“No, not in the Norman way,” the Welshman replied with a dismissive wave of his hand that told Bryce what he thought of Norman legalities.
As he had suspected, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea was the most audacious hussy Bryce had ever encountered, kissing him with such apparent passion when she was as good as betrothed to another.
Now more than ever he wished he had abandoned the lady in the courtyard before she had enticed him into the shadows. Nor did he want to be anywhere near Lady Rhiannon ever again.
Nevertheless, Cynvelin was offering him a great opportunity, one that he would not abandon without serious cause. Surely he could manage to avoid the lady for the short time she was here, and she had obviously not wanted her immoral behavior revealed to her future husband. Probably she would avoid him just as studiously. “This expected kidnapping is to happen tomorrow?”
“Aye. We will meet her father’s entourage on the road not far from here as they journey home. It is too far to go to Caer Coch on the same day, so we will stop at Annedd Bach for the night.”
“What is it you expect me to do?”
“Ride with me as one of my groomsmen. We will not be a large party, because this is mostly for show, you see.” Lord Cynvelin ran a cursory gaze over Bryce. “Better clothes you must be having. There isn’t time to buy new, so you may have something of mine I no longer wear.” He held up his hand to preempt Bryce’s protest. “Not hearing a word about that. You must be well dressed, or you will bring me disgrace.”
Clearly Cynvelin didn’t consider his offer of his old clothes an insult to Bryce, and he knew the man meant well, but he was insulted, nonetheless. He detested charity when he was the recipient.
“You, I think, should be the one to bring Rhiannon back here,” Cynvelin mused.
“Me?” he demanded, too surprised to be polite.
“Madoc and the others would probably be too rough. I know I can count on you to do it right.”
“Too rough? Why would they be rough if she wants to come away with you?”
“She has to at least feign some maidenly, modest aversion,” Cynvelin replied. “She might even weep and wail and protest, but you should just ignore it, because it will only be pretend. The moment we are together, she will be happy again.”
“What if the baron refuses to let her go?” Bryce asked.
“Oh, he very well might. He may even look to put up a fight. You know how fathers can be about their daughters.”
In truth, Bryce didn’t know. He had not been home when his sister was of an age to think of marriage, and he had not been there when she had fallen in love.
“That’s part of the tradition, too, you see,” Cynvelin explained, “and that is why I want you to take Rhiannon away as soon as possible. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my bride by accident.
“Not that it should,” he hastened to add. “Any fighting is just for show, too. And honor, you see, to make the woman think she’s worth a fight. There might be a few knocked heads and scratches. Nothing worse than you might get in a tournament, I promise you. Still, it would be best if you were to get Rhiannon away as quickly as you can. I will give you the word, and you take hold of her horse and gallop away, simple as can be.”
Bryce nodded, convinced of the truth of Cynvelin’s words by his earnestness and the Welshman’s honest demeanor, as much as his explanation. “Very well, iny lord,” he said with a slight bow. “I shall be honored to act as your groomsman.”
And he would be the one to take charge of Lady Rhiannon, because like Lord Cynvelin, he didn’t relish the idea of Madoc and his friend having responsibility for her.
“Here, you!” Cynvelin suddenly shouted at the pale serving wench. “More wine!” He turned back to Bryce and said wryly, “By the saints above, all this talking makes a man thirsty.”
“Don’t you get a dowry or exchange gifts, my lord?” Bryce asked.
“Ah, a wise man you are, Frechette,” Cynvelin replied. “Of course. Not savages, the Welsh. I get the dowry later, and I have to pay the amobr.”
“Amobr?”
Cynvelin leaned closer and gave him a conspiratorial wink as he whispered, “The price for her maidenhead.”
The Welsh must be barbarians to put such a thing so crudely, Bryce thought with disgust.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cynvelin asked. “It’s an exchange of gifts, like you said, only more honest about it, us.”
“I understand, my lord,” Bryce answered, believing that he did.
