A Warrior's Honor

by Margaret Moore

  Was there no one here from whom she could seek aid?

  Bryce Frechette came immediately to mind. Yet he had kidnapped her and—

  And he had spoken of her abduction as a custom, which it was, provided the bride was willing.

  Even she had not suspected Cynvelin of any baser motive than the one he had espoused in the beginning—that he was desperate to court her and could think of no other way to be near her, given her father’s dislike.

  It could be that Bryce believed that, too. Knowing little of the Welsh—if anything at all—he would probably accept whatever a man so outwardly honest and charming as Cynvelin ap Hywell told him about Welsh customs...and whatever else he chose.

  If Cynvelin had told Bryce that she returned his love, perhaps even going so far as to claim that they were betrothed, what would Bryce, or any truly honorable man, make of her willingness to kiss him?

  That she was shameless and immoral, tempting him when she belonged to another.

  Gasping, she covered her mouth with her hand, everything suddenly clear. She was just as suddenly certain that he would help her, once he knew the truth.

  But Bryce wasn’t here. Cynvelin had sent him away.

  Her fear returned a hundredfold. Why had Cynvelin done that? When would Bryce come back? What if he never came back?

  She shook her head. No, his absence must only be temporary, or he would not have any of the men of the garrison with him.

  But who could say when he would return? Maybe it would be after Cynvelin had lost what patience he possessed.

  At the thought of Cynvelin attacking her, she felt sick and helpless. She was only a lone woman, completely at his mercy.

  Her father had been alone, all those years ago in the Holy Land when King Richard and the others had left him for dead on the field at Acre. He had been alone for ten long years as he made his way home with no money, no horse, no armor.

  She was Emryss DeLanyea’s daughter, as Cynvelin had said, and she would not disgrace his name by giving up.

  Nor would she ever marry Cynvelin ap Hywell and join his name to that of her family. Not even if he raped her.

  Determined to protect herself as best she could, she shoved all the furnishings in the bedchamber against the door to create a makeshift barricade.

  She would get out of this place somehow, some way. She ran to the narrow window. Placing her hands on the sill, she raised herself up. The window narrowed, but if she turned sideways and was very careful, she could get through it She climbed up and perched on the sill, looking out.

  Then down.

  A long way down.

  But the walls of the keep were very rough, the stones rugged with age. A skilled and nimble climber like Dylan wouldn’t hesitate to descend, especially if there was a pretty girl waiting for him.

  Not her. She dared not risk it without a rope.

  She jumped down from the sill and looked around the room, her eyes lighting on the bed, whose linen was supported by ropes.

  She hurried to it and threw back the coverings.

  The knot fastening the end looked as if it had been there for the past one hundred years. Crouching down and biting her lip, she tried to untie it.

  She kept trying, even when the rough hemp cut her fingers. Tears of frustration stung her eyes as she worked the knot, trying to get it loose.

  It was no use. The knot was too tight and she had nothing with which to cut it.

  She sat back on her haunches and wiped her eyes. She would get out of this place, somehow.

  She looked at the chest of clothing.

  She could make her own rope, she thought with a glimmer of rekindled hope. She could tear a garment into strips and braid them together. She promptly pulled one of the linen shifts out of the chest, thinking that would be the easiest fabric to tear.

  It was not.

  With the zeal of near desperation, she took the fabric in her teeth and worried it like a dog with a bone until she made a hole. Then she ripped.

  Cynvelin put his hand on the cold wall, trying to calm his rage.

  Anger burned in him, furious, roiling wrath that threatened to overtake his reason.

  But he wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not with Rhiannon. He needed her for his glorious plan.

  Straightening, he saw Ula standing at the bottom of the stairs, a covered bowl held carefully against her chest, and a wineskin in her other hand.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, jogging down the rest of the stairs.

  “I am bringing Lady Rhiannon some stew and wine since she did not come to the hall tonight.”

  “Come here.”

