A Warrior's Honor

by Margaret Moore

  “What if they kill me?” Bryce asked grimly.

  “They had better not, or more than I will suffer, as they know. As you know.”

  Bryce did know, and at the thought of Rhiannon’s life in this man’s hands, he wanted to do more than wail. He wanted to choke the life out of Cynvelin ap Hywell.

  Yet if ever in his life he needed to subdue his emotions, this was the time. Acting on his impulses would only get them both killed.

  Cynvelin’s expression hardened. “Tell them whatever you like, as long as you return with a priest to bless the marriage between Lady Rhiannon and myself before the sun sets.”

  “I am surprised you would wish a priest,” Bryce said disdainfully.

  Cynvelin laughed, a joyless sound that seemed less than human. “You are a fool, Frechette! I don’t care if the union is blessed or not. I want the DeLanyeas to know what you have to tell them.”

  He walked up and gently tapped Bryce’s face with his glove as he continued to speak, enraging Bryce even more, making it more difficult for him to control his anger with every passing moment. “They’ve been watching us ever since we took her, oaf, but don’t dare to raise a finger. The great baron is afraid—of me!”

  “Only the worst villain strikes at a man through his children.”

  Cynvelin’s glove struck Bryce hard in the face again, and his eyes seemed to grow even more demonic. “You are a bold fellow. I can admire that. Indeed, if you do as I order you, I may even reconsider and give you the knighthood you crave.”

  “You must be mad,” Bryce said incredulously. “Do you think I still want a knighthood if your marriage to Lady Rhiannon is to be the price?”

  “Not mad, Frechette. Determined. Determined to have the lady for my wife, and determined that her father know it. Surely a man like you can appreciate determination, and surely a man as determined as you would accept the reward of a knighthood. You may as well, for I will have the lady anyway, Frechette. Take what gain you can.”

  “You use me as your agent for an evil scheme, you lock me in a dungeon, you propose that I use a lady to purchase a title and you think I will agree?” he demanded. “You are mad!”

  “If you do not want the knighthood, so be it. Now you had better get on your way.”

  Bryce regarded him steadily. “Why, after all that has passed between us, would you send me on such an errand?”

  “Who better?” Cynvelin said, making that damnable, cruel and mocking smile. “You will come back, for the lady’s sake if nothing else, to see her again and know that she is unharmed.

  “Besides, you are the finest fighter I know. If anyone tries to stop you, such as the baron or his sons, I’m sure you will manage to return.”

  “If I do not return, it may not be my fault. Would you harm her anyway?”

  Cynvelin raised one dark eyebrow scornfully. “Just make sure you do. If you betray me, or if you do not return before sunset, I am liable to lose my patience, and that would be the worse for my beautiful Rhiannon. Do you understand me, Bryce?”

  “Yes,” he answered grimly. “Am I to go alone?”

  “Madoc and some men will go with you.”

  Bryce heard the sudden intake of Madoc’s breath and glanced at the man’s frightened face.

  Cynvelin also saw the Welshman’s reaction and spoke harshly to his underling in their language. Madoc stammered an answer, not looking at his lord.

  Suddenly Ermin stepped forward. “We will go,” he said in French. “We are for Frechette.” He ran a contemptuous gaze over Madoc and the men of the guard. “We are not afraid.”

  Despite his anger and his fear for Rhiannon’s safety, Bryce was grateful and proud of their loyalty.

  “You bloody well should be afraid of that one-eyed bastard,” Cynvelin muttered as he returned to his seat. “But very well. Go with him.”

  “Am I to get a sword?” Bryce asked.

  “As I’ve said, I’m not mad. No.”

  Bryce’s hands balled into fists, but again he subdued his rage. His own feelings were not important anymore. All that mattered was saving Rhiannon.

  “Just remember what I said, Frechette. Tell the baron I am marrying his daughter today, and bring the priest. If you fail me, she will be the one who suffers. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Cynvelin scowled. “Remember, if you do this well, you may yet receive a knighthood.”

  Bryce gave him a scornful smile. “I wouldn’t take that from you now for all the gold in Christendom,” he said.

