“I will not explain my reasons to you. However, I did think you would keep your word and take me to safety. Is it that you are afraid of Lord Trevelyan?”
“No, I do not fear Trevelyan,” he replied, “although I do not think he is the saint you believe him to be. He did his daughter a service marrying her to a Welshman.”
Madeline pressed her lips together for a moment, then spoke firmly and deliberately. “I thought you wanted to get to Wales. Trevelyan’s lands are on the border. He is sympathetic to the Welsh. Why, then, will you not take me there?”
“Because it is too dangerous for me.”
“You could take me back to the convent.”
“It would not be safe for me to go back that way, either.”
“God’s blood, leave me here then! I will find someone to escort me myself. I will ask nothing more of you.”
“Your brother will find you if you go back toward the convent,” he reminded her.
“What is that to you? You will still be safe, and when you are safe, you can brag how you had a nobleman’s sister on the banks of a river one dark night!”
He stared at her as if she had run him through with a sword, shocked and horrified, and yes, in pain. At that moment, she would have given much to recall her hasty words.
Before she could say anything, Dafydd spoke, his voice coldly deliberate. “If you think me capable of such behavior, perhaps I should leave you here. You are finished with me anyway, are you not?”
“Dafydd, forgive me!” she cried, her pride forgotten when she saw the look in his eyes. “I should not have said such a thing!”
His only response was a scornfully raised eyebrow.
Apparently she had humbled herself for nothing. She, Lady Madeline de Montmorency, had asked forgiveness of a Welsh peasant only to be rewarded with such a look.
“Is there no other place you could go?” he said after a long moment where she was conscious only of her blushing embarrassment. “No other person, or convent, where you could find sanctuary?”
“Mother Bertrilde is a powerful woman and my brother a powerful and respected lord,” she replied, trying to regain her self-control. “No one would wish to offend either of them by giving me sanctuary, of that I am sure. However, there is one other place, the castle of Lord Gervais. My parents knew him well, and Roger was sent there to be trained after they died.”
“And is it your intention to seek another escort, my lady?”
Her first impulse was to answer affirmatively. She didn’t want him, didn’t need him...but she did. And more, she trusted him. She suddenly realized there was no one else in the whole world she trusted nearly so much. Yet to humble herself again!
“I have said I would help you and I am a man of my word. Where does this castle lie?”
“To the north,” she replied.
He nodded.
“And the east. Well inside England and away from Wales.” She waited for him to refuse, but to her surprise, he did not.
Instead, he cautiously asked, “How far to the east?”
“I don’t know. We did not study maps in the convent.”
“Surely there was one of the holy sisters that spoke of such things—Sister Elizabeth or Sister Ursula or perhaps Sister Mary Francis the Mapmaker?”
“Make sport of me and my teachers all you like. They have already proven beneficial and you cannot deny that.”
He did not deign to answer her directly. “Have you no idea of the distance?”
“The town is called Bridgeford Wells.”
“Bridgeford Wells?”
“Bridgeford Wells,” she repeated slowly and deliberately.
“I have heard of it. It is nearly sixty miles away, and we will have to walk.”
“I can do it—if you can,” she challenged.
“I will take you there.”
“There will be one certain advantage. Roger would not be looking for us that way,” she said, growing more enthusiastic about the plan—and not happy because Dafydd was going with her. “He will guess I have gone to Lord Trevelyan’s. And if anyone is looking for you, will they not think you will go to Wales?”
“Since what time has a novice learned strategies?”
“You must agree that I am right.”
“They cannot know for certain I am a Welshman.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Did you tell the holy brothers you were from Cornwall?”
“I never said a word the whole time I was with them.”
“You cannot disguise your coloring.”
“Are there no dark-haired Normans?”
“None like you.” It was the truth, yet the moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to call them back, because they were true. There was no other man quite like him in all of England, but he did not need to know that she thought so. “Well, Dafydd, are you willing to take me there, or not?”
