Her frown disappeared, replaced by the lingering terror of their flight. As hurt and angry as he was, he was sorry he had reminded her of Sir Guy. He was almost sorry he had reminded himself, for he was forced to recall the fate from which she had saved him. Nor could he leave her to fend for herself, perhaps to face such a fate again. She was his responsibility now, whether he liked it or not. “I will take you wherever you want to go.”
“I will see that you are rewarded.”
“Not wanting a reward, me. I want your word that if I am endangered by aiding you, you will see that I am freed to go back to Wales.”
“You have it, David.”
“Dafydd! My name is Dafydd,” he said curtly. So she had forgotten that, too. How little he meant to her, after all.
“Very well, then, Dafydd. You have the word of Lady Madeline de Montmorency.”
He sat down a few feet away. “I will keep watch tonight.”
She didn’t reply, but turned away to go to sleep. Well, Dafydd thought, he could ignore her, too. An owl hooted nearby and he heard the small scurrying of a mouse in the grass. The horse munched the grass placidly, as if nothing had changed.
Yet it had. Very much. At least for him.
* * *
“By the blessed Virgin!” Roger exclaimed softly as he surveyed the pile of burned corpses in the ruined shell of the hall as the dawn illuminated the scene. Blackened timbers lay on the floor of what had once been a large stone hall. The stones, cracked by tremendous heat, lay scattered as if a giant had trampled them. Curls of smoke and the smell of burned flesh filled the early morning air.
Beside Roger, a sickened Father Gabriel muttered a brief prayer. His men, more used to slaughter, were nonetheless disturbed by what they had found.
“Save your breath, Father,” Roger said coldly. “If there is any justice in the world, these men will roast in hell for all eternity.”
“God’s mercy—”
“Should be for those deserving of it. If even a portion of what I have heard of Sir Guy and his followers is true—”
“You are not God, Sir Roger,” Father Gabriel interrupted with a surprising measure of strength in his usually quiet voice. “It is not for you, or me, or any man to judge them now.”
Roger was not convinced, for he had heard many things about Sir Guy, and Father Gabriel had probably never even heard of half the sinful practices Sir Guy was said to indulge in. But there was no point in enlightening the priest.
Albert came beside him, a cloth over his nose. “Any sign of Madeline?” Roger asked anxiously. There were no women among the dead, but that did not diminish his anxiety.
“No, my lord,” he replied. He gestured at an old man who followed him. “We did find this fellow, my lord, the gatekeeper, or so he claims.”
“What happened here?”
The ancient retainer touched his forelock, a small smile on his lips as he surveyed the corpses. “A fight, there was.”
This Welsh peasant was obviously delighted with his master’s death despite his efforts to appear meek and shocked. Indeed, he was almost gloating, which might explain why he had stayed behind. Perhaps he would even be eager to describe the terrible death of Sir Guy and his followers. “Who fought?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Many enemies had Sir Guy,” the gatekeeper said. He nodded at the dead. “But they lost, eh?”
“Did you see a woman here recently?”
“Sir Guy often brought women here, whether they wanted to come or not.”
Roger did his best to remain calm, despite his anxiety. “The woman I seek was dressed as a nun.”
“Ah!”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Sometimes Sir Guy liked ‘em dressed as nuns.”
Roger’s dread increased. Sir Guy sounded worse than he had heard.
“Pretty woman, was she, my lord?”
“Yes, very.”
“Maybe I seen her, and maybe not.”
Determined to know the truth, Roger grabbed the old man by the throat and thrust his face inches from his. “Listen to me and listen carefully. I am Sir Roger de Montmorency and I am looking for my sister, Lady Madeline de Montmorency. If I find out you knew anything of her whereabouts and that you did not tell me, I will send my men back here to find you. And then you will be very, very sorry indeed.”
“There was a nun and a priest, together, came with Sir Guy before the attack,” the old man spluttered, his eyes wide with fear.
“A nun and a priest?”
“Aye, my lord, truly!”
Roger let go. The old man gasped for breath as Father Gabriel stepped forward. “This priest, what did he look like?”
“He was short, skinny, rotten teeth, red hair,” the old man said with conviction. “But the lady was a beauty.”
Roger and Father Gabriel exchanged glances. It was not unlikely that one Welshman would protect another. “Were they on foot?” Father Gabriel inquired.
“Yes.”
Father Gabriel said, “If you will please excuse me, Sir Roger, I find this place nearly unbearable.”
Roger nodded his agreement. He watched the priest head for the stable before facing the old man again. “Where are they now?”
“They run off when the fightin’ started.”
“Both of them?”
“Together they was. On foot.”
Roger drew in a deep breath. All this was not the good news he hoped for, but it seemed that if the nun was indeed Madeline, she was not hurt and had escaped Sir Guy before the fight. “Albert!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Have Bredon and the dogs search the road and the lands nearby.”
“Aye, my lord.” Albert departed quickly.
“Old man, who did this?” Roger’s gesture encompassed the ruined hall.
