The Welshman's Way

by Moore, Margaret

  “He won’t care about your threats.”

  “Won’t he?”

  “No!”

  “You will be Chilcott’s wife.”

  He was so sure, so completely certain that his will would be done, that Madeline shot her last bolt. “Perhaps Chilcott will not want me, when he learns I am no longer a virgin.”

  Roger’s hands clenched into fists and his eyes filled with cold hostility.

  “Yes, it’s true,” she answered his unspoken question. “I gave that gift to the man I love, who is Dafydd ap Iolo.”

  “Are you bearing this lout’s bastard?” he snapped.

  She recoiled from his blunt question, then straightened her shoulders. “No, I am not. But I wish I was! I would be proud to bear his child!”

  “I will kill him.”

  The words were so cold, so ruthless, so unmistakably a vow! “No, Roger!” Madeline cried. “I went with him willingly! I love him and—”

  “You are nothing but a foolish woman duped by a clever man with a gilded tongue! I will have his blood for even thinking of touching my sister! He has debased you, me, our whole family! I will never forgive such an insult.” Roger strode toward the door.

  “Roger!”

  He stopped and glanced back at her, giving her a look of such scorn that it filled her with pain, and righteous indignation, too. “Let him go, Roger. It was my fault, if fault it is.”

  “I mean to have his blood, Madeline. Then I will hang his worthless body from my castle wall, so that I have the satisfaction of seeing him rot!”

  She gasped. “You mean it! Oh, how right Dafydd was to accuse me of not knowing Norman ways! Your cruel, evil ways! I am ashamed—more ashamed than I could be to bear Dafydd’s child.”

  Roger took a deep breath, and his eyes lost some of their frigid obdurateness. “So, I am evil for upholding your honor.”

  “Not my honor, Roger,” she said. “You think only of yourself, what you perceive as an insult to your honor. I tell you, I am infinitely more honored to have Dafydd’s love than I could ever feel as either your sister or a Norman.”

  For a brief moment, Madeline thought her words had touched him, until Roger shrugged his massive shoulders. “Then you will have to content yourself with those small honors, Madeline, for I will find the Welshman and then he will die.”

  Madeline heard the awful finality of his words, and saw the implacable will in her brother’s eyes. She rushed to him and grabbed hold of his arm. “Roger, please! Would you kill me, too?”

  “Don’t make an even greater fool of yourself, Madeline, by pleading for him. Despite the little store you put in our family honor, it is unworthy of a de Montmorency.”

  Regardless of his scornful words, she knelt before him, her mind desperately seeking some way to save the man she loved more than her life. “Please, don’t do this! Let him go! I beg of you!”

  “Get up, Madeline. Begging does not become you.”

  A terrible, irrevocable, horrible means to save Dafydd leapt into her mind, and although every particle of her rebelled at the idea, she knew that she must do whatever was necessary to save her beloved’s life. “Roger, let him go—and I will marry Chilcott.”

  Her brother looked down at her, harsh and obdurate still. “You will do that, to save his life?”

  “Yes, Roger. I will.”

  “With whatever honor you still possess, will you give me your word as a de Montmorency?”

  She ignored his insult. “I give you my word.”

  “Then get up and be pleased to think that your abasement and your promise have saved the Welshman.”

  She did not rise. She simply stared at him, sick at heart for what she had done but sure that she had indeed saved Dafydd’s life. “I am sorry for you, Roger,” she whispered, “more sorry for you than even myself. You don’t know how to love, and you never will!” There was a flicker of pain in his eyes, yet it was not nearly enough to compare to hers, and she was glad to think she had wounded him even a little. “Now get out and leave me to grieve for the happiness you have stolen from me, brother.”

  Roger did, closing the door behind him, leaving her kneeling on the floor, spent, distraught, destroyed.

  Madeline covered her face with her hands and, sobbing, leaned forward until her head touched the floor. The tears crept out from between her fingers and dropped silently onto the lifeless stones.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Dafydd, Dafydd, wake up, boy!”

