A Warrior's Honor
- -
- 100%
- +
Bryce glanced back at the guest apartments, expecting to see the teasing Lady Rhiannon watching her beloved depart, a handkerchief poised to catch her sorrowful tears.
If she was there, he did not see her.
That afternoon, Rhiannon rushed toward the merry company of knights and soldiers who rode into Lord Melevoir’s courtyard.
For the moment, her joy at her father’s arrival took precedence over any dread she might be feeling about certain events becoming known to him. Although she no longer feared her encounter with Bryce Frechette would become common knowledge, she could not entertain any similar hope that Lord Cynvelin’s kiss would be forgotten by those who had witnessed it, or that they would have realized she was not a willing participant.
Certain looks and whispers had already passed between some of the other ladies since the incident, which made her certain that what had happened this morning was the talk of the castle.
She told herself not to worry. Her father would understand. Her anxiety would have been much worse if there was a chance he might hear about her impulsive response to Bryce Frechette.
There were only twenty men in her father’s party, but it seemed like more as their Welsh banter echoed off the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. Then her father caught sight of her and waved.
She was so proud to be Baron DeLanyea’s daughter! How commending he looked, sitting upon his horse with all the majesty of a king, even though his clothing and accoutrements were plain and without ornamentation. He could be fierce, she knew. She had heard the stories of his battles.
But he had always been the doting father to her. She chewed her lip and hoped he would continue to be so, despite what he heard. Then she smiled and returned his gesture.
She looked beyond him, her smile growing as she saw that her foster brother, the roguishly handsome Dylan, was behaving in typical fashion. He was paying more attention to the female servants than anything else.
In contrast to Dylan, her elder brother, the grave, gray-eyed Griffydd, was not bantering or gawking at women. Instead, he surveyed his surroundings with deliberate care. She knew that should she ask him later, he would be able to tell her the exact number of men-at-arms at the gate and on the wall walks, the number of buildings within the castle walls and probably even the count of the windows in each.
Her younger brother, Trystan, who resembled her so much they could have been taken for twins save for the difference in their ages, was not among the company. He had been fostered to Sir Urien Fitzroy to complete his training.
The baron dismounted and she ran happily into his warm embrace. He kept his arms about her as he drew back to look at her with his remaining eye. The other had been destroyed in the Holy Land long ago when he had joined King Richard on crusade.
“So, daughter, did you enjoy yourself?” he asked.
“Lord Melevoir is an excellent man and a fine host,” she answered honestly.
“I knew I should have offered to be your escort!” Dylan declared, easily slipping off his horse. “Who knows what I’ve missed—and for nothing, too.”
“You had other, more important duties,” Griffydd reminded him.
“Supervising a wall being repaired?” Dylan replied scornfully. “I hardly think—”
Her father laughed, the sound deep and rich. “No, you hardly think. Besides, Mamaeth said only Rhiannon and no brothers. I think she had great plans of this visit, didn’t she, my daughter?”
Rhiannon tried to smile as she thought of her father’s old nurse, who had made it very clear that she expected Rhiannon to return either with a husband, or a betrothal, at the very least.
Instead, Rhiannon had made a mess of things. “How is Mamaeth? And Mother?” she asked, deciding to get away from this prickly subject.
“Well enough, but missing you,” her father replied. Suddenly he sniffed and looked up at the darkening clouds overhead, and she realized it did indeed smell much like rain. “Getting inside, us, or we’ll be drenched.”
Griffydd nodded, then began issuing commands to their men while the baron took Rhiannon’s arm to escort her inside. Dylan handed his reins to a groom before sauntering toward the kitchen. He always claimed to admire the arms of the women who kneaded bread and Griffydd always retorted that he simply liked all his appetites satisfied simultaneously.
“I’m going to have to put a leash on that fellow,” the baron muttered sardonically.
Despite his good-humored acceptance of Dylan’s foibles, Rhiannon guessed he would not find hers so laughable. She tried to stay calm, and the thought that Lord Cynvelin was far away was very comforting.
She tried not to notice that she didn’t feel quite the same way about Bryce Frechette although she should, and more so, given what had happened in the courtyard.
