“I’m not drunk, and I tell you, quit staring at her, you Norman scum!” Dafydd cried, taking a swing at the fellow’s head.
The man stepped back, and the blow narrowly missed him. His eyes widened, and with some pleasure Dafydd guessed the fellow finally realized he wasn’t drunk, or at least not very much. He, too, went back a pace, and raised his hands, ready to pummel this Norman dog into the ground.
The brewster came bustling out of the alehouse. “Please, sirs!” he pleaded worriedly. “This is a day for celebration, not a fistfight!”
“I’ll kill him,” Dafydd muttered between clenched teeth, certain that this Norman’s intentions were little removed from those of Sir Guy.
The brewster had the effrontery to smile. “You don’t know who you’re challenging, Taffy. I think you had best think again before offering to fight him.”
“I’ll knock his head off,” Dafydd vowed angrily, “and yours too for calling me that name!” Which was condescending at best, insulting at worst and in his current humor, Dafydd saw only the insult. His hands balled into fists and itched to come into contact with the Norman’s jaw.
Madeline herself pushed her way through the crowd that was gathering outside the alehouse. “Dafydd, what is the matter?” she asked, grabbing hold of his tense arms.
“This cur was looking at you.”
“So what of that?”
Dafydd turned to her with dark, smoldering eyes. “It was an insult.”
“If there was an insult, it was to me, not you. Please, there is no need to fight.”
“I say there is! I am responsible for you, and I will not allow any man to look at you lustfully.”
The man standing opposite Dafydd spoke. “Indeed, my dear, it was not my intent to insult you. I was enjoying the dance.” He made a gentlemanly bow to Madeline. “I assure you, I meant no harm.”
Who did this Norman think he was, some swain seeking her love? Or a bridegroom? “What’s your name?” Dafydd demanded, fearing this man would turn out to be Chilcott.
“Fitzroy. What’s yours?”
“None of your business,” Dafydd retorted, his relief now usurped by another surge of anger. “Are you going to fight me? Or are you a coward?”
The man’s face darkened into a frown. “I will take such an insult from no man, and for no reason,” he said slowly.
“Good. Fight me, then, or be known as the coward I say you are.”
Fitzroy glanced at the brewster. “Well, Bern, clear a space. This fellow and I must fight. Since he has no weapon, we shall wrestle to satisfy our honor.”
“Sir!” Madeline cried, still holding onto Dafydd’s arm. She knew full well who he was about to fight, and knew it would be wise to leave. And not just because the muscular knight’s face contained a hint of lethal menace. “It would not be fair. He is injured and—”
“Be quiet, Madeline,” Dafydd said firmly. “This is an affair of honor.”
“I won’t allow it!” she said imperiously.
“She won’t allow it?” the Norman said with some surprise.
“Be quiet,” Dafydd ordered.
His opponent gave Madeline a slight smile that did not relieve her anxiety, although she thought he was prepared to be merciful. “We are only going to wrestle. It won’t be to the death. Bern, take my tunic.”
The brewster obeyed, and with an excited murmur, the crowd moved back and formed a rough ring. Some started wagering on the combatants, increasing the air of excitement.
“Dafydd, please, don’t do this,” Madeline implored, but he ignored her and stripped off his tunic. Several more women joined the voluble gathering.
Everyone gasped with awe when they saw his massive scar, and the Norman’s eyes widened. “Perhaps we should reconsider.”
“Not needing your pity, Norman,” Dafydd sneered. “Now, let’s get at it.”
Fitzroy shrugged, then crouched warily, his arms held out ready to grab his opponent. Dafydd did likewise and watched the Norman shrewdly, as long as his patience would allow. Then he lunged to the left, and when Fitzroy pivoted slightly to avoid him, moved in toward the man’s exposed side, grabbed him around the waist and tried to throw him to the ground.
Unfortunately, it was like trying to move a granite post. Fitzroy twisted in response and despite Dafydd’s efforts to guard himself, managed to get a hold on him. The two men struggled in this awkward embrace for a few minutes, until Dafydd shoved upward hard with his shoulder, dislodging Fitzroy, who stumbled backward but did not fall.
