The Welshman's Way

Would he try to take another such liberty before he left her?

“We must go.”

His blunt words roused her from her reverie. Brushing the crumbs from her garment, she joined him as he left the byre. Outside, the sky was cloudy, yet she did not think it would rain again soon. Puddles were plentiful, however, and the leaves of the trees still dripped. All in all, the scene before her was as dismal as her future if she returned to her brother.

But she had to find out what had happened to Roger—Roger, whom she had almost forgotten, just because this rascal claimed that her brother was probably uninjured.

The Welshman linked his hands together and waited, crouched beside the horse. Obviously the intention was that she should ride, so she placed her foot in his hands and let him lift her onto the saddle. Then she waited with bated breath for him to join her. She could almost feel his body behind hers, touching her, and told herself that she was dreading the contact.

He did not mount the horse. Instead, he took hold of the horse’s bridle and began to walk toward the road.

“Where are we going?” she asked coldly.

“To a Norman’s manor I know of.”

“Whose manor is it?”

“Sir Guy.”

“Sir Guy?” There was something vaguely familiar about the name, but Guy was common enough. “Is that all of his name you know?”

“Yes.”

“How is it you are welcome at a Norman’s manor?”

“Would you rather I left you to find another escort, my lady?”

There was nothing she could say to that, so she fell silent. After all, she needed to be safe and she needed to find Roger. She couldn’t do that by herself. Surely a Norman nobleman would be better able to help her accomplish those tasks than this mysterious Welshman.

* * *

The shaded, narrow road to Sir Guy’s manor wound through the thick forest of oak and beech, pine and hawthorn. The sky was gray and thick clouds had blocked out even the midday sun. The air was close, rank with the smell of damp underbrush and decaying foliage. All was still and quiet, and not even a bird’s song interrupted the silence. No bright spring flowers pushed their way to the sunlight here. It was as if they had stepped into a bard’s tale of a forest under the spell of a witch or evil sorcerer.

As Dafydd plodded along beside the roan, he told himself he was glad he would soon be far away from Lady Madeline de Montmorency. Either she could have taught Delilah a thing or two about seduction, or she was the innocent creature she claimed to be. That look, as she lay beneath him, that sultry, pouting glance at once dismissive and challenging—was it art, or was it a natural response? Whatever it was, he would have been more than mortal to resist kissing those full, red lips.

And no matter how much she tried to deny it, she had responded. Oh, he might have startled her at first, but soon enough she was eagerly kissing him back.

God’s wounds and blessed blood, what kind of trouble had he gotten himself into this time? She was a Norman and the sister of a man hated by the Welsh.

Just as he despised all Normans. He could see good cause for his hatred, too, the few times there was a break in the trees. Ragged, bowed peasants worked narrow strips of farmland. They all looked old, thin and sickly, barely able to work. The buildings he spied were little better than the byre in which he and Lady Madeline had spent the night. And strangely, he saw not one young person, nor any child. All was back-bent, joyless silence and hard toil.

Dafydd desperately tried to recall what the holy men had said of Sir Guy. That they did not approve of him had been easy to guess, but he had put that down to the naïveté of men who lived a sheltered, chaste life. Was there more to it? Was Sir Guy a greedy, cruel master who kept men and women working past their prime, when they should have been resting and sleeping in the springtime sun? Had something occurred to drive all the younger people, who could travel with greater ease, away from this place?

He did not know, and there was no one he could ask. Lady Madeline was obviously ignorant of Sir Guy’s existence, not surprising considering she had spent the past years of her life in cloistered seclusion.

Just as she was apparently ignorant of her effect upon him.

“Has there been famine?” Lady Madeline asked with pity when they passed another group of ancient peasants. “Mother Bertrilde often said the world was a harsh place of disease and lack of food. Sometimes I thought she said such things to keep us content within the walls of the convent.”

“No famine.”

“But these people...”

“Peasants, they are, my lady. Have you never seen peasants before?”

“Not like these.” Clearly she was as puzzled as he.

It could be that he was making a mistake heading this way, Dafydd thought. What if Sir Guy recognized him for a Welshman and probably a rebel as easily as Lady Madeline? If the man’s treatment of his peasants was anything to go by, he would get no mercy from Sir Guy.

Dafydd decided he would send Lady Madeline toward the manor alone once he could see it. That would be the least risky thing to do.

Suddenly he felt a sharp tug on the lead at the same time he heard Lady Madeline’s startled gasp. His gaze followed her shaking finger pointing at something hanging from a tree some distance away, like a grotesque pennant. “What...what is it?” she asked in whisper.

