A Warrior's Honor

by Margaret Moore

  If Lady Rhiannon had given Bryce such a look and asked him to jump from the battlements, he would have agreed. “I remember well how I felt when I heard my father was dead, and how I wished I had been with him,” he murmured. “Of course he may go.”

  She smiled, her eyes shining with approval.

  He abruptly cleared his throat, then turned to the nervous Ermin. “We have to stop now anyway,” he said, his voice husky with suppressed emotion, “or be wet through, and their weapons are rusted enough as it is. Go, Ermin—and take a horse from the stable and come back when all is well.” He grinned ruefully as Ermin smiled broadly and with great relief. “I would not take a horse belonging to one of Cynvelin’s men, if I were you.”

  Ermin nodded eagerly. “Thank you, sir! I will not!” He started to run toward the gatehouse, looking back over his shoulder to shout, “Thank you! Thank you!”

  Suddenly a clap of thunder made them all jump, then turn to the west. “We had better get inside,” Bryce said brusquely and to no one in particular.

  As his men whispered among themselves, he bent to pick up his tunic. When he straightened, Lady Rhiannon was already nearly at the gatehouse.

  Just as well, he told himself. Let her go without him. Let him learn to live without her.

  Let her return to Lord Cynvelin, the most fortunate of men.

  Rhiannon came to an abrupt halt when Lord Cynvelin, shrouded in a long, black cloak that made him look like a carrion crow, stepped out of the shadows to stand beside Madoc. “My lord,” she cried. “You are awake.”

  “Indeed I am,” he replied with a bow. “Imagine my surprise when I awakened and found my lovely lady had flown. I was very concerned, my dear.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Madoc grinning at her as if party to some great joke. Had he gone to summon Lord Cynvelin, to tell him where she had gone like some kind of spy?

  Why should she not be free to go where she would? She was a guest here.

  “I had grown tired of being inside so much,” she said with a glance at the stone-faced Madoc. “That fellow told me I couldn’t go outside Annedd Bach.”

  Cynvelin waved his hand dismissively. “For your safety, my lady. I promised your good father that you would not come to any harm while in my care. The woods here may harbor outlaws.” He smiled with apparent commiseration and held out his arm. “It will be better when we get to Caer Coch. The gardens are lovely, although naturally I shall approve any changes you think necessary. In the meantime, we should get inside before the storm hits. Unfortunately, I fear we shall have to stay here awhile yet.”

  “Yes,” she answered, fighting both the urge to turn to see if Bryce Frechette was behind her, and to refuse Cynvelin’s proffered arm.

  Indeed, she was sorely tempted to turn and run out of Annedd Bach and try to find her father, storm or no storm. Then she would be away from both these men, especially the very puzzling, very contradictory Bryce Frechette, who seemed so cold and aloof sometimes, so warm and approachable and attractive at others.

  “Frechette,” Cynvelin said.

  Rhiannon turned slightly to see the Norman acknowledging Lord Cynvelin with a nod of his head as he came through the gate. “My lord. My lady.”

  She was relieved to see that he had put on his tunic. And that he was not looking at her directly.

  Not that he shouldn’t. There was no reason he could not. They had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t kissed her. Not this time.

  He would never kiss her again, and all too soon she would be gone. She should be happy about that, and eager to return to her father.

  She would certainly be eager to be free of Lord Cynvelin’s company, at any rate.

  “Was that Ermin I saw running to the stable as if the building was on fire?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bryce replied evenly. “He needs to get home. His wife is having a baby.”

  A loud rumble nearly drowned out the Welsh lord’s response. “Why did he go to the stable, then?”

  “I told him he could take a horse,” Bryce said.

  “I don’t recall you asking my permission for such an order.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Bryce said, his tone only slightly contrite. “I did not think it required your permission, if I am in charge of the garrison.”

  Rhiannon’s gaze darted from man to man as they spoke. She realized Bryce was far from pleased but determined to remain calm. Although Lord Cynvelin smiled, she noted the narrowing of his eyes.

