A Warrior's Honor

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.”