Margaret Moore - A Warrior's Honor

Bryce relaxed and nodded. “I shall do my best to be worthy of this command, my lord.”

“Good, Bryce, good.” Lord Cynvelin looked at Bryce, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Then you will not mind living in Wales a while?”

“No, my lord.” Not if he was to have a castle to command, and income for his own. No more making a living fighting in tournaments, traveling from place to place like some kind of tinker.

“Excellent. Is there nothing more you would ask as payment for taking on this task?”

Bryce gave him a puzzled look. “My lord?”

“The man who commands a castle should be a knight, at the very least, would you not agree?”

“My lord!” Bryce gasped. He had not expected this. Not at all.

“Not yet, Bryce,” the Welshman said with what sounded like sincere regret. “As much as I would like to, first I must be sure you will be able to control this valley.”

“My lord, I give you my word that I shall do everything in my power—!”

Lord Cynvelin gestured for silence. “I know that, or I would never have given you the command. However, I am afraid that the people here may make it very difficult for you because you are Norman.”

Bryce nodded.

“But I do not think that much of a condition for you, my friend.” Again Cynvelin laid his hand on Bryce’s shoulder. “I am quite certain that in a year, you will be Sir Bryce Frechette.”

“I cannot begin to thank you, my lord.”

“Then let it wait!” Cynvelin pointed at the kitchen corridor. “Here comes the meal, and not a moment too soon. My stomach is flapping against my backbone. Come, sit beside me at table.”

Pleased and honored by all that had happened since their arrival, Bryce joined the Welshman at the trestle table, which had been placed on the dais at the far end of the long hall. Other tables and benches had also been assembled, and the serving wenches began bringing in bread and meat, and pouring mugs of ale. The girl Cynvelin had been speaking with brought two goblets of wine to their table.

She might have been pretty, had she been clean and well fed. As it was, her skin was pale to the point of sickliness, her eyes had no luster, and her dark hair hung limp about her narrow, expressionless face.

Bryce could not help comparing her to her countrywoman, Rhiannon DeLanyea. They both had dark hair, yet beyond that, Rhiannon was like a full-bodied vision of beauty, whereas this girl represented want in the worst form.

“I’ve asked Ermin—the steward, the man who finally answered my summons when we arrived—to gather the rest of the garrison tomorrow. I take it most of the men have been living out of Annedd Bach on their farms. They should be here at dawn. Unfortunately, I fear they won’t be of any real use for weeks yet.”

Bryce nodded, dragging his thoughts away from the memory of Rhiannon DeLanyea.

“Your father was noted for his fine castle and hospitality. Tell me, Bryce, how long will it take to get Annedd Bach ready for guests?”

“I...I have no idea, my lord,” Bryce stammered, completely taken aback by the change of subject. “I would have to see what the sleeping quarters are like, and what linens are in the stores, and the food supply, and fodder for animals.”

“I’m afraid you will have little time for all that, my friend,” Cynvelin replied regretfully. “Your first guest will be here tomorrow.”

Bryce realized that he couldn’t very well refuse the hospitality of Annedd Bach to a guest of Lord Cynvelin, who was still the true overlord. “Who might that be?”

“Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea. We are going to abduct her.”

Chapter Four

“Abduct her?” Bryce repeated in disbelief. “Lady Rhiannon?”

Lord Cynvelin chuckled. “Do not be looking so horrified, Frechette,” he chided, his tone as calm as if suggesting a stag hunt. “I am not talking of a crime.”

“By what other name would you call such an act?” Bryce demanded.

“A Welsh custom,” Cynvelin replied, smiling. “Especially when the groom’s potential father-in-law is a stubborn fellow who fails to see the groom’s merit.”

“A custom?”

Lord Cynvelin’s usual good humor momentarily disappeared. “Aye. An old one, or surely you know I would never propose such a thing.”

“My lord, you’ll forgive me for—”

“Doubting that I am an honorable man?” Cynvelin finished, a hint of a frown on his face. “If so, there is the door, and you are welcome to leave.”

Bryce didn’t respond at once. In truth, he didn’t like the sound of this. Kidnapping as nothing but a quaint custom? It didn’t seem possible, but what did he know of Welsh customs?

Cynvelin’s manner was open and sincere. Surely a man about to commit a serious crime could not behave so blithely.

His companion laughed ruefully. “Forgive my harsh words. I know how this must sound to your Norman ears, but I assure you, my friend, Rhiannon DeLanyea is quite prepared for her abduction, although she’s not quite sure when it will be. Indeed, she’s expecting such a thing and she’ll be disappointed if I don’t come for her.”

Bryce stifled the surge of disappointment that seemed to hit him like an unexpected wave on a calm day at sea.

“And by taking her,” Cynvelin continued, “her father will see how serious I am in my desire to have her for my wife. If I don’t abduct her, her family might think I am a coward. I cannot have that, can I?”

“She will be disappointed if you don’t cart her off unexpectedly?” Bryce asked dubiously, still too wary of the proposal to find it at all droll, as Lord Cynvelin obviously did. “You are contracted then?”

“No, not in the Norman way,” the Welshman replied with a dismissive wave of his hand that told Bryce what he thought of Norman legalities.

As he had suspected, Lady Rhiannon DeLanyea was the most audacious hussy Bryce had ever encountered, kissing him with such apparent passion when she was as good as betrothed to another.

Now more than ever he wished he had abandoned the lady in the courtyard before she had enticed him into the shadows. Nor did he want to be anywhere near Lady Rhiannon ever again.

Nevertheless, Cynvelin was offering him a great opportunity, one that he would not abandon without serious cause. Surely he could manage to avoid the lady for the short time she was here, and she had obviously not wanted her immoral behavior revealed to her future husband. Probably she would avoid him just as studiously. “This expected kidnapping is to happen tomorrow?”

“Aye. We will meet her father’s entourage on the road not far from here as they journey home. It is too far to go to Caer Coch on the same day, so we will stop at Annedd Bach for the night.”

“What is it you expect me to do?”

“Ride with me as one of my groomsmen. We will not be a large party, because this is mostly for show, you see.” Lord Cynvelin ran a cursory 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.”