A Warrior's Honor Page 12

  Griffydd’s face betrayed no emotion. “Frechette will be a hard man to beat in battle.”

  “Aye, there’s that, too.”

  “What if we could take him alone, or Cynvelin?”

  The baron’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? They have never stirred out of Annedd Bach, have they?”

  “Cynvelin spent the first night they were there in a tavern a few miles from Annedd Bach. With a whore.”

  The baron halted and swiveled slowly on his heel to regard his son. The two men might have been mirror images of each other, save for the difference in age and the baron’s scar. “What?”

  “I had one of our men follow him,” Griffydd answered. “He waited outside until Cynvelin and his men left before dawn.”

  “Why did you not tell me sooner?” the baron demanded.

  “By the time the man returned, Cynvelin. would have been back at Annedd Bach. I have told the men watching to let us know if he ever sets foot outside the gates again, but he has not.

  “He spent the night with a whore,” Griffydd growled, some of that hatred finally finding voice, “this man who thinks to woo my sister.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Thank God?” Griffydd repeated incredulously. “Thank God this is the man who wants Rhiannon?”

  “Wanting is not wedding, my son,” the baron replied. “If he spent the night with a whore, he was not with Rhiannon. I would wish he spent every night that way until we have Rhiannon back again.”

  “Cynvelin is a scoundrel, but surely he wouldn’t dishonor her,” Griffydd said.

  A look of sorrowful dismay crossed the baron’s face. “Do you remember Peulan the Nose?”

  “Of course,” his son replied. “The shepherd with the big nose.”

  “Do you remember his daughter, Cathwg?”

  “The pretty one, wasn’t she? About the same age as Rhiannon, I think.”

  The baron nodded slowly, then began to pace once more. “Glad I am that Dylan is not hearing this, or he would attack Annedd Bach single-handed.”

  Surprised by his father’s remark, Griffydd asked, “What is it? What about Cathwg?”

  The baron halted and regarded his son steadily. “Cynvelin ap Hywell raped her. That is why they left our land and why I sent him from Craig Fawr in disgrace.”

  Griffydd’s expression didn’t seem to alter, but there was a change in the depths of his eyes. “She was only a child.”

  “Yes, Cathwg was only ten years old when it happened.”

  “Why did you never accuse him of the crime?”

  “When Peulan told me, I immediately summoned Cynvelin to hear what answer he would make to the charge.” The baron looked at the toe of his boot, then raised his eyes to his son. “He laughed. He said we should try to accuse him before his peers. He is a rich and powerful man, Peulan and his daughter only peasants.”

  The baron averted his gaze. “I told him he was to consider himself confined to the castle. By that time, I had seen enough of him to believe he was capable of such a crime, but I also knew he was right. A Norman court would likely let him go free.

  “I decided to visit Cathwg myself in the morning, to be absolutely certain she knew who had attacked her, to satisfy myself because of what I was going to do.”

  Griffydd eyed his father warily. “What was that?”

  “What Welsh justice demanded. I would give Cynvelin to Peulan and his sons, and take the consequences myself, if any Norman lord questioned my judgment.”

  Griffydd nodded with approval.

  “But when I went to see Cathwg, the whole family was gone. Nobody ever learned where they went, so we had no witness. It would have been too risky to charge him without the girl to speak against him.

  “So I did all I thought I could. After I warned Cynvelin that I would speak against him if he was ever similarly accused in the future, I sent him home to his father.”

  Griffydd got to his feet. “For once, I would act as Dylan. How can we wait, knowing what kind of man he is?”

  The baron shook his head. “No. To attack with such a small force would be foolish.” He sighed again. “Did you see him when he spoke of her? He honestly believes Rhiannon cares for him.”

  “But you don’t?”

  Emryss DeLanyea shook his head and the ghost of a smile crossed his face for a fleeting moment. “No. And she never will. Still, I think he will keep his word a while yet until he realizes that his cause is a hopeless one.”

  Griffydd leaned into the light, regarding his father steadily. “I cannot wait much longer, Father.”