The old man wet his lips nervously. Roger drew him aside and said, “Neither I, nor my overlord Baron DeGuerre, had any liking for Sir Guy and his men,” he said quietly, “and few will mourn his death. But there are questions that must be answered, and it would be better to find out here, now, easily, before others are made to suffer. Was it outlaws?”
The old man nodded.
“And his tenants, too, perhaps?”
The old man made no response.
“And what of the squires?”
“The what?”
“The youths. I have heard tales.”
“He used ‘em somethin’ terrible, him and those others!” the old man said, fixing his eye fearlessly on Roger. “You won’t find ‘em now, though. They all run off after they took what they could, and small enough recompense it would be, my lord,” he finished defiantly.
Roger caught himself before he nodded in agreement, but he would not send his men to pursue the youths. He would tell the baron what he knew and suggest they make some show of seeking retribution, then quietly give this manor and lands to someone more deserving, which would be almost anyone. Roger realized Father Gabriel had returned and was hovering behind his men. “You may go, for now,” he said to the gatekeeper.
Father Gabriel hurried up to him, a small bundle in his hands. “The roan, Sir Roger—it is in the stable.”
“And that?” Roger nodded at the bundle.
“Still tied to it.”
“Open it,” the nobleman ordered.
Father Gabriel sighed, but he obeyed. Inside there was a remnant of bread, a flint and a bag of coins. Father Gabriel’s eyes widened when he saw the money.
Roger’s expression became sardonic. “If this fellow is the man you seek, it seems he stole more than a horse and some clothes.”
Father Gabriel nodded. “So it appears.”
“And you still believe my sister is safe with him?”
“I do,” Father Gabriel answered with conviction.
“Despite your faith in him, he may yet demand money for her safe return.”
“He brought her here, did he not? If he intended ransom, he would not bring her to any Norman.”
�
��He almost got her killed, or worse.”
“If I understand the circumstances, Sir Roger, it seems he saved her, rather.” Father Gabriel smiled slightly. “Believe me, my lord, that a man who spends his whole life in the company of other men soon learns many small signs of trustworthiness, or duplicity. Had I a sister, I would have no fear for her.”
“I suppose that should comfort me,” Roger said with a scowl.
“No, my lord. Your faith in God should comfort you.”
Roger turned his attention to the bundle. “Little enough, and now they have not even that. The old man said they were on foot. They cannot have gotten far, if the gatekeeper is not lying about the fellow taking a horse.”
“Why should he do that?” Father Gabriel asked.
“Because the gatekeeper is a Welshman, and this thief is a Welshman who can be hanged for stealing a horse. Perhaps he thinks to help his countryman, or merely to spite me. Who knows?”
“You seem eager to distrust the old man.”
“I know more of the world, Father. The real world, of Welsh and Norman, than you could learn in a monastery.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Why, continue the search, of course.”
Father Gabriel frowned. “I think it would be wise to rest, Sir Roger. You have ridden all night and you may overtax your strength.”
“My strength is my concern.”
“You will not help your sister if you fall ill.”
Roger sighed. “Oh, very well. But only because the horses require it. We shall rest here and resume the search at noon. Will that suit you, Father?”
“That, and one other thing.”
Roger raised his eyebrow quizzically.
“We will stay until we have given these men a proper burial, along with the other unfortunates we will cut down from the trees.”
Chapter Seven
At first light, Dafydd roused Madeline, ignoring the beauty of her half-parted lips and the fanning of her dusky eyelashes upon her pale cheeks. Still angry, he bluntly ordered her to get on the horse. He expected her to protest, but for once she did not question him.
She commanded him to continue north along the main road, claiming that was the way to her friends. He, not wishing to appear more than slightly interested in her life, did not talk to her except to ask the distance to these friends. She was not sure of that, and was only certain that their home lay to the north and west.
So they proceeded in silence, until they took a short pause to refresh themselves at a small brook. “We’ll have to sell the horse,” Madeline said as she mounted, preparing to start their journey again.
As before, Dafydd walked at the front of the stallion, where he would not be able to see her. “No. It’s too much of a risk,” he replied decisively, trying very hard to keep his tone civil despite his chaotic feelings. He would sell his soul before he would let her see how she affected him when she was apparently unmoved either by his anger or his passion, now that she had achieved her own ends.
“It does not matter how dangerous you think it,” Madeline said just as resolutely and continuing to act as if nothing very special had happened between them the previous night, whereas he was constantly distracted by memories of her in his arms. “We simply must sell this horse. We need food and other clothing.”
She had obviously gotten what she wanted of him last night; he would not acquiesce to this scheme so easily. If she could think of anything beyond her own comfort, she would see that it would be too dangerous for them—for him, at any rate—to try to sell the horse stolen from Sir Guy. It had been his intention to get new clothing when he had the coins stolen from the abbot. That would have been a simple transaction. Selling a horse, though—that was something else again, especially for a Welshman, since many Normans and Saxons considered Welshmen thieves and would look askance at one trying to sell so fine a mount.
“We should get off the road,” he said, changing the subject and reiterating a point he had tried to make earlier with little success. “Too many people have already seen us.”
