Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Way

She suppressed a sorrowful sigh at the notion that time and training could make her brother so coldhearted. Why, this man sitting across from her, this total stranger, was showing more concern for her than Roger had.

Who was he? Where had he come from? Why had he helped her? Some things about him she could guess with some certainty. She knew he was Welsh, despite his attempts to mask his accent, for there had been Welsh servants at the convent, which was rather close to the borderlands.

He must have been trained as a soldier, for he wielded his sword with considerable skill. He might be a rebel, or someone who saw the chance for ransom, but he did not try to bind her, or curtail her movements in any way. If she wanted to, she could run away at any moment.

She could ask him, of course, but he would probably answer with that disquieting stare, or even worse, that grin.

He caught her looking at him and pointed to a pile of straw in the corner. “Go to sleep.”

“Where?” she asked cautiously. Thus far he had proven trustworthy, but she was a woman and he was a man. A young and vital man.

He gestured again at the pile of straw. “There.”

“No.” She shook her head decisively. After all, they were alone here, and he was half-naked.

“Not touching you, me” he said, obviously and quite honestly insulted by her reluctance.

“There might be...rats,” she confessed with a very real shudder. All her life she had had a horror of the small furry creatures, and she was absolutely certain this shell of a building was a rat’s idea of paradise. Where there was one rat, there would be hundreds. And she thought it a very good excuse.

He started to laugh, a deep, rolling sound that was surprisingly pleasant to hear. With appropriate catlike grace, he rose quickly, grabbed his sword and swung it through the straw. “No rats.”

He crouched back down beside the fire, laying the sword beside him. She saw him wince as he did so. “Does it hurt, your shoulder?” she asked without thinking.

“Not now.” He gazed at her intently, and for a long moment, she simply gazed back, trying to read his dark eyes and quite determined that he could not outstare her. The only person whose scrutiny she had never been able to bear was Mother Bertrilde, and he did not frighten her as much as the Mother Superior in an angry mood.

And yet she was the first to look away, because she suddenly realized, as the heat of shame replaced the pleasant warmth, that she was actually enjoying his scrutiny in the most unseemly fashion.

“Where are you from?” she asked innocently, although she already knew the answer.

“Cornwall.”

“Ah.” His lie disappointed her. Did he think she was a fool? His dark hair and complexion gave his country away, as well as his accent. “Have you been a soldier?”

He nodded, and she hoped that this was not a lie, too.

“You are a fine fighter. Perhaps you could serve my brother. He is always seeking good soldiers.”

The man’s face darkened into a scowl and she suspected he would not answer any more of her questions. Rather than let him ignore her, she went over to the straw and lay down.

“Sleep now,” he said, settling against the wall of the building, stretching his feet out until they were nearly in the fire.

She rolled onto her side, so that her back was to him. As if she could sleep in this situation, with a man who lied to her and fought like a demon and sat there unabashedly half-naked and unashamed.

For once she was grateful that Mother Bertrilde was so strict. She had spent many a night on a vigil and had long ago learned how to rest without falling into a true sleep. If the man came anywhere near her, she would be fully awake instantly and on her guard.

* * *

Every part of Sir Roger de Montmorency’s body seemed to ache, his head in particular. Where in the name of the Blessed Virgin was he? A candle flickered on a plain bedside table that held a plain clay cup from which a medicinal smell emanated. The rest of the room was shadowed. The walls nearest him were almost painfully white and very smooth. A large crucifix hung over the bed. He could hear singing. Low, deep—men’s voices, sonorous and comforting. Chants.

It was night, and he was in a monastery.

What had happened? There had been a skirmish, with outlaws. Madeline had screamed....

“Madeline!” he cried, sitting up abruptly. The pain that shot through his temple made him flop back onto the coarse pillow.

Sir Albert Lacourt bent over him, and his anxious face looked to be floating in a mist.

“Where...?” Roger whispered.

“You are safe at the monastery of St. Christopher, Roger. You were wounded.”

“St. Christopher? Then we are nearly back at the convent! Where is Madeline?”

“We...we do not know. Everything has been done to locate her, Roger,” Albert said quickly.

“I must find Madeline.” Roger tried to get up, but he felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

Albert glanced over his shoulder at someone standing in the shadows, then bent over him again. “You have lost much blood. Father Gabriel says you must not try to get up.”

“Who in the name of the saints is Father Gabriel to order me!” Roger exclaimed weakly. Once more he struggled to sit up.

Instantly there was a pair of very gentle but very forceful hands pushing him back. “My lord, I must insist. Or you may die.”

Roger glared at the man holding him down. His gray eyes were kind but held a certain firmness of purpose that Roger had seen before, when he had been practising his sword skills and his teacher had been adamant that he keep practising. Still, this fellow had more of the scholar than the soldier about him, although he was surprisingly strong for a priest, or else, Roger thought, I am even weaker than I thought. “I have to find my sister. The wedding’s in a fortnight and we are still far from my castle.”

“Please, my lord, do not exert yourself!” Albert said. “We have Bredon out with the dogs.”

Roger felt some slight relief. Bredon was the finest huntsman in England. He was in charge of Roger’s hounds, which were also the finest in England. If anybody could find Madeline, it would be Bredon.

Albert cleared his throat and looked again at the anxious priest. “Unfortunately, it has been raining since near evening and we cannot search as we would like.”

“You must have faith, my son,” the priest said softly.

Roger de Montmorency’s lip curled skeptically in his dark, handsome face. He had faith in only three things: God, his sword and his ability to wield it. Unfortunately, God seemed to have turned his face from him, and from Madeline, too. As for his sword, he would soon have his strength back, and then he would wield it. By God, if anyone had touched her, he would ply it with no mercy. “Find her, and I want those outlaws. Alive.”

“Capturing those rogues may be difficult. Other Welshmen will surely give them sanctuary,” Albert replied. Roger’s glower was all the answer Albert got, and all he needed. “Very well, my lord. We will search for them, too.”

Father Gabriel cleared his throat deferentially. “My lord, please recall that there may be other factors at work here. If these men are simply outlaws, as you believe, try to understand that there are other lords, less wise than yourself, perhaps, who are harsh with their tenants and so create—”

“If men break the law, they must be punished.”

“Be that as it may, a little mercy—”

“They will get precisely what they deserve, Father. No more, no less.” Roger looked at Albert and tried to focus on his friend. “I don’t think they were rebels.”

Albert shook his head. “Nor I, my lord.”

“What of ransom?”