Читать книгу The Welshman's Way - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

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.