The thin, dark-haired serving wench came to refill their goblets. Bryce cut off a piece of cold roast mutton, then glanced over and nearly choked when he realized that Cynvelin was fondling her breasts as she poured the wine.
The young woman’s face betrayed nothing as she turned and walked away.
Cynvelin gave Bryce a devilish grin. “Ula’s not very friendly yet, but that will change when she sees a coin. You can have her after me, if you like.”
“My lord, I would rather sleep alone,” Bryce said without hesitation, instinctively recoiling from the notion that the servants of the castle were creatures to be used at an overlord’s whim.
“What?” Cynvelin eyed him dubiously.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Bryce replied, fearing he had offended the Welshman. After all, many noblemen considered the duties of the female servants of their households to automatically extend to carnal pleasures.
However, Bryce had been raised to consider them not as things to be exploited, but as hirelings worthy of some respect. He had not thought the Welshman the sort to use his own servants in such a way and was not pleased to find out he was wrong.
Nevertheless, he was beholden to Lord Cynvelin for the opportunity to regain something of his lost rank, to stand on the first step toward the restoration of his family’s fortune, so he decided he would prevaricate. “I would rather pay, my lord.”
“Pay? Are you mad?”
“She doesn’t look clean.”
“Are you that fastidious?” Lord Cynvelin asked with a laugh. “No women at Lord Melevoir’s. No whores on the journey. I am beginning to think you ought to have been a monk.”
“I thought about it.”
Cynvelin stared at him, incredulous, until Bryce grinned.
“I did contemplate the priesthood,” he admitted, then smiled again, attempting to reclaim his own good humor as much as his overlord’s. “To be sure, it was only for an instant.”
“You gave me quite a turn there, man!” Cynvelin raised his goblet in a salute. “A fellow has needs, Bryce, has he not? But if you do not want her, I will give her to Madoc and the others.”
Bryce clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. “I didn’t say I didn’t want her, my lord,” he replied.
Better the girl come to him than be handed about like a bowl of wassail.
Not that he had any intention of sleeping with her. Indeed, he could believe she had fleas, at the very least. No, when she came to him, he would give her a penny and send her on her way. That way, he would not seem to be criticizing Cynvelin’s behavior.
However, he silently vowed, when he was overlord here and a knight, when he again had rank and the power that went with it, he would never allow anyone in his household to be used in such a fashion.
He ate some of the bread, and as he watched the young serving wench, her lips compressed and her eyes full of fear, he wondered how Cynvelin could even think of bedding another woman and one so obviously unwilling when he was betrothed to the beautiful, graceful, spirited Rhiannon DeLanyea.
The beautiful, graceful, tempting Rhiannon DeLanyea, who had lured him into the shadows only to feign indignation. Who had seemed so genuinely sympathetic. Who had looked at him the way she did when she was already as good as betrothed to another.
A scowl crossed Bryce’s face. Perhaps Lady Rhiannon was getting the husband she deserved, after all.
In the dim light of the foggy morning, Bryce surveyed the motley gathering of men in the courtyard of Anned
d Bach. He could feel their gazes on him like the prick of several daggers, but he ignored their enmity. Indeed, he was used to seeing scorn in men’s eyes, and women’s, too. Not respect. Not gratitude for championing their honor.
He focused his attention on the men before him.
Dressed in a variety of mail and bits of armor, their clothes simple homespun and much patched, they stood in a sullen, suspicious group, eyeing Bryce and each other. Only five had brought swords. A few had spears; Bryce saw one or two daggers.
Hardly a mighty fighting force, he thought, although they did look somewhat better fed than most of the servants of Annedd Bach. Somewhat. The harvest must have been abysmal in this part of the country.
Bryce wondered if they had other weapons concealed beneath their clothing. He rather hoped they did, despite their glowering faces.
Not that he would be afraid of them for that. He doubted there was a properly trained fighter in their midst. In a battle, men like these would either be killed at once or run away.
