“I see you are a better judge of human nature than I am,” Cynvelin remarked.
“He brought the horse back, too,” Bryce noted.
After Ermin came the equally soaked members of the garrison who had been on the patrol. The servants, including the old crone who had been relegated to the kitchen ever since Bryce’s frustrating attempt to get her to comprehend him, began to serve bread, roasted chicken, stew and ale. The men of Cynvelin’s guard, in typical fashion, began to commandeer the first offerings.
“I believe the men of the garrison who went with me should be served first, my lord,” Bryce said as his men cast hostile glances at Cynvelin’s guard, who were warm and dry.
“Really?” Cynvelin replied calmly. “Then order it, since you are the commander here.”
Bryce did so, ignoring the angry expressions on Twedwr and the rest.
“I’m very pleased with the rapport you’ve established with the garrison,” Cynvelin said next, reaching for the roasted chicken placed before him. He ripped off the leg. “They seem to get along well with you, even if you are a Norman.”
“Perhaps,” Bryce answered noncommittally, “but there may be those who do not welcome me, or any Norman.”
Cynvelin turned toward him with an interested expression. “Such as?”
“My men and I were watched on our return journey today.”
The chicken leg halted its progress to the Welshman’s mouth. “Is that so?” Cynvelin asked before taking a bite. “By whom?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“More than one peasant, was it? Or do you suspect rebels? This would not be the first time they have troubled this part of the country.”
“Ermin thought it was Griffydd DeLanyea, and I believe he could be right.” Bryce watched Cynvelin’s face carefully and saw him color slightly.
“Ridiculous!” Cynvelin cried. “Why would they set a watch?”
Bryce shrugged and cut a slice from the loaf in front of him. “That’s what I would like to know, my lord. Would they—and why?”
“They wouldn’t, and you should not be listening to a milksop like that anyway, a man who has to run to his wife just because she’s having a baby. You surprise me, Frechette, you really do. I thought you had more sense.”
Bryce fought to subdue his displeasure with his overlord’s remarks and fixed a shrewd gaze on Lord Cynvelin, whom he was now certain was being less than forthcoming. “I was expecting you to say this was part of the custom, too.”
Cynvelin threw back his head and laughed. “No,” he said when he stopped, giving Bryce a wry grin. “It’s another custom that the peasants particularly enjoy. Badger the Normans.”
Bryce was not amused. “What is the next part of the custom, my lord? Attack the Normans? Kill the Normans?”
Cynvelin stopped grinning. “Depends on the Normans, that does. I think you will be safe enough, Bryce Frechette,” he said, seemingly not the whit concerned that Bryce and his men had been spied upon by Griffydd DeLanyea, or anyone else.
If there was no love between Baron DeLanyea and Cynvelin, that might explain Cynvelin’s deceit.
Or it might not.
Bryce abruptly pushed back his chair. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I should see that all is in readiness for your departure in the morning, if you are determined to leave.”
“How very efficient of you,” Cynvelin noted. “I am. Very determined.”
Bryce gave a brisk nod and strode from the hall.
Rhiannon once again tested the strength of her rope. The braided cloth seemed strong enough. She would assume it was and would not have any fear that it would break.
She simply couldn’t wait any longer. She had thought that perhaps Bryce might come, but he had not.
Rising from the stool, she flexed her fingers, which were stiff from braiding the linen strips. She ignored the empty feeling in her stomach and her exhaustion.
She couldn’t take the chance that the fog might dissipate, either. Fog would make it more difficult to find the road, but it would also make it harder for someone to see her.
Rhiannon knew what she had to do. She had to climb out of the keep, then cautiously find a secluded place on the wall walk from whence she could climb to the ground outside the walls. It would be dangerous, but she had no choice.
Then she would make her way, skirting the road until she found someone of whom she could ask directions to the monastery of St. David. She hoped to find her father there, but if he was not, surely the holy brothers would give her sanctuary, and then she could think of a way to send word of her escape home.
She went to the window.
She had taken the empty basin from the table and set it on the sill, so that part of it was out the window. Now the basin was half-full of rainwater, and she gratefully took a drink, sipping it slowly to make the most of it.
Outside, she couldn’t see the hall, or even light from the windows. It was as if the keep had been spirited away to some distant, isolated island.
She again glanced at the distance from the window to the ground and swallowed hard. It was not going to be easy.
Indeed, she thought as she regarded the window, she wouldn’t be able to wear her gown. Not only was she not certain that she could fit through the narrow window with such a large skirt, the rain would make it dangerously heavy. She would have to wear only her shift but, aware of the chilly damp, she would wait until she was ready to go before she took off her warm gown.
She didn’t even know what hour it was, and could only hope that all the men except the few necessary guards would stay inside.
She picked up her makeshift rope and looked around for the best place to attach it inside the room. The biggest piece of furniture was the bed; unfortunately, that formed the major part of her barricade against the door. If she moved it away and Cynvelin returned...
She would hope to be gone.
Pressing her lips together, she began to move aside the stool, table and chest. She grabbed the bed and began to drag it toward the window.
“My lady?”
