The Welshman's Way

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.

“I suppose I should be grateful for that,” she muttered, managing to sound arrogantly ungrateful. “But I must find Roger.”

“To get to your wedding?” he asked impertinently.

“Yes, to get to my wedding,” she answered defiantly, as if she thought he would doubt her urgency.

Before he had any time to wonder at her reaction, there was a loud crack of thunder and a torrential rain began to pour down on their heads. The horse whinnied and shied nervously. Dafydd managed to grab hold of the dangling reins before the roan ran away. Clutching the animal’s bridle, he hurried to her and swiftly, and without so much as a word, lifted her onto the saddle and started to run through the mud, along the road and then through the trees toward the ruined farm he had noticed before. He soon reached it and hurried to the one hovel that still stood intact. The wide doors were held on by one hinge each and some of the timbers had fallen down, but the roof looked sound enough, and the horse would fit inside, too.

He paused to shove open the door and Lady Madeline quickly dismounted, immediately dashing inside. He followed, leading the horse through the entrance.

He scanned the tumbledown building composed of cob and thatch. A few parts of the roof were leaking, but otherwise it was quite dry. It smelled of hay and animals still, and he saw that the large room was divided into two by a partition.

He led the horse farther inside, surreptitiously making certain that the pack on the back of the saddle had not been disturbed.

She stood at the door, looking out at the steadily falling rain. “I must find my brother,” she announced again. “As soon as the rain ceases.”

He glanced at her, a little regretful that the vulnerable woman had disappeared, to be replaced once again by an arrogant noblewoman. She drew off her wimple. A cascade of long, thick, curling hair fell down her slender back nearly to her waist. God’s blessed blood, he had never seen hair like that. What would it feel like, what would it look like spread about her naked body?

Without the cloth bound around her face, her beauty was even more apparent. Her cheeks looked smooth and soft, her eyes clear and bright with intelligence, her lips inviting. It was no wonder Sir Roger would try to hide such beauty in the drab robes of a holy order.

Beautiful she was, yet there was something about her mouth suggestive of a strong, stubborn will. She had the proud carriage and demeanor that belonged to the conquering Normans, too. She had probably had her way in everything all her easy life. She would make some Norman a fine wife and together they would make a lot of little Norman children to control the land.

Dafydd brushed the horse with quick vigorous strokes. She might just as well be a nun for all he would ever have to do with her or her kind.

“I think the rain is getting worse,” she said accusingly, as if he were responsible for the weather. “We may have to stay the night.”

He pulled off his wet dalmatica and spread it out to dry. He had slept in worse places, and in worse weather, too. At least they had a roof over their heads.

He untied his pack and set it at his feet. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flint with which to build a fire. There were the remains of a round hearth in the other part of the building. He gathered some of the straw and a few pieces of wood that lay in the corner, all of which was extremely dry and caught easily. He grabbed his bundle and found the pieces of bread he had hidden in his bed during the last few days before he left the monastery.

She turned and looked at him as he bit into one of the small, round, stale loaves. The only noise disturbing the silence was the sound of the rain. It was late now, and the darkness outside had as much to do with the setting sun as it did with the clouds. Soon it would be too dark to travel, especially over wet roads.

As she stood there illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire, he became very aware that he was half-naked and alone with her.

She came toward him, eyeing him warily. Clearly she was no longer certain what kind of man he was, whether pilgrim or soldier or outlaw or peasant. Suspicious, yes, but not afraid, and he was pleased, although he knew it should not matter.

Still, she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he enjoyed the play of the light on her face and the intimacy of the moment.

She sat on the dirt floor opposite him. He handed her a piece of the bread and saw with some amusement that she was not pleased to be offered stale bread. Surprisingly, however, she said nothing, but started to eat, averting her eyes demurely as if he were a suitor and she a coy maiden being wooed.

That thought amused him greatly. He could not imagine a Norman wooing a woman, or certainly not properly, with eloquent words, or a love song, perhaps, and kisses begged in the dark shadows of a summer’s night. It was a pity, in a way, because he thought this woman might deserve such a wooing.

He had never actually wooed a woman himself. His life had been one of battles and skirmishes and hiding in the woods, his times with women frenzied moments of passion with a willing wench who thought it the height of excitement to make love with a rebel. He could barely remember most of them.

He noticed Lady Madeline was shivering and wondered if he should suggest she remove her damp clothes. An interesting idea, that.

“I have to find my brother,” she repeated defiantly, fortunately calling his thoughts away from contemplation of her as a woman to the necessity of helping her.

“Not on my horse,” he said.

Even her pout had a certain loveliness about it. “I assure you, whoever you are, that you will be suitably recompensed for that beast and your trouble. My brother is very wealthy. And very powerful.”

“Your betrothed is wealthy and powerful, too, no doubt.”