Margaret Moore - The Welshman's Way

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue Prologue Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, Dafydd adjusted the girth of the saddle on the roan horse. His injured shoulder ached from the effort, but he ignored the pain. He had to get away before he was discovered in the stables of the monastery of St. Christopher. Although most of the monks were sleeping, Father Gabriel often chose to keep a vigil in the chapel, and Dafydd had seen the pale, thin light of a candle shining from the window of the infirmary. He was nearly healed and to stay longer would be foolishness. He had been relatively safe while Abbot Peter was alive and in charge of the Dominican monastery; unfortunately, the new abbot was an ambitious man who made no secret of his interest in worldly affairs of state. If Abbot Absalom realized they were harboring a Welsh rebel, he would not hesitate to turn the man over to the nearest Norman overlord. Abbot Absalom had left that morning to attend a wedding that would unite two Norman families, apparently planning to pay visits to certain important lords and clergy along the way. No one would dare to enter the abbot’s cell during his absence, except perhaps a thief who needed to get back his sword, acquire some money for a long and difficult journey, and some clothing. If his luck held, it wouldn’t be until the abbot’s return that anyone would realize anything was missing. The good brothers had saved his life, and he regretted rewarding them with thievery, but there was no help for it. Nearby, one of the monastery’s placid donkeys shifted and a horse stamped its foot. Overhead, a mouse scampered through the hay, reminding Dafydd that he must not tarry. Dafydd finished tying his meager pack to the back of the roan and led the beast from the stall. It was not an impressive animal, but he had chosen it more for stamina and strength than beauty, for he intended to ride north and west into Wales, to where the roads were not good and the way not easy, avoiding towns or villages or fellow travelers. He would also take care to skirt the land of Lord Trevelyan and his son-in-law, Morgan, who had good cause to remember Dafydd’s face. Dafydd ap Iolo was going to get as far as he could into the most remote part of Wales. He would find a quiet, simple Welshwoman and have lots of children. He wanted no more of fighting and death and deprivation. He simply wished to be left alone.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Author Note

Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, Dafydd adjusted the girth of the saddle on the roan horse. His injured shoulder ached from the effort, but he ignored the pain. He had to get away before he was discovered in the stables of the monastery of St. Christopher.

Although most of the monks were sleeping, Father Gabriel often chose to keep a vigil in the chapel, and Dafydd had seen the pale, thin light of a candle shining from the window of the infirmary.

He was nearly healed and to stay longer would be foolishness. He had been relatively safe while Abbot Peter was alive and in charge of the Dominican monastery; unfortunately, the new abbot was an ambitious man who made no secret of his interest in worldly affairs of state. If Abbot Absalom realized they were harboring a Welsh rebel, he would not hesitate to turn the man over to the nearest Norman overlord.

Abbot Absalom had left that morning to attend a wedding that would unite two Norman families, apparently planning to pay visits to certain important lords and clergy along the way. No one would dare to enter the abbot’s cell during his absence, except perhaps a thief who needed to get back his sword, acquire some money for a long and difficult journey, and some clothing. If his luck held, it wouldn’t be until the abbot’s return that anyone would realize anything was missing.

The good brothers had saved his life, and he regretted rewarding them with thievery, but there was no help for it.

Nearby, one of the monastery’s placid donkeys shifted and a horse stamped its foot. Overhead, a mouse scampered through the hay, reminding Dafydd that he must not tarry.

Dafydd finished tying his meager pack to the back of the roan and led the beast from the stall. It was not an impressive animal, but he had chosen it more for stamina and strength than beauty, for he intended to ride north and west into Wales, to where the roads were not good and the way not easy, avoiding towns or villages or fellow travelers. He would also take care to skirt the land of Lord Trevelyan and his son-in-law, Morgan, who had good cause to remember Dafydd’s face.

Dafydd ap Iolo was going to get as far as he could into the most remote part of Wales. He would find a quiet, simple Welshwoman and have lots of children. He wanted no more of fighting and death and deprivation.

He simply wished to be left alone.

Gloucestershire, 1222

Madeline de Montmorency stared at the Mother Superior as if she did not believe her ears, which was indeed the case.

“I am sorry to have to inform you of this so bluntly,” Mother Bertrilde said, her voice as cold as the stone walls of her small, spartan chamber in the convent. “Your brother’s epistle has only just arrived.”

“I am to be married in a fortnight?” Madeline asked incredulously, hoping somehow that the notoriously serious Mother Superior was making a jest.

But no, she was not. “So your brother writes.”

Madeline shifted uneasily, trying to digest this unbelievable news. She had not seen her brother in ten years, ever since their parents died of a fever within days of each other. For months she had been expecting word from him, anticipating the day he would come to take her home, away from this convent and back into a world of freedom, color, laughter—not to another prison as the wife of a man she did not know. “Surely he would not decide such a thing without one word to me,” she protested. “Does he speak of a betrothal or—?”

“Unless I have lost the ability to read,” Mother Bertrilde said sternly, “I am certain the contract has already been signed. Since you are your brother’s ward, you should prepare to obey him.”

“But who is this Lord Chilcott? I have never even heard the name!” she cried, aghast at the horrible sense of finality in Mother Bertrilde’s face and voice.

“I have no idea, but I suppose he is of a wealthy family of noble blood. What more need you know?”

“Surely there must be a mistake! My brother has to be talking of a betrothal, not a wedding. I need more time—”

“Your brother writes that he will be arriving soon to take you to his home to prepare for your wedding,” Mother Bertrilde reiterated frigidly.

Madeline realized she had made a major error in even hinting that Mother Bertrilde could have made a mistake. “But this marriage is impossible,” Madeline pleaded, taking a different tack. “I thought to take my vows in a fortnight and I have been waiting longer than any of the other novices.”

While this was not strictly true, Madeline said it anyway. She had studied and pretended a deep interest in the contemplative life, if only to keep the curious sisters from speculating at her brother’s tardiness in sending for her.

Mother Bertrilde looked at her with an eyebrow so slightly raised that only a person who had been studying her expressions for years would have noticed the sign of severe displeasure. “I had hoped to tell you of my decision regarding that at a more appropriate time,” she said, without one ounce of genuine solicitude. “However, your brother has left me little time for tact. Madeline, I would not have allowed you to become a nun. Did it not occur to you that I was delaying because I was not certain of your vocation? The convent is no place for a woman of your temperament—”