The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Read online

  “Did Warnod make a will?” asked Ilbert.

  “Most assuredly,” said Hubert.

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “We spoke to the priest here. He advised Warnod how the document should be drawn up. Warnod was illiterate.”

  “Apart from the priest, has anyone see this will?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is it not likely to have been consumed in the fire?”

  “Warnod's claim to the land was not.”

  “We have that charter in our possession,” said Simon.

  Ilbert winced slightly. “That makes no difference,” he said, recovering quickly. “The charter is useless without will, and the will is invalid without a beneficiary to urge his claim.”

  “The beneficiary may not be aware of his good fortune.”

  “That situation may remain.”

  Canon Hubert swatted an errant fly from his sleeve and changed the angle of attack. His tone was quite artless.

  “Warnod's father was a farsighted man,” he observed.

  “His father?”

  “A Saxon noble with several manors in this county. He did not trust Normans. He had experience of us long before the Conquest. King Edward invited many of our countrymen to this particular part of his kingdom.”

  “I am well aware of that, Canon Hubert.”

  “Warnod's father was forearmed,” said the other. “When the invasion came, he knew what to expect—confiscation of his lands and a reduction of his prestige.”

  “The normal consequences of defeat.”

  “He fought to circumvent them. Rather than have his holdings taken by the state, he granted them to the Church with the proviso that he—or his heirs—might one day regain possession of them again.”

  “He hid his property under the skirts of religion,” added Simon. “He was not alone in using this device.”

  “Why do you tell me all this?” grunted Ilbert.

  “Because some of that land appears to have attached itself to your own holdings, my lord sheriff,” said Hubert. “A few carucates here, a virgate or two there. It mounts up. Your Christian duty is to give to the Church, not to take from it. We see a hand in the offertory box.”

  “That is a monstrous accusation!”

  “But not unjust.”

  “I made sworn statements before the first commissioners and showed them every document that was required. There was no impropriety.” His voice boomed even louder. “May I remind you that I am the sheriff here, the king's own representative in this county? Do you seriously believe that a person of my eminence would stoop to the crimes that you allege?”

  Hubert was bland. “I do, indeed, believe it.”

  “Calumny!”

  “I know it to be true.”

  “God's blood, man!” roared Ilbert. “I am the sheriff!”

  “Roger of Breteuil was the Earl of Hereford,” reminded Hubert, unperturbed by the outburst. “Until he was unwise enough to join in revolt against the king. If an earl is capable of high treason in this county then its sheriff is more than capable of some astute landgrabbing.”

  “I was vindicated by the first commissioners.”

  “They did not have the full information before them.”

  “What information?”

  “It is largely contained in Warnod's charter.”

  “That relates to Orbec's land,” argued the sheriff with vehemence. “You said so even now. Why do you link me with this charter?”

  “Tell him, Brother Simon.”

  The monk cleared his throat to pronounce the sentence.

  “Your name was written across the top of it.”

  A long morning in the saddle had produced no satisfactory results. Ralph Delchard and his eight men-at-arms had combed the north of Archenfield with the utmost care. They rode along and around the disputed holdings of Richard Orbec in the firm belief that he himself would have had his own land searched for any signs of an intruder. Gervase Bret was nowhere to be seen. Though they questioned everyone they passed on their way, they learned nothing of value.

  They crossed the Golden Valley and headed towards Ewyas. It was conceivable that Gervase had strayed as far as Maurice Damville's land, and Ralph was keen to explore every possibility. His men fanned out across an area of a hundred yards or so, peering into ditches, searching behind bushes, and even using their swords to fish around in the water of a shallow stream. Gervase still did not appear.

  Ralph tugged his horse over to the captain of his men.

  “Where can he be?”

  “I doubt that he came this far, my lord.”

  “He would hardly have gone back to Hereford,” said Ralph. “That leaves only south and west. The curiosity that took him to Richard Orbec's land may have brought him onto Maurice Damville's estate.”

  “Either way he was running a risk, my lord.”

  “Gervase had his wits about him.”

  “He was still a lone man in unknown territory.” He stopped his horse and gazed ahead. “The castle cannot be too far distant. We must look to receive the same welcome there that we did from Richard Orbec.”

  “That will not deter me,” asserted Ralph. “I'll go to Damville's castle and on into Wales itself if it is the only way to track down Gervase.”

  A shout from one of the men directed their attention off to the left. Columns of smoke were rising steadily into the air on the far side of a wooded slope. Muffled yells could be heard. Ralph reacted quickly. Signalling his men to follow, he set off at a gallop, skirting the wood and riding down to a wide plain.

  Harvesting had begun in the cornfields and the sheaves stood in rows across the fields. Five or six of the sheaves had been set alight and were blazing away. A handful of peasants were scampering around trying to move the other sheaves out of the way so that they could not be ignited by flying sparks. A few armoured knights were urging them on.

  Ralph recognised Maurice Damville at once. Not content with giving orders, he had dropped from his saddle and was trying vainly to stamp out the flames that were eating one of the sheaves. Riding across to him, Ralph threw a glance at the devastation.

