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The Welshman's Way
Margaret Moore


Reluctant Bride Never the docile, obedient maid, Madeline de Montmorency railed against her fate, proclaiming she'd not go willingly to the marriage bed of a stranger.Especially since her heart had chosen another alliance - with a man branded as an outlaw, and a thief! Rebel Outlaw Dafydd ap Iolo was weary of the fight until he laid eyes upon the fiery Lady Madeline.For here was the first Norman he'd no desire to call an enemy, and his longing for the green hills of Wales dimmed against the burning flame of their mutual desire.









The Welshman’s Way

Margaret Moore



















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Prologue (#u53174f6f-a98c-5fce-bf2f-c804b5cd6895)

Chapter One (#u888c93a1-01b1-5bad-928d-75ba0db3fdcb)

Chapter Two (#ue2b47be5-a183-5a32-b320-19d609b3f491)

Chapter Three (#u7be5ddc9-7f96-5675-b7af-769cd92815a0)

Chapter Four (#u1d1793f6-1e19-5247-8a92-2df0ae6e330c)

Chapter Five (#u7db6e682-461b-577d-bd36-e84de14e0721)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)




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


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—”

“My temperament?”

Mother Bertrilde’s expression would have been a scowl if she was not so adept at smiling when she felt anything but happy. “You are demonstrating your lack of suitability at this very moment. You are not humble. You will not submit your will to obedience. You are much too interested in worldly things.”

“But I—”

“Therefore, Madeline,” Mother Bertrilde continued, “I would suggest you prepare to leave with your brother and abide by the provisions he has made for you.”

“To further his own ends,” Madeline replied. How dare this reproving, unfeeling woman and her brother plan her life like this? She was no longer a child!

“Whatever his reasons, it is your duty to obey.”

“My duty is to marry a man I have never even seen?” she asked, venting her anger in sarcasm.

“What other choice do you have?” Mother Bertrilde demanded, clearly unmoved. “I cannot keep you here against your brother’s will.”

“Very well, I will leave,” Madeline said with a severity that did credit to the teacher standing before her. “If my piety and devotion and patience are to be rewarded by being cast out as if I were a leper, if you think I have no choice but to obey like some sheep, then I will gladly go—but not with my brother.”

Still Mother Bertrilde remained unimpressed. “With whom do you intend to travel? I assure you, I will provide no escort.”

“Then I will go without one.” Madeline took a step toward the heavy door.

At last Madeline’s determined words seemed to penetrate the Mother Superior’s facade of stone. “You are speaking nonsense, Madeline,” she admonished. “You cannot leave here by yourself. Not only would you be acting like a common peasant, but you would surely be killed, if not suffer a worse fate. The lands hereabouts are full of thieves and rebels.”

Madeline’s lip curled with haughty disdain. “What would be the difference, Mother, between being raped by an outlaw or by a man to whom I have been married against my will?” With that, she spun around and stepped toward the door, only to collide with a man’s broad, solid chest. Two strong hands reached out and pushed her back.

Madeline stared up at the man whose dark eyes glared at her and whose lean, hawklike face was reserved and forbidding. Indeed, he was a taller, broad-shouldered, harsher version of herself, with-out the softness of femininity to smooth his rough edges. “Roger?” she gasped.

“Madeline?” Roger de Montmorency, who was not known for the sweetness of his temper, looked over his sister’s head toward the black-garbed bulk that was the Mother Superior. “What is the meaning of this? She was to be ready to leave.”

Mother Bertrilde, who was more known for her strict adherence to the rules of her faith than a soft heart, glared back. “I regret,” she said insincerely, “that your messenger was delayed. He only arrived this morning.”

Roger turned to the nobleman standing behind him. He had iron gray hair and a careworn face, but there was youth in his eyes, and some sympathy, too. “Albert, find out what happened with Cedric. Then have one of the nuns gather up my sister’s belongings.” With a nod, the man moved to obey.

“I am not going with you,” Madeline announced, crossing her arms and frowning.

Roger looked at the sister he had not seen in so many years as she stood in the middle of the room. She was taller than he had expected, prettier, too, even in the plain habit of a nun. But those eyes, those angry, defiant bright blue eyes belonged to the Madeline he remembered, without a doubt. To think he had hoped that the nuns would have made her placid and pliable! “The arrangements have all been made. Prepare your things, Madeline,” he ordered. “We leave at once, for it will take some days to reach my castle.” He pulled a bag of coins from his belt. “This is to thank you for your trouble,” he said to the Mother Superior.

Mother Bertrilde frowned reproachfully. “I suggest you keep your money and give it to a priest to say intercessions for your immortal soul, since I must remind you that this is a convent, and in this convent, it is I who tell the nuns what to do. Not you and not your men.”

Roger de Montmorency was not impressed by the Mother Superior’s words or the angry expression on her face. He turned toward Madeline. “Come.”

“I told you, Roger, I am not going with you. I will not marry at your order, and certainly not a man who is a stranger to me.”

His sister’s anger made no impression on him, either. “I have not met Chilcott myself,” he said dismissively. “My overlord, Baron DeGuerre, wants our families to be united. You are my responsibility and you have no choice but to obey, in the same way that I strive to obey the baron. What my lord orders, I assure you, will come to pass.”

“I will leave when I am ready,” Madeline insisted, “and I will go anywhere but your castle.”

“Enough!” Roger bellowed. He had no time for arguments from Madeline or empty courtesies with the Mother Superior. His departure from his castle had been delayed, the torrential rains of early April had made the journey a nightmare and it was only a fortnight until the wedding was to take place.

Abruptly he grabbed Madeline’s arms, pulled her toward him and threw her over his shoulder. “You are ready now and you are going to my castle.” He turned toward the door, then, ignoring his sister’s struggles, he glanced back at the Reverend Mother. “One of my men will wait until her goods are prepared for the journey. Good day.”

Carrying his squirming sister as if she were a sack of grain, Sir Roger de Montmorency marched stoically from the room.

“Roger, stop!” Madeline demanded as he carted her along the stone corridor and out into the convent’s yard. To add to her humiliation, Madeline caught glimpses of curious women whispering together like little clusters of birds. “Let me go at once!”

