A Warrior's Honor

by Margaret Moore

  Rhiannon heard a sickening sound as the sword fell from Bryce’s hand and skittered across the floor.

  Bryce grimaced in pain but still held on to his long dagger as he regained his balance. “I might have known you would use your feet,” he panted.

  Cynvelin glanced at the horrified Rhiannon. “Staying to find out once and for all who is the better man, my dear?” He faced Bryce again. “Your arm is broken. Lay down your weapon. It is finished.”

  If only the sword had fallen closer to her! Rhiannon thought with dismay. But it was across the room.

  Then she spotted her sharpened wooden stake, lying beneath part of the broken bed.

  Bryce, too, looked her way. “Go, Rhiannon!”

  He was in agony from his broken arm and could feel the broken ends of bone rubbing together. Despite his pain, he had to keep Cynvelin’s attention, because Rhiannon had not gone. She had dropped to her knees and was trying to get at something under the bed. His sword? No, it was on the other side of the room.

  “I brought the baron with me,” he said, “and he’s not alone.”

  Cynvelin crouched again, ready to strike. “Do you think I’m afraid of him, or his sons or that bastard Dylan?”

  “He’s got Urien Fitzroy and Hu Morgan with him, too.”

  “Both?” Cynvelin gasped, his eyes narrowing. “You’re a lying villain!”

  “I’m looking at the lying villain,” Bryce said, moving closer.

  With his sword, Cynvelin had the advantage, but there were ways to parry the movement of the longer weapon with a dagger.

  Suddenly Rhiannon got to her feet. Before Bryce could see what she held in her hand, she ran and struck at Cynvelin.

  The Welshman shouted, spinning around as she jumped back. He lifted his sword to attack her.

  In an instant Bryce had his broken arm around the man’s throat, crying out in agony himself as he stabbed him. With a strangled cry, Cynvelin struggled in Bryce’s grasp, trying to wrench himself free as Bryce jerked the dagger blade upward, past a piece of wood protruding from Cynvelin’s side.

  Then Bryce had to let go, for his arm felt as if it were being torn in two. Cynvelin fell to his knees, his breathing hoarse as he dropped his sword and struggled uselessly, trying to reach the weapon in his back.

  Rhiannon threw herself into Bryce’s arms. He held tight to her with his good arm, never wanting to let her go.

  Then he saw Cynvelin turning toward them, still on his knees. Fearing that his opponent was deadly yet and keeping his gaze on him, Bryce retreated toward the door, taking Rhiannon with him.

  Blood seeped from Cynvelin’s mouth as he tried to smile one more time. Then he fell forward, and died.

  “We must not linger here,” Bryce muttered. He grabbed a blanket from the floor and wrapped it about her. “Come.”

  She put her hand to his chest and he paused. “Listen!” she whispered.

  There was no sound from the courtyard below.

  Madoc and the men of Cynvelin’s guard had put up a good fight, to no avail. The Welshmen of the garrison they had arrogantly dismissed as poor fighters and fools were better trained than they expected, and then there were the strangers, other soldiers not a one of them recognized.

  “I’m getting out of this,” Madoc panted to the injured Twedwr as they stood near the portcullis. “He don’t pay good enough to die for.”

  Twedwr nodded and the two men ran to the gate, only to halt and stand openmouthed as a commanding figure strode toward them, his cloak swirling around his ankles, his bloody sword in his hand.

  “I would be laying down my weapons, men, if I were in your boots,” the stranger called out, his deep, commanding tones ringing against the stone walls.

  And a scowling smile twisting his one-eyed visage.

  “Baron DeLanyea!” Madoc gasped.

  The name seemed to be whispered on the wind, and suddenly all was silent as the fighting ceased.

  Madoc threw aside his sword. “Mercy, my lord!” he cried, kneeling. “Honorable soldiers we are, and willing to die for Wales!”

  Twedwr followed his friend’s lead, as did the rest of Cynvelin’s guard, suddenly comprehending to whom these other soldiers must belong.