The baron smiled at his daughter. “We have all been missing you. Craig Fawr seemed half-empty without you. I think even Mamaeth was reconsidering the notion of having you wed and away by the time we left to fetch you back again.”
“I assure you, Father, I am in no hurry to be married,” Rhiannon answered truthfully.
When her father paused and looked at her with a serious expression, she feared she had betrayed too much.
Fortunately, at that precipitous moment, a puffing and beaming Lord Melevoir appeared at the entrance to his hall.
“Always a delight, Baron!” the older man cried as the baron and Rhiannon hurried toward him. “Forgive my tardiness. It’s this cursed damp. It gets into my bones and makes them ache like the very devil.”
“Then please go back to your place at the hearth, my lord,” the baron said.
“If you will join me,” their host replied.
“Indeed, my bones are not so young anymore, either,” the baron admitted ruefully as they followed Lord Melevoir to some oak chairs that were near the large hearth. A small yet comfortable blaze warmed the air.
As they sat on the age-darkened furniture, they could hear the rain begin to pelt against the stone walls. Lord Melevoir smiled and said, “I am glad you didn’t get caught on the road in such weather.”
“What is rain to a Welshman, my lord?” Baron DeLanyea asked cheerfully. “Nevertheless, I am happy to stay and enjoy your hospitality a day or two.”
When her father looked at her, Rhiannon forced a smile onto her face. She had known that her father’s visit would be more than a night; still, that meant more chances for him to hear about Lord Cynvelin’s kiss. For a moment she considered broaching the subject herself, to put it in the proper light, but before she could, her father spoke.
“Who won the prizes?” he asked their host.
“Bryce Frechette took the largest purse,” Lord Melevoir replied. “He has the truest aim with a lance I ever beheld.”
“Frechette?” the baron asked, giving Lord Melevoir a surprised look. “The Earl of Westborough’s son?”
“The same. I confess I had my doubts about allowing him to participate, but I tell you, Emryss, I’ve never seen a more improved young man,” Lord Melevoir replied.
Rhiannon tried not to betray any overt interest in the lancer, especially after what had happened between them. Indeed, he could well be a fine warrior. That didn’t mean he was a gentleman.
Unexpectedly her father fastened his shrewd gaze on Rhiannon. “What did you think of him?” he asked coolly.
She struggled to keep her expression bland as she shrugged her shoulders. “Lord Melevoir wouldn’t let us watch the competitions.”
“Of course not!” the nobleman declared. “It is not fitting for young ladies to see such things.”
“Frechette acquitted himself well, eh?” her father noted, facing the older man again. “A pity, then, his family lost their estate and titles. We can always use a fine knight.”
“His family lost their estate and titles?” Rhiannon asked innocently.
“His father spent too freely—a warning to us all and I should have used him for an example before I let you go to the fair last spring.” The baron’s expression was severe, but the hint of laughter in his voice betrayed him.
“I had to have new dresses,” Rhiannon reminded him sweetly. “Mamaeth said so.”
“If you were to catch a husband, she said. Did you?”
Lord Melevoir started to laugh, or rather, wheeze with merriment as he looked from one to the other, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“I told you, Father, I am in no hurry to wed.”
“Then not wanting to be in your shoes when we get home, me, when Mamaeth hears that all this visiting and spending of money has not brought you a husband,” he answered gravely.
Lord Melevoir took a great, deep, recuperative breath. “She was greatly admired, Baron. Greutly admired.”
“Ah, her father’s daughter, then,” the baron said smugly, and he winked his good eye at her.
“One young man seemed particularly smitten. A countryman of yours, too. Indeed, the infatuation seemed quite mutual.”
Rhiannon squirmed uncomfortably as her father regarded her steadily and with no hint of a smile. “Indeed? Who might this Welshman be?”
Rhiannon looked down at her hands, knotting them in her lap.
“Ah, now she will be coy,” Lord Melevoir replied and Rhiannon heartlessly wished he would fall into a swoon or fit. Anything to make him be quiet.
“There was nothing—” she began desperately.
“Nothing?” Lord Melevoir declared indignantly. “Nothing to be kissed in my courtyard?”