  Dafydd groaned as he was shaken to a state of consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, and he realized it was night. His back was against a tree, and branches crisscrossed against the moon, so he knew he was in the forest. He thought his captor was not alone, but he could only make out indistinct shapes in the dark. More significantly, he discovered his hands were unbound. In one motion, he sat up and grabbed for the throat of the man kneeling in front of him.

  “Dafydd!” the fellow cried, shooting backward to avoid the strong hands reaching out toward him. “Don’t you recognize me, Dafydd?”

  “Alcwyn? Is it you?” Dafydd cried with happiness and considerable relief, his eyes widening at the sight of a friend not seen since the day he had fought Morgan’s men. Yet there could be no mistaking the craggy features and thick black hair and beard, or the missing front tooth, either. Alcwyn claimed he had lost it when he bit into a Norman’s arm. “What the devil are you doing here?” Dafydd asked. “And who, by God’s blessed blood, is that lad?” He nodded toward the young man who had come upon him in the forest.

  “Well, with you and Ivor both gone,” Alcwyn replied, gesturing at the small band of Welshmen Dafydd could now make out around a glowing camp fire, “the fellows and I have been doing a little of this and that. I’ve even discovered I have a talent for being a tinker.” He pointed at an old, decrepit wagon decorated with hanging pots of various sizes, shapes and ages.

  Dafydd rubbed his sore wrists and settled into a more comfortable position against the tree. “What do you mean, this and that?” he asked. Dafydd liked the smaller man, who had fought beside him countless times, and he knew him to be a decent fellow. His zeal for rebellion had been justly patriotic.

  “Oh, you know, a little tinkering, a little trading, a little robbery.”

  “A little rebellion?”

  “No, not anymore. Not since that fool Ivor was killed,” Alcwyn replied bitterly. “Too bloody dangerous.”

  “What about ransom?” Dafydd gave the youth a questioning look.

  “Why not?” the lad, who seemed to be about sixteen, cried defiantly. “I wasn’t going to hurt that Norman wench.”

  “Really?

  “Owain’s hotheaded and enthusiastic, if you catch my meaning,” Alcwyn said, handing Dafydd a small cask of ale. “Gets a bit carried away. Trained to be a Norman’s squire, he was, but when the time for knighthood came, the gwirionyn said he wasn’t going to knight a Welshman after all.”

  “She was only a Norman,” Owain complained. “And you shouldn’t have been helping her when you saw I was as Welsh as you.”

  “She’s a woman, and I don’t hold with attacking women,” Dafydd replied evenly.

  “Just going to get some ransom. They could afford it, by the looks of them. What are you, a Norman disguised as a Welshman, or a traitor?”

  “Enough,” Alcwyn said, rising and glaring at Owain. “This is Dafydd ap Iolo, fool. His family have been princes of Wales for years upon years. Traitor, indeed! Many there are who would say that of you for letting such an accusation pass your lips. Besides, he can slit your gullet with a flick of his wrist if he wants to. So shut that flapping mouth of yours and be glad he didn’t. Respect, boy, respect! Or you will go from here this very day.”

  Owain sat back on his heels. “Dafydd ap Iolo?” he whispered incredulously.

  “Aye, the same,” Alcwyn said, nodding. “And him it was showed us what scum Ivor was. More of us would have been dead, but for him. Now do you understand?”

  Owain
nodded wordlessly, then cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Dafydd ap Iolo, I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did,” Dafydd said with a wry grin. He took a drink and fingered the bump on the back of his head.

  “Just returning measure for measure,” Owain said with a little more respect, and some fear, in his eyes.

  “Temper your anger with thought, and you’ll do better. And leaving the women alone, is it? They have enough hardships, even the rich ones.” He sighed wearily, wondering what was happening with Madeline, if she was safe and if she had been able to persuade her brother to let her have her freedom. “Where the devil are we?” Dafydd asked, looking about him at the rocks and trees. “How far from Bridgeford Wells?”

