Wales
After the barge crossing, a couple of hours on foot, and another short jaunt by fishing boat, Roger and Oliver finally reached Wales.
“When do you want to stop for the night?” a weary looking Oliver asked.
“If you’re up to it, I’d like to keep on as long as the light holds.”
“I’m fine to keep going.”
The hours passed with neither speaking. A multitude of worries, problems, and potentially high risk solutions went through Roger’s head. He looked over at Oliver once in a while to find him breathing hard and red-faced, sweat running from his temples.
Oliver would see Roger staring at him and he’d wave his hand motioning for them to keep moving. They weren’t too far from Rhyl, a modest seaside tourist town in modern times, Oliver had said. Roger planned to spend the night there. A seaside village should have an inn where they could get a cheap, but filling, fish pie. Their meager midday meal and laborious trek had Oliver overcoming the aversion to fish he expressed in Bristol.
A woman’s scream stopped them both. Another came, higher and longer.
“Over there.” Roger took off running toward the water.
In the dark undergrowth of the woods, a woman lay thrashing on the ground. The man on top of her backhanded her, telling her to shut up. He pulled and tore at her skirts, pushing them up as she fought to push him off.
Roger tackled him from the side at a full run knocking him off the woman. From the corner of his eye, Roger saw her scrambling, skirts raised, half crawling, half running away from the fighting men.
Before the attacker could rise, Roger was on him. He rolled him over and hit the man hard on the chin, following the blow with a hard strike to the man’s nose. Noticeably slighter of build than Roger, the attacker was surprisingly strong. They wrestled on the ground. Roger twisted away as the man attempted to gouge his eyes. Roger countered, clamping his hands around the man’s throat, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh of the man’s windpipe. Somehow the man managed to bring his knees up under Roger enough to leverage him off. The attacker staggered to his feet, but Roger recovered fast and already stood. He connected with another powerful punch to the man’s face. The man staggered back, holding his bloody nose.
Roger moved closer to finish him off and send him running. Instead of retreating, the man turned. The move was followed by the familiar rasp of a sword leaving its scabbard. Roger pulled his eating dagger from his boot. Dagger versus sword. Not a good match.
The man yelled and charged Roger, sword extended as far as possible. A foolish move. Fully extended, the position prevented the one wielding the weapon to thrust or stab. Roger feinted left, deflecting the man’s sword with only a dagger and his greater strength.
The man pivoted and charged again, swiping the air with wide arcs. As the first arcing maneuver missed the mark, the man brought the sword backward to strike. The shift in position exposed the attackers whole torso. Before he completed the arc, the woman rushed toward them. Screaming, she plunged a dagger into her attacker’s heart. He grasped the handle in a desperate effort to pull it out. As the man collapsed, Roger snatched the sword from his hand before he hit the ground. Eyes on his intended victim, her attacker dropped to his knees and then toppled to the side.
Roger put his dagger into his boot and then checked the man for a pulse. “He’s dead,” Roger said, fingers on the man’s carotid. The traumatized woman stared at the body. Blood leaked from her nose and a split lip. A large red lump on her cheek would be purple by morning. Roger wondered if she was in shock. He pulled the dagger from the man’s chest and turned to a wide-eyed Oliver. “How’d she get your dagger?”
“I had my arms around her, consoling her. The next minute, she dipped and in a blink yanked it from my boot. Bing, bang, bong, before I could stop her, she dashed for him and well...” he gestured to the body. “...Put an end to his raping days. Who’d have expected that? To say I’m flummoxed would be an understatement.”
The young woman clutched the torn bodice of her dress, pointed to Roger and backed up a few feet. “You’re French.”
“I’m not here in any war capacity.”
She looked to English Oliver for confirmation.
“It’s true. As you can see, I travel with him and I am unscathed.”
Her wary gaze shifted from Oliver to Roger, clearly unconvinced.
Roger stepped away from the body and closer to where the woman stood. He reached for her only to hold her hand and reaffirm he wasn’t her enemy.
“No.” She began to cry, backing farther from Roger. Tears streamed down, and she crossed her free arm tight over her breasts. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“We didn’t save you only to hurt you ourselves,” Roger reassured.
“We don’t roll that way,” Oliver added in a cavalier tone.
Roger couldn’t believe his ears. The woman stopped crying and gawked at Oliver, probably much in the same baffled way Roger thought he looked at the moment. “We don’t roll that way. Where do you get this stuff?”
“Telly.”
“You watch way too much television. If we get home, we need to find you a lady friend.” Roger made no attempt to get closer to the woman, returning to the body instead. He worried she’d panic and run off to the village. No good could come of that. She’d bring men back to hunt the Frenchman. Standing by the dead man, he turned to the woman. “Do you know this man?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him around here. The harbor attracts the occasional vagabond seeking day labor.” Fear returned to her eyes. “Are you going to tell everyone I murdered a man? They’ll hang me.”
“No. We’ll bury him and that will be an end to what happened here.” Roger examined the sword. The workmanship was plain, the hilt and pommel simple, but it was adequate. He slid it into his belt. Could the man have been one of the deadly archers Wales was known for? He knelt on one knee and felt the middle two fingers on the dead man’s hands. Not a longbowman.
Do you live nearby?” Roger asked and stood.
“Yes. I’m the local healer. I have a cottage at the edge of the village.”
“Can you lay your hands on a shovel?”
She nodded.
“Good. Bring it. Fast. The light will fade soon.”
****
She brought two shovels and the men made quick work of burying the body.
When they dumped the last spadeful of dirt on the grave, the woman made the sign of the cross. She wrung her hands between nervously touching her bruised face and pacing. “God may punish me for what I’ve done.” She fixed watery eyes filled with new tears on Roger. “Have you ever killed?”
“Yes. In war.”
“Do you worry for the lives you’ve taken? Do you think God will forgive you?”
“No, I don’t worry for those I’ve killed. They were trying to kill me. As to forgiveness...I don’t know what God has in store. Should I be lucky and find myself at the Gates of Paradise, I only ask for a fair accounting.”
She stared at the grave. Roger thought she might be trying to reconcile what she did with her faith. “He and I weren’t at war. I wasn’t in a battle like you,” she said at last.
“Yes, you were. It was just a different kind of battle. I tell you truthfully, I believe he would’ve killed you after he’d raped you. His kind often do.”
“Thank you, I pray you’re right.”
“Changing the subject, where do you think he got the sword?” Oliver asked Roger.
“Stole it no doubt,” Roger said with a shrug. “He probably was a foot soldier at one point and took it from a dead knight. Pretty common after a battle. The foot soldiers have little armor and poor weapons. They take what they can when the opportunity arises.”
“We’ve been remiss, lovely lady,” Oliver said. “We failed to introduce ourselves. I am Oliver Gordon. My French friend is Roger Marchand.”
“I’m Annie Yarwood.” She returned Roger’s head bob with a wobbly curtsy. “It’s best if you avoid the village. You are welcome to eat your evening meal at my cottage and to sleep there for the night. Not a shared bed,” she added quickly.
Burying her rapist earned her trust, which Roger was grateful for considering how easily things could’ve gone to hell if she still felt a need to report his French presence.
Roger tipped his head in a courtly manner he hadn’t needed in a long time. “We’ll accept your kind offer of the meal and your floor for the night.”