Roger finally put her down. Flustered, Madeline straightened her belt and glared at him. “How dare you! How dare you treat me this way!”

“I dare because I am your elder brother,” he retorted. “How dare you try to disobey me!”

“You can’t simply order me to marry this Chilblain—”

“Chilcott. And yes, I can.”

Madeline became aware of the sudden silence and glanced around the yard. Several of the sisters were unabashedly staring, their eyes wide and their mouths open.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to wait until they were away from this place, where she could argue with Roger in peace. “We shall continue this discussion later, dear brother,” she said, smiling sweetly.

His expression grew hard and was completely without sympathy. “There is nothing to discuss, Madeline. Not now, and not ever. I have given Chilcott my word that you will be his wife.”

With that, he turned and left her standing in the courtyard while he bellowed for his men.

* * *

Dafydd was finally beginning to feel that he would not get caught and be condemned to death as a thief. At first, he had kept in the forest, riding parallel to the road, where the going was not easy. This morning, he had decided to risk the easier travel along the road, at least for a little while.

He was even feeling somewhat happy for the first time since he had awakened to find himself weak and helpless in a Norman monastery. He had no clear idea how he had managed to get so far from the Welsh border. He vaguely remembered crawling and stumbling away from the place where Morgan had left him to die. At the time, he certainly had no care for what direction he took, as long as it was away from Morgan’s land. He knew, from listening to Father Gabriel and the others at the monastery, that he had been found near death by a traveling monk who brought him to the monastery on the back of his donkey. Over time, Dafydd had come to believe that he was several miles to the east of the border, and not nearly as far from Morgan and Trevelyan as he could hope.

Still, he was free, and getting closer to Wales with every step.

The scent of wet earth and damp foliage filled his nostrils, a pleasant change from the medicinal smells of the infirmary. He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair, enjoying the feel of the warm spring sun upon him although the woolen dalmatica made him swelter and wish for other garments. Surely he would fool no one into believing he was a holy brother, even if was wearing one of their robes, with his hair and his build and his wound that could only have come from battle. However, he had had no alternative, except to go nearly naked.

He glanced up at the sky and saw a gathering of dark clouds, which signaled a change in the weather. There had been many storms and much rain of late, and the roads were muddy and treacherous. Still, he would welcome these clouds if they heralded a cool breeze.

On the horizon, he could see the beginnings of the higher ground that was the first hint of the terrain he knew. In a couple of days, he would be nearer to the mountains of Wales, although he had other hills and valleys to cross first.

He tried to recall what he had heard the holy men saying about the lands surrounding the monastery. At first, he had not understood their language, but eventually he had come to be able to guess at most of what they said. If they surmised he was not a Norman or a Saxon, they kept their suppositions to themselves, while he had used the time to learn as much as he could of their language, in order to protect himself. However, he never actually said a word and, wisely, the brothers allowed him to remain silent.

He thought about the villages and manors the brothers had talked of. There was a village not many miles away, in the northerly direction he was taking. He thought it was small, from the way they spoke. It was tempting to go there, to get some more appropriate clothing and food, and yet this horse he had taken was rather distinctive looking, in a homely way.

While he was still trying to make up his mind, he came to a fork in the road. What was obviously the main road went straight on ahead; another, narrower and less-used way veered to the west. He was tempted to turn along it, until he recalled that a Norman manor belonging to someone named Sir Guy was said to be slightly to the north and west of the monastery. Dafydd gathered the holy men did not like the Norman nobleman. Lustful, he seemed to recall they said of him. Well, what Norman wasn’t, whether for women or power or wealth?

Still, he had no wish to encounter any noble Normans. Most of the overlords in this area, the border lands between Wales and the rest of England, were harsh and brutal men, given a free hand from the king to do whatever they felt necessary to subdue any Welshmen who dared to rise against them. Dafydd knew all too well what they would do to him if they caught him.

He passed by what appeared to be an abandoned farm. Two burned shells of buildings gave evidence of some disaster, and Dafydd’s lips curled in disgust, for he did not doubt that he was looking at some Norman’s handiwork. Perhaps the poor peasant had been unable to pay his tithe, or had once been of an important family and could not mask the pride that he still bore. Maybe he had had a pretty daughter who was not flattered by a Norman’s attentions,

Dafydd shook his head to clear it of such thoughts, and instead wondered just how far away lay the castle of Lord Trevelyan and the manor of Morgan, the Welshman who had married Trevelyan’s daughter. He would have to find out, and take great care that he came not near there. If he was recognized, his freedom would not last long beyond that moment.

Dafydd decided he would stay on the road until he drew near to the village. It was a bit risky, but the way was much easier on the road, and the air cooler. Once near the village, he would take greater care, although he did hope that he would be able to venture into an alehouse to get a better grasp of which way to go and purchase some other garments.

The road entered a narrow valley, heavily forested. Fallen leaves from years gone by made a thick covering on the road, which deadened the sound of his horse’s hooves. Young ferns were appearing at the edge of the way, and wildflowers provided a splash of yellow and pink. A slight breeze stirred the newly budding branches, and despite the springtime beauty, Dafydd’s first thought was that the dead leaves and rustle of the branches would effectively mask the sound of creeping men. In fact, this place was an ideal spot for an ambush. He had little enough to tempt thieves, but he knew there were many men who had even less. They would not care who they robbed and murdered, either, whether Norman or Welsh, noble or peasant.

Dafydd scanned the trees, trying to discover by senses too little used of late if he was being watched.

He never should have remained in the monastery as long as he did. He had grown too soft.

Suddenly he paused, cocked his head and listened. From somewhere up ahead came the familiar sounds of metal on metal and the shouts of men in battle.

Sliding from his horse, he pulled his sword from the scabbard tied onto his saddle. The road curved off to his right, around the wooded rise. If he went straight up the rise and through the trees, he might be able to see what was happening on the other side without being noticed. It was not his desire to interfere, simply to see who was fighting and how it might affect his own progress. He led the horse into some covering underbrush and began to move cautiously through the trees.