She stopped, holding her breath.
“My lady? I must speak with you. Please! I fear I have done you a terrible disservice.”
It wasn’t Cynvelin. Her heart raced as she recognized Bryce’s voice. “Please let me in.”
“It’s locked.”
She heard what sounded like scratching at the lock. In another moment, the door began to open.
Bryce stood on the threshold, looking at her, a thin dagger in his hands. He sheathed his weapon, then came into the room and closed the door behind him.
She moved back cautiously, watching him. She had been so wrong about one man; perhaps she should not trust Bryce as completely as her heart urged her to do.
“Are you betrothed to Lord Cynvelin?” he demanded.
“No!”
“Do you want to be betrothed to him?”
“No!”
He muttered an oath. “Then you did not expect to meet him on the road? You were not prepared to go with him?”
“Certainly not,” she replied, more hopeful than ever.
“That lying blackguard!” He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication, as Cynvelin had done, and yet so very different. “Forgive me, my lady, for having wronged you,” he said. “If I had known the truth, I would never have had anything to do with your abduction.”
“Why did you?” she asked, still not absolutely sure she could trust him.
“Cynvelin told me the kidnapping was only a custom, and all arranged between you. That you were already as good as betrothed. What do I know of Welsh customs? I believed him.”
He sounded so desperate, so honest, and yet...
“You took me from my father,” she said cautiously.
“To my shame, lady,” he replied fervently. “If I had known this was done against your will, I would have refused to help, knighthood or no. Whatever else you think of me, you must believe that.”
�
��As you believed Cynvelin?”
“Yes... no! Anyone watching the two of you at Lord Melevoir’s feast might think you were more than mere acquaintances.”
She flushed at that, knowing that he spoke the truth. “I would never have been in this trouble if I had behaved with more prudence there,” she acknowledged bitterly. “Still, the fact that my father and brothers were so angry should have told you this was no game.”
“I didn’t understand what was being said, and Cynvelin told me your father didn’t like him.”
“He hates him, and so do I.”
“And so do I, for what he has done. Has he...has he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“I will lay down my life to get you away from here, my lady, if you will allow me that honor,” Bryce declared.
Simple words, sincerely spoken. Rhiannon gazed into his eyes, very aware that they were alone together. That she had been wrong about him. That he was an honorable man.
That he cared about her and she could trust him with her life.
“I hoped you would help me, once you learned the truth,” she confessed.
His eyes widened. “You did?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “The trouble was, I didn’t see how I could convince you after I took so long to discover the truth about Cynvelin myself. I thought I would have to get away without anyone’s aid.”
“How?”
She pointed to the braided fabric on the bed. “I was going to go out the window and climb down.”
“You could have fallen to your death!”
“Better that than...”
He nodded brusquely. “I should have realized—”
“You have.”
He held out his hand. “Come, my lady.”
She hesitated a moment. “What will you do afterward?”
“It doesn’t matter. But I will not serve Cynvelin ap Hywell a moment after I have delivered you safe to your father.”
An unwelcome thought intruded into her mind. “He will not be happy to see you, Bryce. He will give you no reward. He might even kill you for what you have done. Perhaps you would do better to help me get out of Annedd Bach, then flee for your life.”
Bryce slowly shook his head. “I will not be happy until I know you are back with your family.”
“Happy it will make you, to see me safe?” she asked softly.
“Content, then.” He regarded her steadily. “If your father does take me prisoner, would you not plead my case for me, my lady?”
His low, solemn question touched her deeply. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I ask no more than that for my reward. Come, my lady,” he whispered. “We have lost too much time as it is.”
She nodded, then put her hand in his and let him lead her forth.
To encounter Cynvelin and Madoc, as well as other men of Cynvelin’s guard, waiting on the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
A few of the men held torches, and the light flickered on Cynvelin’s face, accentuating every angle, plane and shadow.
“Isn’t this an unexpected pleasure,” Cynvelin remarked coldly. “Well, perhaps not completely unexpected.”
Bryce realized they were outnumbered at least ten to one.
He didn’t care. He had participated in Lady Rhiannon’s abduction, even if he had not understood the true nature of what he was doing, and he would die to right his wrong, if need be.
“I am taking this lady away from here, as she desires,” he replied sternly.
“Is that all she desires of you, Frechette?” the Welshman snarled. He slowly drew out his sword. “Or is this one of many rendezvous you have shared? I believe I was wrong to put you in a position of trust, after all.”
“Who are you to speak of trust?” Bryce demanded scornfully, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You are a liar, a dishonorable villain. And you have made me a party to your despicable plans.”
“Harsh words from a dispossessed earl who has become nothing more than a hired sword.”
Bryce pulled out his blade. “Let us pass!”
Rhiannon held him back. She would not have his death on her hands. “If there is any honor in you at all,” she urged Cynvelin, “you will let us leave this place unhindered.”
“So that you may run to your father?” He shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady. That I cannot permit.”
Bryce took a step forward. Rhiannon hurried to stand in front of him at the edge of the top step. “Why must you persist?” she pleaded. “I will never marry you.”
