The Welshman's Way

by Moore, Margaret

  “Such a strange thing, this business,” Chilcott complained. “I mean, you would think Sir Roger would have the courtesy to meet me. Or send a proper emissary, not...you. Such rudeness! I wouldn’t stand for it, except that DeGuerre sets such store by him.

  “Really, I feel as if I am living among barbarians. I felt safer in the Alps, and they’re full of banditti these days.”

  Although the man’s chatter was tiresome and impertinent and Dafydd wanted to knock the vain fellow from his steed, he hoped Chilcott would keep on talking, so that he would not realize he was losing his men pair by pair as Alcwyn’s men silently slipped behind a rank of soldiers and dragged them into the woods. The baggage cart and its driver had long since ceased to be on the road.

  Nothing would happen to Chilcott’s men, except that they would be prevented from going anywhere until Dafydd and Madeline were safely away. Then they would be released with Lord Chilcott and the abbot, minus the baggage cart.

  “At least I shall have three days at de Montmorency’s castle to recover from this taxing journey before the wedding. I shall need them, if I am to appear my best before the wedding guests. I wonder what Sir Roger has planned in the way of entertainment. And I do hope he’s got some decent cooks. You can’t always tell out here on the frontier.”

  When Dafydd was sure the remaining number of Chilcott’s men were easily outnumbered by Alcwyn’s, he halted.

  Chilcott finally shut his mouth for more than a moment and looked myopically about him. “I say, there, fellow, have you forgotten the way?” Chilcott demanded scornfully. “This doesn’t look like much of a road to me.”

  “You’re absolutely right, my lord. We’ve gone the wrong way.”

  “Well, if this isn’t a nuisance! I shall tell Sir Roger of your incompetence the moment I see him.”

  “Which won’t be for some time, I’m afraid, Lord Chilcott.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Several more Welshmen appeared on the road and came to stand beside Dafydd. “What in the— Men!” Chilcott turned to look behind him, and Dafydd almost felt sorry for the nobleman when he turned back with a pale face and frightened eyes. “What’s going on? Where are my men?”

  “They’re going to be enjoying Welsh hospitality, my lord, same as you,” Dafydd said companionably, drawing his sword out in a leisurely manner. “While we wait for a ransom.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lord Chilcott moaned. Then he fell from his saddle in a dead faint.

  * * *

  Father Gabriel hurried toward Dafydd and his men as they returned to the camp. With an anxious face he looked at the finely attired man slumped over the saddle. “Is he hurt?” the priest inquired uneasily. “You told me no one would be hurt.”

  “I have kept my word,” Dafydd replied with a grin. “He fainted, nothing more.”

  “Fainted?”

  “Fainted. And this is the man Sir Roger thinks would make a good husband for Madeline!” Dafydd grabbed Chilcott by the hair and lifted his head. “Still, he has dark hair like me, and he looks the same height, so Sir Roger could have chosen worse.”

  None too gently Dafydd pulled Lord Chilcott from the saddle. He set him on the ground with more care, however, because he didn’t want to stain Chilcott’s clothing. He couldn’t very well arrive at Montmorency Castle with his clothes in a stained, torn state.

  “Where are the rest of his men?” Father Gabriel asked.

  “They’ll be here soon enough.” Dafydd pulled off one of Chilcott’s scarlet gauntlets and tried it on. He flexed his fingers. “Any sign of Alcwyn and the good abbot?”

  “Not yet. The abbot would not faint,” the priest remarked worriedly. “He may even put up a struggle.” The priest’s face furrowed with doubt. “Perhaps I should not involve myself in this business. I would never forgive myself if anyone came to harm.”

  Dafydd was now unlacing Chilcott’s blue and green tunic. “What of Madeline?” he demanded unsympathetically. “You yourself it was told me how ill she looked. What about her?”

  “Yes, you’re quite right.”

  At that moment, there was the sound of men pushing their way through the trees. Dafydd reached for his sword, gesturing for the priest to get out of sight. Owain and the others drew their weapons, too.