  “Not easy, I know, my son.” Sympathy struggled with anger on the baron’s face. “We have to be remembering Cynvelin’s threat if we move against him. If we lay seige to Annedd Bach, Rhiannon will be in even greater jeopardy.”

  “Cynvelin’s threat also means, I suppose, that we cannot go to the king?” Griffydd asked.

  “That scoundrel will likely find out if we do, or I would have done it already,” the baron affirmed.

  “What if Cynvelin hears we’ve sent for help?” Griffydd asked.

  “Even if Cynvelin does catch a whiff of something, Hu had left Craig Fawr to make his fortune before Cynvelin came. Cynvelin might not know the name.”

  “He’ll have heard of him, surely—a Welshman knighted and married to a Norman’s daughter.”

  “Maybe, but I’ll risk it.” The baron shook his head regretfully. “I should have brought more men with me.”

  “Who could have known this would happen?” Griffydd replied. His frown deepened. “Father, do you think it’s possible...do you suppose Cynvelin might be able to win Rhiannon’s affections, as he claims? He is a handsome fellow.”

  “She will see him for what he is. He will stand no chance with her.”

  “But...”

  “But what?”

  “Well, Father, Cynvelin was telling the truth. You did kidnap my mother.”

  “And let her go the next day, unharmed. Different that was, my son. Be giving your sister credit for a good head on her shoulders. She’ll not be swayed by any man’s handsome face or flattering words, and certainly never enough to marry one like that.”

  “Do you think he’ll really let her go if she refuses him?”

  The baron didn’t meet his son’s unwavering gaze. “No, I do not.” He sighed. “Still, the man is conceited enough to believe he could persuade her to take him, and we will have to count on that and hope that for once, he keeps his word. He would be a fool to harm her, since I have friends, too.” His voice lowered. “Unfortunately, he is not a wise man. But I vow before God and the Holy Virgin, we will get her back.”

  Griffydd’s gray eyes darkened with anger, and his deceptively slender fingers, which had far more strength than many opponents realized, balled into fists. “Aye, Father. We will. And if that devil hurts her in any way, I will kill him,” the young man vowed.

  The baron faced his son, his familiar face twisting into something cold and forbidding. “If he hurts her in any way, that will be for me, my son.”

  “Then I will have Frechette.”

  Emryss DeLanyea nodded his agreement. “If any harm comes to Rhiannon at their hands, you may have him, and may God have mercy on both their souls.”

  “Damn the rain,” Lord Cynvelin muttered as he stood looking out the door of the hall. “We can’t leave today, either, unless we want to take a boat.”

  Madoc and Twedwr and the men of his guard exchanged sullen looks. They started to mumble amongst themselves, then Madoc took out a dagger and threw it at one of the beams in the roof, apparently as an expression of dismay.

  “This place needs enough repair without you adding to the damage,” Bryce noted from the other end of the hall where he stood with the men of the garrison. Like Cynvelin’s guards, they had been forced to stay inside for most of the past seven days.

  Bryce very much wished it could be otherwise, for it had become abundantly clear that the men of the garrison and the me
n of the Cynvelin’s guard despised one another, although all were Welshman.

  It was easy enough to see why. Cynvelin’s men were arrogant, impertinent rascals who seemed to think everything that didn’t personally belong to Cynvelin was theirs by right. The food, the bedding—even the women. More than once Bryce had had to break up a dispute, and the women had taken to keeping in the kitchen, for which he could not fault them.

  When Lord Cynvelin did witness some of the arguments, he seemed to find it all vastly amusing, and never sought to intervene. Bryce assumed the Welshman considered that his task, so he did his best to keep the two factions apart.

  Fortunately, Cynvelin and his men would be leaving eventually, and hopefully before Cynvelin’s baggage carts were completely devoid of food.

  Although Bryce didn’t look forward to that nearly as much as he had when he first brought Lady Rhiannon here.

  He had been trying his best to ignore her, given what had passed between them, yet no matter how often he reminded himself that she was already betrothed, he couldn’t help noticing that she seemed far less pleased with Lord Cynvelin now than she had been at Lord Melevoir’s—and shouldn’t the opposite be true? She should be delighted to be with the man she loved.

