A Warrior's Honor Read online

  She gasped as Madoc and Twedwr dragged Bryce into the hall, his face cut and bleeding, his lip split and one eyelid already bruised and swelling.

  They let go and he fell to his knees. As he struggled to his feet, Rhiannon ran to him, wrapping her arms around him and helping him to stand erect.

  “Hold her,” Cynvelin ordered, looking at Madoc.

  “There is no need,” Rhiannon replied with as much dignity as she could muster. “I will not leave if he stays. You have to let us both go.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?” Cynvelin demanded incredulously. “I’m never letting you go. You are going to be my wife.”

  “Set her free!” Bryce ordered Cynvelin, glaring at the Welshman with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut.

  “Who do you think you are to order me?” Cynvelin asked scornfully. “The Earl of Westborough? I think not. Indeed, I think perhaps I should kill you for interfering.”

  “Cynvelin,” Rhiannon said, the necessity of saving Bryec making her bold, “you are a fool if you think you can keep me forever, or that killing Bryce Frechette would be wise. My father will come for me, and you seem to be forgetting that Bryce is the brother-in-law of Baron DeGuerre.”

  “Bryce Frechette is the man who kidnapped Rhiannon DeLanyea, and your father is not coming for you. If he tries to take you back, he knows I will kill you.”

  “What?” she breathed. “Then that is why—”

  “He has not come? Of course.” He advanced on her, smiling once more. “Fortunately for you, I would rather marry you than kill you. Then I can take my pleasure of you again and again, until you learn to like it.” He ran his hand over her breasts. “You will learn to like it, Rhiannon.”

  She glared at him with eyes full of hate and anger, all her fear gone. “Then you had best learn to sleep lightly, my lord, lest your wife slay you in the night.”

  He stepped away from her as if she already had a dagger in her hands.

  She saw the fear and uncertainty in his eyes, and his attempt to hide it.

  “Besides, Rhiannon,” he said, his tone lacking some of his arrogant confidence, “think of your dear family. Even your dolt of a father would rather see you married than dead, or he would already have tried to rescue you, don’t you think?”

  “God’s blood, I will kill you!” Bryce snarled, lunging for Cynvelin, only to be thrown to the ground by his captors and held there, their knees pressing on his back.

  Cynvelin laughed. “You could try, but Madoc or one of the others would slay you in an instant. And Rhiannon would still be mine.”

  “You dishonorable coward!” Rhiannon said through clenched teeth.

  Cynvelin raised his hand and with a force that made tears start in her eyes, slapped her full across the face.

  Glaring at Cynvelin like a caged wolf, Bryce struggled even more to get free. “You despicable snake,” he hissed, adding a scornful epithet. “I curse the day I ran afoul of you!”

  “Fine language in front of a lady is that,” Cynvelin remarked sardonically. “As for your strong words, my bride,” he said, facing her, his eyes full of anger, “they are ones that I would not repeat, if I were you.

  “And if you think to accuse me of wrongdoing, think again. I have friends enough that they will gladly take my word against yours. And know, my dear Rhiannon, if you dare to speak against me, I will tell the king that your father is plotting rebellion in that Welsh stronghold of his.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “So you say. So the Baron DeLanyea will say. Yet it would plant the seeds of doubt in the king’s mind. Every Norman knows the Welsh plot rebellion with every breath. Likely your father and brothers would find it difficult to win support at court after that, even if men do not quite believe them capable of treason.”

  “Do you plot rebellion?” Rhiannon demanded. “Is that why you want my father’s influence?”

  Cynvelin barked another laugh. “No! What do I care if Wales is free or not? I want his influence at court because I deserve it. I’ve deserved it for years, but everybody knew the great, the marvelous Baron DeLanyea had sent me from his household. No reason given, so they were free to speculate. And they did, whispering behind my back, smirking. Even my father—” He paused, then straightened his shoulders. “But the baron is about to repay me for all of that. With you, my dear.”