“A body,” he replied stonily. He had, unfortunately, seen such things before. “It is a corpse, probably some poor soul convicted of a crime, hung and left to rot as an example of Norman justice.”

“There are so many!”

He turned his attention from her beautiful, horrified face and looked along the way. Yes, there were other such examples of Norman justice. The sight sickened him and he quickened his pace. He had no wish to be in the presence of such things any longer than need be.

“They must have done something terrible,” his companion said quietly.

“Perhaps this one stole some food, or got caught poaching one too many times,” he answered grimly, nodding at the first body they passed.

“But this is so terrible! Will they get a proper burial soon?” He could barely hear Lady Madeline’s question, for she held her sleeve against her face because of the stench.

“I doubt it.”

“Blessed Holy Mother! That is more than unjust.”

He paused a moment to look back at her. “It is the Norman way, my lady. Ask your brother about it when you see him.”

“Roger would not do such a terrible thing.”

Dafydd commenced walking again. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. I have not seen him in ten years, but he cannot have changed that much,” she replied, willing herself to believe it. “He would punish wrongdoing. It is his duty. But to leave the body—no, Roger would not do that.”

“Ask him.”

“I will. And I will tell Sir Guy to take these down at once.”

Dafydd’s step faltered. He could believe she would do that, which would surely be a mistake. Any lord whose peasants appeared so completely downtrodden and whose vengeance extended to the display of corpses would surely not take kindly to an order from anyone. Lady Madeline’s offended sensibilities would give her request just such an unwelcome tone.

The trees thinned and Dafydd realized the road was leading down into a wide, rocky valley. The sun was low on the horizon, for a brief time finally visible as it traveled below the edge of the clouds and the earth. Its final rays colored the clouds with a fiery red, like bright blood on a gray tunic. In the valley, a mist was rising and ahead, shrouded by the damp swirling air, he could see a large, walled manor. The valley seemed oddly lifeless, the manor grim as a crypt.

Perhaps it would be wiser to turn back and go to the village, he thought as they came to the end of the trees. Although he stood a greater chance of getting caught with his stolen goods there, and although it meant an even longer journey in Lady Madeline’s company, it might be the wiser course. Lady Madeline would protest, but that was of no consequence. He felt in his bones that they would both be safer in a village. Even if he was apprehended there, the holy brothers would surely have more mercy on him than this Sir Guy.

Then, through the trees behind him, he heard the sounds of hoofbeats and men shouting as they galloped along the road. For a moment, his Welsh blood conjured up images of ghostly riders, demons loosed from hell to wreak havoc on earth. That vision was swiftly replaced by a sudden urgent desire to get away from this place.

Before he could turn the horse, a group of about twenty men appeared, the noise they made nearly as dreadful as the silence had been before. The troop was not as large as he expected from the noise. Still, they easily outnumbered him. They all rode superb horses and wore expensive cloaks trimmed with fur against the chill evening air.

Dafydd knew they were trapped. They could not turn back now without being seen, or indeed without these fellows blocking their way.

Not daring to look at Lady Madeline, he waited for her to proclaim her identity. She would be safe enough, while these men would try to take him. Thank God he was near the wood. He had been chased many times, and never caught. Hopefully he could get away quickly and—

Lady Madeline was still silent, even as the man at the head of the group spied them and pulled his magnificent black stallion to a stop. He was of middle age, handsome in a narrow-eyed, sleek way, very finely dressed and well armed, as were his companions. He ran his gaze over them in a questioning, impertinent manner that instantly disgusted Dafydd, and he could guess that the fellow would meet with a rebuke from Lady Madeline, who was of at least an equal rank with this man, who had to be Sir Guy.

Dafydd glanced at Lady Madeline and had to suppress an exclamation of surprise. She looked so different! She slouched in the saddle, her posture a caricature of her former upright position. Somehow she had pulled a few strands of her hair loose, so that she looked unkempt. The most surprising thing, however, was her idiotic smile and the vacuous expression in her eyes.

What was she doing?

“How now?” the newcomer said with the languid drawl of a well-bred Norman. “What have we here?”

