The Welshman's Way
Page 13
“No, this is our world,” she whispered fervently. “I love you, Dafydd, with all my heart.” She sank onto the ground and drew him down beside her. “It is absolutely right. Make love with me, Dafydd.”
He wanted her, now and always. He loved her, with his whole heart. With all his being. Her life was his life, her dreams were his dreams, her fears, his fears... “What if you get with child?” he asked, nearly insensible with desire for her, yet prepared to rein in his yearning if that was what she wanted.
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing would make me happier than to bear your child.”
“Nothing would make me happier than having you for my wife,” he whispered.
With gentle passion, he lay beside her, taking his time to explore her willing flesh, to taste her lips, to bury his hands in her hair as he had envisioned so many times.
But Madeline’s patience for such lingering, tantalizing loving did not last long. She drew him to her, tugging his tunic off to expose his muscular chest. With heated caresses and whimpers of need, she quickly drove him to a peak of arousal that matched her own.
“Yes!” she cried as he entered her, driving deep with one swift motion. Then, with excruciating deliberation, he slowed and lifted her, shifting until she leaned against his chest, her legs around his waist.
With an instinct born of desire and need, she began to move against him, each thrust of her hips rewarded with a moan from him, which grew to a growl and then, as she reached the limit of tension, his cry of release drowned in her own.
She rested against him, her face against his chest, the sound of his rapid heartbeat in her ear.
“Madeline,” he whispered hoarsely, “I don’t think I could bear to live without you.”
“You won’t have to,” she said with a sigh.
“Can you be happy in Wales?”
“If you are there, I will be.”
He chuckled. “Oh, that I could be as certain of things as you are! But I will take you at your word. We’ll go to the west tomorrow.”
She pulled back, her brow furrowed with concern. “I should go to Bridgeford Wells first, Dafydd. We’re not very far from there now, are we?”
“Why?”
“I owe it to Roger to let him know what’s happened, and to make sure he stops looking for me.”
He had forgotten Sir Roger de Montmorency. Yes, it was her duty to find a way to let her brother know that she was well and safe, but would a man like Sir Roger listen to Madeline? Worse, would he permit her to marry a Welshman, even one whose family had once been Welsh nobility, and to thwart his plans?
“I can leave a message with Lord Gervais,” Madeline said. “Fortunately, Roger is not able to chase us himself, although I thank God he is not seriously ill.”
Dafydd sighed and embraced her, letting her nestle against him. He could not believe that Roger would give up the search that easily. Still, if their best hope was to inform her brother that she was no longer his concern, that would have to be the course they took.
Madeline moved away and reached for the pack. She took out a thick blanket. “Here. It’s not a feather bed, but at least we will be warm,” she said, lying beside him and pulling the blanket over them both. “Tell me about Wales, Dafydd.”
He wrapped her in his arms. “If you will tell me about your life before I met you.”
She smiled and nodded. Then, letting himself hope, he talked of the land of his fathers and listened to the stories of her childhood until the moon was high.
Chapter Eleven
Although her parents had enjoyed Lord Gervais’ hospitality many times and he had visited them, Madeline had never been to Bridgeford Wells. The prospect of finally seeing this large and prosperous town added to the joy and excitement of the past few days, and her first view of it did not disappoint her. The town was scattered over a wide area, reaching from the broad, meandering river dotted with boats past what had once been a protective wall and now seemed to be more of a location for people to lean their buildings against, to the gently sloping wooded hill where she and Dafydd paused. Many of the houses outside the wall were of more than one story, and bespoke a well-to-do merchant class.
The steady movement of people within and without the town reminded her of a colony of ants. Except that it was not the town that was the anthill, but the huge, impressive stone fortress on a rise behind it. Madeline knew the site had once boasted only a motte-and-bailey stronghold built of wood and wattle and daub. For the past several years, however, Lord Gervais had been rebuilding on the site, until his castle was the equal to any other defensive edifice in all the land.
Madeline glanced at Dafydd and saw that his brow was furrowed with concern, which did not surprise her. Here was a prime example of the might of the Normans, surely not something any Welshman would wish to see. To her, though, Lord Gervais’ castle meant her freedom. All she had to do was tell him to relay the news of her decision to Roger; then she could go with Dafydd.
It could be that Dafydd was also worried because they had had to hide more carefully last night. Although she was traveling with Dafydd of her own volition, they had decided it would be wise to be cautious until she was able to explain her decision to Lord Gervais, in case Roger had sent search parties ahead. There had been many people on the road yesterday, too, something she had ascribed to their proximity to a large town. She thought Dafydd was far too anxious, but had not questioned his decision. He was wiser than she in such matters, and was in more jeopardy, so far in Norman territory. Of course, as her betrothed, he would be safe, but better to take care and avoid trouble before it started.
“You don’t have to come any farther,” Madeline said. “I can go the rest of the way by myself. I can meet you here later, after I have seen Lord Gervais.”
Dafydd turned away from his contemplation of Bridgeford Wells and Lord Gervais’ well-built castle. “No. I’ll go with you. This place is so crowded, you might be in danger.”