  “No!” Bryce shouted, bucking and twisting like a stallion being broken to the saddle.

  “Take him to the dungeon,” Cynvelin ordered. He smiled coldly at Bryce. “You did not know it existed, did you, in the lower level of the keep? Yet you think yourself worthy of a knighthood, you who doesn’t even bother to learn all the secrets in a castle. Well, no matter now. Nor will you be alone. Ula will keep you company.” He gasped, his eyes dancing merrily as he covered his mouth. “Oh, but it’s too bad she won’t be able to warm you. She’s dead.”

  Rhiannon moaned with dismay, and Bryce stared in shock.

  “She fought me rather too hard, Rhiannon. Let that be a lesson to you.. Now take that fool out of my sight.”

  “Bryce!” Rhiannon reached out for him.

  Madoc and Twedwr shoved her away and she fell to the ground while they started to drag Bryce out.

  “Forgive me, my lady!” he called out, staring back at her with anguished eyes.

  “Forgive me!” she cried.

  “How very touching,” Cynvelin said as he took hold of Rhiannon’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “But it is most inappropriate for the betrothed of Cynvelin. ap Hywell to be on her knees to anyone except me.”

  She twisted out of his grasp and glared at him defiantly. “I will never be your wife! I would rather die!”

  “How many times must I tell you? I do not want you dead,” Cynvelin replied, fighting to maintain what was left of his self-control. “Do you want to save his life, at least for a little while?”

  He saw understanding dawn in her luminous eyes.

  “Do you?”

  She slowly nodded her head. “Yes.”

  “What are you willing to do?”

  She continued to regard him with a determined, unwavering gaze, full of hate and defiant pride even yet. “Whatever I must.”

  “Then come.” He held out his hand.

  She hesitated for a moment, then placed hers within his grasp.

  A feeling of triumph joined that of his anger. He had won. She would be his, and the baron would suffer, now and forever.

  He marveled that she did not weep as he led her across the courtyard toward the keep and up the stairs to the bedchamber, not even when he pulled her into the room. Instead, she faced him with dignity and composure, like a nobleman facing the headman’s ax.

  “God’s blood,” he muttered, wanting her even more though he knew that she was in earnest when she said she would prefer death to marriage to him.

  He wanted her alive so that the baron’s torment would be continuous, like a sore that could never heal.

  He wanted her in his bed, this woman of passion and fervor. It would have been better if she had believed herself in love with him, but he would take her anyway.

  But not now, although never had he craved her so much. Not when he was still struggling to contain his rage. Otherwise, when she fought him, as she undoubtedly would because a woman of such spirit would never submit without a battle, no matter how much hung in the balance, he would surely kill her.

  He had done that before. Cathwg had fought him; Ula had fought him. There had been others, too, whose names he had forgotten. He recognized the surging anger that would make him do it again.

  He could not kill Rhiannon, no matter how tempting it was to take her by her fine white throat and slowly watch her fight for breath, staring at him with those green eyes, knowing that he had absolute mastery over her at last. That was not part of his glorious vengeance.

  So he managed to subdue both the anticipation and the anger. “How did he open the lock?”

  She stared at him, her brows knitt
ing in puzzlement as she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “How did Frechette open that lock?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cynvelin strode to the door and examined it. “It’s not broken. Good.” He caught sight of something on the floor, a long Line of fabric. “What the devil is this?”

  She didn’t reply as he walked over and picked up her makeshift rope as gingerly as if it were alive. “Clever, my lady, clever,” he muttered, glancing up at her. “We cannot have you climbing down walls. What if you were to fall? My heart would break.”

  “You have no heart.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps my father beat it out of me.” He gathered up the rope and she watched him warily as he put it on top of the chest, his back to her. “I shall have to take these with me,” he remarked as she sidled toward the door.

  “Stop!” he commanded, whirling around suddenly. “I am not a simpleton, my lady. I want you to consider that. I would have you consider many things, including how you could best help your doting friend.”

