The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 11

  “Yes,” said Hubert, “but I do not confuse idle gossip in the street with the revealed Word.”

  “You and Brother Simon are Christians of the closed world. You retreated into the cloister to find God and hide him away under your habits.” Idwal waved a hand at the departing peasants. “I share Him with the common people. I go out—as Christ and his Disciples went out—to bring everyone closer to the wonder of God.”

  “Such work is admirable in itself,” said Brother Simon with a halfsmile, “but only a man with your gifts could undertake it. We serve God by a life of denial.”

  “Then you deny His greater glory.”

  Hubert was waspish. “Llandaff must miss you mightily. How will the edifice stand without you to support it with these pillars of theological wisdom?”

  “Sarcasm is the mark of a lowly mind,” said Idwal.

  Further exchange between them was cut short by the arrival of Ralph Delchard, who strolled across with Golde at his elbow. Brother Simon shrunk back a few paces and put both skeletal hands over his scrip in a forlorn gesture of defence.

  “So early a return?” said Ralph with surprise.

  “Richard Orbec barred us from his land,” said Hubert.

  “Then he bars the way for the king. Did you not tell him that in round terms and brush aside any argument?”

  “Twenty men-at-arms enforced his purpose.”

  Ralph ignited. “Richard Orbec dared to offer violence to royal commissioners!”

  “I'd have excommunicated him on the spot,” said Idwal.

  “He was left in no doubt about our displeasure,” said Hubert. “But we were so few against so many.”

  “One fewer now,” noted Ralph. “Where is Gervase?”

  “He refused to be evicted so rudely. When we were out of sight of Richard Orbec's knights, he went back to examine the holdings privily. I advised against the danger, but Gervase was headstrong.”

  “He did no more than I would have done,” said Ralph with gathering fury. “Bar our way! I'd have barbered his beard with my sword! When the sheriff is done here, I'll add a troop of his men to mine and cut a path to the very heart of his demesne!”

  “Take me with you to care for the dead,” offered Idwal with a wicked gleam. “I will enjoy reading the burial service over Norman soldiers.”

  “Look to your own, Archdeacon,” said Hubert.

  “This is beyond bearing!” said Ralph, warming to his theme. “Marcher lords have been allowed too much license. Because we let them build their little empires here on these godforsaken frontiers, they think they are above the law of the land. King William has already torn down one Earl of Hereford. He will just as easily tear down these other self-styled earls like Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville!”

  Idwal beamed. “There is no sweeter music in a Welshman's ear than the sound of invaders quarreling among themselves over land they stole from us.”

  “Silence this dead sheep of an archdeacon!” howled Ralph.

  “If only we knew how!” hissed Brother Simon.

  Ralph fulminated, Idwal chuckled, Canon Hubert had an attack of pomposity, and Golde watched it all with interest. When the clamour abated, it was she who introduced a note of mild alarm.

  “I fear for your companion, my lord.”

  “Gervase?” said Ralph. “He can look after himself.”

  “Richard Orbec is a strange man.”

  “We have seen his strangeness at close quarters.”

  “Your colleague is in grave danger,” she continued. “If he is caught by Richard Orbec, there is no telling what might happen to him.”

  “He will not be caught,” said Ralph, confidently. “Gervase Bret is a lawyer. And there is no more slippery breed of men on this earth. They will not catch him. Gervase will see exactly what he wishes to see.”

  * * *

  When his eyes finally opened, Gervase Bret thought at first that he had gone blind. He could see nothing. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of vomit, and he felt as if his body was being kicked simultaneously by a dozen feet. He opened his eyes wider, but still found himself staring into an impenetrable darkness. It was only when he became fully conscious that he realised where he was.

  Bound hand and foot, Gervase was tied securely across the back of a horse like the carcass of a dead animal. Over his head was a sack, which, from its smell, had once contained barley. He was being dragged along at speed behind a group of riders. His stomach had revolted against the rough and indiscriminate bouncing to which it was subjected and spewed up the remains of his last meal. He was in agony.

