Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Way

“Yes, Sir Guy,” Farold replied with a slow smile that made Dafydd even more uneasy, especially when he turned his cold scrutiny onto Madeline. To be sure, she had transformed herself, but she was so lovely—no disguise could hide that.

“We will only trouble you for a night’s lodging for us and for our horse,” Madeline replied. “A simple meal of bread and water will be most appreciated. Nothing very fancy for pilgrims! I do hope you have twice-ground flour, though. If I never eat another coarse brown loaf, it will be too soon.”

“Oh, we can offer you both considerably better fare. I promise you, you will not soon forget the hospitality of Sir Guy de Robespierre.”

The men seemed to find this vastly amusing. Dafydd tried not to betray anything by his expression, for he was certain Farold was still watching him intently. Nonetheless, he moved closer to the roan.

Lady Madeline glanced down at him, then gave Sir Guy another vacuous smile. “Well, we really should refuse your invitation. Father David and I have sworn a pledge of poverty. However, you put it so charmingly, I would hate to refuse.”

“And you, Father? Will you partake of our hospitality?”

Lady Madeline giggled again. “Father David has sworn a vow of silence, I’m afraid, so he cannot answer. He is very strict about it. He hasn’t said a single word to me the whole journey!” She leaned closer to Sir Guy. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have some company, Sir Guy. What I was thinking of when I began this pilgrimage, I have no idea—well, I suppose forgiveness, eh?”

Sir Guy spoke again. “Welcome to my estate. Allow me to escort you. Father, would you care to ride? I’m sure one of my men can be persuaded to share his mount with you.”

“Oh, how kind of you to offer, Sir Guy, but he really should walk. It’s part of his vow, you understand. I realize this will slow us down terribly and I beg your indulgence. Now, tell me, how is it your manor is so far from the main road? It seems so very lonely to me! And this fog, surely the air is most unhealthy.”

Dafydd had little choice but to walk along behind Madeline’s horse and listen as she continued to rattle on to Sir Guy. She was doing a very good imitation of a stupid woman, and he wondered where this ruse was going to lead them.

Roger, his head still aching so much that each movement was new cause for agony, glared at Father Gabriel standing at the foot of the bed. The only person he wanted to see was Albert, who had gone to lead the search for Madeline at first light.

Father Gabriel shifted from foot to foot as if he had a bug down his dalmatica, and twisted his hemp belt as if it were rosary beads. The priest had been doing so ever since he had come into the room. Another holy man, a lean and silent fellow with a mournful face who had been introduced as Father Jerrald, stood beside the door. “I trust you are feeling better, my lord?” Father Gabriel inquired.

“Except for this damnable pounding in my head.”

“Ah. I hope the draft I prepared will soon ease your discomfort.”

Several more long moments of silence passed, while Roger continued to stare, Father Gabriel continued to fidget and Father Jerrald continued to look like a stone effigy.

“What do you want, man?” Roger finally bellowed. “Do you have something to tell me of my sister?”

“Unfortunately, no, my lord,” Father Gabriel said with great humility and unmistakable sincerity. “We are all praying for her safe return.”

“What is it, then?”

“Sir, please, I had no wish to trouble you at this time—”

“Then leave me alone. I will see Sir Albert when he returns, or my sister when she is found.”

Father Gabriel cleared his throat, a barely perceptible expression of disdain on his face as he glanced at Father Jerrald hovering near the door like an angel of death. Father Gabriel rarely disliked anyone, as he genuinely tried to see every man as his brother; however, Father Jerrald was the abbot’s eyes and ears in his absence. The abbot would hear of everything that happened in the monastery while he was gone, and most especially everything that had to do with such an important visitor. Unfortunately, he would also hear if Father Gabriel refused to tell Sir Roger of the recent occurrence at the monastery regarding their departed guest, whom all suspected was a Welshman and, not unlikely, a rebel.

Although events of the outside world touched theirs rarely and briefly, they were not completely ignorant of important events. Nor were they as certain as the noblemen they encountered seemed to be that what the Normans did was always right. Abbot Peter had shown an admirable ability to sympathize with the local people, including several Welsh, and that tolerance had cast a mantle of gentle forbearance over the monastery. As for Father Gabriel and most of the brothers, they would have kept silent about the departed guest. His wounds would put an end to his fighting days anyway, and Father Gabriel had seen enough to suspect that the man’s activities might have had a very good cause. Not many outlaws interested in mere thievery had such a noble bearing, or such a grateful demeanor when they were brought wounded to the monastery.

Unfortunately, the sudden arrival of a man who seemed to embody the power of the Normans in one forbidding, imposing, merciless figure had filled Father Jerrald with a sense of duty and an obvious desire to impress their important visitor. He had been adamant that they tell Sir Roger about the Welshman, who Father Gabriel hoped with all his heart was far away by now. “It seems we have been robbed, Sir Roger,” Father Gabriel said at last.

“Robbed? Of what? When?” Roger demanded with his usual blunt forcefulness.

“A horse. A robe.”

Roger lay back and subdued a groan. The last thing he wanted to be troubled with now was a minor robbery in a monastery. “Who do you think took them?”

“Well, my lord, we do not know.”

The man nearest the door took a step forward. Father Gabriel shot the fellow a defiant glance. “We do not,” Father Gabriel said firmly. “We suspect a man who has been staying here while he healed.”

Roger subdued a weary smile. Father Gabriel was usually meek and mild, but it seemed he had some backbone after all, although Roger had little doubt who was pulling the strings at this particular moment.

The man near the door frowned and emitted a cough.

“To be completely honest,” Father Gabriel said reluctantly, “he did disappear the same night as the horse.”

“Which was when?”

“Two nights ago.”

“Tell Sir Albert what the man looked like and also the horse. He can look for them while he searches for my sister. Will that suit you, Father Gabriel?”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was another cough from the vicinity of the door.

“We also have reason to believe the fellow was a Welshman,” Father Gabriel added reluctantly.

“So?”

The other man was obviously surprised, and that pleased Roger. He had a marked dislike for men who slunk about in the shadows. “It is not a crime to be a Welshman,” he said.

“ Some people think all Welshman are thieves,” replied Father Gabriel.

“I am not one of them,” Roger said. He gave the priest the briefest of smiles, which the holy man could not know was a rare sign of goodwill. “Contrary to what you may have heard. I punish wrongdoers, whatever language they speak.”

“I am glad to be set right, my lord.”

“Very well. Tell Sir Albert the fellow may be a Welshman. Is that all, Father?”

At that moment Albert himself came hurrying into the room. He had obviously traveled far, and fast. Roger sat up abruptly. “What news?”