  When Ula didn’t obey at once, he snatched the wine from her and yanked out the stopper. He took a long pull on the wineskin, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Take that back to the kitchen,” he ordered, nodding at the bowl.

  “But she’ll be hungry,” Ula protested.

  “I want her hungry!” he snarled as he knocked the bowl away from Ula.

  The cover flew off and the contents spilled on the wall and floor. Tossing aside the wineskin, he glared at the shocked Ula.

  Then suddenly he reached out and grabbed her hair, tugging her toward him. “What were you talking about, eh?” he demanded. “Me?”

  “No!” the frightened girl answered.

  “Liar!” he growled, forcing her head back. “Did you tell her how I took you?”

  “No!” Ula started to weep, and that pleased him.

  Nor did he require Ula for any plan. “You’re a liar. You told her what I made you do.”

  “No!” She sniveled as he pulled harder.

  Then, slowly, he smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day, soaked to the skin and thoroughly miserable, Bryce sat wearily upon his horse as it plodded through the thick mud on what was supposed to be a road. Behind him, Madoc and the others were likewise sodden from the continuing rain.

  The mud made sucking noises every time his horse took a step. The only other sounds were the rain and the occasional discontented mutter from one of the Welshmen.

  Not that he blamed them for complaining. He was beginning to believe this had been a fool’s errand from start to finish.

  There had been no outlaw camp, nor any signs of one. Bryce and his men had reached the edge of the forest late last night and made what camp they could on the wet ground. They had started to search this morning as soon as it was light, or as much light as could penetrate the mist. So far they had not found so much as a questionable stick.

  If he were a suspicious man, Bryce mused, he would think Lord Cynvelin simply wanted to get him out of Annedd Bach.

  If that were so, what cause would he have to want him gone?

  Bryce thought of the previous day and wondered if the Welshman suspected Bryce of having inappropriate feelings for his betrothed. Bryce had tried to hide his growing regard, but likely with inadequate results. He had never been able to hide his emotions completely.

  But then why would Cynvelin not say something to him? Why keep him in his company if he surmised such a thing?

  Because Bryce was a valuable warrior?

  He was not feeling very valuable at the moment

  Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  They were being watched. He couldn’t see anything through the rain and the trees, but he was sure of it nonetheless. Perhaps he had discounted the notion of outlaws too easily, his mind clouded by thoughts and feelings he should not be harboring.

  With a deliberately casual gesture, he signaled for Madoc to ride forward beside him.

  The Welshman rubbed his dripping nose on the sleeve of his tunic and gave Bryce a quizzical look.

  “We have companions in the woods,” Bryce said quietly.

  Madoc started and half turned before Bryce spoke. “No, don’t look. I don’t want the outlaws to know we’re on to them.”

  Madoc nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Bryce didn’t give hi
m a chance. “Pass word among the men, but don’t do anything suspicious.”

  “Aye,” Madoc muttered.

  His gaze darting from bush to tree to road, Bryce slowly rode on ahead as Madoc fell back among the others. He noted that the forest opened out a little on his right, and there was a small rise in the distance.

  On that rise sat a lone horseman, unmoving in the rain, as if he were a ghost, or a statue, watching them.

  There was something familiar about the man, the way he sat on his horse, or something else that Bryce couldn’t quite name.

  By the time Madoc and the others had caught up to him, the stranger had turned his horse and was disappearing beyond the ridge.

  Madoc gasped what sounded like an oath, then murmured, “DeLanyea!”

  “The baron?” Bryce asked, surprised. He hadn’t been able to see the man’s face clearly in the rain, yet there was that about the stranger that made Bryce think it was not Lady Rhiannon’s father. “What would he be doing here?”

  Madoc only shook his head for an answer and nudged his horse forward. Bryce did the same, until he was abreast of the Welshman. “Why would the baron or his men be watching us?”

  Madoc shrugged his shoulders. “A mistake I made. As you say, why would he be here?”

  Exactly, Bryce thought. It was more likely outlaws or rebels. The garrison seemed to respect him and follow his leadership, but he knew rebels could be clever. Perhaps this was a trap.

