Читать книгу The Welshman's Way - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

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?”