  Alcwyn appeared, unceremoniously prodding the burly abbot ahead of him with his sword. The abbot’s gown was somewhat askew, and he had the remnants of leaves in his gray hair. His face was as red as Chilcott’s gauntlet.

  “Sit down!” Alcwyn barked, his own face flushed and sweaty. He sheathed his weapon. “God’s truth!” he swore, wiping his brow as he approached Dafydd, glancing at the young nobleman at Dafydd’s feet. “I wish I had that fellow to find,” he commented, nudging Chilcott with his toe. “The abbot did not want to join us and put up quite a fight, for a clergyman.”

  The abbot stared with round, fishlike eyes at Dafydd. “You!”

  “Me.”

  “I knew you were a varlet! I tried to warn the others, but that stubborn fool of a Gabriel—”

  “Be quiet, or abbot or no, I’ll make you keep quiet.”

  At Dafydd’s harsh and quite obviously meant words, the abbot grew silent. Then, and only then, did he notice that he was not the only person in possible danger. “Sweet, merciful God!” he exclaimed, “what have you done to Chilcott?”

  “Nothing. He’s having a little nap, is all. Owain, take the abbot someplace where he can rest in comfort.”

  Owain did not look pleased with the request, but he complied and, following Alcwyn’s example, prodded the abbot with his sword, directing the clergyman to Alcwyn’s wagon a short ways through the trees. There was a third encampment, some distance in the other direction, where Father Gabriel and Dafydd spent their time. Alcwyn and Dafydd had decided it would be the best and wisest thing to keep their captives and Father Gabriel well away from each other.

  Dafydd bent down and divested Chilcott of his tunic. It was surprisingly heavy, and at first Dafydd attributed it to the fabric, which was soft and fine and of a type totally unknown to him. It must have come from far away, he reasoned.

  He pulled on the garment and realized something was very wrong. He tugged it off and turned it inside out. Then he saw what the trouble was. There were pads stuffed with sawdust on the shoulders and upper arms, and a quick squeeze of Chilcott’s upper arm proved Dafydd’s suspicions. Chuckling, Dafydd ripped out the pads and tried the tunic on again. It fit very well.

  “Iffwrdd,” Alcwyn said, stepping into the clearing and carrying other clothes for the nobleman. “I wouldn’t have known you in that attire myself. Looking every inch the nobleman, you. Or a prince who’s been in disguise.”

  “I do?” Dafydd smiled to himself. “Well, my grandmother was a princess,” he remarked pensively.

  “Of course.” Alcwyn pointed to the padding. “What’s that?”

  “The poor popinjay has not the muscles for his height, it seems, and he’s sought to correct the deficit with sawdust.”

  “Well, he won’t like these, then, at all.” Alcwyn laid the rough homespun garments on the ground. “I’ll help you with the rest.”

  “The others—have they tried the soldiers’ tunics?”

  “Yes. I think they fit well enough.”

  “Strange, all identical, eh?”

  “I’ve heard of this. It’s supposed to show the men all belong to the same lord.”

  “Huh. Well, we’d better tie Chilcott up before he comes to. What do you think of the abbot?”

  “He’s not very polite,” Alcwyn observed. “Or peaceable, either.”

  “Didn’t think he would be.”

  “Father Gabriel seems a good sort.”

  “Yes. So are you. And your men. I won’t ever forget this, Alcwyn,” Dafydd said, smiling warmly at his friend.

  “Good. Might need a favor myself someday, and you can be sure I’ll come calling. Where will I look?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Madeline
and I can’t stay anywhere near here. I thought I’d try my luck in the north. My grandmother’s half sister married a Norman. They tell me the Welsh is strong in her son. Maybe Emryss DeLanyea will heed the tie of family and let me swear fealty to him. For Madeline’s sake, it might be better in such a man’s castle than a Welsh village.”

  “Aye, I suppose.” Alcwyn tugged off Chilcott’s hose. “There. He’s down to his breeches.” They both surveyed the half-naked nobleman. “God’s truth, looks like a plucked chicken, doesn’t he?” Alcwyn observed.

  Dafydd chuckled his agreement, then grew more serious. “Three days to the wedding, he said. We’ll leave at first light.”

