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

  “Orbec!” he hissed. “Richard Orbec.”

  He pointed at the man, then jabbed his finger in the air to indicate that they wanted directions. The heat of the fire made the man cringe. Goronwy moved the torch ever closer.

  “Richard Orbec!” said the man. “I'll take you!”

  Goronwy smiled. They spoke the same language at last.

  Rope could be a friend as well as a foe. When Gervase Bret was tied to the back of a horse, he cursed the bonds that dug into his wrists and ankles. Those same lengths of rope had enabled him to escape from the dungeon and the coil from the stables had liberated the third prisoner from her tower. There had been no time for introductions and explanations. After taking the girl down to Omri at the base of the mound, Gervase went back to retrieve the rope.

  Paying it out, he cracked it like a whip to dislodge the iron bar from its position. When he cracked even harder the next time, the end came out through the window with the bar at an angle. Gervase dived to evade the missile and it sunk into the earth a few feet away. Rope and bar were gathered up and he slithered back down the mound.

  Even on his own, he knew that he would stand little chance of getting away through the main gate of the castle. Encumbered by an old man and a young woman, he would be mad even to attempt escape in that direction. Rope had been their salvation so far and it might be so again.

  From the top of the mound, Gervase had been able to take his bearings. The tower was enclosed by a wall and below that was a ditch. Beyond the ditch—used as a natural moat—was the River Monnow. That had to be their way out of the town. Gathering his companions, he hustled them around the tower and up the steep bank to the wall. When she looked over it, the young woman put a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry of horror.

  “What is it, Angharad?” whispered Omri.

  “We have to climb down the outside wall,” said Gervase. “There's a ditch below. I'll tie the rope around you and lower you one by one.”

  Angharad understood his halting Welsh and shook her head. Descent from that height was far more dangerous than her climb from the window. Omri sensed her distress.

  “I'll go first!” he said.

  The old man felt for the rope and tied one end around his waist. Gervase wound the end with the bar around his waist and shoulders.

  “Pull hard on the rope twice when you untie it,” he said.

  “Will it be long enough to reach the bottom?”

  “You'll soon find out.”

  Angharad was moved at the sight of the blind man daring to risk such a descent. As she handed him his harp, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Gervase braced himself and slowly paid out the rope. Omri was not heavy. They could hear his feet grating gently on the outside wall. Angharad watched until he vanished into the darkness at the base of the castle. Gervase suddenly felt all the strain taken off him. The rope had been just long enough.

  “He made it.”

  “Is he safe?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Gervase, feeling two tugs on the rope. “Safe and sound. Your turn now.”

  She hesitated for a moment, but the sound of commotion near the gatehouse soon swept away her reservations. The escape from the dungeon had been detected. A search would soon be under way. Gervase helped her to tie the rope around her slender waist, then lowered her as gently as he could. She was lighter than Omri and her feet bounced softly off the wall.

  Two more pulls on the rope told him that she had joined Omri. Gervase moved at speed. Jamming the iron bar between the battlements, he cocked a leg over the wall and grabbed the rope. It took his weight. Leaning out so that he could use his legs to brace himself, he walked and slid his way down through the darkness. Growing noises from within the castle made him rush even more. As soon as he saw the ground, he abandoned the rope and jumped, landing in the muddy ditch and falling over.

  He was on his feet again at once, collecting his two companions and towing them as fast as he could along the river bank. Omri was gasping for breath within a minute.

  “We need horses, Gervase.”

  “I've changed my mind about that.”

  “Why?”

  “We could never outrun them on the road.”

  “Then how else do we get away? On foot?”

  Gervase at last found what he had been hoping he would.

  “No, Omri,” he said. “In a boat.”

  Anxiety over Gervase Bret and annoyance over the unexpected departure of Golde had left Ralph Delchard in a state of dejection. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon lifted his spirits slightly. Over a frugal meal at the house in Pencoed, they explained how they had discomfited Ilbert the Sheriff.

  “I wish I had been there,” said Ralph. “I was looking forward to locking horns with Ilbert Malvoisin.”

  “His case will need to be addressed more fully at a later date,” said Hubert. “But I feel that we have let him know what sort of men he is up against.”

  “Canon Hubert was magnificent,” said Simon.

  “Thank you.”

  “He played the sheriff like a fish.”

  “Since when have you been an angler, Brother Simon?”

  “We are both fishers of man, Canon Hubert,” said the wraith beside him, laughing tinnily at his own wit.

  “Why did the sheriff leave Llanwarne?” said Ralph.

  “There is nothing left for him to do,” said Hubert.

  “Nothing left! What of Warnod's murder? He will not solve that by sitting in Hereford with that excrescence of a reeve. Ilbert should be here.”

  “He has left men to continue the enquiry.”

  “A sheriff should lead it,” insisted Ralph. “This is no random killing. It was a calculated act of savagery that was committed in part to frustrate our work. Find the murderers and we unravel all the mysteries that brought us here.”

  “Perhaps that is why he left,” said Hubert.

  “The sheriff?”

  “He is reluctant to aid us in our work.”

