A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore
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gaze over Bryce. “Better clothes you must be having. There isn’t time to buy new, so you may have something of mine I no longer wear.” He held up his hand to preempt Bryce’s protest. “Not hearing a word about that. You must be well dressed, or you will bring me disgrace.”
Clearly Cynvelin didn’t consider his offer of his old clothes an insult to Bryce, and he knew the man meant well, but he was insulted, nonetheless. He detested charity when he was the recipient.
“You, I think, should be the one to bring Rhiannon back here,” Cynvelin mused.
“Me?” he demanded, too surprised to be polite.
“Madoc and the others would probably be too rough. I know I can count on you to do it right.”
“Too rough? Why would they be rough if she wants to come away with you?”
“She has to at least feign some maidenly, modest aversion,” Cynvelin replied. “She might even weep and wail and protest, but you should just ignore it, because it will only be pretend. The moment we are together, she will be happy again.”
“What if the baron refuses to let her go?” Bryce asked.
“Oh, he very well might. He may even look to put up a fight. You know how fathers can be about their daughters.”
In truth, Bryce didn’t know. He had not been home when his sister was of an age to think of marriage, and he had not been there when she had fallen in love.
“That’s part of the tradition, too, you see,” Cynvelin explained, “and that is why I want you to take Rhiannon away as soon as possible. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my bride by accident.
“Not that it should,” he hastened to add. “Any fighting is just for show, too. And honor, you see, to make the woman think she’s worth a fight. There might be a few knocked heads and scratches. Nothing worse than you might get in a tournament, I promise you. Still, it would be best if you were to get Rhiannon away as quickly as you can. I will give you the word, and you take hold of her horse and gallop away, simple as can be.”
Bryce nodded, convinced of the truth of Cynvelin’s words by his earnestness and the Welshman’s honest demeanor, as much as his explanation. “Very well, iny lord,” he said with a slight bow. “I shall be honored to act as your groomsman.”
And he would be the one to take charge of Lady Rhiannon, because like Lord Cynvelin, he didn’t relish the idea of Madoc and his friend having responsibility for her.
“Here, you!” Cynvelin suddenly shouted at the pale serving wench. “More wine!” He turned back to Bryce and said wryly, “By the saints above, all this talking makes a man thirsty.”
“Don’t you get a dowry or exchange gifts, my lord?” Bryce asked.
“Ah, a wise man you are, Frechette,” Cynvelin replied. “Of course. Not savages, the Welsh. I get the dowry later, and I have to pay the amobr.”
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