By now, both wrestlers were panting heavily and covered in sweat, which made getting a good grip even more difficult. Not that Dafydd cared about the difficulty. In his troubled mind and anxious heart, this man had become all of Normandy in one person, and he would defeat him, come what may.
With a shout, he lunged again, low and fast, and caught Fitzroy, who reached under his opponent and with both hands, pushed hard up and away. Dafydd’s hands slipped and he had to let go. In that instant, Fitzroy moved in to seize Dafydd, one arm around his waist, the other over his shoulder, and he pulled down in one continuous motion.
As he took hold of Fitzroy in retaliation, Dafydd fell to his knees, but he brought Fitzroy down with him. Then, with a sudden burst of passionate strength, he pushed Fitzroy over and fell on him, his muscular arm across Fitzroy’s throat. “Yield!”
“I yield,” Fitzroy croaked, and the crowd gave a great collective sigh.
Dafydd drew back and smiled grimly as he looked around for Madeline, who was not there. Stunned and exhausted, he got to his feet as the plump brewster rushed to his fallen friend and extended a hand to help Fitzroy stand. “She’s not here,” he said to Dafydd. “She went that way.” He jerked his head in the direction of the open fields, away from the castle, and watched as the Welshman grabbed his pack and strode off after the wench.
“My God,” Fitzroy muttered as he rose slowly and rubbed his throat, which was purpling with a bruise. “I must be getting old.”
“He had blood in his eyes, Urien,” the brewster said consolingly, handing him his tunic.
“The wench means a lot to him, obviously. Ah, well,” Fitzroy eyed the dispersing crowd. “I will probably rue the day I took the fellow’s challenge. A worthy opponent, though.” A sudden glint of sunlight on metal and the flutter of a pennant near the castle gates caught his attention. “Lord Gervais has visitors,” he remarked. “Armed and anxious by the look and speed of them. I had best see if my lord has need of me and my men.”
Chapter Twelve
Dafydd found Madeline far outside the town, past the first fields and houses of the tenants, in a glade on the edge of a newly harrowed field. Here, the sounds of merriment were less discernible, and the smell of the overturned earth strong. She was sitting beneath a tree and made no acknowledgment of him as he came closer and tossed their pack onto the ground. “Madeline?”
“Is your fight over?” she asked coldly, running her gaze over him. “I suppose I am relieved you are not badly hurt.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Wondering why you did such a stupid thing.”
“It wasn’t stupid. That fellow was looking at you as if you were some kind of common...com-mon...”
“Wench? Whore? Or pretty young woman? And I take it I should be pleased by your childish display of male pride?”
He sat beside her. “I don’t understand you. I fought for your honor.”
“That’s a very flattering lie, but a lie it is. You fought for yourself. If you were thinking of me, you would have allowed me to enjoy the dancing. You acted no better than Roger, as if I were something you own!”
He scowled and stared at the ground. “You mean you were enjoying the lascivious stares of all those men! Laughing and smiling and jumping about. That fellow had no right to look at you that way!”
“He didn’t mean any harm.”
“How do you know that?” Dafydd demanded, angrily stripping the leaves off the nearest bu
sh.
She sighed, but in truth, she wasn’t really angry with him anymore. The fight had seemed a stupid thing to her, an example of a man’s need to exert his ownership over a woman, yet here and now, his defense of her honor had a certain undeniable charm.
Her expression softened slightly. “I see Sister Mary was right. Jealousy can make a man half-mad. But you know I love you. There was no need for such a display.”
“I thought there was. That fellow needed to learn some manners.”
“From you?” she asked lightly.
“From me. Or perhaps you think no Norman can learn anything from a Welshman?”
She took hold of his shoulders and forced him to look at her. “What is the matter, Dafydd, really?”
He didn’t meet her gaze, instead shredding the leaves in his hand into tiny pieces. “Are you sure about being my wife, Madeline?” he asked quietly. He glanced at her, and she saw the vulnerability in his eyes. “I have nothing to offer you. No home, no family, no wealth, no power.”
