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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.
