A Warrior's Honor. Margaret Moore

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      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.

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