His long, cumbersome woolen robe got caught on a bramble bush. He paused to untangle it, and it was then he heard the woman’s terrified scream. For an instant, he was paralyzed, powerless like the boy he had been. An image, a name on his lips...and then he felt the hot blood of anger burst into his heart. With a curse, he tore off the garment, threw it onto the ground and dashed toward the top of the rise clad only in his linen breeches. When he was near the top, he began to creep forward slowly and stealthily, scanning the road below, his pulse throbbing through his body, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles were as white as a lamb’s fleece.

He could see what looked like a band of thieves attacking a small group of mounted travelers. The ragged, rough men on foot had surrounded two noblemen, one mounted woman—a nun, it seemed—and some armed soldiers. The nun’s horse pranced nervously, but she controlled it very well while the noblemen, surely Normans, fought with great skill and determination. He could tell from the calls, shouts and orders that the attackers were Welshmen. Dafydd did not think these men had any motive other than robbery, as three of them were swiftly making off with the pack animals and leaving the guards alive. If rebellion was their motive, they would have killed the soldiers.

Nor did he think the lady and her escort had much to fear. The Normans were skilled fighters and well armed. The thieves were only holding them off as best they could until the packhorses were gone.

With a shuddering sigh, Dafydd moved back, still watching, more from an interest in seeing the Normans’ fine swordsmanship than concern for any of the combatants.

And then one of the ragged band grabbed hold of the bridle of the nun’s horse before swinging himself onto the animal behind her. The woman screamed and one of the noblemen twisted to look at her as the outlaw kicked the horse to a gallop, back along the road in the direction from which Dafydd had come.

What did that fellow want with her? Ransom, perhaps, or something more?

Quickly Dafydd sprinted through the woods, ignoring the brambles scratching his naked chest, legs and arms. He ran as fast as he could to where his horse waited and then he stood perfectly still.

He heard something off to his right. A struggle. Harsh commands. Once more he plunged into the forest, following the noises. The achingly familiar noises, from the day his sister was raped and killed by the Norman soldiers who had murdered their parents. How Gwennyth had tried to fight them! They had not seen the boy hiding in the trees, alone. But Gwennyth had. In the moments before she died, she had turned her head and looked at him. He would never forget her pain-racked eyes, or that her last effort had been to mouth his name.

Dafydd came to a glade. The thief was there, the woman on the ground and struggling beneath him, screaming curses and trying to scratch the outlaw’s face.

Dafydd had been helpless to protect Gwennyth and his parents that terrible day. He was not helpless now, and whether this woman was Norman or Welsh did not matter, and whether this fellow merely wanted to hold her for ransom or not did not matter.

Dafydd ap Iolo, Welsh rebel and outlaw, a man who had been fighting the Normans since he was ten years old, forgot that he had decided his fighting days were finished. With a ringing battle cry, he raised his weapon and attacked.




Chapter Two


“How dare you lay a hand on me! My brother will kill you if you hurt me! How much do you want? Roger will pay!” Madeline cried as she struggled against her captor. Despite her fear and panic, she knew she was worth much more alive and unharmed than shamed and dead. She also realized that he was only slightly taller than she was, and although he was stronger, he was not much bigger.

He gripped her flailing arms tighter. “Useless it is to fight, woman,” he snarled in barely understandable Norman French, his Welsh accent strong and his voice guttural. “Or killing you I will be. Worth a lot, you are.”

Suddenly a bloodcurdling cry rent the air. For an instant, Madeline saw surprise in the outlaw’s face before he rolled off. Desperate to get away, Madeline twisted and crawled as quickly as her shaking legs would let her toward some large bramble bushes. If she could but get out of sight!

In her haste, she ignored the clang of sword on sword, the exchange of curt, unfamiliar words and what she was sure was Welsh profanity until she was in the cover of the bushes. Only then did she turn to look at who had come to her rescue.

It was not Roger. Or Sir Albert. Or anyone she had ever seen before. Her savior was dark, tall and nearly naked, well built, muscular and, by his stance, a man who knew how to fight. His long, black hair hung to his shoulders, obscuring much of his face. She felt as if some ancient warrior god of the Britons had come to life to save her.

Then, as he circled his foe, she saw that his broad right shoulder was marred by a massive scar and he bore the mark of another serious wound on his left side. Yet the most startling thing about him was the intense concentration and hard line of his mouth as he stared at his opponent. Even Roger had not looked so completely determined when the outlaws had attacked.

Whoever he was, wherever he came from, she had never been happier to see anyone in her life.

Her rescuer continued to circle the outlaw, his stance wary like a cat couched to spring. The outlaw, whom she now saw was but a youth, was on his feet and snarling like a cornered rat. The two opponents swayed from side to side, swords held in both hands low to the ground, waiting. Watching.

Abruptly the man raised his sword. The outlaw did likewise and the clash of the weapons resounded through the trees. The outlaw’s sword slid along the other’s blade, seemingly direct for the man’s chest. Madeline opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she did, the man twisted his hands, disengaging his weapon, stepped back and swung his sword in a great arc, striking the outlaw in the leg, the whole action accomplished before she could make any sound. Both men cried out and fell to the ground at the same time, the outlaw clutching his bleeding leg and the other his shoulder.

The outlaw’s wound was not a severe one, however, and he lifted his sword and ran straight at his adversary as the man staggered to his feet. The man moved to avoid the blow, then swung his sword again.

He missed. But as the outlaw ran by, he stuck out his foot, tripping the fellow, who sprawled in the dirt. When the outlaw tried to get up, the other man lifted his sword and struck him on the head with the hilt. With a low moan, the outlaw slumped unconscious to the ground.

The other man dropped his weapon and stood panting heavily, his hands on his knees. Sweat dripped from his forehead and muscular chest, and his shoulder-length hair still shrouded his face.

Madeline crept out of the underbrush. Unsure what to do now, she tugged her wimple back into place, adjusted her disheveled clothing and tried to regain some measure of self-possession. She kept her eyes on the stranger, however, wary of him. Mother Bertrilde had painted the world outside the convent walls as filled with all manner of evils and evil men, and after what had just happened, Madeline was not so inclined to view Mother Bertrilde’s ideas with as much skepticism as had been her wont.