Unlike Roger’s arrogant treatment of her, she found Dafydd’s protectiveness touching, because she knew he valued her for herself, not as an instrument to fulfill his plans. “I assure you, this town will be safe enough, although I wonder what is happening to make everyone come here. It seems to be a festival.”
“It’s May Day,” Dafydd replied, nodding at a giggling group of young girls tripping through the wide gate, their arms loaded with flowers: pink campion, whinberry blossoms, apple blossoms, blue, pink and white milkwort, yellow speedwell, to name but a few that Madeline recognized.
“Yes! Look,” she exclaimed. “They’ve got the pole and see how they’ve decorated the doors. I hadn’t noticed before.”
Dafydd started walking toward a large group of talking, laughing peasants. “Two strangers will be less likely to be noticed if everyone is busy celebrating,” he remarked with satisfaction as they fell in behind them.
“I haven’t been at a May Day for so long,” she murmured, stopping for a moment to pick some yellow cowslip at the side of the road. Around them, birds chattered gaily, as if they, too, sensed it was a holiday. The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with clouds that might turn to storm clouds later, but for now, were mere puffs that provided occasional shade. “Not since I was a little girl. Mother Bertrilde thought it was too pagan.”
“Mother Bertrilde must have been a hard-hearted creature.”
“Oh, she was. But very devout. And I suppose she meant well enough,” Madeline said merrily. She noticed how his gaze kept straying to the castle, which did seem rather like a great stone vulture looming over the river and the town.
“Dafydd?” She halted and put a detaining hand on his arm. Another company of hearty peasants, laughing and joking, passed them with a greeting and a wave. She waited until they had gone by before she continued. “Dafydd, would you mind if I waited a little before I went to see Lord Gervais? I would so dearly like to enjoy the May Day.”
“I would rather be away from here.”
“Yes,” she replied
with a nod. “I know. But look—they’ve set the pole on the green. Can’t we stay just for a little? Please?”
Dafydd surveyed the crowd. The place was full of Normans. And Saxons. And some Welshmen, too, by the looks of them. What if somebody recognized him? What if a voice suddenly shouted, “That fellow there—wasn’t he one of Ivor Rhodri’s men?” And yet, Madeline wanted to stay and she was looking at him with such an adorable, delectable excitement in her shining eyes. “I suppose no one will pay much attention,” he said, hoping it would be so.
She smiled gloriously, and his heart leapt in his breast. She was his, and he could scarcely believe it. He loved her, and wanted to make her happy. What harm could a little celebration do?
* * *
There was more than a touch of grim determination on Sir Roger de Montmorency’s face as his cortege approached the final part of their journey to Bridgeford Wells. He could see, even from this distance, that Lord Gervais had finished the keep at last, and a fine-looking structure it was. Heaven help any fool that tried to take that castle! Or starve them out with a siege. It would take years, given the wells inside and the storehouses full of provision.
Thank God, the town was now only a mile or two away. It was nearly noon, but he knew Lord Gervais would not think their arrival inconvenient. If anything, he would bemoan the fact that they had not been able to partake of the first meal of the day. They might have, if the road hadn’t been crowded with peasants, peddlers and other revelers apparently intent on celebrating the first day of May as loudly and inconveniently as possible.
Behind, Roger could hear Bredon and the hounds, and he wondered if it would have been better to leave them with Morgan and Trevelyan, who had given their promise to continue the search for Madeline when Roger left, after Father Gabriel had finally given his approval for his patient to ride.
Albert reined in beside him. “A fine day, my lord, and I must say you are looking very well.”
“So I should. Two days abed! Treated like a helpless infant! I should have insisted that priest get back to his infirmary.” He turned and scowled at Father Gabriel, riding placidly some ways behind.
“He wouldn’t have gone,” Albert said. “I think he’s curious to see what happens.”
“Him and everybody else who hears about this business,” Roger growled. “Two days, and in that time, who knows where Madeline might have gone, or what might have happened to her?”
“Morgan seemed quite convinced that she was headed in this direction, and I must agree that if she did not go to Lord Trevelyan’s, she would probably come here.”
Roger only frowned even more. “And how does he know this? What evidence? Nothing but a hunch, he claims.” Roger sighed skeptically. “Probably some kind of Welsh mysticism. Second sight. Saw it in the entrails of a sheep, perhaps. Maybe I am the greater fool for following the man’s advice.”
Albert cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, Roger, if Madeline is not here, you can enlist more aid from Lord Gervais. Your foster father will surely be only too happy to help you look for your sister.”
“Although that means more people finding out what has happened. And when she is found, more chance of scandal.”
Albert was not fooled by Roger’s manner. He knew his friend was more concerned for his sister’s welfare than her reputation. Still, he could sympathize. Roger was an ambitious man, and Madeline was jeopardizing his plans.
“Well, there is no hope for it, I suppose,” Roger concluded grimly. “If she isn’t found this day or the next, I will have to inform Chilcott that the wedding will have to be postponed. And the baron, too. Damn Madeline! I almost wish she was hurt, or being held by outlaws. It would be easier to explain.”