  Suddenly the sound of a galloping horse came to his ears. Bryce pulled his horse to a stop, jumped from his saddle and drew his sword. Madoc did likewise, and the rest of the garrison took the bows from their shoulders.

  At least he might discover if Lady Rhiannon was right about Welshmen and their bows, Bryce thought sardonically as he braced himself for an attack.

  A horse came careening around the corner of the road, then came to such an abrupt halt, it almost fell.

  There sat Ermin, dripping wet and grinning from ear to ear. “Sir!” he called out happily.

  Bryce relaxed, but not completely. Not after the sight of the man on the ridge.

  Ermin continued to speak excitedly as the men of the garrison swarmed past Bryce and surrounded their companion, leaving Madoc scowling behind them.

  “You can tell Lord Cynvelin there was no need to be concerned about the horse,” Bryce said to Madoc as he sheathed his sword.

  “Be telling him yourself,” Madoc muttered.

  Bryce glanced at Madoc and noted the man’s tense posture. Indeed, he kept looking back over his shoulder as if he expected an attack from the rear.

  “It’s a boy, sir!” Ermin cried as he dismounted and led the horse toward Bryce. “A fine, healthy boy! And my wife is well, too.”

  “I am glad to hear it. I’m also glad you didn’t break your neck riding that way, or injure the horse.”

  Ermin’s face fell.

  “You didn’t bring any rebels with you?”

  Ermin was obviously shocked. “Rebels? No, sir!”

  “Good,” Bryce said, believing the man. “Let’s get back to Annedd Bach so we can all get dry.”

  “Yes, sir!” Ermin relayed Bryce’s order to the others, who did as they were bid.

  “Madoc, you go to the rear.”

  “Me? Why?” the soldier demanded hotly.

  Bryce regarded him steadily, recognizing fear beneath the apparent anger. “Are you afraid?” he asked quietly. “Is there something I should know?”

  “No!”

  “Then go.”

  Madoc scowled and reluctantly obeyed. As he went to the back of the line, Bryce gestured for Ermin to join him. “Do you know why somebody would be spying on us?”

  “Sir?”

  “Someone was watching us, back there a ways. I think it was one of the baron’s men.”

  “I saw him, too,” Ermin revealed, giving Bryce another surprise. “It was Griffydd DeLanyea.”

  “Why the devil would he be watching us? Why haven’t they gone ahead to Caer Coch, or home to prepare for the wedding?”

  Ermin gave Bryce a puzzled look. “Because you took his sister.”

  Bryce felt as if a stone had dropped into his stomach. “That’s the tradition. Isn’t it?”

  “Aye, it is,” Ermin admitted.

  “Lord Cynvelin said this was all expected. That they were as good as betrothed.”

  “Did he?” Ermin said hopefully. “Maybe we was all wrong, then.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Those men of his, Madoc and the others, the way they talk, Cynvelin hates the Baron DeLanyea, and the baron hates him. They don’t seem to think it’s much of a love match, if there is to be a marriage.”

  Dismay and a wild surge of hope battled for supremacy within Bryce. “Many a father and son-in-law have no love for each other,” Bryce observed. “Lady Rhiannon seems to find him attractive.”

  Ermin’s face became unusually enigmatic. “Does she?”

  Bryce thought of the last time he had seen Lady Rhiannon with Lord Cynvelin, and then how they had appeared at Lord Melevoir’s.

  Something had changed, that was certain.

  What if Cynvelin had lied? What if there was more to this business than mere custom?

  Perhaps Lady Rhiannon’s behavior at Lord Melevoir’s was simply the friendly activity of a spirited young woman. That would explain her conduct toward him as something other than a woman’s wiles. Even as he thrilled to think that might be so, another realization assailed him.

  That would also mean her protests and requests to be returned to her father were not merely feigned for the sake of a custom. She had been in earnest, and he had not helped her.

  The things he had said to her! The way he had dismissed her pleas!