  Gervase tried to marshal his jangled thoughts. Where was he and in whose hands? The last thing that he could remember was the sight of Richard Orbec's lands rolling northeastward from the hundred of Archenfield into the Golden Valley. Was he Orbec's prisoner? Would a Norman lord dare to violate the privilege of a royal commissioner?

  Buffeted unmercifully by one horse, he tried to count how many others cantered beside him. Four, at most. Voice were occasionally raised above the chaos of the hoofbeats, but the sacking muffled the sound. Gervase was trapped in a deep, black hole of pain and confusion. He could do nothing but wait, suffer more intensely, and pray.

  Hooves splashed through water as they forded a stream. Gervase felt the spray on his hands. Wherever they were taking him, it was no leisurely ride. They were in a hurry.

  Richard Orbec ate alone that evening. The meal was frugal and he permitted himself only one cup of wine with which to wash it down. When a servant had cleared away the dishes, Orbec allowed the waiting reeve to enter. Redwald was flushed.

  “I have been told what happened a few hours ago,” he said. “Was your behaviour wise, my lord?”

  “It is not for you to question its wisdom, Redwald.”

  “Indeed, not. But I am hired to administer your lands.”

  “This was a case of trespass, not administration.”

  “The commissioners act with royal warrant.”

  “It carries no weight on my demesne.”

  “My lord!”

  “I've humoured them enough, Redwald,” said Orbec, quietly. “I answered their summons and replied to their questions. I even endured the unwarranted scrutiny of my private life by Canon Hubert. To what end?”

  “They produced a counter-claim to some of your land.”

  “It is worthless.”

  “They had a charter.”

  “It belongs to a corpse.”

  “If someone else should inherit his claim …”

  “What hope is there of that?” said Orbec with feeling. “I have right and title to those manors. Maurice Damville has renounced his claim and Warnod's death repudiates his.”

  “That is still no cause to offend the commissioners.”

  “My will is cause enough!”

  Orbec slapped the table with the flat of his hand for emphasis. His reeve backed away, trying to propitiate him with a nod and a smile. Controlling himself again, his master rose from his seat and crossed over to Redwald. An air of melancholy now hung over him.

  “Forgive my anger, Redwald.”

  “I should beg your pardon for provoking it.”

  “You touch on raw flesh.”

  “It was not deliberate, my lord.”

  “I know,” said Orbec. “I know. Only a Norman would understand my torment. It is the torment of loss, Redwald. The anguish of betrayal. I once held some of the choicest land in the whole duchy of Normandy. Verdant acres in the vicinity of Bayeux. Most of it was lost. Taken from me when my back was turned. That will never happen again, Redwald.”

  “Then do not provoke authority.”

  “I merely defended my legal rights.”

  “There may be repercussions.”

  “Let them come.” Orbec went over to the window and looked out at the valley below, “Look at it, Redwald. The hand of God has touched this land. It is a source of continual joy to me. That is why I chose Herefordshire. It is the closest imitation of Norm
andy that I could find. I lost my beautiful estates near Bayeux, so I am rebuilding them here in England.”

  “I am honoured to be part of that work.”

  “Then do not question my actions again.”

  “I will not, my lord.”

  “You have been a shrewd counsellor and a faithful servant to me, Redwald, but I do not like to be crossed.”

  “That is a lesson I learned a long time ago.”

  “Never forget it,” said Orbec, spinning around to face him. “A threat to my land is like an attack on my person. I lash out to defend myself. Anyone who comes between me and my anger will be swept aside. Even you.”

  Evening shadows fell slowly across Archenfield. Ilbert the Sheriff and his men had commandeered a manor house nearby, but it was too small to accommodate more guests. Ralph Delchard and his party were therefore offered lodging a little further south in Pencoed. Though still worried about her sister, Golde permitted herself to be included in the invitation. There was much more to be learned about Warnod's death and she was, in any case, reluctant to be parted from her new friend. Golde had a Saxon wariness of all Normans, but Ralph had somehow overcome her natural suspicion.

  Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were disappointed that there was no convenient religious house where they could lay their heads for the night. It was too late to return to the college of secular canons at Hereford cathedral, and the nearest Benedictine monastery was in Tewkesbury in the adjacent county of Gloucestershire. Brother Simon duly steeled himself to sleep under the same roof as a woman, while Hubert basked in the relief of escape from his theological adversary. Idwal was to spend the night in Llanwarne at the cottage of the local priest.

  Ralph sent his three companions on to Pencoed with an escort of four men-at-arms. The other half of his knights remained with their master. Ralph would not even consider his own departure until the safe return of Gervase Bret.

  Ilbert the Sheriff lingered with him in Llanwarne.

  “Where can he be?” wondered Ralph.

  “It is easy to go astray in Archenfield,” said Ilbert.

  “Gervase merely went to look at that land. We do not require him to measure each blade of grass on it. A sighting is all that is needed before he joins us here.”

  “Let us hope that he himself was not sighted.”

  “Gervase is too cunning for that,” said Ralph. “An alert mind and a fast horse will keep him clear of trouble.”

  “I pray earnestly that it may.”

  “Why do you say that, my lord sheriff?”

  “Richard Orbec is a dangerous man.”

  “Yes,” said Ralph as he recalled the satanic face. “We saw some- thing of his character at the shire hall. A curious mixture, indeed. Saint and soldier. Benevolent towards the cathedral yet hostile towards anyone who questions that benevolence.”

  “Even more hostile to those who encroach on his land.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask directly of him. I do not know.”

  “But you have had dealings with him over the years.”

  “As few as I could,” said the sheriff, ruefully. “He can be as friendly as a brother one day, but turn into your mortal enemy on the next.”

  “What of this private chapel of his?”

  “They say it is his second home.”

  “He is that devout?”

  “Until something disturbs him. He moves straight from altar to sword then.”

  “A belligerent Christian. The worst kind.”

  “He will not show Christian tolerance towards trespass. That is why I fear for your colleague. If he does fall into Orbec's clutches, there is no telling what might happen to him.”

  “No man would dare to assault a royal commissioner.”

  “Richard Orbec can change from man into devil.”

  “If he so much as touches Gervase, he'll answer to me.”

  “You'll first have to prove his guilt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your friend would not be the first trespasser on that demesne to vanish completely. I have pursued three such cases and found no trace of the men in question.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “It would take you a lifetime to find out.”

  “Why, my lord sheriff?”

  “Richard Orbec has vast estates,” said Ilbert. “Only he knows where the bodies are buried. Let us hope that this Gervase Bret does not stumble into an anonymous grave.”

  The ride seemed endless, the pace jarring. Gervase Bret was bruised and shaken by the time they finally reached their destination. When the horses slowed to a trot, he gathered his wits about him to listen for what sound came through the sacking. He could hear water; not the slow trickle of a stream, but the deep surge of a river. Hooves went over cobbles and voices talked indistinctly. A hollow clack then told him that they were walking across a timber bridge.

  His head was still aching and his whole body felt as if it had been trampled, but he tried to put discomfort aside. A series of shouts penetrated the sacking, but they came so suddenly and so fast that he could not identify them. What he did hear very clearly was the opening of two huge wooden gates. As the hinges squealed there were more shouts, then the horses went forward and met more cobbles.

  Gervase decided that they must be in the courtyard of a castle. No time was allowed for more speculations. He was unstrapped from the horse and pulled from its back by two men. They dragged him without ceremony towards another door and banged on its iron studs. Bolts and a key were heard this time. When the second door swung open to admit them, their prisoner was taken down a circular staircase that seemed to burrow to the very centre of the earth. Gervase complained noisily as he scuffed the hard stone, but his captors paid no heed.