  “Who did this?” he asked.

  “Murdering Welshmen!”

  “You came in time to save the bulk of the crop.”

  “But not to catch those devils,” said Damville, turning to glare up at Ralph. “Look what they did.”

  “It could have been much worse.”

  “Yes. They might have butchered the rest of my sheep.”

  “Sheep?”

  Damville pointed. “Ride over to the ditch.”

  Ralph and his men went in the direction indicated and found a ditch that bisected the fields. Lying on its bank was a ewe with its throat cut and its belly ripped wide open. Another animal then made a grisly appearance. Carved into the ground on the other side of the ditch, a few inches deep and three or four yards long, was a crude but unmistakeable shape. The sheep's blood had been poured into the mould and it was still lying in thick patches on the surface of the bare earth.

  As the sun hit them, those vivid patches moved and shimmered with such animation that the men stepped back in alarm.

  “Dear God!” said Ralph. “A red dragon! Alive!”

  Night had brought her much closer to Ralph Delchard, but it had driven her even further away from the others. Canon Hubert shunned her, Brother Simon fled from her, and Ilbert the Sheriff pointedly avoided her. Golde sought the company of the one man in Llanwarne who was pleased to talk to her.

  “What have you found out, Archdeacon?” she said.

  “No more than I expected,” said Idwal. “Warnod was not murdered by a Welshman. What would be his motive?”

  “Hatred?”

  “The man befriended his neighbours.”

  “Envy?”

  He was scornful. “We would never envy the Saeson!”

  “Malice?”

  “Foreign to our nature,” he said. “No, dear lady, look elsewhere for your ki
llers. Closer to home. And when you find them, deal with them after your own fashion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is Ergyng. Welsh territory under the heel of the Normans. King William annexed this land by force, but he let us keep our customs here. Do you know how we deal with murderers?”

  “No,” she said. “How?”

  “If a Welshman kills a Welshman, the relatives of the slain man gather and despoil the killer and his relatives, and burn their houses until the body of the dead man is buried the next day before midday.”

  “An eye for an eye.”

  “That is the custom here,” explained Idwal. “The king receives a third part of the plunder, but the relatives of the slain man have the rest free.”

  “This is crude justice.”

  “Crude, but effective. It makes a man think twice before striking a blow against another.”

  “That custom does not apply to Warnod. He was a Saxon.”

  “The law differs for him. If anyone kills one of the king's men or breaks into a house, he gives the king twenty shillings as payment for the man, and a hundred shillings in forfeiture. If anyone has killed a thegn's man, he gives ten shillings to the dead man's lord.”

  “Warnod's death cannot be paid for with a fine.”

  “Which justice would you choose now: ours or yours?”

  “Let us first catch the murderers,” she suggested.

  “Why is it so important to you?” he said, cocking his head to one side like a bird on a fence. “This is no place for a lady, especially one as gracious as you. Why are you so ready to give up the comfort of Hereford for this?”

  “Warnod was a friend of my family.”

  “Your family?”

  “He knew my father … and my sister.”

  “Ah,” said Idwal, sensing a blighted romance. “That is very sad. I grieve for you—and for you sister, too. Death parts all lovers in the end, but this was a cruel divorce. It was better that you came in your sister's place. The sight of Warnod's house should not be inflicted on her.”

  “She will have to be told.”

  “Use soothing words upon her.”

  “I will.”

  “And as for you,” he continued, “your duty is done. You have travelled to Ergyng and gazed upon the scene of his slaughter. Do not distress yourself by lingering further.”

  “But I must, Archdeacon.”

  “Why?”

  “Until they find the killers.”

  “That may take days, weeks.”

  “I gave my solemn word to my sister.”

  “You have honoured it,” he pointed out. “But there is nothing else that you may usefully do in Ergyng. Return to Hereford. Your sister's distress cries out to you. She needs you there to offer comfort.”

  “It is true,” said Golde. “I must send word.”

  “Why send it when you can deliver it in person?” His head came upright and he scrutinised her face. “What other reason detains you here with us?”

  Golde almost blushed.

  * * *

  They had spent the best part of a day in preparation for the event. Fed in their cell that morning, they noted every detail of the procedure. Two guards came. One unlocked the door and stood aside, leaving the key in the lock. His partner carried a rough wooden tray. On it were two cups of water and two bowls of bread soaked in milk. The tray was placed in the middle of the floor and the man departed. His colleague closed the door and locked it again.

  Sufficient light striped its way into the dungeon for Gervase to pick out something of the men's appearance. The one with the tray was young and sturdy, the other was older and leaner. Their weaponry had also been noted. Both wore daggers. The older man also carried a club at his belt in case he had to subdue an unruly prisoner. They wore mailed shirts over their tunics, but both were bareheaded.

  Neither of them spoke. Omri's gentle banter and Gervase's earnest pleas did not extract one word from them. They came, they fed, they went. They would come again.

  “What time?” asked Gervase.

