Читать книгу The Welshman's Way - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 5

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.