  “Tomorrow? Are you mad, Dafydd? You’ll be in de Montmorency’s fortress for two nights and a day before the wedding. That’s taking even more of a chance.”

  “Owain’s been teaching me everything I need to know. I don’t want Madeline alone in there any longer than necessary.”

  “Still, that much time...”

  “Don’t worry. The castle will be busy with the wedding preparations. Nobody should take much notice of you and your men if they keep to themselves.”

  “But what about you, Dafydd? Taking notice of you, they’ll be. Watching you like a hawk.”

  “Owain’s thought of that. If I get into trouble with the manners or the customs, he said I should tell them it’s something they do in Sicily.”

  “I don’t like it, Dafydd. Wait another day.”

  “I won’t leave Madeline to suffer a moment longer than she has to,” Dafydd said firmly, and Alcwyn realized it would be pointless to argue any more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Madeline stood in her chamber and silently submitted to the women fitting her for her wedding dress. They twitted and fussed about her like hens who have spied the shadow of a hawk, only instead of cackling and flapping their wings, they whispered and commented and tugged and pulled.

  Madeline didn’t pay much attention to their ministrations. She was thinking about her old dress, the one she had taken from the unknown peasant woman. The one Dafydd had hated, although it seemed he could hardly take his gaze off her when she wore it. For that reason, she had liked it immensely.

  It was gone now. Roger, claiming it was surely lice infested, had ordered it burned. He had purchased several others for her, and she had wondered if it was out of gratitude for her compliance, or to assuage his own guilt. She had seen little of him since their arrival here, so she had no idea of his true purpose. Still, it had always been Roger’s way to hide when he realized he was wrong, rather than face the consequences. Either way, the gowns were simply cloth to her. And the food for the feast, though very expensive, would all taste like sawdust.

  Dafydd would scarcely recognize her in this fine garment, she thought as one of the seamstresses adjusted the hem. For her wedding, she was to wear an overgown of heavy and ornate brocade, white with gold threads worked through it, which would lace at the sides with threads of gold. Underneath would be a scarlet long-sleeved dress of a thin fabric Roger had called silk. It was very costly and came from far away in the East. Her hair would be bound in a crispinette of netted gold and scarlet. On her head would be a jeweled circlet that had been her mother’s. On the outside, she would surely look very regal and very fine. Inside, she would be weeping bitter tears and only the knowledge that she was doing this for Dafydd’s sake would keep them from spilling out.

  Indeed, when she glanced at the reflection in the burnished metal the seamstresses held up, she scarcely recognized herself. She supposed that really wasn’t to be wondered at. She felt like a different person. A miserable person.

  Nevertheless, she was not sorry for loving Dafydd. She did not regret anything about her time with him, except for her foolish decision to go to Bridgeford Wells. They should have left England for Wales at once, and found another way to inform Roger of her decision. She had been wrong about that and very wrong about Roger himself.

  “If you please, my lady,” the short, plump seamstress said, “can you lift your right arm again? See,” she whispered to another tall, skinny woman, “those lacings can most certainly be tightened. It’s not the seam at all.”

  “But if you tighten the laces too much, none of the undergarment will be seen. Better if we take in this back,” the thin one said, tugging abruptly and almost pulling Madeline over.

  “Stop!” she said impatiently. “It fits well enough.”

  The two women looked startled, as if they had forgotten they were dealing with a living woman and not some straw facsimile.

  “Help me out of this now, and then leave me,” Madeline ordered.

  “But my lady, there’s two more gowns for you to try on and—”

  Madeline reached under her arm to begin to untie the side lacing herself, which galvanized the plump woman into action. “Here, let me!”

  “Is there something about the dress you don’t care for?” the skinny woman asked, finally displaying some discernment.

  “All the gowns are lovely,” Madeline replied, with somewhat better grace. It’s not your fault I would rather you were making my shroud, she thought.

  Suddenly the door crashed open and Roger strode into the room. “Get out of that,” he snapped abruptly.

  “When you leave the room, these women will finish removing the gown,” she said coldly, curious and suspicious about Roger’s sudden appearance.