  The baron cast a scornful look over Madoc and the rest of the guard. “A sad day for Wales it will be when we need men like you to defend it,” he muttered, marching to the center of the courtyard. “Where is my daughter?” he called out.

  “Father!”

  The baron stared as Rhiannon, clutching a blanket around her, ran out of the building. With a gasp of jubilation and relief, he opened wide his arms and took his sobbing daughter into his embrace.

  “Thank God,” he whispered fervently. “Thank God!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bryce waited in the shadow of the keep’s entrance, holding his broken arm, watching the reunion of Lady Rhiannon and her noble father.

  Now that she was safe and Cynvelin dead, he felt... light. Or empty, all the joy and triumph suddenly overwhelmed by the realization of his culpability in her torment.

  What did it matter if he had been lied to? He should have listened to her from the first. What was his potential knighthood compared to her distress?

  Now, his part in her rescue seemed not nearly enough to compensate for all her suffering, and although she had looked at him as her savior, would that be enough to excuse everything that had gone before?

  Griffydd, Fitzroy and Morgan went toward the baron, as did Dylan, still clutching his sword as if anticipating more fighting.

  Bryce did not belong there, with them. He didn’t belong anywhere.

  “Where is Cynvelin?” the baron asked.

  Bryce took a deep breath and left the shadows, marching toward the knot of men. And Rhiannon, who still embraced her father.

  “Dead in the keep,” Bryce replied flatly.

  The baron nodded his acknowledgment. “Then let us leave this place.”

  “What of these others?” Dylan demanded, gesturing at Madoc and his fellow.

  “Their fate will be decided later,” he replied coldly. “For now, put them in their barracks and post a guard.”

  The baron looked lovingly at his daughter, who still held to him tightly. “Come, Rhiannon.”

  With his arm protectively around her, they walked slowly toward the gate.

  Dylan sheathed his sword, albeit with a disappointed sigh, and joined Fitzroy and Morgan as they followed the baron.

  Bryce stood motionless. She had not even looked at him.

  He would not follow. He had no right to go with them. He had no right to expect her to think of him as anything but a man who had justly righted his own mistake.

  She owed him nothing, not even a kind word.

  “Your men are a credit to you.”

  Bryce started. He had not noticed Griffydd DeLanyea, who had come to stand beside him. “The holy brothers will be able to tend to your wound. Leave one of your men in charge and come with us to the monastery.”

  Bryce knew he couldn’t leave his arm untended, or it would never heal properly, and might worsen.

  There was another, more powerful inducement to go to the monastery and one that he couldn’t deny. He would be near Rhiannon at least a little while, before they parted ways forever.

  Therefore, he nodded his acceptance and searched out Ermin, standing with the rest of the garrison. He gestured for the slender Welshman to come to him.

  Ermin ran forward eagerly. “My lord?”

  Bryce ignored the use of a title he didn’t have. “I’m leaving you in command.”

  Ermin touched his forelock. “We’ll keep those fellows as confined as novices in a convent, my lord! Off to the monastery, you, to see to your arm? Good is that. We’ll get everything ready for your return.”

  Return? Bryce thought as he walked toward the gate with Griffydd. He would never come back, except to get his sword and what few belongings he had. He wanted nothing more to do with Annedd Bach, just a
s he feared Rhiannon would want nothing more to do with him.

  The next afternoon, Bryce sat upon a stool in a tent pitched by the baron’s men outside the monastery of St. David.

  His arm had been set, with much cursing on Bryce’s part and much thin-lipped disapproval on that of the infirmarer. Another holy brother who escorted him here said the tent belonged to the baron’s son, Griffydd, but Bryce was to use it in his stead while the baron and his party remained at the monastery.

  Apparently Griffydd DeLanyea emulated the Spartans, as far as luxuries went. The only furnishings in the tent were a cot and stool.

  Bryce didn’t mind the lack of trappings. He had no desire for material things, or honor, or titles. Not anymore. Not if he couldn’t have Rhiannon’s love.

  He had not seen or heard from her since they had left Annedd Bach, which shouldn’t surprise him.

