A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore
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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.”
Bryce followed the lord’s pointing finger and finally he could make out a large gray shape that looked more like a rock clinging to the hillside than a fortress.
“Now we will be getting dry!” Lord Cynvelin cried jovially. He spurred his horse to a gallop, sending clumps of mud flying backward.
As Bryce and the others galloped after him, the castle grew more discernible. It had what seemed to be a strong stone wall and inside, a round stone keep.
Soon enough they were nearly at the outer wall. When they approached, Bryce could see some hovels near the fortress. Not nearly enough to comprise a village, they seemed old and decrepit, as if the rain might wash them away entirely. No persons showed themselves, but that could be because of the weather.
The walls of Annedd Bach looked well made, and the wooden gates thick as they rode through the gatehouse, under the portcullis and into the courtyard. In addition to the keep, there was another rectangular stone building of rough, gray stone, which Bryce guessed was the hall. Other buildings in the enclosure were made of wattle and daub.
Lord Cynvelin called out something in Welsh, and a head appeared in the doorway of the hall. When the man saw who had called, he opened the door and hurried out, holding a ragged woolen shawl over his tattered clothing. His pale face was thin and Bryce thought he looked completely cowed.
Again Lord Cynvelin shouted something in Welsh, and a few more men appeared from one of the wattle and daub buildings, which Bryce took to be a barracks.
Like the first man, the other people’s clothes were ragged and their bodies thin. Their manner was sullen and subdued; they certainly did not look happy to see their lord return.
Bryce recalled one of his father’s favorite sayings, that a well-fed tenant was a contented tenant. For years Bryce had believed his father had taken that too far, allowing his villeins