Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Way

He shook his head again. Suddenly the strong arms around her that had made her feel protected moments before seemed to be a cage.

“Sirrah, I appreciate your willingness to assist me, but I must insist that we go the other way,” she said, trying not to sound as panic-stricken as she felt.

Cursing herself for a stupid fool, she tried to think of a way to escape and return to Roger. Whatever she did, it would have to be soon, before it was dark, when it would be impossible for her to find her own way. To think she had lived not many miles from here for so long, and this was the first time she had been on this road. If only Mother Bertrilde had not been so strict about staying within the walls of the convent.

When they rode beneath the first trees of what seemed a dark, nearly impenetrable wood, she heard the soft babble of a stream and immediately said, “I am thirsty. May we stop and refresh ourselves at that creek?”

The man nodded and pulled the horse to a halt. Trying to appear calm, Madeline slipped from the horse and headed for the stream. She took a drink of the cold, clear water and watched out of the corner of her eye as the man also dismounted and walked toward her.

“I...I will go into those bushes,” Madeline said, hoping she sounded not frightened but filled with maidenly modesty. She sidled toward the shrubs. When the man bent down to drink, she dashed for the horse as quietly as she could and clambered into the saddle. She kicked the beast, which leapt into motion.

At the sudden sound of his horse breaking into a gallop, Dafydd spun around. What was she doing? Where did she think she was going? He sprinted to the road, to see Lady Madeline and the roan disappear around a bend.

A host of colorful Welsh epithets came to his mind as he stood in the middle of the road now completely defenceless. She had everything he possessed, including his sword as well as the money he had taken from the abbot. Then, swiftly, apprehension replaced his anger. The horse belonged to the monastery. If anyone happened to see it and recognize it, they would know where it had come from, and not only that, they would discover the stolen coins in his pack.

Sir Roger would make certain somebody came looking for him. If they found him, Sir Roger would surely guess that the former guest of the good brothers was no simple soldier or religious pilgrim. He would be hanged for a rebel, as well as a thief.

Dafydd realized that he could forget the horse, the money and his sword and run away, or he could follow Lady Madeline and try to get them back before anyone recognized the beast. Perhaps if he hurried, they might be too preoccupied with their reunion to open the pack, and he could steal that back, too. He had to get his sword, at the very least. It had been in his family for generations.

With a grim face, Dafydd hitched up his heavy robe and marched down the road after Lady Madeline de Montmorency.

Sweating profusely, anxious and angry, Dafydd once again cursed the impulse that had led him to interfere as he hurried along the trees that skirted the roadway, listening for the sounds of anyone approaching along the muddy track. Without his sword, he was helpless against the Normans, or any outlaws, for that matter. He did not really expect to be accosted by outlaws, however. They would not think one lone, empty-handed man worth the effort and he believed the ones that had attacked Sir Roger’s train would be far away by now, rifling the packs and deciding how to divide the profits.

The Normans were more worrisome. If they were uninjured, they would surely pursue their attackers, who would disappear as rapidly as dew on a hot summer’s day. If they found him instead, the Normans might not listen to his protests that he was not one of the outlaw band. He would be Welsh, and that would be enough to condemn him.

He smiled sardonically at the idea that he might be hanged for a crime he did not commit, rather than the ones he had.

The sun was nearly on the horizon, he realized as he finally reached the place where he had halted when he had heard the attack. He cut through the woods and reached the top of the hill. There he easily spotted Lady Madeline de Montmorency. She was alone, crouched in the mud, examining the ground. The untethered roan stood at the side of the road, the reins dangling. Although he did not move cautiously, she did not hear him approach, but continued to stare at the trampled and muddy road, the signs of the fight all too obvious, and at one spot in particular, stained red with blood. Her shoulders rose and fell with a ragged sigh, and a choked sob escaped her throat.

Lady Madeline did not seem so arrogant now. Indeed, it struck him that she had a mixture of pride and vulnerability such as he had never encountered before. Except, perhaps, within himself.

Dafydd ignored the small pang of pity and understanding in his heart and surveyed the area. At the same time, Lady Madeline realized she was not alone. She started up, staring at him with fear in her eyes, clutching something in her slender fingers. “What do you want?” she asked, wiping at her tear-dampened cheeks. Nevertheless, he could see the dread in her eyes.

That fear disturbed him far more than anything else that had happened. “Not hurting you, me,” he said slowly and reassuringly, trying to make his accent as much like a Norman’s as he possibly could.

“You spoke!”

He nodded his head.

“Then tell me who you are,” she demanded, her tears and dread forgotten, or submerged beneath an incredibly strong will and brave heart.

He did not reply, but pointed instead at her hand.

Lady Madeline held out her open palm and he could see something glinting in the waning light. “This is my brother’s cloak pin,” she said quietly. “It was my father’s. He would never leave this behind.”

Dafydd recalled the younger man who had fallen and realized it might have been Roger de Montmorency. He had assumed the gray-haired man would be the famous knight. “Your brother,” Dafydd said firmly, “he will not be dead.”

She eyed him warily. “How can you be so sure of that?”

“Too good a fighter, he is. Hurt, maybe, but those others were not good enough to kill him.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Said it, haven’t I?”

“You are not a Norman.”

It was a statement, not a question, so he did not try to deny it.

“You are not a priest, either.”

Again there was no point to lie. He did not look like a priest, and he knew it.

Her eyes narrowed even more and she backed away. “Are you a pilgrim, at least?”

“Yes.” It was close enough, and he didn’t want to frighten her. He took a step toward her, willing her not to be afraid of him. He hated Normans, but she was a woman first. “I am going to Canterbury,” he added for veracity.

“Then you are going in the wrong direction,” she observed suspiciously.

It was all he could do to keep from smiting himself on the forehead. He should have kept in his mouth shut! In truth, all he knew about Canterbury was that it was holy and somewhere in England. “Other places first,” he replied after a long moment while she watched him expectantly. “I give you my word that I will not hurt you.”

“I must find Roger. Will you help me?”

“No.”

His blunt refusal both startled and upset her, but he couldn’t help that. Better she should know right now what he meant to do, and what he would not do.

“But you must!”

“No.”

“You’re not going to leave me here! What if those thieves come back?”

“I will take you to help.”

“Help? What help?”

“There is a manor, back there.” He gestured back along the road and wondered if he was making another foolish mistake offering to help her. Still, she was quite right. He could not leave her where she was.