After a long moment broken only by the man’s panting, he raised his eyes and looked at her. Suddenly her heart started to pound as if she had been the one doing battle. What a strange expression was in his dark, piercing eyes! As if he were surprised to see her there, and yet, had he not deliberately come to her rescue? Risked his own life for hers?

She quickly told herself that she felt so oddly because she had never seen such a man in all her cloistered life. What was it about him that affected her so? He was undeniably handsome, with his dark, searching eyes, and his relaxed lips had a sensuous quality she had rarely seen before. But there were handsome men in her brother’s entourage. He was possessed of undeniable strength and had wielded his sword with what she knew had to be great skill. Yet her brother and other men had strength and skill.

He had more than all that. In a way, he seemed almost savage in his ferocity, but he was too controlled to be brutally cruel. She did not doubt that he could have killed the outlaw with ease, yet he had not.

Perhaps it was only that he had come to her aid. No, there was something more, something personal in the intense dark eyes that moved her beyond admiration for a handsome face, strong body and battle prowess, and gratitude.

His expression changed, altered into something that made her curious and excited and overwhelmed, all at once. Then she knew, without any doubt and although she had spent the last years of her life in the exclusive company of women and the old priest who came to say mass at the convent, that this man, this warrior, was looking at her not as a student or a novice, or as a highborn noblewoman. He was regarding her simply as a woman. It was so new, so intoxicating...so wonderful. “Who...who are you?” she asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

He blinked, rose slowly until he stood upright and started to walk away. His dismissive action recalled her attention to her perilous situation, although she found she no longer feared him. After all, he had helped her and was prepared to leave her, so he obviously had nothing to do with the attack.

“I thank you, sir, for your aid,” she said, hurrying after him. “My brother will be happy to reward you.”

He kept walking, as if he intended to leave her there, with the unconscious thief and who knew how many conscious ones lurking nearby. She grabbed his arm. He glanced at her, then her hand and she flushed and stepped away. “I have to get back to my brother.”

He made no answer, although his dark gaze didn’t leave her face.

“Will you not help me? I...I do not know where I am and there may be other thieves about.”

He started to walk again.

She quickly circled around him. “What about that outlaw? We cannot leave him there like that. He should at least be bound, should he not?”

The man only shook his head and kept going. She trotted after him, puzzled by his behavior. Surely he had not saved her only to abandon her to her fate.

They reached an incredibly ugly roan horse placidly tearing up grass near a large oak as if nothing of any significance had happened. The man reached down and picked up a garment, which he pulled over his head.

Her nerves strained, her breathing coming in labored pants, Madeline had had enough. “Sir! I am Lady Madeline de Montmorency and I demand that you assist me to return to my brother and his men. I am very grateful to you, of course, but truly—” She finally noticed what he was wearing. “You are a priest?”

He did not respond, except with another silent stare.

“Or a lay brother, perhaps. Yes, that’s it, surely. A lay brother. No priest could wield a sword like that. You must have been a soldier. But why...oh, I understand!” she surmised, calling to mind some stories she had heard in the convent. “You are under a vow of silence. For penance?”

When he made no sign of giving her the courtesy of an answer of some kind, Madeline bristled. “Sir, I do not know who you are, but I know full well that I do not deserve to be ignored in this manner. However, do not answer if it suits your purpose and I will assume I have surmised correctly.” She ran her gaze over the horse and the pack tied onto it. “And I believe you are going on a pilgrimage as part of your penance. Whatever it is you are doing, sir,” she went on with great formality, “I will require your assistance to return to my brother and his men, who I’m certain would have rescued me if you had not.”

Dafydd regarded this astounding woman standing before him. As he had raced to help her, a part of him had been impressed that she had the strength to fight and the will to curse her attacker. Then, when he had won his battle and had time to really look at her, he had been startled by two things. The first was her beauty; the second was that this beauty was encased in the vestments of a novice in a convent.

For a moment, he had feared she had been injured or was going to faint, for her complexion was unnaturally pale. When she did not, he credited her with more inner strength and ability to recover quickly than most noblewomen possessed, until it had become quite apparent that she was not only recovered—if her sharp tongue was any guide—but she was ungrateful, too. Apparently she accepted his rescue as a natural right, and not only that, he should be willing—nay, anxious—to take her back to her brother.

He had to be on his way, out of Norman territory and on to Wales. He had no wish to play nursemaid to some Norman noblewoman, especially not the haughty sister of Sir Roger de Montmorency, a man who was notoriously ruthless with Welsh rebels. Next to Morgan, he was the one man Dafydd knew he should avoid at all costs.

God’s holy rood, who would have guessed that he would find himself in such a predicament? There was no way under God’s heaven that he could go anywhere near Sir Roger de Montmorency. Nor could he leave her alone in the forest, tempting though it was. There were too many dangers for a lone woman.

His shoulder ached fiercely and he was dead tired. He never should have interfered. The poor young fool who lay unconscious on the ground back there surely only wanted some ransom money and wouldn’t have really hurt her. Nevertheless, he supposed he could take this woman somewhere...neutral. Sir Guy’s manor, perhaps. It would be risky, but certainly less dangerous than riding up to Sir Roger de Montmorency.

Lady Madeline began to tap her foot impatiently. “Will you please be so kind as to accompany me back to my brother’s party?” she repeated insistently, glaring at him with enormous blue eyes that betrayed every emotion like a signpost. “I am quite sure he has sent the rest of this rabble packing as easily as you dispatched that miscreant.”

Dafydd frowned, even though he agreed with her. The Welshmen would be long gone, although they were probably not very far away. They would be waiting for the young fool who had taken it into his head to try for ransom. A Norman lady would be worth a great ransom, and so the risk.

Yes, as an object for ransom, she was quite valuable. To him, too. Why, he could get enough silver to live as well as any nobleman. He turned away, in case his eyes were no more inscrutable than hers.

“Roger will pay you for your trouble, or at least see that you have a decent horse.”