“I am Sister Mary of the Holy Wounds,” Lady Madeline announced brightly, her tone high and rather shrill—and completely new to Dafydd. “I simply cannot tell you how happy I am to encounter gentlemen before the sun sets! And so many, and so well armed. Oh, yes, indeed, it is quite a relief. I was so afraid I would have to spend another night in the forest, on the ground, with bugs and animals and I don’t know what all crawling around! It’s terrible, I assure you. God has surely answered my prayers, and so well, too—”

“Greetings, Sister Mary,” the leader said when she paused to take a breath. He was surveying her with a somewhat less enthusiastic air, which pleased Dafydd. Still, the manner of this man and his friends remained rude and impertinent, and there was something unsavory about them. He wondered if Lady Madeline had chosen this ruse because she thought so, too. “I am Sir Guy de Robespierre.”

“Ah! I thought so! Charmed to meet you, Sir Guy, absolutely charmed! By the holy martyrs, who ever would have thought a pilgrimage would be so difficult! Such accommodations as we have had to endure, although all in the name of holiness, of course.” Sir Guy and his men looked at Dafydd in a way that made him even more uncomfortable. “Oh, I almost forgot! Permit me to introduce Father David of Saint Stephen the Martyr.” She emitted a high-pitched giggle. “I do believe we have taken the wrong road. I tried to tell the father here that we should not turn, but he just ignored me, and quite right he was, too, or we surely would never have arrived at your charming manor. That place in the valley is yours, is it not?”

“You are most welcome to dine with us, Sister, and stay the night. You and the father.”

Dafydd looked at the men accompanying Sir Guy. Most of them looked rather bored, but not the man on Sir Guy’s right. He was extremely well dressed, in a fine cloak of scarlet velvet trimmed with ermine, and he was staring at Dafydd in a way that filled the Welshman with anxiety. Did he guess that “Father David” was nothing of the kind?

“Farold, aren’t we fortunate to be able to assist these people?” Sir Guy said to the man.

“Yes, Sir Guy,” Farold replied with a slow smile that made Dafydd even more uneasy, especially when he turned his cold scrutiny onto Madeline. To be sure, she had transformed herself, but she was so lovely—no disguise could hide that.

“We will only trouble you for a night’s lodging for us and for our horse,” Madeline replied. “A simple meal of bread and water will be most appreciated. Nothing very fancy for pilgrims! I do hope you have twice-ground flour, though. If I never eat another coarse brown loaf, it will be too soon.”

“Oh, we can offer you both considerably better fare. I promise you, you will not soon forget the hospitality of Sir Guy de Robespierre.”

The men seemed to find this vastly amusing. Dafydd tried not to betray anything by his expression, for he was certain Farold was still watching him intently. Nonetheless, he moved closer to the roan.

Lady Madeline glanced down at him, then gave Sir Guy another vacuous smile. “Well, we really should refuse your invitation. Father David and I have sworn a pledge of poverty. However, you put it so charmingly, I would hate to refuse.”

“And you, Father? Will you partake of our hospitality?”

Lady Madeline giggled again. “Father David has sworn a vow of silence, I’m afraid, so he cannot answer. He is very strict about it. He hasn’t said a single word to me the whole journey!” She leaned closer to Sir Guy. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have some company, Sir Guy. What I was thinking of when I began this pilgrimage, I have no idea—well, I suppose forgiveness, eh?”

Sir Guy spoke again. “Welcome to my estate. Allow me to escort you. Father, would you care to ride? I’m sure one of my men can be persuaded to share his mount with you.”

“Oh, how kind of you to offer, Sir Guy, but he really should walk. It’s part of his vow, you understand. I realize this will slow us down terribly and I beg your indulgence. Now, tell me, how is it your manor is so far from the main road? It seems so very lonely to me! And this fog, surely the air is most unhealthy.”

Dafydd had little choice but to walk along behind Madeline’s horse and listen as she continued to rattle on to Sir Guy. She was doing a very good imitation of a stupid woman, and he wondered where this ruse was going to lead them.

Chapter Five

Roger, his head still aching so much that each movement was new cause for agony, glared at Father Gabriel standing at the foot of the bed. The only person he wanted to see was Albert, who had gone to lead the search for Madeline at first light.

Father Gabriel shifted from foot to foot as if he had a bug down his dalmatica, and twisted his hemp belt as if it were rosary beads. The priest had been doing so ever since he had come into the room. Another holy man, a lean and silent fellow with a mournful face who had been introduced as Father Jerrald, stood beside the door. “I trust you are feeling better, my lord?” Father Gabriel inquired.

“Except for this damnable pounding in my head.”

“Ah. I hope the draft I prepared will soon ease your discomfort.”

Several more long moments of silence passed, while Roger continued to stare, Father Gabriel continued to fidget and Father Jerrald continued to look like a stone effigy.