  No, that could not be. Cynvelin would not do something so base as to kidnap a woman and force her into marriage. Nor would he have to, given his title, wealth and personal attributes.

  Even as Bryce spurred his horse to a gallop through the thickening fog, leaving the others behind him without so much as a second glance. he told himself that couldn’t be true.

  Because if Rhiannon DeLanyea’s abduction had not been a Welsh custom, what had he done?

  Rhiannon heard the portcullis slowly rattle upward and, leaving on the bed her braided makeshift rope that she had finished a little while ago, she went to see who had arrived.

  As she did, she wet her dry lips with her tongue. She had never been so thirsty in her life, or hungry, either. Although she had been convinced nothing could ever compel her to welcome Cynvelin’s company, she was beginning to understand that solitude and lack of food could be powerful inducements.

  She couldn’t take the chance that her resolve might weaken with her body. Tonight she would escape.

  The fog was worsening, yet she knew at once who rode into the courtyard and her hopes soared.

  Bryce Frechette had come back!

  Maybe she would have no need of the rope. He was an honorable man; once he realized something was amiss, he would help her.

  If he realized something was amiss. She, of all people, knew that Cynvelin, with his smooth tongue and charming manner, might convince him otherwise.

  Desperately she lifted her hand and waved, trying to catch his attention.

  She went to call out but stopped herself. It might not be wise to draw the attention of the guards, whose loyalty was surely to Cynvelin first.

  She waved again, frantically, but Bryce didn’t look her way. Instead, he marched straight toward the hall.

  Disappointed, she leaned against the side of the window. If only he had looked up—what? Would he have known something was wrong?

  Even if he did, would he give up his chance for knighthood for the sake of a woman he hardly knew, no matter what emotions seemed to exist between them? She thought he might, but she could not be completely sure.

  The only thing she could be absolutely certain of was the need to get away from Annedd Bach and Cynvelin ap Hy
well.

  Once inside the hall, Bryce stood dripping on the threshold as he surveyed the room. Cynvelin was seated at a table near the hearth, awaiting the noon meal. Those men not on watch lounged about on benches as a few of the servants put up the trestle tables. A welcome fire burned in the hearth.

  Nothing seemed unusual, except that Lady Rhiannon was nowhere to be seen. Her absence seemed suddenly sinister, and Bryce’s hands balled into fists as he strode toward the Welshman, very aware that he was alone among Cynvelin’s guard.

  As alone as Rhiannon must have felt when he had not listened to her.

  “Ah, Bryce!” Cynvelin called out cheerfully. “You have returned earlier than I expected. Come and eat. Did you find the outlaws, or was that only a rumor?”

  Bryce began to doubt his own assumptions. He had always been impetuous and that had led to disastrous consequences. What if he was wrong about Cynvelin? Could any man truly be so blasé if he were guilty of such a heinous crime?

  “A rumor, I presume, my lord, and hardly worth the effort,” Bryce replied, trying to sound as if nothing at all were wrong.

  “Sit,” Cynvelin ordered, gesturing at the chair to his right.

  Bryce glanced questioningly at the empty seat beside his overlord as he obeyed.

  “Lady Rhiannon will not be joining us,” the Welshman replied calmly to Bryce’s unasked question. “She is unwell.”

  “I trust it is nothing serious, my lord.”

  “No, nothing at all. Just her women’s time. She should be fine to travel tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, tomorrow. I did have another purpose for sending you out in such weather,” Cynvelin replied with a smile. “How are the roads?”

  “Bad.”

  “I feared it would be so. Nevertheless, I have decided not to stay here any longer. We cannot remain cooped up in Annedd Bach forever.”

  “Does Lady Rhiannon agree with that decision?” Bryce asked.

  Cynvelin gave him a surprised look. “Of course.” Then he looked at the door, and Bryce eagerly followed his gaze, hoping to see Lady Rhiannon.

  It was Ermin.

  Cynvelin chuckled and Bryce told himself that no one could be so merry if he was indeed holding someone against their will.