  Despite his loss of rank, by allowing Ermin to go, Bryce had displayed an understanding of noblesse oblige that Cynvelin himself would do well to emulate, and with a true spirit of kind concern that was rare, indeed.

  She was more certain than ever that whoever had mistreated Ula, it was not Bryce Frechette.

  Another loud crack of thunder surprised them all. The horse Ermin was leading out of the stable whinnied and pranced nervously. The thin man tried to control it as rain began to fall again.

  Without waiting for his overlord’s dismissal, Bryce walked away from Rhiannon and Cynvelin. As he strode toward Ermin, she heard him ask if the Welshman was still determined to leave in the storm. Ermin nodded, and Bryce held the horse for him to mount.

  “I suspect that will be one horse we shall never see again,” Lord Cynvelin said sarcastically.

  Rhiannon moved back against the wall to let Ermin ride past. He nodded at them as he urged the horse out into the driving rain, while Bryce continued toward the barracks. “You think Ermin will steal it?”

  “Or it will get stolen while he waits for his wife to have her brat.”

  Rhiannon turned to stare at the Welshman.

  Cynvelin laughed. “You know how these peasants are, my lady. They have babies as if they were rabbits.”

  “I think that is a heartless thing to say, my lord,” Rhiannon charged, remembering Ermin’s face when he told her of the baby who had died. “Peasant or not, he wants to be with his wife, and I think it very kind of Frechette to allow him the use of a horse.”

  “I’m sorry to upset you, my lady,” Cynvelin replied, frowning slightly. “Please forgive my hasty remark. Sometimes I speak without thinking.”

  Since Rhiannon herself was guilty of this sin, she could scarcely hold that against him, although she did fault his lack of feeling.

  “If you will share my cloak, my lady, we should get inside the hall before the courtyard is awash.” With a pleasant smile, he held open his cloak, obviously expecting her to come beneath it, close beside him in what would be almost an embrace.

  The idea of being in such close proximity with Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell did not please her at all.

  “What is rain to a Welshman, my lord?” she chided mirthfully as she lifted up her skirt and dashed nimbly away from him, across the courtyard and into the keep.

  With a set face, Cynvelin watched her go, then turned to Madoc. “What did you see?” he growled.

  Madoc shrugged his beefy shoulders. “They talked, then she watched, then they talked.”

  Suddenly Cynvelin shoved Madoc against the wall, his forearm against the soldier’s throat. “How did they talk, you fool!”

  Madoc, his face growing red, spluttered, “They talked, that’s all. I...I didn’t see nothing suspicious, my lord!”

  “On your life?”

  “I swear! If I thought there was anything amiss, I would have come for you.”

  Cynvelin relaxed and stepped back, while Madoc gasped for breath. “Good. I want you to make sure she doesn’t go outside the walls again.”

  Madoc nodded.

  “She stays here, and if she goes near Frechette again, tell me.”

  Madoc looked at his master questioningly. “You don’t think—”

  “No,” he said to himself as much as to his companion. “She would never choose him over me. But Frechette could be trouble.”

  “Then kill him,” Madoc suggested matter-offactly.

  Cynvelin gave the man a skep
tical glance. “Known for your cleverness are you, Madoc? You must remember, then, that Frechette’s sister is married to the Baron DeGuerre. With him as my underling and the daughter of Emryss DeLanyea for my wife, I will be allied to the two most famous warriors in England.”

  Madoc’s eyes widened with respect.

  “Of course, should Frechette prove to be less than amenable to my commands... well, his reputation is against him, poor fellow, so if I must find fault with him and send him away, no one will question it.”

  Feeling better than he had since he had first spied Rhiannon standing next to Bryce Frechette, Cynvelin smiled and wrapped his cloak around him like a shroud before sauntering out into the rain.

  Rhiannon hurried into the bedchamber and closed the door behind her, panting from the exertion of running up the steps.

  And the need to get away from Lord Cynvelin.

  “My lady?”