Reward money was less risky than a ransom, he realized. Still, any contact at all with Normans was to be avoided. He decided to follow his original plan and see that the lady got to the nearby manor, then he would be on his way.

Without speaking, he grabbed Lady Madeline around the waist and hoisted her onto the beast she spoke of so scornfully.

No doubt she would not be so quick to insult it when she realized the only alternative was to walk. Dafydd mounted behind her and reached around to pick up the reins, his arms encircling her shapely body. He turned his horse in the direction from which he had come and nudged the horse into a walk. At that precise moment, he realized something else.

It had been much too long since he had had a woman. The whole time he had been in the monastery, he had not so much as seen one, let alone touched one.

He was certainly touching one now. Not just any one, either.

Lady Madeline de Montmorency was extremely lovely, with her rose-tinted cheeks, large cornflower blue eyes beneath shapely brown brows, a delicate nose and finely formed chin, the edge of which he could see if he leaned slightly forward. Her lips were lovely, too. He leaned forward again, enjoying the subtle contact that sent a rush of hot blood through his veins.

She even smelled good. Like fruit. What would happen if he tried to take a little taste....

This arrogant Norman creature would surely snap his head off if he so much as touched her cheek, but she was as beautiful as she was proud. Maybe the aftermath would be worth the kiss.

No, he should just ignore her, with her beautiful Norman face, her scornful Norman blue eyes, and her Norman lips.

He wondered about her clothing. She was attired as a nun, but she acted nothing like the nuns he had ever seen or met. Perhaps her clothing was some kind of disguise to ward off unwanted attention. Yes, a brother might think that way, especially if the sister was as lovely as this.

Lady Madeline de Montmorency. Her name seemed slightly familiar. Because of her more famous brother? No...the marriage the abbot was attending...was not de Montmorency one of the parties? Yes, that was it.

So, this woman was due to be married soon. Heaven help the man she wed! He would have a shrew on his hands.

A low rumble of thunder sounded in the sky. He glanced upward. It would soon be night, and the sooner he got Lady Madeline de Montmorency off his hands, the sooner he could be on his way.

* * *

“This is not the right way.” Madeline twisted in the saddle to look into the man’s inscrutable face. “We passed this way some time ago, my brother and I. I recognize that ruined building. You have made a mistake. My brother is the other way,” she said firmly.

The pilgrim frowned and shook his head.

Although she had no wish to return to her brother’s castle or obey his edict about her future, she had no idea where this pilgrim was taking her, if pilgrim he was. Perhaps she had exchanged one abductor for another, the garment only a sham, her mind clouded by the comeliness of the fellow. She could not believe that whoever or whatever this man was, he posed any direct danger, or he would have acted before this. Nevertheless, it could be that in revealing her identity, she had made an incredible blunder. As an object for ransom, she would be worth much. “I am right,” she insisted.

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.




Chapter Three


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.

“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.”

“Yes.”

Despite the lift of her shapely chin, he thought she was not quite sure about that. Interesting. Unimportant, but interesting.

He held out another crust of bread and Madeline gingerly lifted it from his fingers, then sat down as far away from the fellow as possible while remaining as close as she could to the heat of the flames. To her chagrin, the nearly naked man grinned at her. A devilish grin it was, too, and she wondered how she could ever have surmised that he had taken holy orders.

She looked away, determined not to look at his face anymore, or that horrible scar on his shoulder, or wonder how anyone could survive to bear such a mark. She wished he would put his robe back on.

She forced herself to think about what to do next. She had no idea how to proceed in this particular, strange and foreign situation. For the past ten years, every moment of her life had followed an established pattern and been lived among the same people whose habits, likes and dislikes were as well-known to her as her own. Then, there had been the news of her impending marriage, Roger’s arrival and her abrupt departure from the convent, the attack, her rescue and now here she sat, afraid to be so close to this muscular stranger who was not Norman, yet more afraid to leave this fellow’s presence and go out into the rain and the unknown.

But should she, perhaps, be so ready to believe his reassurances about Roger? The outlaws had outnumbered them, after all. Perhaps Roger was lying wounded somewhere, bleeding and in pain.... Just because she had not been able to convince him to at least postpone the wedding until she had met her future husband did not mean that she had ceased to care for her one and only living relative.

Indeed, if Roger was not hurt, why had he not come to find her? Surely he would be searching for her, if he was able to. Even if he cared for her only as an instrument to fulfill his plans. Or especially if he considered her in such a light.

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?”

“We have heard nothing.”

“I pray Chilcott does not hear of this. Or Baron DeGuerre.”

“Should your concern not be for your sister’s safe return?” Father Gabriel asked softly.

Roger saw the rebuke in the man’s eyes. “Of course I am worried about her, man! Leave me now!”

The tone of command was unmistakable, and Father Gabriel wisely did not linger.

“Surely there will be no need to inform your sister’s betrothed,” Albert said placatingly. “At least we have not found her body. It may be that she managed to escape and is now—”

“Lost in the forest? Small comfort there, Albert! I will lead the search for her myself.” Roger threw off the bedclothes, set his feet on the ground and stood up.

Then Sir Roger de Montmorency fell back onto the bed in a dead faint, his face so pale that Albert ran down the corridor shouting for Father Gabriel.




Chapter Four


Madeline inched her way forward, hardly daring to take a breath, although the rise and fall of the Welshman’s broad, naked chest gave her assurance that he still slept. When she had first awakened and realized he was sleeping and that the rain had ceased, she had been tempted to run away, until she realized she had no idea where she was. She might find herself lost in the woods, the very same woods that harbored the outlaws who had attacked their party yesterday. Therefore, she had decided upon a different course of action.

Ever so carefully, she pulled the sword away from the Welshman’s loosened grip. There! She had it! She lifted it cautiously, amazed at the weight and the beauty of the design, and wary of its sharpened edge. Then, taking a deep breath, she placed it against the Welshman’s collarbone.

He opened his eyes—and was instantly awake. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his accent strong in his surprise. He shifted ever so slightly.

“I want you to answer my questions. I want to know who you are.” She shoved the tip forward a little to show that she expected answers, not grins.

“David,” he replied. “My name is David.”