  With that, he lifted the chest and staggered out the door. He set down the chest, then pulled the door shut. The key turned in the heavy iron lock.

  He had left her. He had not...

  Why? Was he going to kill Bryce now? If she had gone to him more willingly, if she had begged and pleaded and given herself to him without a whimper of protest, could she have delayed Bryce’s death at his hands?

  Bryce was going to die for trying to help her. If she had not encouraged Cynvelin, however unwittingly, this trouble might have been averted and Bryce would be safe.

  Wrapping her arms about her body, she sank to the floor, rocking back and forth.

  “Oh, God forgive me!” she cried in anguish, choking sobs racking her body. “God save him!”

  What could she do? How could she help Bryce?

  She could stop crying. She would not allow herself to give in to despair. She had not known the extent of evil lurking in Cynvelin ap Hywell. Neither had Bryce.

  This was not her fault, any more than the abduction was his.

  Somehow they would triumph over Cynvelin and his wicked schemes.

  She got to her feet and her gaze came to rest on the stool. Quickly she grabbed hold of the leg and smashed the stool onto the stone floor. It broke apart and the leg splintered, the end a point.

  Rhiannon began to rub the sharp end over the rough floor, twisting and turning as she shaped it into a fine and lethal point.

  She would make a weapon and she would climb down the wall, even though Cynvelin had taken her rope. If Dylan could do it, so could she. Then she would find Bryce and help him get free, even if she had to kill.

  Her rational mind told her that her plan was doomed to fail.

  But she paid it no heed, because she was listening to her heart.

  Bryce crashed into the wall as the men threw him into the dank, dark cell in the lower reaches of the keep. His forehead struck the slimy wall before he slumped to the floor.

  Madoc growled something in Welsh that set the others laughing cruelly before they went out, the door banging shut behind them. The key turned in the lock as he shook his head to try to clear it.

  Despair enveloped him like the dark. Cynvelin was right. He was a fool, a blind, stupid fool who should have seen the signs that all was not as Cynvelin claimed: Rhiannon’s persistent struggles and insistence upon being taken back to her father, her revulsion at the idea that Cynvelin was her lover, the way she looked at him, and especially the passion in her kiss.

  If only he had not been so selfish and so anxious to make up for his past mistakes by earning a knighthood that he had not taken the time to learn more of the man to whom he would be beholden! If only he had listened to her as his heart bade him, and not told himself to pay no heed to her impassioned words. If only he had not been so swift to believe the lies of a seemingly benevolent man.

  Instead, all his previous failings paled before what he had done to Rhiannon.

  Cynvelin was right about the dungeon, too. He should have had Ermin go through the castle with him. Then he might have known about the small wooden door beneath the stairs that led to this lower level.

  Again despair threatened to engulf him, but he fought it off. As long as Rhiannon was in danger, he would not give up. He would try to find a way to help her.

  Madoc and his men had taken his weapons, including his dagger. He had learned many things in his travels, and how to pick a loek was one of them. That wouldn’t have made a difference here, though, because there was no opening in the door.

  Perhaps there was something in the cell he could use as a weapon when they came for him. Even a bucket would be something.

  It was too dark to see, so he began to slowly make his way around the cell holding onto the wall.

  His foot touched a large object. It didn’t move, nor was it hard.

  He guessed what it was and knelt down, gently feeling the shape.

  Yes, it was Ula’s body. Another woman he should have protected, and had not. Like his sister. Like Rhiannon.

  Then Bryce thought of Rhiannon, alone and in that man’s hands, and a fresh wave of anger, hatred and determination filled him.

  Somehow he would get free, and he would rescue Rhiannon.

  And then he would kill Cynvelin ap Hywell.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was nothing in the cell except Ula’s body. Bryce kept a lonely vigil beside it, trying to think of some way to escape. If only Madoc and one of the others came to take him out, he thought he stood a chance to overcome them—but then how to help Rhiannon? Where was she? Cynvelin might even have started for Caer Coch and taken her with him.

