Читать книгу A Warrior's Honor - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Rhiannon stared at her father as he turned a searching gaze onto her before once again looking at their host.

Lord Melevoir cleared his throat. “Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell. A Welsh nobleman,” he concluded rather hopefully.

“A Welshman born he may be,” the baron said, “but he is a disgrace to us all.”

Rhiannon had never seen her father react with such instant antipathy—and she had not even known that her father was familiar with the man! What on earth had Cynvelin ap Hywell done to so enrage her father?

He regarded her with that same forbidding expression. “Did he speak to you?” he demanded.

She nodded.

“Did he know who you were?”

“Yes,” she answered softly. “Cynvelin ap Hywell said that he knew of you when he introduced himself, but he never implied, either in word or look, that there was anything between you. He was very nice to me, although rather forward.”

“I daresay he was,” the baron growled. “Not waiting for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, you?”

She shook her head remorsefully, for he was quite right. It would have been proper for Lord Melevoir to make the introduction, and she should have realized that at the time.

“Baron, if I had known there was anything—” Lord Melevoir said haltingly.

Rhiannon’s father took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lord Melevoir. None of this is your fault. Or yours, either, daughter.” He looked at Rhiannon ruefully. “I should have guessed he might be here and I should have warned you about him.”

He stared straight ahead and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her, or only to himself. “But never did I think he would have the gall to speak to any member of my family.”

Despite his hushed voice, Rhiannon got the distinct feeling that her father was still trying very hard to control his rage.

“What has he done to make you hate him so?” she asked wonderingly.

“Indeed, yes,” Lord Melevoir seconded. “If he is such a blackguard, I will not have him back again.”

“He was a blackguard. If Bryce Frechette can be so changed, perhaps Cynvelin can, as well.” The baron smiled, but not with his eyes, which made Rhiannon believe he was saying this only to reassure their host that he had not made a terrible blunder. “He had the makings of a fine knight when I first admitted him into our household.”

“He was at Craig Fawr?” Rhiannon asked, taken aback. “I don’t remember him.”

“You were visiting Lord Trevelyan at the time and, not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I never mentioned his name after I sent him away.”

“What made you do that?” Lord Melevoir inquired.

“First, it was only cheating at games. Then he started making trouble among all the young men, spreading lies and rumors until they were nearly at each other’s throats. Not that any blame would ever attach to him. Oh, no, he was too clever for that. I finally realized what was going on when Griffydd blackened Dylan’s eye, and I made him tell me why he had done it. When they understood what Cynvelin was about, Dylan was all for killing him on the spot.” The baron grinned wryly. “Cynvelin will never know how close he came to going to God that day. 1 thought a good talking-to would be sufficient, but I was wrong. Shortly after, somebody cut the cinch on Dylan’s horse’s saddle, so that it snapped when he was galloping during a practice with the lance. He fell and could have been killed. Of course I guessed who had done it.”

“And you sent him away,” Lord Melevoir said, nodding his head in agreement.

Her father hesitated, lost in his thoughts, while Rhiannon waited tensely for him to continue. “Yes,” he said after a long moment of silence.

There was more to it than that, she felt certain, but ask anything more, she dared not.

Lord Melevoir sank back in his chair. “Well, by all the saints and cherubim, Baron DeLanyea. If ever there was a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Next thing you’ll be telling me he’s one of those damned rebels, too.”

“A rebel? God’s wounds, no, not that one. Although not surprised, me, if he were to claim to be when it suited him among the Welsh,” her father continued grimly. “But the only person he thinks about is himself. If he ever starts spouting rebellion, you can be sure there’ll be a prize in it for him.”

At that moment, Dylan and Griffydd marched into the hall, followed by their men.

“Do you know who Rhiannon’s been kissing?” Dylan declared angrily, glaring at Rhiannon in a way that made her more angry than mortified.

After all, however shamefully she may have conducted herself, Dylan was hardly a saint. Many a night he sneaked out of Craig Fawr for trysts with village girls. He had already fathered three children by three different women. To be sure, to the Welsh an illegitimate child was nothing to be remorseful about, but such behavior hardly gave him the right to act so indignant.

Griffydd’s expression, however, only made her feel humiliated, and she was very glad neither one of them knew about that other unforgettable kiss in the courtyard.

Nevertheless, she rose swiftly and glared at them, because they were making accusations without knowing her side of things.

As she had accused Bryce Frechette without knowing his side of things.

Which was completely immaterial at the moment.

“I don’t think—” she began angrily.

“Sit down!” her father commanded Rhiannon. “Dylan, lower your voice.”

Lord Melevoir stood slowly. “I believe I will leave you to discuss your family business in private,” he said before tottering away as fast as his legs would take him.

The baron gestured for Dylan and Griffydd to come closer. “We will deal with this once and for all, and then there will be no more said about Cynvelin ap Hywell.”