“Very well, David, if that is truly your name and I do not fully believe it is, what are you doing dressed in a priest’s robe?”

“I told you, a pilgrimage I am making.”

“To where?”

“Canterbury.”

“Why then are you not heading south?”

“I...visit family first.”

“And you are from Cornwall?”

“Yes.”

“You are lying to me, David.”

He didn’t reply.

“We had Welsh girls serving us in the convent. I recognize the accent. What else have you lied about? That you mean me no harm?”

“That is the truth. I will not hurt you.”

Whatever else he said, she believed this. She saw the truth of it in his eyes and heard the sincerity in his voice, utilizing the several subtle skills developed in the convent, where some tried to gain superiority by claiming extraordinary piety or to gain favor with the Mother Superior. Madeline had learned to detect hypocrisy and deceit. She saw none of that when he said he would not harm her.

Even more importantly, there was something else in his eyes when he looked at her. Not fear, because she held a sword at his throat, but a kind of grudging respect, all the more rewarding because she suspected he did not give that easily, not to a Norman, and not to a woman, probably, either. “Shall I tell you what I think, David?” she asked, her tone lighter than before although still serious. “I think you are a soldier of some kind, or you were. You are no longer, because of that wound to your shoulder, or else you are traveling in disguise. I also realize that you do not like Normans. So, you are a Welshman who can fight who doesn’t like Normans. Are you, by any chance, a rebel?”

“If I am,” he said with a mocking smile, “do you think me stupid enough to admit it?”

She rose, her hands still wrapped around the grip of the sword. He rubbed his throat, watching her. “I am telling you what I suspect to prove a point. I do not care who you really are, or what you may have done. I have no interest in the truth about you beyond its pertinence to my safety.” That was not strictly true, but there was no point in letting him know that she was curious about him. “Nothing about you matters to me, as long as you assist me.”

“I said I would, but I will not take you to your brother. He hates the Welsh.”

Madeline did not respond to his blunt observation, because she didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, she could no longer be sure of anything about her brother. He seemed to have changed very much in the past ten years, and it could be that this fellow understood Roger better than she.

“And I would not be keen to have my brother see me with a lone Welshman for my escort, if I were you,” he said wryly. “Think of the scandal, my lady.”

Madeline’s eyes widened and she forgot to hide a smile of sudden excitement. Of all things, she had not considered what might happen if she returned to Roger and let it be known she had spent the night alone with a man. And worse, from Roger’s point of view, at least, a Welshman who might very well be a rebel. A scandal might be the very thing to prevent a wedding.

Then she frowned. As much as she did not like the idea of marrying Chilcott, she was not certain she was willing to lose her reputation to prevent it. Then she realized the Welshman was smiling at her. “You must have been a very poor soldier, David, to let a woman sneak up on you,” she remarked calmly.

“Give me the sword before you hurt yourself,” he said, rising.

“No.”

As she backed away, still keeping the weapon pointed at him, he suddenly dove for her, knocking the sword from her hand and sending it skittering across the packed earth of the floor. He landed on top of her and knocked the wind out of her.

“Why didn’t you run when you saw I was asleep, Lady Madeline de Montmorency?” Dafydd asked. He drew back a little and looked at her, aware of her body beneath him and his proximity to her luscious lips.

“I need an escort and, unfortunately, you are the only one available.”

“Not much cause to help you, maybe, if you put my sword at my throat,” he noted dryly.

“I wanted to know who you are.”

“I am your escort. That will have to do.”

“I suppose,” she said, pouting. She gave him a sidelong glance that was at once proud and impertinent, questioning and very enticing. “Will you please get off me? You are...”

“What?” he asked softly, leaning forward so that his lips were close to hers. “What am I, my lady?”

Gently he kissed her. At first, he simply enjoyed the long-denied sensation of a kiss. And then, miraculously, wonderfully, he realized she was returning his kiss, with a tentative innocence that bespoke passion awakening. The notion that he could inspire such a feeling within her increased his own ardor. His tongue tenderly yet insistently probed her lips, until they parted for him.

When his tongue thrust slowly inside her mouth, Madeline could scarcely comprehend the host of feelings struggling within her. The foremost was nearly overpowering surprise. Touch of any kind was forbidden in the convent, even to the touch of a hand when passing food. The kiss alone had been intoxicating; this was beyond that, sending her spinning into a realm so exciting that she could barely think beyond the pleasure as his lips moved over hers, delightfully slowly, firm and possessive.

And if a kiss could make her feel that way, what of the other things some of the other girls had spoken of, secret things, whispered about in the corner of the garden when the holy sisters were not near?

Heady with the excitement, Madeline clutched his muscular shoulders, his flesh hot beneath her hands, and instinctively began to undulate beneath him.

He had saved and protected her. He would help her still. He was strong, handsome, virile. A warrior.

And then she felt his hand upon her breast. Startled, she thrust him back. “Stop!” she cried, surprised and horrified not so much by his unexpected action as by her own lack of self-control. This was too much intimacy, too soon. What she felt must be lust, could only be lust. Blushing with shame, she shoved him away. “Stop that!”

Indeed, his grin could have been lust personified. “You like being kissed.”

“No, I do not.” She squirmed beneath him, trying to make him let her up.

In response, he moved his hips, the slight motion awakening a yearning so strong she could scarcely believe it.

She lay still, staring up at him, horrified. “I...I want to be a nun!”

“I thought you were getting married.”

“Yes. No. Get off me!”

“Very well.” Mercifully he rolled away. “You want to live among women for the rest of your days?”

“Yes.”

“That would be a great waste,” he murmured, smiling at her as he rose slowly and reached for the dalmatica.

“How dare you!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet. “I am betrothed!”

He pulled on his garment, then faced her, his expression unreadable. “How dare you?” he asked coolly.

“Me? It was you! You knocked me down, you—”

“If you do not wish to be kissed, do not look at a man that way. If you are indeed betrothed, you should act like it.”

She drew herself up. “What `way’ did I look at you? And I am acting like a betrothed woman! I keep asking you to take me back to my brother.” She had merely regarded him as she would any other man...hadn’t she?