“I will go with you to Bridgeford Wells, where you will see that I am paid enough to get me to Wales and that I am guaranteed safe passage. That is all I want from you.”
“That is all you will get.”
* * *
Much later that night, when the ground in the forest was damp with dew, and Dafydd was still awake and keeping watch while Madeline slept a few feet away, he realized that she was shivering in her sleep.
His first impulse was to lie beside her to give her the warmth of his body. The second was to let her continue to shiver as a punishment for her behavior toward him during the day. She still acted as if she were the one in charge, as if she wanted to forget they had ever made love, and worst of all, as if he were a dishonorable coward. If she had been a man, he would have left her standing there, and probably bloodied.
But she was a woman, and a woman who aroused both passion and tenderness within him beyond anything he had even suspected he was capable of feeling. Then to have her say such things!
It would have been better if he was a dishonorable coward, because then he could leave her with no guilt.
He would take a route that was circuitous and hopefully difficult to follow, surmising that Roger de Montmorency was as single-minded and determined as his sister, and he would not rest until he found her.
She moaned softly and shifted in her sleep. It would not do for her to become ill, he reflected. Indeed, if she was sick when she reached safety, her friends might blame him. If she became so sick she died—although he could not truly believe anyone so vitally alive as Madeline de Montmorency could die—they might come hunting for him with vigor.
Yet they had no means to kindle a fire. With great caution lest he wake her, he lay beside her, his broad back against her slender one, with his arms crossed against his chest. She nestled against him with a sigh.
Dafydd muttered an eloquent curse and wished that he could hurry the dawn.
* * *
Just after the noon meal, Lord Trevelyan rose with a pleasant smile on his face when he saw who approached him in his large, well-appointed hall. “Roger!” he called jovially as the Norman knight marched toward the high table without pausing to acknowledge any of the luxuriously attired lesser nobility seated in the crowded room. They all stopped talking and waited with obvious curiosity, the women especially, and more than one had a lustful gleam in her demurely downcast eyes.
“This is a most unexpected pleasure!” Lord Trevelyan continued. “Have you then decided to accept my offer of accommodation while taking your sister home for her wedding? I hope so, and tomorrow we can all set out together.”
Lord Trevelyan paused, his countenance altering to one of concern. “Is something amiss? Where is Madeline?” He glanced at his son-in-law, Hu Morgan, who had been sitting beside him until Roger de Montmorency entered, when he had risen to greet their visitor. Lord Trevelyan’s gaze returned to Roger, who halted before the dais. Roger looked sick and exhausted, as if he were at the end of his considerable strength.
“What has happened?” Lord Trevelyan demanded, seeing an urgency th
at dismissed any courtesies.
“May I speak with you in private? At once?” Roger asked, and Lord Trevelyan couldn’t help noticing that whatever was amiss, it had not subdued Roger de Montmorency’s imperious manner. However, that was not important now.
“Of course,” the older man replied. “Come with me to the solar. You, too, Hu.”
The two men trailed behind Lord Trevelyan and Roger surreptitiously surveyed Morgan. He had heard of this Welshman, for his parents had been good friends of Lord Trevelyan. Roger had not been at the wedding of Liliana Trevelyan, being in the north on business for Baron DeGuerre, and like many, had wondered at Lord Trevelyan’s choice for his only child.
Now it did not seem such a bizarre match. Morgan was a fine-looking fellow, whose movements bore the mark of a natural warrior and whose eyes glowed with unmistakable intelligence. And of course, Lord Trevelyan was so rich and had so many influential relatives, few would dare to question his decisions.
When they reached the solar, Roger forgot Morgan and got at once to the matter of primary concern. “Madeline is missing,” he announced.
“What?” Trevelyan asked incredulously.
Briefly, and passing over such unimportant matters as Madeline’s reluctance to abide by the plans her brother had made, he explained what had happened in the past few days.