  He looked at Ermin. “Come, my friend.” Together they turned and walked out of the hall, followed by the whole garrison of Annedd Bach.

  Rhiannon heard the men in the courtyard. Clutching her sharpened stake, she went to the window, wondering about the noise, and looked out to see a sight that both shocked and thrilled her.

  Bryce was mounted at the head of the garrison, obviously preparing to ride out.

  “He lives!” she whispered, offering up a silent, fervent prayer of thankfulness.

  But where was he going?

  Did it matter? He was alive and getting away.

  He would come back for her. In her heart, she knew it, with a complete assurance that added to her relief.

  As the gate swung open, Bryce suddenly turned in his saddle and looked up at her window. She didn’t know whether Cynvelin was somewhere watching, nor did she care.

  “God go with you!” she called out, and waved her hand.

  His face was grim as he nodded, and then he lifted his hand, the gesture a bond between them.

  The garrison likewise turned to look at her, pity on their faces.

  Then Bryce turned away, punched his horse into a gallop and led them out the gate, while Rhiannon pressed her tear-dampened cheek against the cold, unyielding stones.

  “Where is the monastery?” Bryce shouted at Ermin as they galloped along the road leading away from Annedd Bach.

  “Along this road, then left at the first fork,” the Welshman panted in response.

  Bryce nodded and urged his horse onward the way Ermin had indicated. He had to get to the monastery, and he had to get there soon. If the mounts of Ermin and the others could not keep up with his stallion, so be it. He would not wait for them.

  Nevertheless, he prized their loyalty and would have to find some way to show his gratitude when this was over.

  After he had saved Rhiannon.

  For Bryce now had a plan, one that depended upon the baron’s cooperation, if he could make the man listen to him and if Rhiannon’s father would trust him.

  Bryce rounded a corner in the road and saw the fork. At nearly the same time, he saw a group of men riding down the other road that met the one he was on. Three men rode abreast at the head of the well-armed troop.

  Bryce recognized the man in the middle. He had been one of the men in the baron’s party. As for the others, he had no idea who they were, nor did he care. All he cared about was saving Rhiannon.

  “Frechette!” the man in the center shouted, drawing his sword and digging in his heels so that his horse leapt forward. The other men also pulled out their weapons.

  “Listen to me!” Bryce cried. He reined his horse to a halt. “Listen!”

  The man didn’t. Instead he continued to charge, although Bryce had no sword or other weapon to defend himself.

  Bryce slipped off his horse, putting the animal between him and his attacker.

  “Come away, you coward!” the man roared. “Where is she, you lout? If anybody’s touched a hair on her head, by God, I’ll kill them!”

  “Dylan!” one of the other leaders called out sternly. He was tall, dark haired, well muscled, of middle years, with hawklike features. “Put up your sword. Can you not see he has no weapon?”

  “He is the one who was with Cynvelin, Fitzroy. He’s the one who took Rhiannon,” Dylan snarled, not taking his eyes off Bryce.

  “If killing him you are, he won’t be able to tell us anything,” the third
man said in a reasonable tone, his voice having a Welsh lilt to it. He was younger than the hawklike fellow, but older than Dylan. Like the other man, he looked to be a seasoned warrior.

  Bryce refused to be intimidated. “Where is the Baron DeLanyea?” he demanded. “Is he at the monastery of St. David?”

  “Why should I tell you?” Dylan demanded.

  The third man rode closer. “Can you not see he has something to tell?” he asked. “I am Sir Hu Morgan, a friend of the baron’s. Why do you seek the baron?”

  “I have news regarding his daughter’s welfare.”

  Morgan glanced at the man Dylan had called Fitzroy, then Dylan. “Is she well?”

  “She lives,” Bryce replied. “But we have no time to lose. For God’s sake, and hers, take me to the baron!”

  Suddenly Ermin and the others came around the corner. “It’s a trap!” Dylan cried.

  “No, no!” Bryce responded fervently as his men stopped and stared. “Please, listen to me!”

  “Why should we?”

  “Because Rhiannon is in serious danger.”