  “Not that far. We come for May Day.”

  Dafydd could guess why. The crowd would make petty thievery easier and the pickings more plentiful.

  “Tell us, Dafydd ap Iolo,” Owain said, a look in his eyes that made Dafydd doubt that he was quite so awestricken as he had been when he had first discovered who he had brought back to camp, “what it is you’re doing here?”

  “Aye, Dafydd, dead we all thought you was.”

  “I nearly was.”

  “How’d you get away from Morgan?”

  “I didn’t—he let me go.”

  Alcwyn and his men leaned a little closer to hear, even Owain.

  “I thought I was as good as dead, and asked him to let me breathe my last up in the mountains. He took me there and left me. But I found I wasn’t ready to lie down and die. I managed to crawl away, and then a priest found me and took me to the monastery of St. Christopher’s. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “Until you attacked me,” Owain noted.

  “On my way back to Wales at last, until I saw you with Lady Madeline de Montmorency.”

  “So what are you doing here?” the young man asked pointedly. “Far from the border, you are.”

  “Since you drove away Roger de Montmorency, I couldn’t leave his sister in the forest, could I? I was taking her someplace safe, and away from Trevelyan and Morgan’s land, which was too risky a place for me to go to.”

  Alcwyn looked a little askance. “This is a fair ways north and east for that, Dafydd.”

  “It was where she wanted to go.”

  “And then what? We could use a good fighter like you.”

  Dafydd shook his head. “My fighting days are done, Alcwyn,” he said quietly. “I just want to get Madeline and go home.”

  “Madeline, is it?” Alcwyn questioned. “Since when you been so familiar with nobility?”

  “Since she agreed to be my wife.”

  “S’truth?”

  “God’s truth.”

  “What kind of tale is this?” Owain demanded disdainfully. “What Norman noblewoman would marry a poor Welshman, even if he is Dafydd ap Iolo?”

  “Shut it, Owain,” Alcwyn warned.

  “Just because you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it is not true,” Dafydd responded with as good grace as he could manage in the face of such blatant rudeness. “She has agreed to be my wife.”

  “Then where is she?”

  Dafydd stood up, towering over the slimmer, younger man. “Where are your manners, boy?” he asked, his eyes blazing. “That is no way to speak to me!”

  Owain was on his feet in an instant. “I am Owain ap Gwydyr ap Ilar ap Idris—!” he retorted.

  “Please, please,” Alcwyn cried placatingly, getting between them. “A couple of hotheads here, I think. Come now, cool your tempers with some ale. We have enough to do to stay alive and one pace ahead of the Normans. No need to battle among ourselves!”

  Dafydd was the first to shrug, and Owain the first to resume his seat. “Your words require an apology, Owain,” Alcwyn pleaded, “although surely everyone will agree odd it is to hear of such a thing. He has a point, Dafydd, you see.”

  “I am not telling a lie.”

  “We know, we know. Especially these others who remember the old days. It’s strange, that’s all. Owain?”

  Owain looked as if he would rather lose his tongue than apologize. Nonetheless, he grudgingly said, “Sorry for the disrespect, Dafydd ap Iolo.”

  “Where is the bride, then?” Alcwyn asked after a moment. “Is she meeting you hereabouts?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hope?”

  “I am not as certain as she that her brother will let her go.”

  “Ah, that would be Roger de Montmorency. A proud man, that. He will have a worse time than our Owain to believe his sister would want to marry a Welshman.”

  “I agree with you. Unfortunately, I was not in a position to stay and argue my point.”

  “Well, since you must be waiting, you are welcome to stay with us. Accommodations not the best, I’m afraid, but we’ve shared worse, eh?”

  “Thank you, Alcwyn. I would be honored.”