  “Wear that purple gown. I’ve just been informed that Chilcott and his party are outside the village.”

  Madeline’s throat constricted and she could only stare helplessly. She realized that without being aware of it, she had been hoping something would prevent Chilcott from coming.

  “Help her,” Roger commanded the women. “Come into the hall when you’re ready,” he said to Madeline, the tone no different from that he had used with the seamstresses. Then he left as abruptly as he had entered.

  The seamstresses stood mutely still, until Madeline sighed. Then they sprang to life as if they had been shot from a bow. With agile fingers and a minimum of talk, they divested Madeline of her wedding finery and scurried about gathering her new gown of purple, with silver trim and matching crispinette.

  Madeline made no effort to either help or hinder. She had been dreading this day ever since she had made her bargain with Roger, and knew she had no choice but to submit.

  But it was difficult. So very difficult... Her mind would bring back pictures of Dafydd, walking in front of her, leading the horse. Dafydd sitting beside her, silent, strong, so handsome in his plain garments. Dafydd wrestling Fitzroy because he was jealous.

  “My lady, please!” the plump seamstress chided gently, pulling her away from her memories. “You’re going to tear the seam if you keep pulling on that thread.”

  “Oh, listen! That must be him!” the skinny one cried. She hurried to the narrow window and leaned out. Her plump fellow servant also rushed to the aperture and her companion made way, but she was not so successful in her attempt to lean out of the window. Nonetheless, when she drew back, she was smiling broadly. “Oh, my lady!” she murmured, clasping her hands together like the most fervent of the novices at the convent, “he’s so handsome!”

  “And tall!” the other cried.

  “And well dressed!”

  “Come see!”

  With reluctant steps, Madeline moved toward the window. She was in no great hurry to see the man who might as well be her executioner, but these women expected some curiosity from her, so to avoid gossip, she would look.

  Madeline leaned out the window toward the gathering of mounted men and horses in the courtyard below. Yes, that was obviously a nobleman’s retinue, wearing similar tunics. And that man seated at the head of them, on a fine white stallion, that must be Reginald Chilcott.

  But there was something...

  Then the man dismounted, swinging easily from the back of the prancing horse, smiling at Roger—and she knew. Instantly, without a doubt. Dafydd! Come here to save h
er?

  Pretending to be Reginald Chilcott—as she had feigned Sister Mary of the Holy Wounds and a peasant girl! Her fears and dread disintegrated, to be replaced by an urgent need to laugh with joy. She started to, and clapped her hand to her mouth when the two startled seamstresses looked at her.

  She turned away and coughed, realizing she must be more circumspect. Any sudden change in her demeanor would attract suspicion.

  Oh, but Dafydd was here! Dressed in someone else’s clothes, riding someone else’s horse. Here to rescue her!

  She took a deep breath and turned back toward the seamstresses, who were puzzled and curious. “I...I was so happy because he has come after all,” she explained. “I was so afraid he would change his mind. I have been worried that he would hear about my troubles and think me unworthy! I was even too upset to eat. Oh dear, how sickly I will seem to him!” she cried, with unmistakable and quite real sincerity.

  Seeing that the seamstresses no longer looked doubtful, she hurried from the chamber, pinching her cheeks in an effort to restore their hue. To have Dafydd see her this way—oh, but what did it matter? He was here!

  She dashed along the stone corridor, the soft leather soles of her shoes making little noise above the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She slowed when she reached the stairs and with a very great effort, managed to walk slowly down to the great hall.

  * * *

  “My sister will be here to greet you shortly,” Roger said as he stood beside Lord Chilcott in the courtyard. “She was trying on her wedding garments and had to change.”

  “Indeed?” Reginald Chilcott replied, his voice a cultured but somewhat unusual drawl. “I look forward to meeting her. Guiseppe!” he shouted, and a young man, obviously his squire, stepped forward.

  “Take my baggage to my chamber after the horses have been seen to.”

  “My steward, Dudley, will send a servant to the stable to show you the chamber,” Roger said to the squire, who nodded. Roger turned his attention back to Lord Chilcott. “I have had some refreshments prepared for you in the hall.”