Dylan glared angrily at Rhiannon. “Do you know what they’re saying about you? That you threw yourself at that cur.”

“I never did!” Rhiannon protested, almost sick to realize that was how her behavior in the hall had been interpreted by some people. Bryce Frechette had certainly been of that opinion. No doubt that explained why he felt free to embrace her. What must he think of her now?

She suddenly wished with all her heart that she had never come here!

The baron glanced at the rest of his men who were coming into the hall, calling out for drinks from the serving wenches. “Lower your voices,” he repeated firmly.

“That is what they are saying,” Griffydd confirmed, his steady gaze far more unnerving to Rhiannon than Dylan’s words.

She flushed hotly, her stance still defiant, even though inwardly she wanted to flee from their accusations. “Who?” she demanded. “Who dares to say such things? I spoke to Cynvelin ap Hywell and danced with him, too!” she declared defensively. “I didn’t know anything wrong of him, and I think you have no right to condemn me.” Not for that.

Her father spoke, his voice calm and firm. “She did not know anything about him. I never told her.” He fastened a steely gaze onto Dylan. “You are hardly worthy to chastise her behavior.”

“But she is a woman and—”

“And I am her father, so I will speak to her about her behavior, not you, although I gather she was not pleased by what he did any more than you.”

Dylan frowned. Rhiannon knew he would sulk a while, yet she didn’t care, not as long as her father realized she deeply regretted what had happened, even if he did not know all that she regretted.

“No fights need be fought over whatever men with too little time on their hands might say, either,” her father warned. “The Normans have never understood the Welsh. They are often as gloomy as hermits in a cold cave, so I would not pay them much heed when they criticize your spritely sister.

“Dylan, Griffydd, this conversation is finished. Your sister may have acted with less decorum than I might have hoped, but even you have done so 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 to keep too much of the produce of their farms. When Bryce had learned of the extent of his father’s debts, he had been sure the earl had been far too generous to them and they had taken advantage of his goodness.

Nevertheless, as he watched the servants of Annedd Bach come forward, he thought that his father’s opinion might have some merit after all.

Surprisingly, given Lord Cynvelin’s generosity with his soldiers, he seemed to find nothing amiss in the appearance or the manner of Annedd Bach’s servants.

Lord Cynvelin addressed his Welsh guards, who didn’t seem to notice anything unusual, either. Then he dismounted and smiled at Bryce with his easy familiarity. “Come inside and get warm. Then something to eat, my friend. I do not know what kind of beds we’ll find, but at least we’ll be out of the wet.”

Bryce nodded and handed the reins of his horse to one of the waiting castle servants before following Lord Cynvelin into what was indeed a small, barren hall.

With a disgusted expression, Lord Cynvelin went to stand near the empty central hearth, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. A lone trestle table, unmade, leaned against the wall. Rain streaked the whitewash as it dripped from a series of narrow windows set high in the wall.

This place was nearly as dismal inside as out, Bryce reflected.

Lord Cynvelin shook his head and frowned darkly. “Away for a while, and what do I find? They’ve stripped the place!”

“Who, my lord?” Bryce inquired, wondering if this part of Wales was plagued with outlaws. That might explain the servants’ unhappy expressions, although if that were the case, he quickly reasoned, they should be much more pleased by the arrival of Cynvelin and his men.

“The servants, of course!” the nobleman retorted with more anger than Bryce had ever seen him display. “Lazy dogs! I’ve a mind to have them all hanged and let the crows feed on their bones!”

“Would they risk your ire by doing that, my lord?” Bryce reasoned. “Surely they knew you would return. Perhaps they’ve moved things to a storehouse for safekeeping.”

At that moment, they both heard a sound near the door leading to the kitchen. An old woman and some younger women watched them anxiously.

“Ah, this is better!” Lord Cynvelin muttered, and he called out jovially in Welsh.

Bryce glanced at him quickly. Lord Cynvelin’s anger seemed to have dissipated like straw in a flame.

Cynvelin strolled toward the women, speaking to them as if nothing were amiss. The old woman nodded and tottered off while Cynvelin slowly turned on his heel and smiled at Bryce. “You were right. They put the furnishings away, not knowing when I would be coming. Regrettably, they tell me that they have little food. I gather the harvests were not good.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No matter. We have enough provisions in my carts for a few days. And the hunting is good in the hills.” He sighed and once again surveyed the hall. “Perhaps I do not come here as often as I should,” he mused.

When the rest of the men came into the hall, Lord Cynvelin called out to Madoc. The soldier punched his friend on the shoulder and came forward.

The other man was Twedwr, smaller and more compact, but Bryce didn’t doubt who was actually the stronger of the two. Like Madoc, Twedwr always had a glint of hatred in his eyes when he looked at Bryce, although whether it was because of what had happened with Madoc, Bryce’s past or the fact that he was simply a Norman, Bryce didn’t know.

