Excerpt of Beauty and the Beast by Hannah Howell

England, 1365.

“Dead?”

“Quite dead.”

“But how?”

“Fell off his mount. Snapped his neck.”

Gytha blinked, then stared closely at her father. She saw
no sign of lying in his round, plain face, although he did
look strangely uncomfortable. She waited to feel grief for
the loss of her betrothed, the handsome and gallant baron,
William Saitun. A pang came and went. She had seen little
of him, after all. What puzzled her now was why the wedding
preparations continued. If William was dead, then surely
the wedding could not go on? A moment later her mother
revealed that her thoughts had followed the same path.

“But what of the wedding? The feast is being prepared even
now.” Bertha’s ever-rounding figure trembled as she grew
increasingly upset. “The guests are arriving. Should I turn
them away?”

“No need to do that, Bertha, loving.”

“Papa, I cannot marry a dead man.”

“Of course you cannot, dearling.” John Raouille briefly
covered his daughter’s delicate hand with his thick,
calloused one.

“Then the preparations must be halted.” Gytha frowned in
confusion when her father still did nothing.

“Now, my sweet child, the agreement made with my good
friend, Baron Saitun, God bless his soul, was that you
would marry the heir to Saitun Manor.”

“And that was William.”

“True, true, but there are other heirs. The one following
William was Thayer.”

“Then, are you saying I am now to marry Thayer?” She was
not sure she understood the arrangement her father spoke
of.

“Alas, nay. He died in France.”

Either she was cursed or the Saituns were an ill-fated lot,
she mused. “Am I to be wed or not, Papa?”

“You are. The third heir is Robert. He is the one you will
wed on the morrow. I believe you have met the fellow.”

Her memory was something many admired her for. It was quick
and very exact, even the smallest details clear and
precise. She put it to good use now, but what was called
forth left her feeling little joy. If she had not been
gifted with such an acute memory, she knew Robert Saitun
would not have lingered in her mind. He had been William’s
shadow and had spent most of his time trying to avoid being
kicked or cuffed by William or his own uncle, a rather
unpleasant man who had exerted complete control over
Robert.

“Aye, I did. Is it not—well, disrespectful to William to
wed another man so soon?”

“Er—William died a while back. He was far afield, so you
could not be called to his side.”

Or told, she mused. “As was the second heir? This Thayer I
have never met?”

“I told you, daughter, he died in France. I do not mean to
be unkind, but mayhaps ’tis just as well. He was not the
man for you, Gytha.”

Removing the woman’s hand from where it rested in the mat
of flame red curls adorning his broad chest, Thayer Saitun
sat up. “Morning is here, woman. Time for you to be on your
way.”

Taking his purse out from beneath his pillow, he extracted
a few coins and tossed them at her. She caught them with
ease. His smile was tainted with cynicism as he watched her
weigh them in her hand before smiling at him. It had ever
been so. He was weighted with honor, his name respected—
even feared—by men, but women needed to see the glint of
his coin before they showed any interest.

Flopping onto his back and crossing his arms beneath his
head, he idly watched her dress. He grew weary of nameless
whores, but at least there was an honesty about them, and
they could not afford to show any displeasure with his
size, his plain looks, or—he grimaced as he glanced down at
himself—his redness. While his skin had none of the ruddy
hue that often cursed redheads, he knew few people really
noticed that. Flame- red hair and freckles too often hid
the color of his skin. Even his large size worked against
him, for it simply provided a greater area for the wretched
flame color to display itself. The sound of the door
opening pulled him from his self-denigration.

“Do you mean to spend the day abed?” drawled Roger, his
right-hand man, as he let Thayer’s night’s entertainment
slip out of the room before shutting the door.

“Nay.” Thayer sprang to his feet, then moved to wash up. “A
revel awaits us.”

Roger settled his slender frame on the rumpled bed. “Your
position as heir will soon end.”

“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.