“Just yourself, Dafydd, and that is all I want,” she said, enclosing his hand in both of hers. “Why can’t you see that? Why is it so difficult for men to see that women can know what they want? That we are quite capable of knowing our own mind? I want you, Dafydd, stubborn Welshman that you are. Not wealth, not power, or a chilly, drafty pile of stone for a home. And I will come to you with nothing, for my brother will disown me. We will make our own home, and our own family.” She took his face in her hands. “Now, will you please believe me?”
With a low, delighted chuckle, Dafydd bounded to his feet, lifted her into his arms and spun her around. “Very well. I believe you.”
She smiled slyly as he set her down. “Why did you fight him, Dafydd, really?”
“Because he’s an arrogant Norman.”
“You weren’t jealous?”
“No!”
She leaned against him and toyed with the neck of his tunic. “Not even a little?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re not going to admit you were jealous, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have picked that particular man to challenge, you with all your talk of being cautious, even if he made the most rude proposition imaginable. That was Urien Fitzroy.”
“So what of that?”
“He’s not only one of Lord Gervais’ most trusted men, he teaches the squires the arts of war. He taught Roger.”
“Not much of a wrestler, for all that.”
“You are indeed a stubborn fellow! It’s too bad Roger can’t meet you. He would see that I am not the most stubborn person in the world, as he always says.”
“Yes, you are,” Dafydd replied, flopping onto the ground and pulling her down beside him.
She snuggled against him. Their laughter filled the glade, until desire took its place. They pressed closer, caressing each other as they lay on the soft grass.
Dafydd and Madeline were aware of nothing except each other while they made love under the sheltering trees, with only the gentle whisper of the wind through the blossoming branches and the soft sounds of their passion and endearments to break the silence.
* * *
Roger sat in the vast hall of Castle Gervais and reflected that there seemed at least one good thing to come out of all this business with Madeline, and that was the chance to see Fitzroy again. Not that they were friends, exactly. If asked, Roger would have said simply that he appreciated the chance to see an old teacher.
Without knowing it, Urien Fitzroy had helped to make Roger what he was. Despite what Dafydd thought, Fitzroy had not been born a Norman nobleman, but a peasant’s son. He was a ruthless taskmaster, a determined teacher and a wise man. Fitzroy had set the pattern Roger attempted to follow when he came into his inheritance. It was not Roger’s fault that he had yet to learn to temper justice with mercy, and to see that a truly strong man could afford to lose once in a while and still be respected.
Father Gabriel had gone to the chapel for vespers, and Albert was still in the barracks with the rest of the men to make sure they were all accommodated. The hearth held no fire, for the day was quite warm. On the upper levels, the coverings had been drawn back from the windows to allow in the fresh spring air.
Wondering what was keeping Lord Gervais from the hall, Roger watched the swarm of servants as they prepared for the evening meal in the vast room. They spoke little, which he appreciated, and moved swiftly about, setting up the trestle tables, spreading the linen and preparing the torches. There was an air of subdued excitement, and he could easily guess that these maidservants were anticipating more May Day festivities when the meal was over.
At last Lord Gervais, a vital man despite his age, limped into the hall. “Greetings, Roger!” he called out. “I am delighted to see you, my boy, and so pleased you took me up on my invitation to stop here on your way home for the wedding. Where is Madeline?”
Roger rose swiftly and made his obeisance, noting that his foster father had grown slimmer since he had last seen him. “I had hoped she was here already.”
Lord Gervais halted, puzzled. “Here? Already? Without you?”
“She is missing, my lord.”
“Missing! What! How?” Lord Gervais sat down in the chair next to Roger. “Sit, now, and explain this!”
With a sigh, Roger once again complied, wondering how long it would be before all of England knew of this scandal. A maidservant came to serve them wine, but Lord Gervais waved her away when she approached him, his face becoming more and more agitated. “A bad business this, very bad. Yet this Father Gabriel thinks you need not fear for her? And Trevelyan and Morgan continue to search?”