  Rhiannon whirled around. She hadn’t noticed Ula, who had obviously been tidying the room, for the few articles Rhiannon had left scattered about were nowhere to be seen, and the bed had been made.

  “Your dress is wet, my lady,” the maidservant observed.

  “I was watching the men train and it started to rain,” Rhiannon answered.

  “Best you should be getting out of those wet things, then.”

  As if to confirm Ula’s suggestion, Rhiannon sneezed. “I think that blue gown would be the warmest,” she said, realizing she was shivering.

  As the maidservant untied the laces at the back of Rhiannon’s gown, Rhiannon spoke in a casual tone. “Tell me, what do you think of Lord Cynvelin?”

  Ula went to the chest and lifted out the woolen gown of deep indigo blue that looked warm and comfortable.

  “I don’t think about him,” Ula answered. “It’s not my place to think about him.”

  Her voice wavered slightly, and Rhiannon realized that her hands had started to tremble.

  Rhiannon started to wiggle out of her damp gown and asked her next question as if it was not important. “Is he considered a good overlord?”

  Ula didn’t answer as she took the wet dress and laid it on the bed.

  Clad only in her shift, Rhiannon regarded the younger woman. She caught a glimpse of an expression that looked like anger, dismay and defiance combined in Ula’s eyes. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “Who, my lady?”

  “Lord Cynvelin. Has he ever hurt you?”

  Ula hesitated. “No, my lady.”

  Rhiannon realized she was not going to get an honest answer, but she thought the girl’s trembling hands told her some of what she wanted to know.

  Ula was afraid of Cynvelin.

  The maidservant held up the blue dress. Rhiannon slipped her hands into the arms and Ula lifted it over her head.

  “What of Frechette?” she asked, her voice muffled as the garment went over her. “Is he a good master?”

  Ula didn’t respond as she began pulling it down.

  Then the gown seemed to go slack, as if Ula had let go, leaving Rhiannon to tug the bodice into place. “Ula?”

  She glanced over her shoulder—to see a smiling Lord Cynvelin, his black cloak over his arm, standing on the threshold of the bedchamber.

  “My lord!” Rhiannon gasped as he tossed his cloak onto the bed.

  Realizing they were alone, she hurried to the far side of the room, holding her loose bodice over her breasts.

  “Where is Ula?”

  “I sent her away,” he replied lightly.

  “Please leave!” she ordered. “I am not properly dressed.”

  “Allow me to help you,” he said, sauntering closer.

  “You, my lord? No, thank you. I can tie the laces myself.”

  His voice dropped to a provocative whisper. “You have no maid nearby.”

  “I can do it myself, thank you,” she said sternly.

  His gaze seemed to intensify, and not in a good way. “Allow me, my lady,” he said, and the words were an order as he advanced on her.

  “No, truly, I—”

  “There is no need to be so coy.” He shoved her shoulder, so that she had to turn, then she felt him pick up the laces and begin to pull them tight.

  Too stunned to move, surprised by the change in his manner, she said no more.

  “All finished,” he said. When she turned to face him, he was near the door, holding his arms wide. “You see. I only wanted to help.”

  “So now you have helped and now you may leave.”

  He frowned sorrowfully. “My lady, why are you so harsh with me today? Is it something I said? Have I offended you in some way?”

  “You come into the room when I am not decently attired and are surprised to find I feel offended?”

  “I thought you wanted me to follow you.”

  She gave him a critical look. “You seem to have a great facility for misunderstanding me, my lord.”

  “Perhaps that is because you are unlike any woman I have ever met,” he said. “You are the most beautiful, the most graceful, the most desirable.”

  Once again she felt trapped. “My lord, we...we should not be alone together here,” she stammered.

  “No, my lovely Rhiannon? Not alone? Then when may I tell you how much I adore you? How much I love you? How much I need you?”

  She backed away, not sure what to do, only sure that she should not be alone with him. “You could court me properly, not keep me here like a prisoner.”

