over the tub, steam swirling up in the wake of her stirring gestures.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Althea turned back to Helen. “It does seem rather crowded in there,” she said.
Helen blinked. “Um. Yes. I just hope there’s time for both of us to take a bath after the rest of them. It’ll go very slow if each of them insists on a change of bathwater. Maybe we could bathe together to save time—it looks like the tub they brought up was one large enough for Merilda, after all.”
Althea nodded. “Seems sensible enough.”
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Bella woke with a terrific hangover. Susanna should have watered the fourth pitcher—in truth, perhaps even the second and third pitchers—but the maidservant had been unfortunately diligent in bringing more wine for Lunete and Nigel, and Bella had felt the need to match her cousins goblet for goblet. When she staggered down the stairs, she found Susanna already awake and frying up a large pan of eggs and moonapples cubed up quite small.
With no meat, it seemed a cheap breakfast to Bella, and she complained as much; Susanna apologized, promising that the combination of starchy tubers and eggs was kinder on an uneasy stomach and better for calming a painful headache. That, and plenty of tea.
Presuming that the maidservant had the better knowledge of such things, Bella forced her way through a full plate of simple fried fare and six cups of tea, eating until she felt uncomfortably full. She jotted down a quick note for her still-sleeping cousins, letting them know she’d gone ahead to the castle bailey to watch the wedding. Then she donned a blonde wig, retrieved her new springbow from her quarters, loaded and locked in a first enchanted bolt, wrapped a pair of six-bolt sheaves around the outsides of her thighs, donned a heavy cloak, and started the long walk to the castle bailey.
Her cousins would take a carriage—they might even arrive before she did, but she had plans that were best accomplished without Nigel and Lunete’s company. In spite of her full breakfast, the sunlight still seemed painfully bright to Bella when she left the manor. She felt both conspicuous and uncomfortable, but then—in a sign that York itself favored her suit—the good weather did not hold. Clouds covered the sun, providing relief for her painful hangover as she crossed the moat into the castle bailey, joining the gathering crowd.
As the procession of the brides began, a light drizzle began to fall. Bella was not the only one to hood herself as the chilly dampness descended from above, and the stir of motion provoked by the gave her the opportunity to work her way forward through the gathered crowd of onlookers fully anonymously.
Though the part of the courtyard nearer to the line brides had been designated as the place for the brides’ families, they did not know each other well, and the position directly north of the ceremony provided a poor view in any event. So, Bella was able to work her way to a vantage point behind the eight brides without much notice, squeezing her way through as if she belonged to a different bridal family. Holding the springbow under her cloak, Bella counted, staring at the backs of the eight brides. From this angle, she could not see their faces, only their figures and the five platforms of varying heights that they stood on.
Half of them were blondes. His Grace clearly has a preference, Bella thought to herself, tugging at the blonde wig she had pinned carefully in place before setting out that morning. Ivette’s glorious blonde hair had caught the duke’s eye before; surely it could do so again.
The bride nearest to the crowd was standing on the ground, a mass of dark curly hair obscuring her neck and back and nearly blending into her black velvet dress. It would be difficult to aim precisely for the heart’s triangle through that mass of curly hair, and she was not a blonde, anyway, meaning that she was not likely to be the duke’s favorite. Next to her, perched on a platform that elevated her above the taller woman, was the first blonde, one with red and orange highlights that looked fiery and warm in spite of the drizzling rain and stood out sharply in contrast with her blue dress.
Unfortunately, the strawberry blonde was shifting nervously with an irregular rhythm as she gripped the hand of one of her neighbors, alternately shifting from side to side or bouncing on her toes. The constant small motions were bothersome. Hopefully, after the first shot took another bride, the strawberry blonde would freeze in place out of fear, giving Bella a cleaner shot than what was presently on offer.
Sharing the same platform with the strawberry blonde but looming taller on her own account was a lanky brunette in a peach dress, her hair falling in a long straight drop that did little to obscure the contours of her back or the position of her vitals. Unlike the shorter woman gripping her hand, the brunette was still. An easy shot—but a target of secondary importance given her brunette hair and boyish figure.
Next to the lanky brunette were two central blondes, standing next to each other on higher but uneven platforms that matched their heads to the same level as dear Duke Avery’s own towering height, the smaller woman clad in blue and the larger woman clad in red.
Does His Grace mean to declare them his equal? Such a gracious man, Bella thought to herself, sparing a moment of affectionate thought for the man who had captured her heart. Then she swallowed nervously, realizing one of the two central blondes had to be her father’s business partner’s daughter. Guilbert de Lancaster was blond, a relation of the Duke of Lancaster, and was set to become the duke’s father-in-law; logically, his daughter would be both blonde and in the greatest place of pride.
The thought of angering her father stayed her hand for the moment and sent her gaze skimming over to the next bride in line—a brunette in an emerald-green dress covered with shining goldwork perched on the last of the four platforms. Not a blonde, Bella thought to herself. Though I envy her that dress, she was likely included only because of her father’s wealth—if that is real goldwork, she is clad in a fortune.
Her gaze shifted over to the last two women, feet planted on the ground. The one on the very end was a slender redhead in a sea-green gown with long draping sleeves; second from the end, though, was another blonde in a plain gray dress, one that Bella could see unusually well. With a dress so plain, she must be a great beauty for the duke to wish to marry her in spite of her lack of family wealth. And I can see her so well—it is as if my intuition has magnified her image to greater than her real size, Bella thought to herself as she raised the springbow, licking her lips in anticipation of the shot. The heart’s triangle was so clearly visible in focus that she could not possibly miss, framed by a pair of flaxen braids.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/65vhB9yt/bella-vision.png]
As Bella’s finger pressed down on the trigger, the redhead suddenly spun, dropping a small folded piece of orange paper that looked like a fox, her eyes widening in surprise as she shouted.
“No!” The redhead leaped, flinging herself over the giant blonde’s back. There was a loud clang, as if of metal on metal, a heap of flowing sea-green silk landing on the grass with a splash of red hair on one end. The large blonde turned, gray eyes wide, her face a study in shock.
Bella grabbed another enspelled bolt from the sheaf strapped to her left leg and jammed it into the springbow’s muzzle, reaching for the lever. That blonde is getting larger—no, closer, Bella thought to herself as she raised the springbow, her finger nervously squeezing the trigger. The bolt burrowed into the ground only a few feet from Bella’s foot. She grabbed a third bolt from the sheaf on her leg, backing up to give herself the time and space needed to reload her weapon.
The blonde got there first, grabbing the springbow by the barrel and yanking it away. Bella heard a crack, and the index finger of her right hand flared with pain, trapped by the trigger guard. But I still have the bolt, she thought to herself distantly, raising her left hand up. She gripped the bolt fiercely as she raised the bolt overhead, preparing to stab the blonde who she had thus far failed to shoot. The blonde’s fist moved faster, filling her whole field of view. The fist seemed entirely too large to Bella, and then came the impact.
There was an instant of disorientation. Bella could not feel her body, but she could feel blades of grass against her left ear. With her right eye, she could see a patch of blue opening up in the gray sky, and then she saw nothing at all.