“This is indeed unfortunate news,” Lord Trevelyan said, shaking his gray-haired head. “I wish with all my heart your sister had made her way here, Roger, but unfortunately, she has not.”
Roger did not take a proffered seat but began to pace with agitation, noticing nothing about the small stone chamber, although it was furnished with a simple elegance lacking in most Normans’ private rooms. “I had thought she would come here with all speed.”
“We would have been only too glad to welcome her,” Lord Trevelyan said. “But now my men will be at your disposal to help in the search for her. Hu will organize them.”
“How long has she been missing?” Morgan asked, going to the door. “If she is alone and on foot, she may very well be traveling slowly and with caution.”
Roger sighed, and finally sat down in an elaborately carved oaken chair, his gaze coming to rest on Lord Trevelyan’s Welsh son-in-law. “We think she is not alone, and whether on foot or not, I do not know.”
“Not alone?” Lord Trevelyan asked, puzzled.
“She may be with a Welshman who came to the monastery of St. Christopher’s badly injured. He left there and Father Gabriel thinks that he may have met with her.”
Lord Trevelyan and Morgan exchanged glances. “There has been no request for ransom?” Morgan inquired.
“None.” Roger’s lips twisted into a smile. “Father Gabriel thinks he may be trying to help her. I am not convinced.”
“You said the Welshman was injured,” Morgan observed.
“Apparently,” Roger muttered. “What does it matter? He stole some clothing, coins and a horse when he left, but they abandoned them at Sir Guy’s manor. He may have another horse, though, stolen from that reprobate.”
“What does he look like, this Welshman?” Morgan asked.
“You’ll have to ask Father Gabriel,” an obviously confused Roger replied impatiently. “He’s with my men.”
Lord Trevelyan went to the door and called for a servant, whom he dispatched to the hall with orders to fetch the priest.
While they waited, Lord Trevelyan poured wine for Roger and his son-in-law. “Liliana will be most distressed at this news,” he said quietly. When he saw Morgan’s questioning look, he said, “She played with Madeline when they were children.”
The sound of hurrying feet clattering along the stone corridor announced the arrival of Father Gabriel. The priest was ushered into the room by the servant, who went out and closed the door softly behind him.
“This Welshman,” Morgan began at once, “describe him for me. And the nature of his wounds.”
“My sister is more important—” Roger interrupted.
“Quiet!” Morgan barked, and Roger scowled at the impudent young Welshman. “Tell me,” he ordered the clergyman.
Father Gabriel complied, his expression somewhat wary. When he finished, Morgan nodded and looked at his father-in-law. “It could be him, the one I thought was dead.”
“Dead? What are you talking about? Do you know this fellow?” Roger demanded.
“If it is the same man, I know something of him. I thought perhaps he had bled to death, but now I know I could be wrong.”
“What about him?”
“He was with a band of rebels who attacked my manor and killed my friend.”
“What?” Roger’s glare darted from Morgan to Father Gabriel.
“Him it was killed the leader of this band, who in turn tried to kill him. That’s how he was wounded. I let him go. To die, I thought.”
“Well, apparently he did not.” Roger flashed another angry frown at Father Gabriel. “Thanks to the holy brothers of St. Christopher. And do you also think my sister will be safe in his company?”
Morgan nodded. “I believe so, yes. Indeed, I have no fears for her, if she is with him.”
Lord Trevelyan, who had listened thoughtfully all the while, spoke. “Let us assume, for the present, that Madeline is with this fellow. Where else might they go, if not to me? Has your sister other friends where she might seek help?”
“Unless she has met them in the convent, no.”
“Could that not be possible? Have you asked the Mother Superior?”
Roger had not, and he realized at once that he might have made a grave error. He went to the door and sent the servant to fetch Albert. When his friend came, he said, “Go back to the convent and tell Mother Bertrilde what has happened. Then ask about her friends there. It could be she has gone somewhere we have never even considered. And try to keep this business as quiet as possible.”
“At once, my lord,” Albert said before he hurried from the hall.