  With these and the thoughts of his own culpability to torment him, it seemed a long time before he heard voices and footsteps. The cell door opened and Bryce squinted at the sudden influx of light, even though the torchlight wasn’t bright.

  Madoc held the torch. Several other men of Cynvelin’s guard waited behind him, including the two brawniest. The Welshman grunted and gestured with his head to indicate that Bryce was to come with them.

  He had no choice, especially when the two big men grabbed his arms. As they led him out into the courtyard in the feeble light of the morning, he thought of trying to overpower them, wondering if the men of the garrison could perhaps be called to his aid, but he just as quickly dismissed the notion. For one thing, he couldn’t be completely certain of their loyalty, or that they would help. Worse, not a one of his men was on guard at the gate, or standing sentry on the wall walk. It was not inconceivable that if Cynvelin had reason to doubt their loyalty to him, he would have sent them away.

  Then he realized that the presence of so many of Cynvelin’s men might be a good sign, indicating that Cynvelin and Rhiannon were still in Annedd Bach.

  The guards took him into the hall. The men of the garrison, silent and watchful, were there, off to the side, arranged in rows. Cynvelin sat by the hearth, the rest of his men gathered around him.

  Rhiannon wasn’t there, and a chill of dread ran through Bryce’s body.

  Cynvelin, as well dressed as always and with a calm expression, watched dispassionately while Bryce was hauled before him.

  But not so calm, Bryce thought, for Cynvelin played nervously with the leather gloves he held, twisting and turning them in his hands.

  “Where is she?” Bryce demanded. “What have you done with her?”

  “I see a night of solitary contemplation has not mellowed you,” the Welsh nobleman said with something between a grin and smirk. “She is quite well, all things considered.”

  “What ‘things’?”

  Suddenly Cynvelin stood and hit Bryce across the face with his gloves, on the same side as his swollen eye.

  It hurt like the devil, but Bryce didn’t move. He wouldn’t move or do anything until he knew about Rhiannon. Angry mutters arose from the garrison, and their reaction encouraged him. If they were against Cynvelin, there was more cause for ho
pe.

  “I have heard it said that simpletons and madmen don’t feel pain the way gentlefolk do, and I see that is quite correct,” Cynvelin said, returning to his seat.

  “Where is Lady Rhiannon?”

  Cynvelin smiled very, very slowly. “In the bedchamber. Just think, Frechette, last night while you were with Ula—or at least her body—right above you, I was...” He let his words trail off suggestively.

  Rage filled him, but Bryce knew he could not let his emotions overtake him. That had been the way of his past, and that was disaster. He had to think, to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity. “I hope for your sake you have not hurt her.”

  “Hurt? Oh no, not yet. And that is what you must tell her father.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look so shocked, my friend,” Cynvelin replied, the gloves still twisting and turning in his hands. “It is a simple task, really. You are to go to the monastery of St. David and fetch a priest, for I will not wait anymore. I will marry Rhiannon today. Of course, I would not be surprised if you should find the baron there. No doubt it was one of his men spying on you, as Ermin guessed.”

  The steward shifted uncomfortably when he heard his name, although Bryce doubted he understood all that Cynvelin was saying.

  “I doubt it was the one-eyed bastard himself. That grim-faced son of his, more likely. Whoever it was, it doesn’t matter. They are probably there, and just as probably watching everyone who goes in or out of Annedd Bach. So he may wish to speak with you. If that is so, naturally you should tell them what I have said.” He smiled again. “Further, tell them I regret I cannot invite them to celebrate with me, but I have no food for a feast. If they try to prevent you, say to the baron it has already been caru yn y gwely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He will know, and that is enough.”

  Bryce thought he knew, too. Oh, Rhiannon! he wanted to wail, imagining her terror and the outraged honor of a proud woman.

  But at least she lived, and that was what mattered most. He would think only of that.