  If she loved him.

  Lady Rhiannon was the most vibrant, interesting woman he had ever met. In addition, she was everything a gracious chatelaine should be. She was easily the most patient person in the hall, never complaining about the weather or the accommodation. She ate whatever was served with good grace and spoke kindly to the servants. When he watched her play chess with Lord Cynvelin, always losing with good humor, it was all he could do not to hover about her like a bee, drawn to the sweetness of her smiles.

  He struggled to decipher her behavior and reactions. Was she truly that kindhearted and patient, or was that merely another part of her deception? Did she care for Lord Cynvelin, or were those hints of strain and displeasure merely fatigue and a desire to get away from Annedd Bach to the more luxurious accommodation of Caer Coch?

  She had to be a shameless temptress. After all, she had enticed him into the shadows at Lord Melevoir’s. And for all her indignant denials, Lord Cynvelin apparently spent the night in the keep with her. Apparently, because Bryce always retired to the stables to sleep before they left the hall. Although it was weak and foolish, he could not bear to see them depart together. He also wished he could stop imagining the intimate embraces they no doubt shared.

  All this should have been enough to make her unappealing to him, but it wasn’t. If she came to him and said she wanted him, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment to accept her love.

  Her love. He must be mad.

  It would be foolish to even dream that she might care for him in any way, supposing she were an honest, worthy lady. He had nothing to offer such a noblewoman. No home, save this that he held under rather tenuous circumstances. No wealth. No power. Not even a title.

  How could he compete with a man like Cynvelin ap Hywell?

  Madoc muttered something in Welsh, which made his friends smile and the garrison frown.

  Bryce tried to ignore him. Instead, he signaled to the slim, dark-haired Ermin, who was still his translator. “Tell my men we shall be practicing our swordplay later, if the weather allows,” he said.

  Ermin nodded hesitantly, then spoke in Welsh to the men, who exchanged cautious, as well as somewhat annoyed, glances.

  Lord Cynvelin sauntered toward them. “A recalcitrant lot, are they not, Frechette?” he observed. “Have you been able to do anything with them at all?”

  “They are wary of me, my lord,” Bryce replied. “Given that I am a Norman, I am not surprised. Unfortunately, we can only practice close fighting in the barracks. However, they are much improved in that regard, even in so short a time.”

  “I really should not have kept away from here for so long,” the nobleman said with a sigh. “They’ve gone too wild, I think. It will take a strong hand to bring them back in line.”

  “Perhaps,” Bryce replied noncommittally.

  “Well, you might have to have your practice inside again today,” he said, looking out the window, “unless they want to get soaked through for their trouble. Nobody should go out in this wet.”

  As if she purposefully sought to contradict him, Lady Rhiannon hurried into the hall, throwing back the hood of her cloak. “Gracious heavens!” she exclaimed. “I thought I would drown.”

  “I am so delighted you have come!” Lord Cynvelin cried.

  He hurried toward her and helped her remove the cloak, which Bryce assumed was another gift from her lover, as was the gown of green, with a gold and green brocade overtunic. A girdle of worked leather was around her slender hips, which accentuated the sensual grace of her walk. Her head was covered by a scarf, and a wimple surrounded her face. Bryce had thought the frame of her hair showed her beauty to perfection; however, the plain whiteness and severity of the wimple seemed to make her luminous eyes even larger and her skin more rosy.

  “I thought you might stay in the keep, like Noah in his ark,” Cynvelin said.

  “I was going to,” she confessed, “but it is too quiet there for me. I am used to company.”

  No doubt, Bryce thought sardonically.

  “I am happy to hear it,” Cynvelin said. He gave Madoc a hard look. “The lady requires a seat.”

  Lady Rhiannon gracefully sat in the chair the lumbering Madoc vacated. “I believe the rain is letting up,” she observed.

  “Is it, Frechette?” Lord Cynvelin called out.

