The Welshman's Way. Margaret Moore
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and stumbling away from the place where Morgan had left him to die. At the time, he certainly had no care for what direction he took, as long as it was away from Morgan’s land. He knew, from listening to Father Gabriel and the others at the monastery, that he had been found near death by a traveling monk who brought him to the monastery on the back of his donkey. Over time, Dafydd had come to believe that he was several miles to the east of the border, and not nearly as far from Morgan and Trevelyan as he could hope.
Still, he was free, and getting closer to Wales with every step.
The scent of wet earth and damp foliage filled his nostrils, a pleasant change from the medicinal smells of the infirmary. He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair, enjoying the feel of the warm spring sun upon him although the woolen dalmatica made him swelter and wish for other garments. Surely he would fool no one into believing he was a holy brother, even if was wearing one of their robes, with his hair and his build and his wound that could only have come from battle. However, he had had no alternative, except to go nearly naked.
He glanced up at the sky and saw a gathering of dark clouds, which signaled a change in the weather. There had been many storms and much rain of late, and the roads were muddy and treacherous. Still, he would welcome these clouds if they heralded a cool breeze.
On the horizon, he could see the beginnings of the higher ground that was the first hint of the terrain he knew. In a couple of days, he would be nearer to the mountains of Wales, although he had other hills and valleys to cross first.
He tried to recall what he had heard the holy men saying about the lands surrounding the monastery. At first, he had not understood their language, but eventually he had come to be able to guess at most of what they said. If they surmised he was not a Norman or a Saxon, they kept their suppositions to themselves, while he had used the time to learn as much as he could of their language, in order to protect himself. However, he never actually said a word and, wisely, the brothers allowed him to remain silent.
He thought about the villages and manors the brothers had talked of. There was a village not many miles away, in the northerly direction he was taking. He thought it was small, from the way they spoke. It was tempting to go there, to get some more appropriate clothing and food, and yet this horse he had taken was rather distinctive looking, in a homely way.
While he was still trying to make up his mind, he came to a fork in the road. What was obviously the main road went straight on ahead; another, narrower and less-used way veered to the west. He was tempted to turn along it, until he recalled that a Norman manor belonging to someone named Sir Guy was said to be slightly to the north and west of the monastery. Dafydd gathered the holy men did not like the Norman nobleman. Lustful, he seemed to recall they said of him. Well, what Norman wasn’t, whether for women or power or wealth?
Still, he had no wish to encounter any noble Normans. Most of the overlords in this area, the border lands between Wales and the rest of England, were harsh and brutal men, given a free hand from the king to do whatever they felt necessary to subdue any Welshmen who dared to rise against them. Dafydd knew all too well what they would do to him if they caught him.
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