The Welshman's Way

by Moore, Margaret

  “As I’ve said, orders are orders.”

  “What are they going to do to Dafydd?”

  “I don’t know,” Fitzroy said. He gazed at her for what seemed a long time, his face inscrutable. Then he took hold of her arm and drew her away from the soldiers and their prisoner. “You may not believe me, my lady, but I understand how you feel. And I know your brother. Roger is not in a forgiving frame of mind right at the moment. It might be better for all concerned if this Welshman were to slip out of my hands, if you understand me.”

  Madeline glanced at Dafydd, erect and glowering at the Normans all around him. “You will let him go?”

  “I will turn my back. What happens then is up to you, and to him.”

  “Why?” she asked warily. “Why would do this?”

  Fitzroy’s smile was as enigmatic as his eyes. “Because Roger needs a bit of a comeuppance, perhaps. Or maybe I’m ashamed to have the fellow who beat me about. Does it matter?”

  “You have my undying gratitude.”

  “Fine. Now hurry up. Here, go talk to him, and take my dagger. To protect yourself, mind, and not to cut the ropes around his wrists.” He gestured for his men to move away from the prisoner, and ordered them to form ranks with their backs to the couple. It was obvious they were puzzled by the order, but it was Fitzroy, so they obeyed. Then Fitzroy, too, turned away.

  Madeline hurried to Dafydd and slipped the knife between the ropes to cut them off. “You must run from here, and get as far away as you can,” she whispered urgently. “Roger wants me more than he will want you. If I stay, the chances are good he will not continue to search for you, especially when I tell him all you have done for me. I will make him see that we belong together.”

  “What are you talking about? I won’t leave without you. Why is Fitzroy letting you do this?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” The rope fell to the ground. “Now run.”

  “Not without you,” he said firmly. “You must come with me.”

  “No,” she said, her voice quavering despite her efforts to be strong.

  “Madeline! Do you think I would willingly leave you?”

  She gave him a tremulous smile and tried to look more confident than she felt. What would she do without the comfort and strength she drew from his presence? “No, but I hope you will do as I ask. If anything were to happen to you, and it was my fault, I could not bear it. Go, so that I know you are safe.”

  He grabbed hold of her shoulders. “But what of you? Your brother will try to make you marry—”

  “After the time we have spent together, do you think he could force me to wed another man? No, Dafydd, never! When he sees that I am not to be persuaded, surely even Roger will give up, and then we can be together.”

  “How will I know when that is? How will we meet again?”

  “My lady,” Fitzroy called softly, “I think I hear more men approaching.”

  “I will come to you at the monastery of St. Christopher. It will be a risk for you to go back, I know, but—” Now they could both hear the soldiers coming and she could make out her brother’s voice among them. “It’s Roger.”

  “I will not leave you to face him alone,” Dafydd said firmly.

  “Please, Dafydd,” she replied just as urgently, “please listen to me! Believe that I can deal with him by myself. Trust me!”

  “But to leave you here—”

  “Dafydd,” she said, tears in her eyes, as well as a determined gleam, “are you never going to have faith that I know what I am doing?”

  He nodded, the sound of more soldiers growing louder. “I will be waiting for you at the monastery, my love.”

  “I will come, Dafydd. Now go! Go with God!” One brief kiss, and he did, the brief rustle of the underbrush the only sound of his passage.

  She waited a moment to gather her strength, knowing that she would need every ounce of it. Then Madeline de Montmorency turned to face her brother and his wrath.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nearby, Dafydd stayed low, then with practiced ease swung into a tall tree and watched Madeline, much less afraid for himself than he was for her. After all, he had been hiding from the Normans for years upon years, and could sit as still as any stone. At this time of day, it would be movement that would be detected first, not a man hidden by the foliage and shadows. Whatever else Madeline might think, he would not leave her to face her brother completely alone.

  A tall, dark-haired nobleman, his cloak swirling about him, strode into the clearing, making directly for Madeline, who waited motionless beside Fitzroy, her bearing erect and resolute. Dafydd could imagine the stubborn fire in her eye. Indeed, he could see a mirror image of stubbornness in her brother.