  A third door was opened by a key and then a fourth. He had finally come to the end of his journey. One of the men untied the sack and lifted it from his head. The other man kicked him hard. Gervase went sprawling headfirst into a pile of noisome straw. As the door clanged shut behind him, he was back in thick darkness again.

  The dungeon was damp and inhospitable. The reek of filth and excrement clutched at his nostrils like a hand. Breathing stertorously, he rolled over on his back and tried to assess his injuries. Blood was trickling down his forehead after its collision with the floor, and a few pieces of sodden straw clung to his face. His limbs and body were racked with pain, but nothing seemed to be broken.

  Gervase was about to take a more detailed inventory when something was borne in upon him. He was not alone. A loud rustle in the straw made him tense. Still bound, he was completely at the mercy of an attacker.

  “Who's there?!” he yelled.

  “Cyfaill!” said a soothing voice. “Croeso!”

  The hall at the castle of Ewyas Harold was filled with noise and laughter. Maurice Damville was a man with an insatiable appetite for pleasure. Seated at the head of the table, he ate voraciously and drank to excess. His knights revelled in his company. Their lord could be ruthless, often perverse, and sometimes utterly depraved, but he had a vein of generosity that made his vices seem less objectionable. When they were entertained at the castle the men were always given a lavish banquet. There were no ladies this time, no minstrels, and no dancers, but the feast was above reproach.

  Damville ordered his cup to be filled with more wine.

  “I will have to teach her to make this,” he said before taking a long sip. “One of many things I will teach her!”

  “Who, my lord?” asked Huegon.

  “Who else?”

  “Aelgar?”

  “The fairest maid in the county,” said Damville. “There is no stain on her beauty save one—she makes ale! I'll not have that Saxon piss in my castle. Aelgar will learn to tend a vineyard and make the finest wine.”

  Huegon was surprised. “Will she be here long enough?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ladies enough have already graced your bed, my lord.”

  “They shall do so aga
in, Huegon. Your argument?”

  “It is merely an observation.”

  “Let's hear it. Come, man. You'll not offend me.”

  “Well, my lord,” said Huegon, carefully. “In that case, I have to point out that your passions rarely last a week.”

  Damville guffawed. “They rarely last five minutes if she is just some comely milkmaid with the morning sun upon her hair!” His laughter faded. “But you are right, Huegon. Women arouse me and my interest soon wanes. That is what makes Aelgar so different. I have wanted her for months. The longer she keeps me at bay, the more I respect and desire her. Aelgar is not like the others, Huegon. My passion will not be extinguished after a few nights of madness between those thighs of hers.”

  “What are you telling me, my lord?”

  “When she moves into the castle, she stays.”

  Huegon pursed his lips. “Is that advisable?”

  “It is what I wish.”

  “But the girl is a mere Saxon.”

  “Of noble family. You can see it in her bearing.”

  “Your own dear wife is due to visit Ewyas Harold in—”

  “She can be stopped,” said Damville. “My wife and family belong in Normandy and there they'll stay. I'll have another wife at this castle. Aelgar.” He grinned at the steward. “I look to you to give the bride away. Bend your thoughts to it. I want the nuptials without the wedding itself. Charm the lady. Talk her into my bed.”

  “That will not be easy, my lord.”

  “There have been troublesome courtships before.”

  “Not like this one. She has a sister, Golde. Some might say her equal in beauty. A determined lady, by all accounts. It will be difficult to prise Aelgar away from her.”

  “Then I'll take both at once!” roared Damville. “Two sisters in one bed. We'll make something much sweeter than ale between us.” A shadow of guilt passed across his face. “No, Huegon. It must not be like that. Aelgar is enough in herself. She is very special to me.”

  “So I see, my lord.”

  “I need her!”

  Aelgar stared into the dying embers of the fire. It was only kept alight so that it could be used for cooking, but she huddled over it. On a warm evening, she was shivering. The sound of the bolt made her look up. The servant girl was shutting up the house for the night.