“Surely, Sir Roger, you are not serious?” said Father Gabriel in a softly condemning voice.
Roger twisted in his saddle, another frown on his darkly handsome face. “Of course I don’t really mean it,” he snapped. “She’s my sister, after all.”
“I feared you had forgotten that fact.”
“I might have found her by now, if it wasn’t for your insistence that I stay in bed.”
Father Gabriel did not seem overly upset by Roger’s angry words. “It would have done no good to your sister to have you deathly ill. Besides, Lord Trevelyan and his men were doing a fine job, and they have promised to continue searching.”
Another group of May Day revelers surged past them, forcing Roger to rein in slightly. “God’s teeth, I wish this rabble would get out of the way!”
“Peasants enjoying a simple holiday, Sir Roger. Surely not worthy of such venomous words,” Father Gabriel said.
Roger gave Albert a disgruntled look, then spoke to the priest. “I am surprised you approve of this `simple holiday.’”
“A little harmless fun is never amiss.”
“Perhaps,” Roger growled, “but I am here on business.” He stood up in his stirrups to look ahead. “We will go to Lord Gervais at once, if we can ever get through this mob. Albert, while I see if Madeline has arrived there, detail some men to search the town.”
* * *
The Norman knight in the service of Lord Gervais watched the dancers cavorting about the green with a wry, amused grin on his face, which changed to an appreciative one when his attention turned to one particularly lovely young woman, with lithesome grace and long, flowing dark hair. She was a beauty, and it was a pleasure to watch her dance.
There was something rather familiar about her, too, but Urien Fitzroy, whose duties included the training of young nobles sent to Castle Gervais for instruction in the arts of war, did not think he had ever seen her before. Happily married though he was, hers was a robust, ruddy beauty not easily forgotten.
With vague and amused interest he wondered what the devil she thought she was doing ignoring the young man who had first appeared on the green with her. The poor fellow had obviously refused her invitation to dance, and then had gotten the first of five pints of ale before finding a spot on a bench on the opposite side of the green, where he had a clear view of the Maypole, and the girl. Try as he might to look as if he were ignoring her, it was clear that he was somewhat anxious and even annoyed by her enjoyment of the festivities.
Fitzroy sighed for the follies of youth. The man should simply do what she so clearly wanted, and dance. What was wrong with him, that he did not? Still, he could recall very clearly trying to ignore a certain fiery young wench, to no avail. He smiled to himself and surreptitiously raised his mug to the young man. Maybe these two would wind up wed, too.
“Fitzroy!” the burly brewster called. With two large mugs of his ale in his fleshy fist, he moved through the crowded alehouse and out the door to join his friend. “Jupiter’s bolt, what a crowd. The wife can hardly pour fast enough.”
“Then you had better help her, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Aye,” the brewster acknowledged. Nevertheless, he sat down on the rough bench beside the knight and proceeded to consume his ale in leisurely gulps. “Jove’s rod, those fools’ll dance all night.”
“I would, too, if I stood a chance of getting near that wench,” Fitzroy remarked with a grin and a nod toward the green.
The brewster gave him a dismayed frown.
“Married I may be, and to the best woman in the world, but I’m not in my grave yet, either. You must admit, she is a pretty thing.”
“I do have eyes.”
“Especially for a beautiful woman.”
The brewster grinned with remembrance, then frowned. “But—” he nudged Fitzroy and nodded significantly toward the tall, dark-haired fellow “—she’s not alone.”
“Who are they? I think I would recall her, and that brawny fellow, too.”
The brewster shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“He’s a Welshman, or I’m a fool.”
“Maybe.” The brewster hauled himself to his feet. “Best get back to work, or the wife’ll make me rue the day I married her! Give my best to Fritha.”
He took another long gulp of ale, then found himself sitting in the shadow cast by the stranger’s large body. “Greetings, friend,” Fitzroy said jovially, using the few words of Welsh he had learned while in the service of a lord who had lived there.
“You’re not a Welshman,” the man said decisively, and with obvious disgust.
“No, I’m not,” Fitzroy agreed amicably, responding in the Norman tongue.
“How dare you look at her like that!” Dafydd growled. He glared at this rogue who had the effrontery to stare at Madeline. At first, he had been afraid that this fellow, so arrogant and so obviously a nobleman, had recognized her, until the fellow smiled and kept watching her without rising from his seat.
“Who?” the fellow replied innocently.
“You know who! Stop it, or I’ll beat your head in!”
“Your sweetheart, is she? Then you should dance with her.”
“Shut your mouth, you impudent cur!” Maybe he wasn’t a nobleman, and maybe he couldn’t offer Madeline a castle...maybe he could only offer her his love and a little stone hovel in the middle of a valley or on the top of a mountain...maybe she was wasting herself caring for him when she could have any man—but by God, he wasn’t going to let some Norman lout look at her like that!
The Norman’s eyes narrowed and he rose slowly, displaying an impressive build. “Watch your tongue, Welshman,” he warned. “I’ll pass over your insults this time because you are drunk, but I will not brook more.”