Cynvelin smiled that same diabolical smile, and it nauseated her. “Yes, you will, Rhiannon. I wanted you to marry me of your own volition to make my triumph all the sweeter, but if that cannot be, no matter. Bryce, if what I am going to do distresses you so, you may go.”
“I will not leave without the lady. She doesn’t want you.”
“What she wants is unimportant. I want her.”
“So you would take her honor, too, as you have stolen mine?” Bryce charged.
“What honor of yours have I stolen? You agreed to come here. You agreed to take her.”
“I didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I would go while I could, Bryce, if I were in your boots. Of course, it will not be easy for you. Even if there are those who might believe your claim that you acted in ignorance, no nobleman would have such a suspicious fellow in his hall, or his garrison. You will have nothing. You will be nothing. You might have to take up begging in the streets, or go back to Europe. That would be better than being dead, I suppose.”
Bryce could well believe that it would unfold as Cynvelin said, as he could well believe that Cynvelin would do whatever evil thing he vowed.
“Oh, poor child,” Cynvelin mocked. “Poor, foolish boy.” His expression hardened. “A fool you have always been, Frechette. An arrogant, welltrained warrior of a fool, but a gullible fool all the same.” He moved back among his men. “Bring them to the hall.”
Bryce shoved past Rhiannon. “You wretch!”
Cynvelin ducked behind Twedwr, so Bryce’s blow struck Twedwr in the arm instead. The soldier howled in pain as he dropped his sword and clutched a huge gash.
Rhiannon grabbed Twedwr’s fallen sword, ready to fight.
The others fell back before Bryce and Rhiannon, until Madoc blocked the way, his large, solid body filling the stairway. Bryce raised his sword to strike and brought it down, but Madoc parried the blow, turning the blade aside and pinning it against the wall. Encouraged by Madoc’s action, the guard swarmed forward.
Rhiannon tried to stab at Madoc. He saw her, guessed what she was about to do and twisted away. Although her attack freed Bryce’s blade, the momentum of her action made her stumble forward. Cynvelin lunged and stopped her from falling. Then he grabbed her wrist with a grip so tight she had to drop the weapon.
“Frechette!” he shouted.
Bryce froze, motionless as a deer hearing the first pounding of the beaters, while Rhiannon tried to free herself from the Welshman’s grasp.
Cynvelin laughed cruelly, all vestige of civility gone, “Come with me, my lady, and don’t try to be difficult, or by God, you will rue it.”
“Don’t let them hurt him!” she cried, planting her feet as firmly as she could and desperately looking back over her shoulder.
Cynvelin dragged her down the steps. The rest of his men surrounded Bryce.
“Hear that, men?” Cynvelin shouted sarcastically. “Be gentle with him, for the lady’s sake. And mine, for I have another task for him before he dies.”
“You can’t kill him!” Rhiannon declared, struggling to get away.
“Oh, can I not?” Cynvelin muttered as he tugged her down the stairs.
He pulled Rhiannon out of the keep and across the courtyard, through the dank mist and regardless of the puddles on the ground, then shoved her through the entrance to the hall.
The servants and men of the garrison who were there stared, wide-eyed and openmout
hed.
“Get out!” Cynvelin snarled. “Everybody out!”
They obeyed slowly and with obvious reluctance as Rhiannon stood next to the hearth, panting heavily and thinking of Bryce, who had been going to help her and who was now in the hands of Cynvelin’s men.
“Get out!” Cynvelin shouted again, waving his sword threateningly.
The servants quickened their pace.
Rhiannon turned, ready to run toward the kitchen corridor.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Cynvelin cried, taking her again by the arm. “You cannot get away from me, Rhiannon. Not now and not ever!”
He pulled her close and she struggled to escape his embrace. “Fight me all you want, here or in our bed. I don’t care. I like a woman who fights me. I like a girl who fights me, like that shepherd’s daughter. What was her name? Ah yes, Cathwg.”
Shocked at the mention of that name, Rhiannon stopped moving.
Cynvelin’s smile was mocking and cruel. “You look confused, my dear. Did your bastard father not tell about the shepherd girl who dared to accuse me of rape?”
Rhiannon mutely shook her head. She remembered Cathwg, and that when she had returned from visiting friends one summer, Cathwg and her family had disappeared, but she knew nothing of any accusation. Her father had tried to find them, with no success.
“If he had told you, you might know that I am not to be trifled with. Still, even he does not know what I did to her and her family.”
“You killed them,” Rhiannon whispered, certain of it.
“Not me,” he chided, chucking her hard under her chin. “Madoc and some others. I couldn’t take the chance that your father, who always hated me for no good reason, would presume to take me to trial if they lived. Me—Cynvelin ap Hywell! Accused on the word of a peasant.”
He cocked his head, and she heard the sounds of many feet on the stones of the courtyard. “The others are coming, my love. Poor Bryce. He wanted so much to be a knight. Not enough, I fear,” he said disdainfully. “He would risk it all for a woman.”
“He is a more chivalrous knight than you could ever be!” She shoved hard at Cynvelin’s chest and, surprisingly, he let her loose.
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