  So this was Roger de Montmorency. His hawklike features did not look capable of displaying either pity or a compassionate heart. There was a definite resemblance in the siblings’ features, yet what was stubborn determination in Madeline appeared as unwavering arrogance in Sir Roger. He could detect none of Madeline’s softness there, no doubt trained out by men like Fitzroy, who had a measure of humanity about him, or at least he did now, in his later years. Perhaps when he had had the care of young Roger, he had not been so kind.

  With increasing dismay and despite what Fitzroy had said, Dafydd realized that Roger de Montmorency did not seem pleased to see his sister. He gave Madeline no greeting, but simply stood and looked at her for several moments. Likewise, she remained silent—two adversaries glaring at each other in unarmed challenge.

  “Roger,” Madeline finally began, taking a tentative step toward him. “Let me explain—”

  “Not here,” her brother barked. He gestured at the assembled men. “Explanations can wait until we are alone.” He turned to Fitzroy. “Was anyone with her?”

  “Yes,” Madeline answered. Roger slowly turned toward her, his face full of contempt. She went on defiantly. “A man who—”

  “Be quiet, woman!” her brother roared. “I have said I will speak with you later. Where is he, Fitzroy?”

  It was not Fitzroy who responded. “He escaped,” Madeline said, and Dafydd heard the attempt to be strong in her voice. Oh, God, he moaned inwardly, he never should have listened to her pleas and plans and left her to face her brother alone. He also marveled at her courage to stand up to this man, and loved her all the more.

  “Is this true?” Roger demanded incredulously of Fitzroy, who had not moved from his place.

  “Yes, my lord,” he replied, and he did not seem particularly impressed by Roger’s anger.

  “How could that happen? Didn’t you bind him?”

  “Are you questioning my ability to follow orders?” How quietly the man seemed to speak, but Dafydd could hear him clearly. There was no mistaking the implication that to say more would be to personally insult Fitzroy.

  Madeline’s decision to come to Bridgeford Wells had been a wise one. Here Sir Roger de Montmorency obviously lacked some of the absolute power he would wield at home, if Fitzroy’s reaction was anything to go by.

  Madeline had been wise to tell him to get away, too. For now, he was free and safe, and if he interfered, he would be outnumbered, and so probably captured, tied and useless to help her. Roger would have them both.

  “I cut the ropes and set him free,” Madeline announced. “He is well away by now.”

  “You did what?” Roger demanded harshly, and Dafydd cursed his impotence.

  Madeline swept past Roger toward the road leading back to Bridgeford Wells. “Does it matter now? He is out of your hands, and you have me. Explanations can wait until we are alone.”

  She was amazing. Oh, dear God, how he loved her!

  With mingled regret, hope and pride, he watched as Roger turned on his heel, barked an order to Fitzroy and followed his sister from the glade. Fitzroy gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, then ordered the rest of the men to march back to Castle Gervais.

  When they had all gone, Dafydd climbed down.

  He would not take him
self back toward the monastery as Madeline had suggested, not now that he had seen Sir Roger de Montmorency for himself. He would stay nearby, where he could find out exactly what was happening between Madeline and her brother.

  With stealthy steps, he began to back away—until he felt a knife against his ribs.

  “Don’t move!” a Welsh voice whispered in his ear. “What have we here, then?”

  “Another Welshman,” Dafydd said calmly in his native tongue. He twisted to get a look at his assailant, but the knife pushed farther against his flesh.

  “Hands behind the back, if you please,” the fellow said, his voice deep and rather familiar.

  Dafydd complied and winced as his hands were bound tightly. “Do I know you?” he asked, desperately trying to recall anyone who sounded as this man did, with a voice as raspy as the wind through the bare trees in winter.

  The man took hold of the bindings and jerked him around so that he could see who had come upon him.

  Dafydd found himself face-to-face with the youth he had left lying on the ground the day he had first saved Madeline. In one hand, he held a dagger of great antiquity, in the other a cudgel.

  Which he raised and smashed into Dafydd’s skull.