“Yes, my lord,” Roger replied.
“Ah!” Lord Gervais exclaimed, looking toward the door. “Urien, here is Roger de Montmorency.”
Fitzroy made his small smile that Roger knew could mean many things, from mocking displeasure to genuine joy. In this case, Fitzroy seemed truly happy to see his former pupil.
“He comes to us with grievous news.”
“Indeed?” Fitzroy said, his eyes full of dismay.
“Listen and hear what has happened,” Lord Gervais replied.
Fitzroy did, with a furrowed brow and frowning lips, while Lord Gervais related the important details of Roger’s story, mercifully sparing him another repetition. “This Welshman, his shoulder was scarred?” Fitzroy asked when Lord Gervais was finished.
“Yes,” Roger replied.
“And I daresay your sister looks something like you, Roger?”
“I suppose so. Her coloring is like mine.”
Unexpectedly and uncharacteristically, Fitzroy grinned broadly. “Then I have seen her. Today. In Bridgeford Wells. Quite unharmed, and dancing.”
“What!” Roger was on his feet in an instant. “Where?”
“On the green, and she was with the Welshman, who is the first man ever to beat me in wrestling.” He rubbed his throat. “A most impressive fellow. She left before we finished, though.”
“Show me where you saw them,” Roger demanded, already heading for the door.
“Certainly,” Fitzroy replied, following him.
Roger paused in front of the young maidservant who had served them wine. “Find Father Gabriel and tell him we’ve got his thief.” He looked at Fitzroy. “If that Welshman’s touched a hair of her head, I’ll have him drawn and quartered.”
* * *
Lying awake and smiling, her head on Dafydd’s broad chest, which rose and fell with the even breathing of his sleep, Madeline heard the soldiers before she saw them. “Dafydd!” she cried, shaking him. He was awake instantly, alerted by the alarm in her voice. They both scrambled to their feet.
It wasn’t Roger, Madeline realized at once. Urien Fitzroy strode across the glade, followed by what appeared to be a full troop of soldiers. “Lady Madeline de Montmorency?” he inquired politely.
“No.”
“It is no use to lie t
o me, my lady. You look too much like your brother.”
“Very well, suppose I am. You have no cause to arrest me, or take me into custody. Or Dafydd, either. We have done nothing wrong.”
“You, maybe, but the Welshman is said to be a thief.”
Madeline raised her eyebrow in unconscious imitation of her self-assured brother. “Is he? Well, there is his pack. Search it if you like. You will find nothing stolen in it.”
“Nevertheless, my lady, your brother wants to talk to you, and him, too, I gather, so you had best come along with me to the castle.”
“What, is Roger there?”
“He arrived this afternoon.” Fitzroy’s expression softened a little. “He’s anxious to see you, my lady. It may seem hard to believe right now, but he does care about you. Even now, he’s out combing the forest for you, since you left the town and no one was certain in what direction you had gone. We had to split up to search for you. One of my men has already been dispatched to tell him you have been found. You had better come.”
“I will not. If I have caused Roger any trouble, he has only himself to blame for trying to force me to marry,” she said. “I hope you will have the goodness to tell him so when you see him.”
“I see. He left out that part of the tale.”
“And please also tell him that I am no longer any of his concern, or his responsibility. I am going to Wales.”
“With him?” Fitzroy nodded at Dafydd, who stood silent, although his defiant eyes said much.
“Yes.”
Fitzroy frowned. “You’ve placed me in a very difficult position, my lady.”
She glared at him majestically. “Roger cannot blame you for my message.”
“No, but Roger can blame me for not following orders. Your brother outranks me, so I have to obey, no matter what I may think.” Fitzroy stepped closer and nodded at one of the soldiers, who took hold of Dafydd’s arms roughly. Another soldier began to tie his wrists together.
“There is no need for that!” Madeline cried indignantly. “He has done nothing to harm me. Indeed, he has saved me from a terrible fate at the hands of Sir Guy de Robespierre. I will not allow you to bind him!”
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