  “We know that!”

  “Listen to me,” Bryce urged. “I must see the baron. You have to help me get her out of Annedd Bach today. We haven’t a moment to lose!”

  Dylan finally lowered his sword. “Why would you want to help Rhiannon? Are you not in Cynvelin’s pay?”

  “I agreed to be in his company, to my shame, but no longer. It is to my disgrace that I took part in the abduction of Lady Rhiannon, and I am willing to do whatever I can to help restore her to you. I have a plan to do that, if you will take me to the baron and let me put it to him.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Dylan said firmly. “This is a lie, or a trick, or a trap or all three! I will not trust you, for I know all about you, Frechette.

  “You are a lazy, arrogant rogue who argued with his father and finally left home in a fit of temper, not even coming back when your father lay dying.” He glared at the others. “I cannot believe you would all be so willing to believe whatever he chooses to tell you!”

  “What would you have us do?” Morgan queried. “Kill him first and questions later?”

  Bryce marched around his horse toward the young warrior and stared into the Welshman’s eyes. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn if you believe me or not. I come to plead my case to the baron, not to you, and I demand that you take me to him. My men can wait here, if that will content you.”

  Dylan glared at him and looked about to make a heated retort as Fitzroy rode forward. “Dylan,” he said in a tone that would make any man hesitate, “we will take him to your foster father.”

  “But—”

  Morgan shook his head. “We should be letting Emryss hear what he has to say, and if this Norman is willing to leave his men here, with ours to watch them, I see no reason to fear tricks or schemes.”

  “Please!” Bryce pleaded, willing to forget his pride in his need to speak to the baron. “Bind me if you must, but we cannot waste any more time!”

  “Oh, I’ll bind you all right, you cur,” Dylan muttered.

  He grabbed hold of the leather lacing at the neck of Bryce’s leather tunic and jerked it out of its holes.

  Bryce meekly turned around and thrust back his hands. “Ermin,” he said, his tone proud because he was getting what he wanted, “stay here with these others. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Aye, sir, whatever you ask of us, that we will do.”

  Never in all his life had Bryce seen such an imposing figure as that of Bàron DeLanyea seated in the great room of the monastery, enthroned on a large oak chair. With his shoulder-length, iron gray hair, piercing gaze and well-built, muscular frame, he was like an ancient warrior king waiting to pass judgment. There was only the slightest hint in the dark circle beneath the man’s remaining eye and the tension in his shoulders that he was as worried as any father might be if his daughter had been kidnapped. He simply hid his fear better than any man Bryce had ever met.

  Bryce felt like a condemned criminal, his hands bound behind his back. Nevertheless, he tried to put any thoughts except those concerning Rhiannon’s rescue from his mind. He had to think clearly and speak concisely if he was to compel the baron to listen and believe.

  “Baron DeLanyea—” he began.

  “Where is Rhiannon?”

  “In Annedd Bach. I saw her with my own eyes before we rode out.”

  “Is she well?”

  Bryce could not meet the baron’s steadfast gaze. “She lives, my lord.”

  “Why do you come here?” the older man demanded after a moment’s hesitation, again with only the merest suggestion that Bryce’s words had touched him. “How can you dare to show your face to me?”

  Bryce straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, determined to make this man trust him. “I want you to help me save your daughter.”

  “You want me to help you save my daughter?” the baron repeated skeptically. “Are you telling me you would be her savior?”

  “Yes, if you will let me.”

  The baron rubbed the scar beneath his eye patch, his expression belligerent. “You it was took her. Why should you help her now?”

  “Because I didn’t know then what I did.”

  Dylan emitted a scoffing laugh, until the swift glance of the baron fell upon him. Then he merely scowled.

  “Am I to understand that when you carried her off, you were in some kind of trance?” the baron asked coldly.

  Bryce shook his head. “No. But Cynvelin told me it was only a custom, and that she was expecting it.”

  The other men exchanged cynical glances and Bryce felt the sweat trickling down his back. “You have to believe me!”

  “What kind of dolts do you take us for?” Dylan demanded hotly, springing forward and raising his hand to strike.

