host was a genial man who believed in fine food and wine, good sport and loud music. His hall, while not as large as Bryce’s father’s had been, evinced the Norman nobleman’s appreciation for the luxuries a wealthy life afforded. A blazing fire in the hearth dispelled the chill of the spring evening, and fine beeswax candles in a number of holders brightened the room, as did torches in sconces upon the walls.
After an excellent and bountiful meal, the long trestle tables had been taken down and now leaned against the thick stone walls, with the benches in front for those not dancing. Well-fed hounds prowled among the rushes, looking for scraps and somehow managing to avoid getting in the way of the energetic dancers, who whirled past like so many colorful children’s tops in the center of the floor.
Bryce reflected it was a wonder some didn’t fall and break their heads, especially the ones who were obviously drunk. As it was, the laughing and talking of the lords and ladies nearly drowned out the music of harp, tabor and drum.
His gaze strayed again toward a lovely young woman with dark hair and bright eyes who danced gracefully, and whose joyously merry laugh had nothing to do with too much wine. Sometimes he could see her face clearly when she passed near him in her bright blue gown under an overtunic of indigo and gold brocade, and with her gold jewelry flashing in the light of the candles.
The skin crinkled at the corners of her mirthful, shining green eyes beneath shapely dark brows. Wisps of black hair escaped her headdress and scarf to brush her smooth pink cheeks. He admired her straight and shapely nose, and her full, smiling ruby lips parted to reveal pearl-like teeth.
He wondered who she was and what her name might be. She was without doubt the most attractive woman he had ever seen, and he envied whatever main danced with her, including their portly, elderly host.
If he were titled still, Bryce thought, he would be dancing with her, too, looking into those expressive, vivacious eyes and, he had to admit, trying to get her into a shadowed corner to steal a kiss from those enticing lips.
But he was not titled, he reminded himself with a bitter scowl. He was not the Earl of Westborough, although by rights he should be; he had no estate.
And the beauty was probably a spoiled, pampered young woman who would want nothing to do with the likes of him.
He could not even afford an extra shirt. The only one he possessed had been torn in the tournament, so he had been forced to come to the feast wearing only his leather tunic. Acutely conscious of his less-than-well-dressed state, he nevertheless wanted to enjoy the banquet a little longer. It gave him a taste of the life he used to know, when his father was alive.
Therefore, he told himself, it didn’t matter who she was or what her name might be, any more than it mattered that these noblemen and their ladies ignored him.
As if to refute that rankling thought, a darkly handsome man with a silver goblet in his hand came to sit next to Bryce on the bench. Bryce knew he was a Welshman, and the black-haired beauty had been talking and laughing with him before joining in the dance with Lord Melevoir.
“Seen happier faces on a tomb, I have;” the stranger remarked casually. “And you winning the purse, too! A pity it is ten silver pieces don’t make you happy. I’ll gladly take them from you if that would please you.”
“You could try,” Bryce answered in a calm yet warning tone.
“Ust, man, no need to sound so fierce.” The Welshman grinned, his eyes dancing with merriment. “You deserved to win. There aren’t many who can beat me, but glad I am to say that I do not bear a grudge. Look you, you were the finest with the lance on the field, and it would be a fool who would say otherwise. I am not a fool.”
Bryce relaxed, pleased by the fellow’s manner as much as his words. It had been a long time since a nobleman had treated him as an equal. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, sir,” he said with an answering smile. “I would that every man I bested spoke with such generosity.” He bent his head in welcome. “I am Bryce Frechette.”
“Generosity, is it?” the dark-haired man replied. “Good sense, I call it, and of course I know who you are.”
Bryce mentally braced himself for the inevitable questions.
Which did not come. “I am Lord Cynvelin ap Hywell of Caer Coch, the finest estate in Wales,” his companion announced jovially. He ran another appraising glance over the Norman. “I’ve made it my business to hire the best men for my company. I hope you will consider joining my retinue.”
Bryce’s first impulse was to refuse. He was not born to be any man’s hireling.
“Since we are gentlemen, we will not barter terms like merchants. If you agree, you shall have whatever you require in arms, clothing, food and lodging, and if, after a year or so, we are both well pleased with one another, I see no reason I should not reward you further.”
Bryce knew he could always make a living fighting in tournaments. If worse came to worst, he could go to his sister and find a home in her castle.
Yet he had been traveling and fighting for years, and no one else had ever offered him such a chance. As for going to his sister...he would feel like a beggar at their gate.
Bryce’s pride gave way to practicality. His family had lost title and estate, and all the money he had was the ten coins in his purse. If he didn’t accept this nobleman’s offer, eventually he would be reduced to fighting in yet another tournament and hoping to win a prize, as if he were a trained bear fighting for his food.
Besides, this fellow was not just friendly, but respectful, too. Both were rare reactions to him these days. And, he reasoned, how difficult could service in such a man’s retinue be? He could always leave it if he chose to, and his alternatives were few indeed.
“My lord, I shall be delighted to accept,” he answered with another bow of his head.
Lord Cynvelin clapped his hand on Bryce’s shoulder and smiled warmly. “Excellent, my friend!”
Bryce took a deep breath. “You can rely on me, my lord,” he said, the words almost a challenge.
Lord Cynvelin became serious. “If I thought it would be otherwise, I would not have made the offer. Many of us were foolish and headstrong youths. Besides, man, think what it will do for my glory when others hear that Bryce Frechette, champion of Lord Melevoir’s tournament, is in my company.”
Bryce nodded, pleased and relieved and flattered all at once.
“We leave for Wales after mass tomorrow. I trust you can be ready?”
“Wales?”
“Aye. Where else would a Welshman live?”
Bryce nodded. “Of course.”
“That is not a trouble to you, is it?”
“No, my lord,” Bryce replied, stifling any reluctance to travel into the wilderness inhabited by the Celts.
“Good.” Lord Cynvelin sighed and took a drink of his wine. “A fine feast, this. I have never seen so many pretty ladies in one place.”
“Pretty, rich and titled ladies,” Bryce amended, giving his newfound friend a sardonic glance. “That puts them out of my reach.”