“Are you trying to say you did not enjoy the kiss?”

“No, I did not! I could not enjoy the embrace of a...of a peasant!”

“You do not know I am a peasant.”

“You are not a nobleman.”

His infuriating smile broadened.

“Do you intend to help me or not?”

“I said I would, so I will.”

“Then you will please have the goodness to stay far away from me.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“I’m hungry. What is there to eat?”

He pulled out yet another piece of stale bread from his pack and tossed it at her. She caught it just before it landed on the ground and then watched as he picked up his weapon and walked toward the horse. “We should go soon,” he said.

She took a bite of the bread and marveled that her teeth did not remain behind. Chewing slowly and avoiding meeting his gaze, she nodded. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No.” He saddled the horse and tied on his pack. She kept silent as she ate and watched him. He was no nobleman, say what he would. He couldn’t be.

And he should not have kissed her. It was all his impertinent doing. Indeed, she would do well to be rid of his company. Truly, she did not enjoy his lips upon hers. How could she? He had taken a great liberty.

Would he try to take another such liberty before he left her?

“We must go.”

His blunt words roused her from her reverie. Brushing the crumbs from her garment, she joined him as he left the byre. Outside, the sky was cloudy, yet she did not think it would rain again soon. Puddles were plentiful, however, and the leaves of the trees still dripped. All in all, the scene before her was as dismal as her future if she returned to her brother.

But she had to find out what had happened to Roger—Roger, whom she had almost forgotten, just because this rascal claimed that her brother was probably uninjured.

The Welshman linked his hands together and waited, crouched beside the horse. Obviously the intention was that she should ride, so she placed her foot in his hands and let him lift her onto the saddle. Then she waited with bated breath for him to join her. She could almost feel his body behind hers, touching her, and told herself that she was dreading the contact.

He did not mount the horse. Instead, he took hold of the horse’s bridle and began to walk toward the road.

“Where are we going?” she asked coldly.

“To a Norman’s manor I know of.”

“Whose manor is it?”

“Sir Guy.”

“Sir Guy?” There was something vaguely familiar about the name, but Guy was common enough. “Is that all of his name you know?”

“Yes.”

“How is it you are welcome at a Norman’s manor?”

“Would you rather I left you to find another escort, my lady?”

There was nothing she could say to that, so she fell silent. After all, she needed to be safe and she needed to find Roger. She couldn’t do that by herself. Surely a Norman nobleman would be better able to help her accomplish those tasks than this mysterious Welshman.

* * *

The shaded, narrow road to Sir Guy’s manor wound through the thick forest of oak and beech, pine and hawthorn. The sky was gray and thick clouds had blocked out even the midday sun. The air was close, rank with the smell of damp underbrush and decaying foliage. All was still and quiet, and not even a bird’s song interrupted the silence. No bright spring flowers pushed their way to the sunlight here. It was as if they had stepped into a bard’s tale of a forest under the spell of a witch or evil sorcerer.

As Dafydd plodded along beside the roan, he told himself he was glad he would soon be far away from Lady Madeline de Montmorency. Either she could have taught Delilah a thing or two about seduction, or she was the innocent creature she claimed to be. That look, as she lay beneath him, that sultry, pouting glance at once dismissive and challenging—was it art, or was it a natural response? Whatever it was, he would have been more than mortal to resist kissing those full, red lips.

And no matter how much she tried to deny it, she had responded. Oh, he might have startled her at first, but soon enough she was eagerly kissing him back.

God’s wounds and blessed blood, what kind of trouble had he gotten himself into this time? She was a Norman and the sister of a man hated by the Welsh.

Just as he despised all Normans. He could see good cause for his hatred, too, the few times there was a break in the trees. Ragged, bowed peasants worked narrow strips of farmland. They all looked old, thin and sickly, barely able to work. The buildings he spied were little better than the byre in which he and Lady Madeline had spent the night. And strangely, he saw not one young person, nor any child. All was back-bent, joyless silence and hard toil.

Dafydd desperately tried to recall what the holy men had said of Sir Guy. That they did not approve of him had been easy to guess, but he had put that down to the naïveté of men who lived a sheltered, chaste life. Was there more to it? Was Sir Guy a greedy, cruel master who kept men and women working past their prime, when they should have been resting and sleeping in the springtime sun? Had something occurred to drive all the younger people, who could travel with greater ease, away from this place?

He did not know, and there was no one he could ask. Lady Madeline was obviously ignorant of Sir Guy’s existence, not surprising considering she had spent the past years of her life in cloistered seclusion.

Just as she was apparently ignorant of her effect upon him.

“Has there been famine?” Lady Madeline asked with pity when they passed another group of ancient peasants. “Mother Bertrilde often said the world was a harsh place of disease and lack of food. Sometimes I thought she said such things to keep us content within the walls of the convent.”

“No famine.”

“But these people...”

“Peasants, they are, my lady. Have you never seen peasants before?”

“Not like these.” Clearly she was as puzzled as he.

It could be that he was making a mistake heading this way, Dafydd thought. What if Sir Guy recognized him for a Welshman and probably a rebel as easily as Lady Madeline? If the man’s treatment of his peasants was anything to go by, he would get no mercy from Sir Guy.

Dafydd decided he would send Lady Madeline toward the manor alone once he could see it. That would be the least risky thing to do.

Suddenly he felt a sharp tug on the lead at the same time he heard Lady Madeline’s startled gasp. His gaze followed her shaking finger pointing at something hanging from a tree some distance away, like a grotesque pennant. “What...what is it?” she asked in whisper.

“A body,” he replied stonily. He had, unfortunately, seen such things before. “It is a corpse, probably some poor soul convicted of a crime, hung and left to rot as an example of Norman justice.”

“There are so many!”

He turned his attention from her beautiful, horrified face and looked along the way. Yes, there were other such examples of Norman justice. The sight sickened him and he quickened his pace. He had no wish to be in the presence of such things any longer than need be.

“They must have done something terrible,” his companion said quietly.

“Perhaps this one stole some food, or got caught poaching one too many times,” he answered grimly, nodding at the first body they passed.