  The baron, with a swiftness Bryce could scarcely believe for one of his years, deftly intercepted the younger man and blocked the blow. “Stop!” he commanded.

  Dylan grudgingly obeyed.

  “My lord,” Bryce pleaded, trying to ignore the interruption and to keep his focus only on the baron.

  He went to go closer to the man, until the others put their hands on the hilt of their swords. He halted, looking at the man beseechingly, willing the baron to believe that he spoke the truth. “He said that kidnapping your betrothed was a Welsh custom.”

  “What kind of nonsense is this you’re talking, man?” Morgan said suspiciously. “You do not look to be a simpleton.”

  “Did my daughter appear pleased to be with that piece of dung?” the baron demanded. “Was her behavior not a sign? Was not mine?”

  Bryce gazed steadily at the baron, his hands twisting in their bindings. He would have gone on his knees to beg, if he thought that would help. “It’s the truth, whether you believe me or not. But that doesn’t matter. We have to get her out of there, at once!”

  “I know that better than you, man,” the baron growled.

  “We must get her away from him today.”

  “Why today? He said he would give her a month.”

  “He knows now she will never marry him willingly. That is why he will not wait. He sent me here to fetch a priest to bless their marriage.”

  “Never!” Dylan lunged forward, but Griffydd held him back.

  “Listen to me!” Bryce bellowed, ignoring the binding tearing into his wrists. “I am to return today, before the sun sets, with a priest. I was to tell you that Cynvelin regrets he cannot invite you to the feast. He also said it had been caru yn y gwely.”

  At Bryce’s attempt at the Welsh words, the baron jumped to his feet, an expression of such rage on his face, Bryce stumbled back, certain that he was about to die.

  Dylan grabbed the hilt of his weapon, Griffydd stood motionless and Hu Morgan looked ill.

  “What does that mean?” Fitzroy asked, his voice an oasis of calm in the tense room.

  The baron looked at his friend and it was as if all the energ
y had been momentarily drained from him. “Courting on the bed. He’s raped her.”

  At the confirmation of his fears, Bryce’s hands curled into fists, impotent though they were behind his back. “I’ll slit his throat!” he vowed. “Come! We have to go—now!”

  “Without a plan?” Fitzroy said, the tranquility of his voice striking Bryce like a slap.

  He stared at the older man, aghast. Did he feel nothing for Rhiannon’s plight?

  Then he got a good look at his fellow Norman’s eyes.

  Fitzroy would kill Cynvelin, too, given a chance, and not quickly, either.

  Bryce fought to regain his composure, realizing that anger and hate would not help them outwit Cynvelin. He took a deep breath and once more addressed the baron. “I thought that if one of your men could dress as a priest, my lord, I would return with him. You and your men would have to follow under cover of the trees, for Cynvelin mustn’t suspect anything. As soon as I could, I would get to your daughter and get her away from Cynvelin.

  “Once she was with me, I would have my garrison open the gates of Annedd Bach to you. I would have tried to save her without your help, but my men would be no match for Cynvelin’s guard. We will need your men to overpower them.”

  The baron regarded him steadily, his gaze never wavering. “You expect me to trust you with my daughter’s life?”

  “You must. I swear to you by our Savior and His Holy Mother, my lord, I will get her back to you.”

  The baron glanced at his eldest son. “Well, Griffydd?”

  “I believe him, Father,” Griffydd replied softly.

  Fitzroy nodded. “I think his words have the ring of truth.”

  The baron turned to Hu Morgan on his left.

  “Aye, my lord, I am agreeing with them,” the Welshman said. “I, for one, can guess how easy it might be to convince a Norman that something is a strange and foreign practice. My own sweet wife thought the Welsh barbarians when we wed.”

  “And I, who know Cynvelin, know how capable he is of swaying a man with his honeyed tongue,” the baron added.

  “It’s a trap of some kind, I tell you!” Dylan snarled. “Probably Cynvelin wants us to attack, then he will claim it is our fault if he hurts Rhiannon. For all we know, she could be dead already!”