The Welshman's Way. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