Hu Morgan made a brief obeisance. “In the meantime, my lord, Sir Roger, I will summon my men to search,” he said. He gave them the briefest of smiles. “I would like to see that man again.”
“God’s wounds, is this fellow some kind of saint?” Roger muttered. As he watched Morgan leave, he reflected that he would never understand the Welsh, and he didn’t really want to.
“I will go, too,” he announced. His voice dropped. “In case he decides to set him free again.”
Fortunately, Morgan did not hear that last remark, or Roger’s sarcastic tone.
Both Lord Trevelyan and Father Gabriel laid a detaining hand on Roger’s arm, one on each side. “What is the meaning of this?” Roger growled.
“You look terrible,” Lord Trevelyan said.
“He was wounded in the skirmish with the outlaws, my lord,” Father Gabriel explained. “I fear he is overtaxing himself.”
“Yes,” Lord Trevelyan agreed. “Stay and rest awhile here, Roger,” he offered. “You won’t do Madeline any good if you’re sick.”
As much as Roger would have liked to disagree, he felt sick and dizzy, weak and exhausted. “Very well,” he mumbled, turning back to sit down. “For one night only.” He glanced at the holy man, who wisely did not protest.
“Perhaps Madeline has deemed it best to go home to your castle, fearing other dangers,” Lord Trevelyan said pensively.
Father Gabriel cleared his throat audibly, and the two men looked at him. “There is, perhaps, another reason Lady Madeline might not come here,” the priest said.
“Oh?”
“Yes. But Sir Roger would know best about that.”
“She didn’t approve of my plans,” Roger admitted grudgingly. “She wanted to choose her own husband.”
Lord Trevelyan sighed, and there was sympathy and understanding in his eyes. “Well I know how it is to deal with such a female. My own daughter had exactly the same notion.”
“And you let her choose. You set a dangerous precedent there, Trevelyan,” Roger said
bitterly. “I would lay a good wager that she heard about Liliana and her Welshman.”
“It was the best decision I ever made, Roger,” the lord replied firmly. “I remember Madeline very well. I would have asked to be foster father to her when your parents died, if my own wife had been alive. And if she had not fought so much with Liliana—two stubborn girls would have been a nightmare. I take it she is stubborn still?”
“Yes.” Roger finally sampled Lord Trevelyan’s wine. “I was only doing what I thought best.”
“What you thought best, or DeGuerre?”
“He is my overlord. I had no objections to the match.”
“Have you met Chilcott?”
Roger eyed Lord Trevelyan warily. “No. Why do you ask? Have you?”
Lord Trevelyan sighed. “No, but I remember his father. A lascivious, brutal man. An uncle took Reginald away to Sicily, and I think that was a good thing. I know a few men who have met him there. Fortunately, I understand Chilcott is not at all like his father. Indeed, rather the opposite, being a harmless and simple fellow.”
“So I was given to understand.”
“Yesss...”
“But?”
“But do you think Madeline would be happy with him? How did this arrangement come about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“DeGuerre contrived it.”
“You are untroubled by that?”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “Should I be? I trust my lord with my life.”
“Your sister’s, too, apparently,” Lord Trevelyan said mildly.
“The contract has been made, signed and delivered. She should not have run off!”
“I am not saying you did wrong and she did right. And I am not forgetting she could be being held against her will by this man, who may not be the same fellow Hu met before. Even if he is, I know less of him than Hu, although I respect Hu’s judgment. What I am trying to say is, I don’t know that Chilcott would be the most suitable match for Madeline, unless she has changed greatly.”
“She hasn’t,” Roger muttered.
“Might it not be wise, when she is found, to at least allow some flexibility?”
“DeGuerre wants our families united.”
“Do you know why?”
Roger’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Indeed, I do. Although you are too diplomatic to say so, I already know Chilcott is a fool. DeGuerre thought to have him allied to a better commander.”
The Welshman's Way Page 11