“My brother has Bredon, his huntsman, in his train, with his best hounds. If we stay on the road, our scent will be harder to follow mixed in with other travelers, and we will leave no sign of broken branches or crushed grass for trackers. And if we have other clothing, all they will see is two people journeying along the road—not some man imperfectly disguised as a priest.”
He twisted and gave her a disgruntled look. “You don’t look much like a nun, either.” He let his gaze move slowly over her torn and stained habit, and then realized that was something of a mistake, because he was too aware of the delectable body beneath it. “You thought I was a priest,” he said, getting back to the topic of the discussion, “when I saved you from that outlaw.”
“I was in no state to believe anything but your garment, and that outlaw was only a boy,” she said peevishly.
“You were worried enough about that boy to want me to bind him,” he reminded her.
“I was not myself.”
And are you now? Or were you last night? This train of thought was pointless. “It is dangerous for us to sell the horse, and without it, how do you intend to get to these friends of yours?”
“We shall walk.”
He snorted derisively and scratched where the hot wool made his arms itch.
“I can walk that far, and if you think you do not need other garments, suffer then. But we need food and we have nothing to sell except the horse,” she said as if he were a simpleton. “We should do so at the next village we come to. Tomorrow must be market day, for we have already passed many people on the road. Besides, we have surely come far enough from Sir Guy’s that this horse will not be recognized.”
Dafydd didn’t answer. She was right that Sir Guy lived far away and in relative isolation, too, so it might not be quite as risky as he feared. But he was not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. She was not in command.
“We shall rest now,” he announced when he spied a likely spot with a thick growth of rowan trees, hawthorn and prickly dewberry bushes, as well as blackthorn. He led the horse off the road, carefully holding back the shrubs so that the beast would not get scratched.
“It will be a long while yet before the sun sets,” Madeline said as she held back a low rowan branch to keep it from striking her in the face.
“I know.”
He tied the horse to a blackthorn limb and looked around with satisfaction. “You should be safe enough here.”
“Are you planning to go somewhere without me?” Madeline demanded suspiciously.
“We need to eat. Remember?” He broke off some long, slender branches whose ends he sharpened with the edge of his sword while she dismounted. “I can probably get a fish or a rabbit.”
“How do you intend to cook it? We have no flint to start a fire.”
He never paused in his movements. “Then not cooking it, are we?”
“I will not eat raw meat.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not that much.”
“Enjoy your fast then, my lady.”
She wondered what kind of barbarian she was traveling with. Raw meat was disgusting. As for his sarcastic comment about fasting, well, she had fasted many times. It was certainly true that she was hungry, but she could go some hours yet before she felt seriously weakened.
What truly rankled her was his brusque, abrasive manner, even though she knew it was her fault. Her sudden awareness of the possible consequences of what they had done together had made her curt and rude when she was really frightened.
He would suffer no serious repercussions for last night, nor perhaps did he understand what she might face. She had heard enough, from living not far from the border of Wales, that the Welsh did not view illegitimacy as the stain the Normans did. Nor did he, as a rebel and outcast, have so far to fall. She, however, was a Norman noblewoman and her life would be irrevocably destroyed by the stigma of bear
ing a child outside of holy wedlock.
Even his lack of understanding, though, did not alleviate his accusation that she had used him for a dishonorable, selfish purpose. It was unforgivable.
Dafydd sheathed his sword, then pulled off his dalmatica. The sight of his nearly naked body recalled last night, and she turned away, determined not to be reminded. Not to weaken. “Stay here and don’t move,” he ordered, and before she could protest, he disappeared into the trees.
Feeling abandoned and what she considered to be reasonable resentment at his treatment, Madeline sat down and cupped her chin in her hand. Who did he think he was, to order her about like that? He was acting no better than Roger. Was this the way all men treated women, like unthinking, unfeeling animals? No matter how harsh and strict the conditions at the convent had been—and indeed, both Roger and Dafydd would have been surprised to discover just how harsh and strict Mother Bertrilde could be—her life seemed infinitely better there. Of course, had she stayed at the convent, she would never have met Dafydd and never experienced—
Well, that was not going to happen again. She had erred once and would not repeat the mistake, despite her appreciation of his efforts to help her and despite her vivid memories of his kisses and caresses, as well as her even more vivid recollection of the feelings his voice, his eyes and his body aroused within her. Such thoughts would do her no good.
She surveyed the bushes. It was nearly May, and too early yet for any berries to be ripe. There might be eggs in the nests of birds, but raw eggs sounded little better than raw meat.
Then she heard the sound of voices. Not men, she thought with some relief. Children. Happy voices, a most pleasant change from the peasants on Sir Guy’s land. She shivered as she thought of Sir Guy and his men, then rose and cautiously made her way through the underbrush.
Two boys walked along a narrow path, talking and laughing gaily. They were clearly brothers, sharing the same tow-colored hair and stocky build. One was elder by perhaps a year; the other, not as tall but slightly heavier. He had to hurry to keep up with the older one, who seemed to be engaged in a race. He did not run, but his pace was quick and he kept glancing at his younger brother to see if he was keeping up or perhaps ready to pass him.
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