  * * *

  As Roger opened the door to his sister’s chamber in Castle Gervais, he reminded himself that he was going to remain calm. He was right about this marriage, and he knew it, so he should not allow Madeline’s responses to anger him. She had sinned greatly and demeaned the family name. Surely by now, after nearly two days alone in the tower room, she would have come to see the error of her ways and grown reconciled to her marriage.

  His sister was sitting in a high-backed, heavy chair, still as an old woman on the verge of sleep, facing the window with her hands idle in her lap. At least now she was properly dressed in a fine and modest gown, which was one of several he had bought for her, partly as a reminder of what money could buy, and partly to cheer her spirits. She had looked at them all and said nothing.

  People were beginning to talk. Not Lord Gervais: he was too polite, although he couldn’t quite mask his concern and Roger suspected he was anxious to be asked for advice. Because ever since Madeline had finally agreed to marry Chilcott, she had refused to leave this room. Everyone kept an eye on the servants who took her nourishment and saw them return to the hall with the trays of food virtually untouched. Then the heads would turn toward him.

  For a moment, his heart went out to her and he felt a wave of guilt. She looked very young and very vulnerable, there in that chair.

  No, he was right. What could she really know of men and the world? What kind of life could she have with a Welsh peasant? It was his duty to protect her, even from herself, and that he meant to do.

  Unfortunately, the moment he caught sight of Madeline’s pale face and the dark circles beneath her eyes as she glanced up at him, he knew that his hope that she would finally see reason and accept what must be was a futile one. However, he did not allow that disappointment to show upon his face when he said, “So, Madeline, are you willing to join us for the evening meal? Lord Gervais is most upset by your continued absence.”

  “I have no wish to see anybody,” she replied flatly.

  “Madeline,” he said, a pleading note creeping into his voice despite himself, “you must understand—”

  Her eyes flashed with that stubborn fire he knew too well. “I understand very well, Roger. I understand that I am to be the sacrifice to your ambition. I understand that my happiness is of no importance to you, as long as your will is done!”

  Unbeknownst to him, the stubborn fire in her eyes was an exact duplicate of that in his own when his attempt at gentleness was so strongly rebuffed. “I am thinking of your happiness, Madeline, as you will realize when you are reasonable! How happy will you be living in a hovel at the edge of some clearing in godforsaken Wales, you and this man and your few smelly sheep?”

  “That is for me to think of.”

  “No, you are my responsibility and I have no intention of shirking my duty.”

  “I want you to shirk it! I ask you to shirk it!”

  “Madeline,” he said, still desperately trying to speak calmly, “you must understand. This marriage between an unknown Welshman and a woman of the house of de Montmorency simply cannot be. Chilcott is the best
choice for you, I assure you. He will let you run his household, and probably his manor, as well. He is rich. He is young. What more do you want?”

  “I am not like you, Roger. I don’t want more. I just want Dafydd!” She stood up and circled her brother slowly, surveying him coolly. “Is it not enough that you have forced me to obey your orders? What more do you want? You have won. Do you expect me to alter so rapidly, to suddenly thank you? If you do, you must be mad.”

  “I want you to understand that my decisions are for your own good.”

  “Listen to yourself, Roger. Your decisions for my good. I can make my own decisions!”

  “I perceive that you are never going to see reason over this, Madeline, and so I will simply remind you that you have given me your word that you will marry Chilcott.”

  Madeline sighed. She had no need to be reminded of the hopelessness of her future. The only thing that gave her strength was her certainty that she was helping Dafydd. Roger had sent out no more search parties seeking him. By now, Dafydd might even be close to St. Christopher’s. She had to get word to him somehow, to let him know that she could not come to him. The maidservants had mentioned that there was a priest in Castle Gervais who had arrived with Roger, a kind man from St. Christopher’s. If only she could think of a way to speak with him... “Have no fear, I will not break my oath.”

  “I didn’t think you would. We leave for my castle tomorrow.”

  His words sounded like a death knell. “I...I want to see a priest.”