  * * *

  In the spacious chamber Lord Gervais had kindly provided for her, Madeline paced impatiently, barely noticing her accommodation, although it was very luxurious. Had she arrived here directly from the convent, she would have been delighted by the detailed, brightly colored tapestries and bed hangings, the clean, embroidered linens, the silver ewer of herb-scented water and the large basin for washing, the costly mirror, the finely wrought candle holders and plentiful beeswax candles, and the wondrously rare, thick carpet on the floor. Under the present circumstances, all she took note of was the carpet, because she was staring at it as she paced.

  Maids arrived, to distract her with a tub and hot water for a bath, and fine new clothes. It was only a momentary distraction, soon overwhelmed by her need to see Roger, so that she could explain everything and then go back to Dafydd. Despite her brother’s uncharitable greeting, she was still sure she could make him appreciate that she belonged with Dafydd.

  After the maidservants, who had spoken with hushed voices and avoided meeting her eye, had cleared away the tub, helped her into the soft fresh shift and scarlet brocade overtunic they said Roger had bought for her, and arranged her hair in a silver-netted crispinette, she ordered them to go. When Roger arrived, she would speak with him alone.

  If only Roger would come! She would soon assure him that she was well, that Dafydd had been her protector, and that it was impossible for her to marry Chilcott. When he understood that she wanted nothing more than to be Dafydd’s wife, he would let her go. She pondered asking him for her dower goods but decided she would not press for them, although they were rightfully hers. They would be a small enough price to pay if she could marry the man she loved.

  Where in the name of the saints was Roger? She went again to the narrow window and scanned the courtyard. It seemed very busy, with servants bustling about, soldiers coming and going, horses being saddled or unsaddled, grooms rushing by and several noblemen either entering the hall, or leaving it.

  It had been a long time since she had been in so large a place. Perhaps this activity was no more than usual, especially for a festive time like the beginning of May.

  She strained to listen, trying to catch whatever snatches of conversation or orders drifted up to the window. A woman laughed and said something about a man; an old groom snapped at a young one to move faster; a boy cursed when he dropped an armload of firewood; a man who looked to be of superior rank summoned his men and said something about the “search.”

  The search for what? Not Dafydd, she hoped, although she felt in her sinking heart that she had guessed rightly.

  She turned away at once. She must find Roger and convince him that there was no point trying to find Dafydd. She also silently prayed that Dafydd had taken her advice and left Bridgeford Wells.

  Suddenly the door banged open and Roger strode into the room. He kicked the door shut and faced her, his mouth a grim frown and his eyes angry.

  “I need to talk to you,” Madeline said, trying not to sound belligerent. “Where have you been?”

  “Where have you?” he countered, with no attempt to sound anything but arrogant.

  “I tried to find you, after the first attack,” she answered, hoping he would hear the truth in her voice, “but I didn’t know where you had gone. Are you quite recovered?”

  “I am well enough. And you? You seem uninjured.”

  His tone made it sound as if he were hoping she would turn out to be severely disabled. He walked over to the window and stood looking outside, not at her.

  “I am very well. I have never felt better in my life, and for that, you can thank Dafydd.”

  “The Welshman you were with?”

  She heard the callousness in his voice, and drew herself up. “Yes, the Welshman who saved my life. Who helped me when you left me.”

  “I was knocked unconscious. It was Albert’s decision to take me to St. Christopher’s. We searched for you.”

  “You didn’t find me—and what was I to do? Dafydd saved me from the outlaws and helped me.”

  “Why?” Roger demanded.

  “Because he is an honorable man,” she answered, affronted by her brother’s manner.

  “And yet he did not bring you to me, this honorable man.”

  “It was dangerous for him—as your current behavior makes abundantly clear, I might point out. At first, he simply tried to get me to a Norman manor, but—”

  “I know about Sir Guy de Robespierre.”

  “Then you know that Dafydd was in equal danger there, and yet he did not abandon me. He acted as any true gentleman would.”

  “How did you repay this `gentleman’?”

  “What are you implying?” she demanded. “Why are you acting this way?”

  Slowly Roger turned away from the window, one dark eyebrow raised questioningly. “What way?”