  “It was mid-evening yesterday,” said Omri. “About an hour or so before you arrived. They gave me time to eat my meal then cleared the things away.”

  They had left the tray this time and Gervase was grateful. The stout wood made a useful additional weapon. He offered it to Omri, but the old man shook his white locks.

  “I am a man of peace, Gervase. I might sing a man to death, but that is the only assault I will offer his person.”

  They finalised the details of their plan and rehearsed it in the gloom. It was bold enough to work, but hazardous enough to end in disaster. They would need more than a touch of good fortune in order to succeed. Surprise was their main weapon. A blind old man with a harp would be a useful decoy.

  “Supposing we do get out of here?” said Omri.

  “We shall—God willing!”

  “What then?”

  “We leave the castle itself.”

  “How?”

  “We'll find a way somehow.”

  “On foot?”

  “How else?”

  “I'll only slow you down.”

  “We'll find two horses in the town.”

  “Three, Gervase.”

  “Three?”

  Omri sounded hurt. “I could never leave without my companion. We came together, we must leave together.”

  “But we have no means of knowing where he is.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Omri,” said Gervase, alive to the dangers, “we cannot take anyone with us. It is out of the question.”

  “Then you go alone.”

  “Why take all that extra risk?”

  “Because it is my duty,” said the Welshman. “There is no other way, believe me. If I arrive in Powys alone, they will not respect my age and my reputation. I will be sorely punished for abandoning the friend who lies here.”

  “Would you rather stay in this fetid dungeon?”

  “Yes, Gervase.”

  The old man was adamant. It added a new and more troublesome element to the escape attempt, but Gervase had to agree to it in the end. He turned his mind to the initial stage of their plan. Everything that followed hinged on that.

  “They're not coming!” he said with concern.

  “Give them time, Gervase.”

  “You said that it was mid-evening yesterday.”

  “They'll come to suit themselves,” said Omri with philosophical calm. “We are not important guests. When they remember us, they'll be here.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  “Test the rope again. All depends on that.”

  Twenty minutes later, they heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Descent would be long and slow. They took up their positions. Omri stood beneath the window plucking his harp and singing in a deep and soulful voice. Gervase waited near the door armed with two weapons. The delay had favoured them. Light had faded badly inside the cell.

  The key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. The older man who guarded it now held a lantern. The younger man entered with another tray of food, but he did not get far. As his foot caught in the taut rope that was hidden beneath the straw, he pitched forward and landed on his face, dropping tray and contents in the process. Gervase was on him at once, hammering him on the back of the head with the other tray and knocking him unconscious.

  The older guard took a moment to realise what was happening. Pulling out his club, he came rushing at Gervase, but the latter was ready for him, using the tray like a shield and parrying the blows from the club. It was his second weapon that was critical. Twisted around Gervase's hand was the other length of rope. He swung it in a circle several times to build up momentum before striking with vicious force.

  One blow was enough. It caught the guard on the side of the temple and sent him crashing into the wall. He slumped to the floor immediately. The human skull at the end of the rope had split on impact, but it had proved its worth. The older man
would not revive for an hour.

  Grabbing a dagger from the first guard, Gervase took Omri by the arm and hustled him out. He slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock. Other keys on the same ring would take them through the doors above. They climbed slowly up the spiral staircase in the darkness. Gervase held his dagger at the ready and Omri clutched his harp.

  The first stage was over. They were out.

  Chapter 8

  CREEPING SHADOWS BROUGHT THE FRUITLESS SEARCH TO AN END. IT HAD BEEN A long day in the saddle and Ralph Delchard and his men were dispirited as they headed back to Llanwarne. The whole of Archenfield had now been thoroughly explored, but it yielded no clue as to the whereabouts of Gervase Bret. The Golden Valley had been traversed and they had gone deep into Maurice Damville's estates in Ewyas. Ralph had even taken his men across the Welsh border in the direction of the Black Mountains, but there was still no trace of his friend.

  Canon Hubert and Brother Simon welcomed them back.

  “What news?” asked Hubert, eagerly.

  “Nothing good,” said Ralph, dismounting from his horse. “We have not paused for one minute, but it was all to no avail. Gervase has vanished into thin air.”

  “Most disquieting,” said Simon. “Canon Hubert and I must bear some of the blame here. We should not have left him alone to ride back to Richard Orbec's demesne.”

  “Gervase would not be stopped,” argued Hubert.

  “It was our duty to make him stop.”

  “Then why did you remain silent at the time?”

  “I was praying for the intercession of common sense.”

  “There is no point in bickering,” said Ralph. “I feel as guilty as either of you, but the fact of the matter is that Gervase made the decision himself. And it was the right decision. He doubtless learned much of value from his secret inspection of the Orbec holdings. Unfortunately, the right decision produced an unforeseen result.”

  “Where did you search?” asked Hubert.

  “Anywhere and everywhere. There is not a bush in Archenfield that we have not looked under. Nobody could help us and most of them could not even understand our language. I never thought I would miss so sorely the company of Idwal the Archdeacon.”