  A rather nervous novice suddenly stuck his head in the tent. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “The baron wishes to see you as soon as it is convenient.”

  “I might as well go now,” Bryce replied, rising, for he certainly had nothing else to do except collect his belongings at Annedd Bach.

  He followed the young man in the long, black robe toward the imposing walls of the monastery and through the gate. As he continued toward a large stone edifice, he scanned the yard, walks and garden for Rhiannon, but she was not there.

  Soon they reached the common room, and the holy brother left him at the door, departing with obvious relief.

  No doubt the sight of the imposing men sitting inside the room explained that, for Dylan DeLanyea, Fitzroy and Morgan sat on either side of the baron like a group of stern and noble judges.

  “Frechette, welcome,” the baron said as Bryce entered and approached.

  “Baron.” Bryce made his obeisance.

  “We have a slight problem that requires your assistance,” the baron began.

  “As much as I would enjoy being of help to you, Baron, first I would like to know how Lady Rhiannon fares,” Bryce said, thinking that a not unreasonable request, and he would be better able to think when he knew the answer.

  The baron glanced at the men beside him as if he had expected Bryce to say something of that nature. “She is well, thanks to you.”

  “I did no more than any honorable man should, my lord, and unfortunately, at the start, very much less.”

  “She is disposed to forgive any part you played in that terrible business.”

  “She is a generous woman, my lord, and a credit to you.”

  “She seems to think you would be a credit to me.”

  Bryce’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “How so, my lord?”

  “Well, Frechette, since I was Cynvelin’s overlord, it falls to me to—”

  “You couldn’t be,” Bryce interrupted, completely taken aback by his words. “Cynvelin would have said...”

  He fell silent and reddened when he saw the baron’s expression change, and not for the better.

  “Forgive my interruption, my lord,” Bryce said. “I should know that Cynvelin was less than forthcoming about many things.”

  “Indeed.”

  “That is why he came to Craig Fawr in the first place. That is why he was upset when I sent him away, for he knew he would get nothing more from me. I should have stripped him of his land and titles myself when I knew what he was, but I thought that would make him more dangerous, leaving him to roam about the countryside like a ravining wolf. It appears we all underestimated Cynvelin’s capacity for evil.”

  “What of Cynvelin’s men?” Bryce asked.

  “We hanged the whole murdering lot of them this morning,” Dylan announced.

  Bryce regarded the baron’s grim face. The older man sighed heavily. “Even without their leader, mad dogs cannot be left to roam free, as I have been made to learn.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bryce agreed. It seemed a harsh judgment, but he knew what kind of men Cynvelin’s guards had been, and the baron was right. If he let them go, they would only rape and murder and steal again.

  “Now let us speak of more pleasant matters. I wish to give you a reward for your assistance in the rescue of my daughter.”

  “You do not have to reward me, Baron,” Bryce protested immediately. “Indeed, I do not deserve it.”

  A low, deep chuckle emanated from the baron’s chest. “Your humility does you credit, Frechette. I was thinking a title and small estate, say, on the order of Annedd Bach, would be most appropriate, if you will swear fealty to me.”

  A thrill of excitement ran through Bryce, but one not nearly as great as it might have been, under almost any other circumstances.

  “I can understand your hesitation, Frechette,” the baron said. “You know little of me, and after making one mistake with such a serious business, you are not anxious to repeat it. I, too, would probably be wise to make my offer conditional until I know more of you.

  “So what I propose is this. I shall leave Griffydd and Dylan in temporary charge of Annedd Bach, and you will journey with us to Craig Fawr. If by the end of the journey we are both pleased with the idea of an alliance, I shall knight you and bestow Annedd Bach upon you.”

  Bryce glanced at the others, who didn’t appear at all surprised by the baron’s words, so clearly he had already broached the plan with them. None of these men looked upset or angry, either, so they must approve of this arrangement—and him, too, perhaps.

  “My lord, as grateful as I am for your offer of a knighthood and estate, I—” he began contritely.