Rhiannon wanted to shrink until she was invisible.
“This man kissed you out in the open of the courtyard for all to see?” the baron asked, his tone making Rhiannon cringe.
“Father, I—”
“Now, now, Baron, I fear you are showing your age! A young man does impetuous things when he has been struck by Cupid’s dart. Don’t be cross with your pretty daughter. She made it very plain that she felt he had acted improperly.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Oh, tut, now, man! Lord Cynvelin—”
“Who?”
The single word was softly spoken, but never had Rhiannon heard such cold menace in her father’s voice.
Chapter Three
Rhiannon stared at her father as he turned a searching gaze onto her before once again looking at their host.
Lord Melevoir cleared his throat. “Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell. A Welsh nobleman,” he concluded rather hopefully.
“A Welshman born he may be,” the baron said, “but he is a disgrace to us all.”
Rhiannon had never seen her father react with such instant antipathy—and she had not even known that her father was familiar with the man! What on earth had Cynvelin ap Hywell done to so enrage her father?
He regarded her with that same forbidding expression. “Did he speak to you?” he demanded.
She nodded.
“Did he know who you were?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “Cynvelin ap Hywell said that he knew of you when he introduced himself, but he never implied, either in word or look, that there was anything between you. He was very nice to me, although rather forward.”
“I daresay he was,” the baron growled. “Not waiting for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, you?”
She shook her head remorsefully, for he was quite right. It would have been proper for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, and she should have realized that at the time.
“Baron, if I had known there was anything—” Lord Melevoir said haltingly.
Rhiannon’s father took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lord Melevoir. None of this is your fault. Or yours, either, daughter.” He looked at Rhiannon ruefully. “I should have guessed he might be here and I should have warned you about him.”
He stared straight ahead and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her, or only to himself. “But never did I think he would have the gall to speak to any member of my family.”
Despite his hushed voice, Rhiannon got the distinct feeling that her father was still trying very hard to control his rage.
“What has he done to make you hate him so?” she asked wonderingly.
“Indeed, yes,” Lord Melevoir seconded. “If he is such a blackguard, I will not have him back again.”
“He was a blackguard. If Bryce Frechette can be so changed, perhaps Cynvelin can, as well.” The baron smiled, but not with his eyes, which made Rhiannon believe he was saying this only to reassure their host that he had not made a terrible blunder. “He had the makings of a fine knight when I first admitted him into our household.”
“He was at Craig Fawr?” Rhiannon asked, taken aback. “I don’t remember him.”
“You were visiting Lord Trevelyan at the time and, not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I never mentioned his name after I sent him away.”
“What made you do that?” Lord Melevoir inquired.
“First, it was only cheating at games. Then he started making trouble among all the young men, spreading lies and rumors until they were nearly at each other’s throats. Not that any blame would ever attach to him. Oh, no, he was too clever for that. I finally realized what was going on when Griffydd blackened Dylan’s eye, and I made him tell me why he had done it. When they understood what Cynvelin was about, Dylan was all for killing him on the spot.” The baron grinned wryly. “Cynvelin will never know how close he came to going to God that day. 1 thought a good talking-to would be sufficient, but I was wrong. Shortly after, somebody cut the cinch on Dylan’s horse’s saddle, so that it snapped when he was galloping during a practice with the lance. He fell and could have been killed. Of course I guessed who had done it.”
“And you sent him away,” Lord Melevoir said, nodding his head in agreement.
Her father hesitated, lost in his thoughts, while Rhiannon waited tensely for him to continue. “Yes,” he said after a long moment of silence.
There was more to it than that, she felt certain, but ask anything more, she dared not.
Lord Melevoir sank back in his chair. “Well, by all the saints and cherubim, Baron DeLanyea. If ever there was a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Next thing you’ll be telling me he’s one of those damned rebels, too.”
“A rebel? God’s wounds, no, not that one. Although not surprised, me, if he were to claim to be when it suited him among the Welsh,” her father continued grimly. “But the only person he thinks about is himself. If he ever starts spouting rebellion, you can be sure there’ll be a prize in it for him.”
At that moment, Dylan and Griffydd marched into the hall, followed by their men.