  He went toward the door, trying not to get very close to Lady Rhiannon, who even smelled beautiful, of fresh flowers or the first breeze of spring. “Yes, my lord, it is.”

  “Excellent! Maybe we can be on our way today!”

  Bryce tried to keep his expression absolutely noncommittal, but he couldn’t help noticing that Lady Rhiannon didn’t seem particularly pleased at the thought of leaving.

  “At least it is easing for the time being, my lord,” he continued. “There are clouds on the horizon, though, that look as though they might herald another storm.”

  Cynvelin swore softly. “I am sick to death of this place,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Well, perhaps we should wait awhile yet to be certain.”

  “Nevertheless, I think I will take the men to train in the meadow beyond the castle,” Bryce announced. He looked at Ermin, who gave the order in Welsh to the men of the garrison. “Good day, my lord, my lady.”

  With that, he signaled to his men and they all went out the door.

  Rhiannon watched Bryce Frechette leave, noting the way the men didn’t hesitate to follow his order. For a Norman, he had done well to gain their respect in so short a time. Indeed, he had done well for any commander, for she had heard snatches of the men’s conversations and knew they thought him a seasoned warrior worthy of their esteem.

  She was less certain of what the garrison thought of Lord Cynvelin, yet she suspected it would not be so flattering.

  Bryce Frechette was not like Cynvelin, who could be arrogant and callous. To be sure, the Welshman behaved in a gentlemanly manner to her, but she had overheard him speak to the servants and even the men of his own guard with dismissive scorn, especially when he was not aware that she was nearby.

  Nor was Bryce like Griffydd, who commanded great respect, but whose demeanor didn’t inspire a sense of camaraderie. The Norman wasn’t like Dylan, who was such a friend to his men that he complained they didn’t respect him, not seeing that a commander and a friend were not the same. Her father understood that, and while friendly, no man ever forgot he was their overlord.

  She had to admit Bryce Frechette was as fine a leader as her father, if more intimidating to her. She found his physical presence discomfiting, especially his dark, fierce eyes and intense gaze that seemed to reach to a part of her soul she hadn’t even known she possessed. When she was trying to play chess with Lord Cynvelin, it was all she could do not to ask
for Bryce’s opinion on her next move and try to keep her attention focused on her pieces. He was so distracting, in fact, that she had yet to win a game.

  It took only the mention of his name to make her recall the kiss they had shared. When he had touched her, she had felt suddenly more alive, as if some of the vitality he emanated had somehow jumped into her flesh.

  When he was not present, all she felt was stifling ennui and annoyance, even though Lord Cynvelin had been the epitome of the hospitable host, making light, amusing conversation as they talked together in the hall.

  If they had been at Lord Melevoir’s or her home, she might even have enjoyed his company. As it was, she felt oppressed, both by his continual meaningless banter, and his apparent inability to believe she would know her own mind.

  As for Bryce, he had not actually spoken to her since that second day, and she had tried to tell herself that she had quite enough to think about without troubling herself with him.

  Such as trying to convince Lord Cynvelin that as admirable as he might be, she didn’t want to be his wife. After hearing him sing that morning, and other times since, she was more inclined to pity him than to be angry with him. Unrequited love was not at all pleasant, although she really knew nothing about that.

  The men of the castle seemed equally out of sorts. No doubt they regretted being confined to Annedd Bach nearly as much as she did. They probably wanted to get to Caer Coch; she just wanted to go home. Unfortunately, with the continuing poor weather, there was little point insisting that Lord Cynvelin take her there immediately.

  Ula and another maidservant came to sweep out the hearth. They paid no heed to the nobles, but went about their tasks in the most desultory fashion.

  The only person who seemed to move with any vigor in all of Annedd Bach was Bryce Frechette, and she wondered how far it was to the meadow.

  “I hope this cursed rain will cease enough to make the roads less of a muddy mess so that we can go to Caer Coch,” Lord Cynvelin declared, approaching her.

  “Is not the state of the roads your responsibility since you are overlord here?” Rhiannon asked, giving him a sidelong, speculative glance.