  “As if we have committed a crime!” she cried, walking toward him. “We have done nothing wrong.”

  His brows furrowed ominously. “You have been traveling about the countryside dressed in a peasant’s rags with some outlaw and you have done nothing wrong?”

  “Dafydd is a good man, Roger—”

  “He is a thief and a rebel. He even stole from the monastery of St. Christopher.”

  “Only out of need. And he no longer wants to be a rebel.”

  Roger did not reply. Nevertheless, his eloquently dismissive expression and skeptical frown spoke volumes.

  “He does not.” She took a deep breath. “And you might as well know everything at once. First, I absolutely refuse to marry Chilcott.”

  “You absolutely refuse? Who do you think you are, Madeline, to go against my wishes, and those of Baron DeGuerre?”

  “I am the daughter of Sir Folke de Montmorency and the sister of Sir Roger de Montmorency,” she said firmly. “I am going to marry Dafydd ap Iolo, whose forebears were royalty.”

  “What nonsense is this? Royalty?” Roger scoffed. “Welsh royalty? There is not, and never has been, royalty among those barbarians.”

  “Say what you will, he wants me to be his wife, and I have gladly agreed.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Madeline, and don’t think you can trick me, either, by telling me such outrageous lies so that I overlook your transgression.”

  “I am as serious as I can possibly be, Roger. I love Dafydd, and he loves me.”

  “Love?” Roger snorted derisively. “That is a pleasant fantasy spun by minstrels and noblewomen with too much time on their hands! I should think the convent would have safeguarded you from such idle silliness.”

  She went toward him, shaking her head. “Roger, I pity you, because I see that you truly believe what you say. However, you are quite wrong about my life in the convent, as you might have discover
ed at any time in the past several years if you had taken the trouble. Mother Bertrilde allowed no idleness. No frivolity. No laughter, no joy of any kind. You cannot know how I longed for you to come and take me away from there, only to discover you had prepared another prison for me!”

  He blinked, but he did not look away.

  “Well, I have found a man who truly cares for me. Who respects me, who wants me as I want him. I will be free with Dafydd. Free at last.”

  “You are being very foolish, Madeline,” Roger said evenly.

  She could not believe that her heartfelt words had not moved him. “I will be free, Roger, and I will be Dafydd’s wife.”

  Roger’s lips twisted scornfully. “Free? None of us is free, Madeline. We all have our roles and duties and responsibilities. That’s the price for the privileges of rank. It is your duty to obey me, as I obey Baron DeGuerre.”

  “I do not want the privileges of rank, Roger. I gladly spurn them all to be with Dafydd.”

  “If this man is such a prize that you would cast aside everything—and I do not believe you will, when you have recovered from this short-lived, perhaps glorious adventure and inhabit the real world again—where is he? He has left you to face me alone.”

  “I told him to.”

  Again his face plainly showed that he did not believe her. How different he was from Dafydd! When Dafydd disagreed, she understood that he was genuinely trying to make her see his point of view, to sway her into agreeing. Roger didn’t care if she agreed or not, just as long as she obeyed. “He listens to me! He respects me, more than you or Chilcott or any other man ever would or will!”

  “Respect will not fill your belly. If you think I’m going to give you any dowry, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Maybe he will not be so keen to have you when he finds that out.”

  With compressed lips, Madeline went to her brother and slapped his face with all her might. “How dare you! How dare you imply that he has any such motive!”

  Roger ignored the red welt growing on his face. “Poor, foolish, naive Madeline. I agree those years in the convent, whatever it was like, were a mistake, for clearly you have no knowledge of men’s ways. This Welsh peasant must be seeking to enrich himself, and he has talked his way, as only the Welsh can, dear sister, into your heart, or at least enough for you to delude yourself into believing that you love him. Time would readily cure this delusion, if only we had it. Unfortunately, we do not. Already wedding guests are arriving at my castle, being fed and housed at my expense. I will brook no further delays to my plans. You are going to marry Chilcott, Madeline, and I am going to find this Welsh fellow and make it very clear to him that it would be in his best interest to get as far away from you as humanly possible.”