“What do you want, man?” Roger finally bellowed. “Do you have something to tell me of my sister?”

“Unfortunately, no, my lord,” Father Gabriel said with great humility and unmistakable sincerity. “We are all praying for her safe return.”

“What is it, then?”

“Sir, please, I had no wish to trouble you at this time—”

“Then leave me alone. I will see Sir Albert when he returns, or my sister when she is found.”

Father Gabriel cleared his throat, a barely perceptible expression of disdain on his face as he glanced at Father Jerrald hovering near the door like an angel of death. Father Gabriel rarely disliked anyone, as he genuinely tried to see every man as his brother; however, Father Jerrald was the abbot’s eyes and ears in his absence. The abbot would hear of everything that happened in the monastery while he was gone, and most especially everything that had to do with such an important visitor. Unfortunately, he would also hear if Father Gabriel refused to tell Sir Roger of the recent occurrence at the monastery regarding their departed guest, whom all suspected was a Welshman and, not unlikely, a rebel.

Although events of the outside world touched theirs rarely and briefly, they were not completely ignorant of important events. Nor were they as certain as the noblemen they encountered seemed to be that what the Normans did was always right. Abbot Peter had shown an admirable ability to sympathize with the local people, including several Welsh, and that tolerance had cast a mantle of gentle forbearance over the monastery. As for Father Gabriel and most of the brothers, they would have kept silent about the departed guest. His wounds would put an end to his fighting days anyway, and Father Gabriel had seen enough to suspect that the man’s activities might have had a very good cause. Not many outlaws interested in mere thievery had such a noble bearing, or such a grateful demeanor when they were brought wounded to the monastery.

Unfortunately, the sudden arrival of a man who seemed to embody the power of the Normans in one forbidding, imposing, merciless figure had filled Father Jerrald with a sense of duty and an obvious desire to impress their important visitor. He had been adamant that they tell Sir Roger about the Welshman, who Father Gabriel hoped with all his heart was far away by now. “It seems we have been robbed, Sir Roger,” Father Gabriel said at last.

“Robbed? Of what? When?” Roger demanded with his usual blunt forcefulness.

“A horse. A robe.”

Roger lay back and subdued a groan. The last thing he wanted to be troubled with now was a minor robbery in a monastery. “Who do you think took them?”

“Well, my lord, we do not know.”

The man nearest the door took a step forward. Father Gabriel shot the fellow a defiant glance. “We do not,” Father Gabriel said firmly. “We suspect a man who has been staying here while he healed.”

Roger subdued a weary smile. Father Gabriel was usually meek and mild, but it seemed he had some backbone after all, although Roger had little doubt who was pulling the strings at this particular moment.

The man near the door frowned and emitted a cough.

“To be completely honest,” Father Gabriel said reluctantly, “he did disappear the same night as the horse.”

“Which was when?”

“Two nights ago.”

“Tell Sir Albert what the man looked like and also the horse. He can look for them while he searches for my sister. Will that suit you, Father Gabriel?”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was another cough from the vicinity of the door.

“We also have reason to believe the fellow was a Welshman,” Father Gabriel added reluctantly.

“So?”

The other man was obviously surprised, and that pleased Roger. He had a marked dislike for men who slunk about in the shadows. “It is not a crime to be a Welshman,” he said.

“Some people think all Welshman are thieves,” replied Father Gabriel.

“I am not one of them,” Roger said. He gave the priest the briefest of smiles, which the holy man could not know was a rare sign of goodwill. “Contrary to what you may have heard. I punish wrongdoers, whatever language they speak.”

“I am glad to be set right, my lord.”

“Very well. Tell Sir Albert the fellow may be a Welshman. Is that all, Father?”

At that moment Albert himself came hurrying into the room. He had obviously traveled far, and fast. Roger sat up abruptly. “What news?”

“We believe she is alive, my lord,” his friend reported, breathing heavily as if he had run at full speed from the stables.

“Where is she?”

Albert’s face fell somewhat. “We...we do not know exactly as of yet, my lord. The trail was difficult to follow because of the rain and—”

“Then how do you know she is alive?”

“We found evidence that someone spent the night in an old byre not far from where we fought the outlaws.”

“Someone? Is she alone?”

Albert cleared his throat. “No, my lord. Bredon believes she is not alone.”

Roger didn’t doubt his huntsman. If Bredon believed more than one person had been in the byre, more than one person had been in the byre. “How many are with her?”

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