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.

      Lady Madeline held out her open palm and he could see something glinting in the waning light. “This is my brother’s cloak pin,” she said quietly. “It was my father’s. He would never leave this behind.”

      Dafydd recalled the younger man who had fallen and realized it might have been Roger de Montmorency. He had assumed the gray-haired man would be the famous knight. “Your brother,” Dafydd said firmly, “he will not be dead.”

      She eyed him warily. “How can you be so sure of that?”

      “Too good a fighter, he is. Hurt, maybe, but those others were not good enough to kill him.”

      “Do you really believe that?”

      “Said it, haven’t I?”

      “You are not a Norman.”

      It was a statement, not a question, so he did not try to deny it.

      “You are not a priest, either.”

      Again there was no point to lie. He did not look like a priest, and he knew it.

      Her eyes narrowed even more and she backed away. “Are you a pilgrim, at least?”

      “Yes.” It was close enough, and he didn’t want to frighten her. He took a step toward her, willing her not to be afraid of him. He hated Normans, but she was a woman first. “I am going to Canterbury,” he added for veracity.

      “Then you are going in the wrong direction,” she observed suspiciously.

      It was all he could do to keep from smiting himself on the forehead. He should have kept in his mouth shut! In truth, all he knew about Canterbury was that it was holy and somewhere in England. “Other places first,” he replied after a long moment while she watched him expectantly. “I give you my word that I will not hurt you.”

      “I must find Roger. Will you help me?”

      “No.”

      His blunt refusal both startled and upset her, but he couldn’t help that. Better she should know right now what he meant to do, and what he would not do.

      “But you must!”

      “No.”

      “You’re not going to leave me here! What if those thieves come back?”

      “I will take you to help.”

      “Help? What help?”

      “There is a manor, back there.” He gestured back along the road and wondered if he was making another foolish mistake offering to help her. Still, she was quite right. He could not leave her where she was.

      “I suppose I should be grateful for that,” she muttered, managing to sound arrogantly ungrateful. “But I must find Roger.”

      “To get to your wedding?” he asked impertinently.

      “Yes, to get to my wedding,” she answered defiantly, as if she thought he would doubt her urgency.

      Before he had any time to wonder at her reaction, there was a loud crack of thunder and a torrential rain began to pour down on their heads. The horse whinnied and shied nervously. Dafydd managed to grab hold of the dangling reins before the roan ran away. Clutching the animal’s bridle, he hurried to her and swiftly, and without so much as a word, lifted her onto the saddle and started to run through the mud, along the road and then through the trees toward the ruined farm he had noticed before. He soon reached it and hurried to the one hovel that still stood intact. The wide doors were held on by one hinge each and some of the timbers had fallen down, but the roof looked sound enough, and the horse would fit inside, too.

      He paused to shove open the door and Lady Madeline quickly dismounted, immediately dashing inside. He