“Do you know who Rhiannon’s been kissing?” Dylan declared angrily, glaring at Rhiannon in a way that made her more angry than mortified.
After all, however shamefully she may have conducted herself, Dylan was hardly a saint. Many a night he sneaked out of Craig Fawr for trysts with village girls. He had already fathered three children by three different women. To be sure, to the Welsh an illegitimate child was nothing to be remorseful about, but such behavior hardly gave him the right to act so indignant.
Griffydd’s expression, however, only made her feel humiliated, and she was very glad neither one of them knew about that other unforgettable kiss in the courtyard.
Nevertheless, she rose swiftly and glared at them, because they were making accusations without knowing her side of things.
As she had accused Bryce Frechette without knowing his side of things.
Which was completely immaterial at the moment.
“I don’t think—” she began angrily.
“Sit down!” her father commanded Rhiannon. “Dylan, lower your voice.”
Lord Melevoir stood slowly. “I believe I will leave you to discuss your family business in private,” he said before tottering away as fast as his legs would take him.
The baron gestured for Dylan and Griffydd to come closer. “We will deal with this once and for all, and then there will be no more said about Cynvelin ap Hywell.”
Dylan glared angrily at Rhiannon. “Do you know what they’re saying about you? That you threw yourself at that cur.”
“I never did!” Rhiannon protested, almost sick to realize that was how her behavior in the hall had been interpreted by some people. Bryce Frechette had certainly been of that opinion. No doubt that explained why he felt free to embrace her. What must he think of her now?
She suddenly wished with all her heart that she had never come here!
The baron glanced at the rest of his men who were coming into the hall, calling out for drinks from the serving wenches. “Lower your voices,” he repeated firmly.
“That is what they are saying,” Griffydd confirmed, his steady gaze far more unnerving to Rhiannon than Dylan’s words.
She flushed hotly, her stance still defiant, even though inwardly she wanted to flee from their accusations. “Who?” she demanded. “Who dares to say such things? I spoke to Cynvelin ap Hywell and danced with him, too!” she declared defensively. “I didn’t know anything wrong of him, and I think you have no right to condemn me.” Not for that.
Her father spoke, his voice calm and firm. “She did not know anything about him. I never told her.” He fastened a steely gaze onto Dylan. “You are hardly worthy to chastise her behavior.”
“But she is a woman and—”
“And I am her father, so I will speak to her about her behavior, not you, although I gather she was not pleased by what he did any more than you.”
Dylan frowned. Rhiannon knew he would sulk a while, yet she didn’t care, not as long as her father realized she deeply regretted what had happened, even if he did not know all that she regretted.
“No fights need be fought over whatever men with too little time on their hands might say, either,” her father warned. “The Normans have never understood the Welsh. They are often as gloomy as hermits in a cold cave, so I would not pay them much heed when they criticize your spritely sister.
“Dylan, Griffydd, this conversation is finished. Your sister may have acted with less decorum than I might have hoped, but even you have done so on occasion, Griffydd—and you often, Dylan. Go, now, and make certain that the men understand they are not to quarrel with Lord Melevoir’s guests or his men over any perceived insults.”
Dylan looked far from pleased; however, he, like Griffydd, heard the baron’s tone of finality and knew it would be useless to object.
They went to the join the others.
“Father, I—” Rhiannon began, even though she was not quite sure what she was going to say, whether to defend herself or beg for forgiveness.
Her father held up his hand to silence her, and when he spoke, his tone was gentle and understanding, “Rhiannon, I know how likable Cynvelin can be, and I blame myself that I did not warn you about him. Do you care for him at all in the way Lord Melevoir implied?”
“I think I did, Father, a little,” she answered honestly. “But when he kissed me in the courtyard and embarrassed me in front of everyone...”
Once again the memory of Bryce Frechette intruded into her thoughts, but she pushed it away.
Her father nodded thoughtfully. “Cynvelin can be very charming,” he said with a sigh. “That’s what makes him dangerous. Tricks people with his manners, that one. Courtesy can be nothing but a costume, daughter, and a title no more than a cloak to hide dishonor. Remember that.”