“But this is so terrible! Will they get a proper burial soon?” He could barely hear Lady Madeline’s question, for she held her sleeve against her face because of the stench.

“I doubt it.”

“Blessed Holy Mother! That is more than unjust.”

He paused a moment to look back at her. “It is the Norman way, my lady. Ask your brother about it when you see him.”

“Roger would not do such a terrible thing.”

Dafydd commenced walking again. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. I have not seen him in ten years, but he cannot have changed that much,” she replied, willing herself to believe it. “He would punish wrongdoing. It is his duty. But to leave the body—no, Roger would not do that.”

“Ask him.”

“I will. And I will tell Sir Guy to take these down at once.”

Dafydd’s step faltered. He could believe she would do that, which would surely be a mistake. Any lord whose peasants appeared so completely downtrodden and whose vengeance extended to the display of corpses would surely not take kindly to an order from anyone. Lady Madeline’s offended sensibilities would give her request just such an unwelcome tone.

The trees thinned and Dafydd realized the road was leading down into a wide, rocky valley. The sun was low on the horizon, for a brief time finally visible as it traveled below the edge of the clouds and the earth. Its final rays colored the clouds with a fiery red, like bright blood on a gray tunic. In the valley, a mist was rising and ahead, shrouded by the damp swirling air, he could see a large, walled manor. The valley seemed oddly lifeless, the manor grim as a crypt.

Perhaps it would be wiser to turn back and go to the village, he thought as they came to the end of the trees. Although he stood a greater chance of getting caught with his stolen goods there, and although it meant an even longer journey in Lady Madeline’s company, it might be the wiser course. Lady Madeline would protest, but that was of no consequence. He felt in his bones that they would both be safer in a village. Even if he was apprehended there, the holy brothers would surely have more mercy on him than this Sir Guy.

Then, through the trees behind him, he heard the sounds of hoofbeats and men shouting as they galloped along the road. For a moment, his Welsh blood conjured up images of ghostly riders, demons loosed from hell to wreak havoc on earth. That vision was swiftly replaced by a sudden urgent desire to get away from this place.

Before he could turn the horse, a group of about twenty men appeared, the noise they made nearly as dreadful as the silence had been before. The troop was not as large as he expected from the noise. Still, they easily outnumbered him. They all rode superb horses and wore expensive cloaks trimmed with fur against the chill evening air.

Dafydd knew they were trapped. They could not turn back now without being seen, or indeed without these fellows blocking their way.

Not daring to look at Lady Madeline, he waited for her to proclaim her identity. She would be safe enough, while these men would try to take him. Thank God he was near the wood. He had been chased many times, and never caught. Hopefully he could get away quickly and—

Lady Madeline was still silent, even as the man at the head of the group spied them and pulled his magnificent black stallion to a stop. He was of middle age, handsome in a narrow-eyed, sleek way, very finely dressed and well armed, as were his companions. He ran his gaze over them in a questioning, impertinent manner that instantly disgusted Dafydd, and he could guess that the fellow would meet with a rebuke from Lady Madeline, who was of at least an equal rank with this man, who had to be Sir Guy.

Dafydd glanced at Lady Madeline and had to suppress an exclamation of surprise. She looked so different! She slouched in the saddle, her posture a caricature of her former upright position. Somehow she had pulled a few strands of her hair loose, so that she looked unkempt. The most surprising thing, however, was her idiotic smile and the vacuous expression in her eyes.

What was she doing?

“How now?” the newcomer said with the languid drawl of a well-bred Norman. “What have we here?”

“I am Sister Mary of the Holy Wounds,” Lady Madeline announced brightly, her tone high and rather shrill—and completely new to Dafydd. “I simply cannot tell you how happy I am to encounter gentlemen before the sun sets! And so many, and so well armed. Oh, yes, indeed, it is quite a relief. I was so afraid I would have to spend another night in the forest, on the ground, with bugs and animals and I don’t know what all crawling around! It’s terrible, I assure you. God has surely answered my prayers, and so well, too—”

“Greetings, Sister Mary,” the leader said when she paused to take a breath. He was surveying her with a somewhat less enthusiastic air, which pleased Dafydd. Still, the manner of this man and his friends remained rude and impertinent, and there was something unsavory about them. He wondered if Lady Madeline had chosen this ruse because she thought so, too. “I am Sir Guy de Robespierre.”

“Ah! I thought so! Charmed to meet you, Sir Guy, absolutely charmed! By the holy martyrs, who ever would have thought a pilgrimage would be so difficult! Such accommodations as we have had to endure, although all in the name of holiness, of course.” Sir Guy and his men looked at Dafydd in a way that made him even more uncomfortable. “Oh, I almost forgot! Permit me to introduce Father David of Saint Stephen the Martyr.” She emitted a high-pitched giggle. “I do believe we have taken the wrong road. I tried to tell the father here that we should not turn, but he just ignored me, and quite right he was, too, or we surely would never have arrived at your charming manor. That place in the valley is yours, is it not?”

“You are most welcome to dine with us, Sister, and stay the night. You and the father.”

Dafydd looked at the men accompanying Sir Guy. Most of them looked rather bored, but not the man on Sir Guy’s right. He was extremely well dressed, in a fine cloak of scarlet velvet trimmed with ermine, and he was staring at Dafydd in a way that filled the Welshman with anxiety. Did he guess that “Father David” was nothing of the kind?

“Farold, aren’t we fortunate to be able to assist these people?” Sir Guy said to the man.

“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.




Chapter Five


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?”

“We believe she is alive, my lord,” his friend reported, breathing heavily as if he had run at full speed from the stables.

“Where is she?”

Albert’s face fell somewhat. “We...we do not know exactly as of yet, my lord. The trail was difficult to follow because of the rain and—”

“Then how do you know she is alive?”

“We found evidence that someone spent the night in an old byre not far from where we fought the outlaws.”

“Someone? Is she alone?”

Albert cleared his throat. “No, my lord. Bredon believes she is not alone.”

Roger didn’t doubt his huntsman. If Bredon believed more than one person had been in the byre, more than one person had been in the byre. “How many are with her?”




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