  He stared at her with wide-eyed innocence. “What makes you say such a thing, my lady?”

  “You won’t let me go outside the gates, and I think you have set your men to spy upon me.”

  Cynvelin’s expression grew sorrowful. “You hurt me, my lady! You are not a prisoner here, except for your own good! I have not set my men to spy upon you. I came looking for you.”

  His explanation was reasonable, and yet she wanted him gone. Indeed, she wanted to be away from him completely. “My lord,” she began, “I think I should go back to my father immediately.”

  “Travel in such weather? You cannot be serious.”

  “I assure you, Lord Cynvelin, I am very serious.”

  “You want to leave me that much? And Frechette, too?”

  “What is Frechette to me?” she asked, coloring.

  Cynvelin strolled over to the small table and started to examine her toilet articles. “That is what I have been wondering. I thought you disliked the man. I thought you considered him dishonorable. What has happened to change your mind?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, knowing that she lied. Many small things had happened to make her realize she had originally judged Bryce Frechette in haste, without really knowing him or why he had done what he had. Her opinion had changed greatly, all for the better. “I was telling him about Welsh bows.”

  “Is that so?” He glanced up at her sharply. Critically.

  “Yes, my lord, it is,” she retorted. “Would you dictate to whom I may speak or what I may say?”

  He picked up her hairbrush and began to smack it against his palm with light, rhythmic taps. “I would rather you did not speak to him. He is not a fit companion for you.”

  “Yet you saw fit to hire him and set him in command here,” she observed.

  The brush stopped moving. “To command a garrison in this godforsaken part of Wales is what he is fit for. And nothing more.”

  “If you say so, my lord.”

  Cynvelin set down the brush gently and gave her a winsome look. “Please, my lady, do not be angry with me.”

  He smiled guiltily, like a little boy caught stealing apples from the orchard. “I am jealous.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of any man who looks at you, let alone talks with you,” he explained. “I was even jealous of Ula when I came into the room. That is why I sent her away. I begrudge anyone who has your attention, when it is not me.”

  That he was in earnest she did not doubt. But his jealousy only made her feel as if he thought he
already possessed her.

  He came toward her, holding out his hands beseechingly. “Rhiannon, you know I love you. I would do anything to have you. Will you not make me the happiest man in the kingdom by agreeing to be my wife?”

  Out in the courtyard, she heard a man’s voice raised in command. Bryce Frechette’s voice.

  She suddenly felt as if she were standing on the edge of an abyss, and that Bryce Frechette was calling her to safety.

  “My lord,” she said softly, yet with determination. “I cannot. Please do not ask it of me! Let me go back to my father.”

  “Why must you make this so difficult, dearest Rhiannon?” he asked, the pleading tone of his words at distinct odds with the frustration she saw in his eyes.

  “It does not have to be difficult,” she answered. “Indeed, what I ask is simple indeed. Return me to my father.”

  His gaze faltered and he slowly nodded his head. “I see that it is useless for me to plead with you more,” he said softly.

  He raised his eyes, and she thought she saw so genuine a disappointment she almost feared she had misunderstood him, as he had misunderstood her.

  “I will do what I must,” he muttered.

  With that, he slowly turned on his heel, picked up his cloak and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Sighing, Rhiannon sat on the bed.

  And told herself that she should be glad she was going away from Annedd Bach, and everybody in it.

  Chapter Ten

  Bryce and the men pf the garrison rose when Cynvelin sauntered into the barracks.

  As they made their obeisance, the nobleman took off his cloak and shook it, wetting the nearest sleeping pallets without concern.

  His gaze swept over a chessboard, the pieces scattered in the players’ haste to stand, a harp held in one man’s grimy fingers and Bryce’s distance from the others, for he had been alone in the corner, the cloth and sword in his hand betraying what he had been doing.

  “Well, Frechette,” he said, ignoring the men and addressing only their commander, “surely these men are not resting?”

  Bryce put down the cloth and sheathed his sword. “Our practice was cut short by the rain.”