No doubt if a Norman were to lead them against their countrymen, they would not run away; they would turn on their commander.
Unless he could earn their loyalty, and that was what Bryce planned to do, no matter how difficult. He would mold these men into a garrison any lord would be proud of, and by doing so, he would prove himself worthy of a knighthood and any other rewards Cynvelin ap Hywell might offer him.
The first thing he would have to do was see what they could do. One or two of them looked as if they could give Madoc or Twedwr a good fight, if that fight was only a brawl.
Bryce adjusted his belt and shifted his shoulders in the new black woolen tunic Lord Cynvelin had given him. It was longer than the leather jerkin Bryce was used to, and the wool sleeves made his arms itch.
Bryce glanced at Ermin, standing nervously to his left. He was supposed to act as interpreter until the men could learn enough French to understand their commander.
Ermin’s gaze strayed to the barracks. Twedwr and some of the other men of Cynvelin’s guard were standing outside, wearing full battle dress. Likely they were so attired because of the need to make an impressive show, and they were certainly doing that.
They were also, judging by the tone of their remarks, making several unflattering comments about the shabby, poorly armed garrison.
Bryce was pleased to note that his men seemed not so much cowed as disgusted by the behavior of Cynvelin’s men. It was good to know they had some pride.
Before Bryce could address the garrison, however, Lord Cynvelin strolled over to join them. He wore his finest chain mail beneath a plain black surcoat, which reached below his knees and was slit up the sides, as well as helmet and gauntlets.
“My lord,” Bryce said with a respectful bow. He gave a sharp and meaningful glance to the men of the garrison, who quickly bowed, too.
“A pity it is these are all the men you will have,” Cynvelin said, his tone betraying no regret. “Still, I have faith that a man of your skills will soon have them capable of defending Annedd Bach.”
“Thank you, my lord. If they can be as well armed as yours, that will help a great deal.”
Cynvelin nodded and smiled. “You’re right, and this estate should provide enough income for you to see to that. As for my men,” he went on, jerking his thumb toward Madoc, “we must be wearing our mail and weapons to show how rich and powerful I am to the baron.”
“I thought that must be another part of the custom, my lord.”
“You learn quickly, Frechette. Now, come, it is time to fetch my bride.” He gave Bryce a searching look. “What is it?”
Bryce tried to keep any expression from his face, but no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that Lady Rhiannon’s future was no concern of his, he could not get used to hearing that she was going to be Lord Cynvelin’s bride. “I am surprised we would set out so early, my lord.”
“They will be on the closest part of the road soon, I should think,” he replied lightly. “Baron DeLanyea likes to get an early start.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“When we meet them, wait until I tell you, then take Rhiannon back to Annedd Bach. At the gallop. It can be like a race, too, you see, and they may give chase.”
Bryce nodded his understanding.
Lord Cynvelin then said something cheerily to the garrison in Welsh before sauntering toward his guard.
The garrison didn’t move, although all their eyes followed the Welsh nobleman.
“What did Lord Cynvelin say?” Bryce asked Ermin.
The thin man looked at him, then at the ground. “To do what you are saying,” he replied haltingly, obviously not very familiar with Norman French. Probably he was the only man they could find who knew any at all.
“To obey my commands, you mean?”
“Aye, sir.”
That seemed a short order for all that Lord Cynvelin had said, so Bryce asked, “What else?”
“Or else...” Ermin hesitated, still looking at the ground, and Bryce assumed he was struggling to find the right word.
By now, however, Lord Cynvelin and his men were mounted and ready to ride out. “Frechette!”
Bryce turned to leave, then glanced back at Ermin over his shoulder. “Tell the men to go to the kitchen and get something to eat.”
Ermin’s eyes widened slightly as he nodded, and Bryce heard a murmur pass through the garrison, although whether of approval or simple curiosity, he couldn’t say.
As Bryce walked toward his horse, saddled and held by a lad from the stables, he noticed Ula hurrying toward the keep, a stool in her hands.