After Lord Cynvelin talked to them, Madoc and Twedwr reluctantly went back out to the courtyard while the others broke into small groups, grumbling. Clearly they, too, had expected better accommodations. Lord Cynvelin sauntered toward them and made placating gestures as he spoke with them in their native tongue.

A serving wench, who looked about fifteen, appeared from the kitchen, carrying rushes which she proceeded to lay upon the stone floor. Every time she bent over, one or another of the men would make what had to be a lewd remark, to judge by the chortles and winks that passed between the men, and the blushes on the young woman’s face. Smiling, Cynvelin made no effort to interfere.

Madoc and Twedwr returned, accompanied by servants carrying baskets and pouches that Bryce recognized from Cynvelin’s carts. The servants continued on toward the kitchen, getting an occasional kick or shove from Madoc to speed them on their way. Again, Cynvelin made no effort to interfere, and Bryce began to wonder how the man customarily treated his servants. He did not like what he was seeing.

Bryce reminded himself that he knew nothing about the people here. Maybe the girl was simply shy, or perhaps even coy, so her seeming embarrassment was nothing more than a show for their benefit. And maybe the slow-moving men were habitually in need of prodding of some kind.

Besides, now he was a hireling, too. He no longer had the right to chastise or criticize anyone for their treatment of their servants and tenants, so he had to hold his tongue, no matter how that galled him.

Other servants began coming to the hall with furnishings, wood for the hearth, and ale. They worked quickly and silently, occasionally casting nervous glances at Lord Cynvelin, his soldiers and Bryce.

Bryce wasn’t sure what he should do while they labored, so he strolled toward the door. It was still raining. Although every so often he had to move out of the doorway to let a servant or soldier pass, he surveyed the wall surrounding the small castle. It was well built and strong; outlaws wouldn’t be able to make much headway against such defenses if they attacked.

Yet why should the servants look so hungry? Had the harvest been that bad? It hadn’t been in the rest of England—but then, the rest of England wasn’t this wet.

He tumed, thinking he would ask Lord Cynvelin if poor harvests were a common occurrence, and he saw the Welshman talking to the girl who had laid the rushes.

She looked frightened and flustered, her face flushed. Perhaps she had done something wrong, although Bryce couldn’t begin to guess what that might be.

The girl bowed slightly, then hurried off toward the kitchen corridor.

“Annedd Bach usually looks better than it does today,” Lord Cynvelin said, sauntering toward Bryce and then clapping a hand on his shoulder. “It seems you were right. There were reports of outlaws, so they thought it best to hide everything of value.”

“Is that why she looked so afraid?”

“Who?”

“The girl you were just talking with. Have outlaws stolen their food?”

“Ust, man, they have enough to eat. If they seem afraid, I suppose they assume I have come because I haven’t received my rent and there might be reprisals.”

“Forgive the impertinence of my question, my lord,” Bryce said, “but why have we come here?”

Lord Cynvelin’s handsome face grew serious. “Because I haven’t received my rent and there are going to be reprisals.” Suddenly he grinned, then laughed out loud. “Not the kind you seem to be thinking of, Bryce. God’s wounds, you should know me better than that! I have something else in mind for Annedd Bach. A new overlord.”

“Ah!” Bryce hadn’t wanted to believe that the man who had behaved with such kindness and generosity to him would prove to be capable of the kind of cruelty in which some Norman lords indulged. “Who, my lord? Madoc?” he hypothesized, glancing at the glowering Welshman.

“No.” Cynvelin’s grin widened. “You.”

Bryce stared at him. “Me?”

“Indeed, and why not? Madoc and Twedwr and the others are fine fighters, but they’ll never be suitable overlords. Too bloody-minded, for one thing, and I’m sure you’ve noticed they hate Normans like the pox. What would the king say if he knew I’d given command of a castle to men like that? A Norman would please him. Besides, you’ve grown up in a noble household, so you’ll know how things ought to be done.”

“My lord, I don’t know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ will do for a start. I want you to take command of Annedd Bach at once. There will be the rents to collect, half of which you can keep, and the garrison to command.” Cynvelin’s grin grew rueful. “They’ll probably have to be retrained. You can curse me for a lazy dog if you like, but I fear I’ve been a neglectful overlord when it comes to this estate.”

Cynvelin gestured toward a hearth, where a fire now blazed brightly, and they walked toward it. “This is a fine castle, and with a properly trained garrison, could command the entire valley.”

“Command for whom?” Bryce asked, suddenly mindful of the tales of Welsh rebels. Despite his friendly and open manner, Lord Cynvelin was a Welshman, when all was said and done.

If Lord Cynvelin thought to move against the Normans, Bryce would leave at once. A dishonored, dispossessed Norman he might be, but he was still loyal to his king.

“King Henry, of course!” Lord Cynvelin replied. “I have sworn my oath of loyalty to him, and unlike some Welshmen, I intend to abide by it.”

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.”