“Yet clearly he thinks I care for him very much,” Rhiannon said. “On the strength of that belief, he may come to Craig Fawr.”
She expected her father to curse, at the very least. Instead, and to her great relief, he smiled. “He would never dare come there, Rhiannon. Not if he values his life. He knows that well enough.” He reached out and patted her hand tenderly. “There has been no real harm done here, daughter, and I daresay you have learned a lesson.”
“Yes, I have,” she confirmed. “I promise you, Father, the next time I am at a tournament or visiting, I shall be the most modest, decorous young lady alive.”
Her father smiled and his eye twinkled with merriment. “Then you would not be my lively, spirited daughter, and I would be an unhappy man. Griffydd is serious enough for all of us.
“But look you,” her father continued, his tone once again serious as he rose and regarded her steadily, “I may be tempted to send Mamaeth to watch over you, and then there would be no getting into mischief!”
Rhiannon rose swiftly, the prospect of her father’s elderly and loquacious nurse as caretaker far from heartening. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed our family. I will be more careful in future. I give you my word.”
The baron hugged her gently. “I know, Rhiannon. I was young and impetuous once myself. I have not forgotten, and so of course I forgive you.”
Rhiannon held her father tight, loving him with all her heart, and pleased to think no lasting harm had been done by her careless behavior.
A steady drizzle soaked the valley. Beyond, high, rounded hills seemed to enclose Cynvelin ap Hywell’s entourage, so it was like being in the mouth of a large animal. Bryce didn’t think he had seen the sun once since they had reached the Marches, the borderlands between England and Wales, nor had he been completely dry in what seemed an age.
They were making for what Lord Cynvelin described as one of his minor holdings, a fortress named Annedd Bach, and hoped to reach it today.
However, the journey itself had not been long or much of a hardship, for Cynvelin ap Hywell was a generous man who clearly believed his Welshmen worthy of fine food, ale and accommodation. Obviously they believed it, too, for they were all rather arrogant. The fellow Bryce had made apologize, whose name was Madoc, continued to regard the Norman with barely disguised loathing, but that didn’t trouble Bryce overmuch. He was used to being alone after months traveling in Europe trying to earn money for his family, only to find it was too little too late, and then making his way in the world as a dispossessed, disgraced warrior.
As for the others, not a one of them even so much as attempted to converse with Bryce, and after a few futile attempts, he gave up trying.
Lord Cynvelin didn’t seem to care a whit about Bryce’s past, and for that, he was truly grateful. He treated Bryce almost as an equal, just as he had at Lord Melevoir’s feast. During their journey and as they rested, they talked of many things: the tournament; Lord Cynvelin’s castle, Caer Coch, which sounded like the finest fortress in Wales; jousting; Bryce’s experiences in Europe; women.
With one notable exception.
Neither of them mentioned Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea.
Bryce was glad of it, for he wouldn’t have known how to respond if Lord Cynvelin had spoken of her.
Perhaps when he had been with Lord Cynvelin longer, he might hazard a hint that Lady Rhiannon’s deportment was not what it should be, for a lady. On the other hand, Bryce had heard that the Welsh were morally negligent. Judging by the frequency with which the Welshman bedded tavern wenches, that was apparently true. As astonishing as it seemed to Bryce, perhaps Welshwomen acted in a similar manner.
Thinking that was probably so, he told himself it was no wonder his fitful sleep was troubled by dreams of Lady Rhiannon in his arms, her hair loose about her beautiful face, her eyes shining, her lips parted invitingly. As he had told her, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen.
And no matter how he tried to condemn her, he couldn’t help admiring her valor. He could think of no other noblewoman who would dare to confront a potential thief, not even with guards close by, or one whose vibrant eyes would flash with such scornful anger at a big, brawny soldier who made a joke at her expense.
“There!” Lord Cynvelin suddenly called out, twisting in his saddle to look back at Bryce and the others, pulling him out of his reverie. “There is Annedd Bach.”
Bryce strained to see past him, looking for anything that resembled a building through the dull gray mist.
Lord Cynvelin chuckled. “There, man,” he repeated, “that thing that looks like a big rock. We have a ways to go yet, you see.”