“She seems well rested,” Cynvelin remarked when Bryce prepared to mount. “A slow learner, but I daresay she’ll catch on soon enough.”
Bryce made a noncommittal grunt. He had no wish to reveal that he had sent the girl away last night after she had come to him.
“I’m glad you didn’t tire her overmuch,” the Welshman continued. “She has to prepare the chamber in the keep for Rhiannon. And me.”
Bryce couldn’t help the swift glance he cast at his overlord.
Cynvelin chuckled companionably as he gestured for Bryce to join him at the head of the column of men. “Another Welsh custom, Bryce. Caru yn y gwely.”
Bryce didn’t think he needed an interpreter to know what that meant. Obviously waiting for the actual blessing of a priest or even the signing of a marriage contract was of no import to these people.
Lord Cynvelin raised his hand again, and the gate opened to allow them to go to fetch the bride.
Water dripped slowly from the leaves of the trees surrounding the cortege as it made slow progress through the forest in the valley. At the head of the entourage rode Baron DeLanyea, followed by his son and foster son.
Rhiannon was behind them, mounted on her gentle mare and glad of it, for a feisty animal required too much effort on a long journey. The day was misty and damp, so she wore a light brown woolen cloak and hood over her gown. Since they were traveling, her hair was in two long, thick dark braids that hung over her shoulders.
The only sound to break the silence was the clipclop of the horses’ hooves, the slight jingling of the men’s chain mail and the occasional plaintive cry of a curlew. She suspected many of the men were dozing in the saddle, for her father always preferred an early start. She herself had to stifle a yawn as she wondered how far they would get today. They were making their way home at a leisurely pace and still had some ways to go.
In truth, Rhiannon was rather eager for the journey to be finished, and not just because traveling meant the discomfort of long days riding and uncertain accommodation at inns and monasteries, although the monastery of St. David, where they had spent last night, had been quite comfortable. After that disastrous episode during her visit at Lord Melevoir’s, she wanted nothing more than to be where she knew everyone, and they knew her. She would not encounter curious, gossiping women who would make much of an unexpected kiss in a courtyard, gig
gling and whispering behind her back.
As vexatious as that had been, she at least had the comfort of knowing that her father understood what had really happened the morning of Cynvelin’s departure between herself and the Welshman, and that his words to Dylan and Griffydd insured that they would not be overly—and unnecessarily—critical. The rest of her father’s party, being Welshmen, did not make much of a kiss, or at least, not that one.
What annoyed her most about Lord Cynvelin’s act was that he had selfishly misconstrued her responses during their time together, and then forced her into an embarrassing situation with his self-indulgent action. He had not given much thought to how such an act would look to the Normans at all, she suspected, although he had been among the Normans enough to guess how they would interpret the kiss.
Lady Valmont had insured that she heard Lord Cynvelin’s explanation for her less-than-delighted response, slyly hinting that she thought it clever of Rhiannon to feign indignation.
Rhiannon had known it was hopeless to try to correct that impression, at least with Lady Valmont.
She wondered what would have happened if Lady Valmont had been the one to come upon Bryce Frechette that night. Would she have confronted him as heedlessly? Would she have found herself in the shadows about to be seduced?
When Rhiannon recalled the sensation of Bryce Frechette’s caress and the intense expression in his eyes, she thought not. And when she remembered his words, that she was the most tempting woman he had ever seen, she felt sure of it. She also felt more flattered than by any flowery address Cynvelin had made.
For all his tournament prowess and attractiveness, Bryce Frechette had had no female companions at the feast, she recalled. He had never even spoken to the other noblewomen. He certainly didn’t dance.
He kept himself apart and aloof, friendless, with no companion to talk to him until Lord Cynvelin had approached to ask him to join his company.
How sad and lonely it must be to have no one to speak with at such a pleasant gathering. No friend to laugh with. No brothers to tease. No father to confide in.
A Warrior's Honor Page 6