  “Frechette,” the baron interrupted, his stern voice containing a hint of regret, “I trusted you when my daughter’s life was in the balance. You made a mistake. I have made mistakes. So have all here. We will not dwell on them, but begin anew, from today.”

  “Aye. Dwelling on past mistakes is for wives to do,” Morgan said with a straight face but merry eyes.

  “As you’re sure to find out eventually.” Fitzroy agreed, one corner of his mouth lifting in what was almost a smile.

  A knighthood and an estate...things Cynvelin had promised, too.

  Bryce thought of his first days at Annedd Bach and all that had happened after. To be sure, as he had come to learn more of his men, he had grown to like it more, but the memories of Cynvelin would always be there. “My lord,” he said slowly, “the knighthood I will consider accepting, but not Annedd Bach.”

  Baron DeLanyea looked rather taken aback. “You will consider accepting?” His brow lowered ominously. “I would know why my generosity is to be so summarily refused.”

  “I would like to try to forget what happened here,” Bryce answered. And surely Rhiannon will feel the same, he added silently, with despair.

  “I see,” the baron replied, his gaze searching Bryce’s face in such a way that the younger man felt the true reason must be as plain as if carved on his forehead. Understanding dawned on the baron’s scarred visage.

  Bryce blushed, yet said no more.

  “I respect your feelings, yet I would caution you against making any impetuous decisions,” the baron remarked.

  “Aye,” Morgan said gravely. “The baron never acts hastily, does he, men?”

  Baron DeLanyea shot his companion a look. “I would not be criticizing if I were you, Hu,” he muttered. Then he turned back to Bryce. “Do not give me a final answer now. Wait until we reach Craig Fawr.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Bryce replied. Nevertheless, he was convinced that once he left Annedd Bach, he would never set foot there again.

  Just as once he bade farewell to Rhiannon, he would never see her again, either.

  He tried to put that distressing thought from his mind.

  “So, Bryce Frechette, you will come with us to Craig Fawr.” The baron spoke in such a way that this was more a command than a request. Then he grinned. “I’m sure your agreement to accompany us will please my daughter.”

  “It will?” Bryce cleared his throat, knowin
g he had sounded like an eager child, and yet he thrilled to hear those words. “I shall be pleased to go with you, Baron DeLanyea.”

  The baron suddenly looked more like a mischievous boy than a mighty warrior. “I am glad you agreed, or my daughter would be having my hide for boot leather.”

  Bryce returned his grin, delighted to know that Rhiannon cared what happened to him.

  As she would for anyone who had helped her in such a situation.

  If only he could speak with her!

  The men rose.

  “Since everything is settled here,” Morgan declared, “it is time Fitzroy and I got home to our wives.”

  “This latest crop of lads I’ve got will have to be retrained if I linger here any longer,” Fitzroy remarked. “Except for a certain young DeLanyea, they are nearly as clumsy and stupid as Morgan here was.”

  “Liar!” Morgan cried. “And you never had the training of me.”

  “No, but I should have.”

  “Insulting me now, are you?” the baron demanded. “Well trained he is, and no mistake.”

  “If you are all going to start bickering,” Dylan said, “I’m off to Annedd Bach.”

  The baron chuckled, and Bryce thought it would be a wonderful thing to have such camaraderie in his own life.

  The baron and Morgan clasped hands. “Thank you for your help, Hu.”

  Morgan smiled, but there was a solemnity in his expression. “You know you have but to ask, and I will always come, Emryss.”

  The baron nodded, then turned to Fitzroy. “Thank you, too, Urien.”

  Fitzroy gave one brief nod of acknowledgment.

  “Baron?” Bryce asked, trying not to sound too desperate, but fearful that if he did not ask now, he would lose the opportunity. “Will you allow me to speak with your daughter today?”

  “I would allow it, Frechette,” the baron replied kindly, “but I thought it best to wait for her to ask to speak with you.”

  “She has not?”

  The baron smiled. “Don’t be looking like that, Frechette,” he said. “She will soon, I’m sure.”

  Bryce sighed with relief, then wondered if he should betray even that much of his feelings in front of the other men. He made what he hoped was a noncommittal grunt.