  “That is not surprising, Hubert. If we nail our charges to the Malvoisin tail, he will forfeit a substantial amount of land and pay a fine in the bargain.” He drained his cup of wine. “No wonder he has fled back to Hereford.”

  “Might there not be another reason?” said Simon, meekly.

  “And what is that?”

  “Speak up, Brother Simon,” urged Hubert. “You are fully entitled to an opinion. Though you travel as our scribe, you can also write ideas into the ledgers of our minds.”

  “That was beautifully phrased, Canon Hubert.”

  “Enough fawning, man,” said Ralph. “This reason?”

  “Personal interest.”

  “We have just disposed of that.”

  “Personal interest in Warnod's death,” said Simon as he enlarged his argument with diffident steps. “Cui bono? Who gains by the poor man's demise?”

  “Not the sheriff,” said Canon Hubert. “He had to ride down here to quell a feud between Saxons and Welsh.”

  “And when that is done, he leaves.”

  Ralph tapped the table with a finger. “Simon has a point. The good sheriff was far more interested in the consequences of Warnod's death than in the actual murder. Law and order had to be restored. That done, he leaves the search for the killer to lesser men.”

  “Your conclusion?” pressed Hubert.

  “I leave you to draw that,” said Simon. “I merely point out that Ilbert Malvoisin stood to profit by the death of Warnod and the destruction of his possessions. Including—or so the sheriff supposed—his charter and his will.”

  “The same may be said of Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville,” added Ralph. “They, too, gained by the sudden disappearance of the man with a claim to their land.”

  “To Orbec's land,” reminded Hubert.

  “Yes. Damville waived his right.” Ralph frowned and tapped the table again. “Now, why did he do that?”

  “Not in the true spirit of altruism, to be sure.”

  “What
does that leave us with, Hubert? Three men, all fundamental to our enquiry, all with sound reasons to kill the fourth witness.” He spread his arms wide. “Who is the villain behind the murder? Orbec, Damville, or the sheriff?”

  “We must first solve another riddle.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The red dragon.”

  Gervase Bret rowed for the best part of an hour before he felt it was safe to rest. The boat they had stolen was one of a number of small fishing craft that had been moored upstream from the castle. Most of them were coracles, round vessels that required great skill to manoeuvre with any speed. Gervase opted for the battered rowing boat, first helping his passengers in, then wading chest-high in the river to push them along so that the plash of oars did not attract any interest. Once clear of the town, the sodden Gervase had climbed aboard and shifted the craft by more conventional and less irksome means.

  They travelled with painful slowness. Gervase's back was soon aching and his hands were a mass of blisters. His passengers offered sympathy, but neither could realistically take a turn at the oars. Fearful that their voices would carry, they hardly spoke at all. Omri sat in the stern with an arm around the shivering Angharad, who eventually drifted off to sleep on his shoulder. Gervase struggled on until the pain became too great, then guided the boat into the bank. He tied it to the trunk of an overhanging willow.

  “We have put some distance between us and Monmouth,” he said. “So we should be safe for a while.”

  “You deserve the rest,” said Omri. “How do you feel?”

  “Wet.”

  “Angharad and I are eternally grateful.”

  “Angharad should be grateful to you,” said Gervase. “For lying so convincingly. If I had known that we were rescuing a young lady, I would have thought twice about the whole enterprise.”

  “That is why I kept the truth from you.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A friend,” said Omri. “A friend and companion.”

  Angharad awoke with a start and looked around. Enough moonlight found its way through the willow fronds for Gervase to be able to see her face properly for the first time. It was arresting in its beauty. She was no more than eighteen. The long hair framed a heartshaped face with the most luminous skin he had ever seen. Large brown eyes, a small upturned nose, and full lips enriched the portrait. Something else could be seen in the faltering light. There was an air of nobility about her. Even in her confused and muddied condition, Angharad had natural poise.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “His name is Gervase,” prompted Omri.

  “Thank you, Gervase.”

  “Are you all right, Angharad?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “No,” she said. “Nobody touched me. They locked me in a chamber. That is all.”

  “Did they tell you why?”

  “They said nothing at all.”

  “Did you not overhear them speaking?”

  “Yes, but not in Welsh.” She turned to Gervase. “Where are we?”

  “I am not sure. Somewhere on the River Monnow.”

  “This old boat is as hard as stone,” said Omri, as he adjusted his position, “but it is better accommodation than Monmouth Castle could offer us.”

  “Where will we go?” she said.

  “Wherever the river takes us,” said Gervase. “Further north it is the border of the place where I was captured.”

  “What is that called?”

  “Archenfield.”

  “Ergyng,” corrected Omri.

  Her face lit up. “You have friends in Ergyng?”

  “Yes,” said Gervase. “Good friends. They will give us food and horses.” He looked down at himself. “And I can change into some dry apparel.”

  “You have suffered much for our sakes, Gervase,” said Omri. “If I could soothe your blisters with a song or dry your clothing with a jest, I'd happily do both, but my talents are barren in this situation.” “There is one thing you can do for me.”

  “Ask and it is yours.”

  “Tell me who Angharad really is.”

  “A friend. No more.”

  “There is much more, Omri.”

  “Look at the dear creature,” he said, “for I cannot except in my mind's eye. Angharad is a miracle of nature—a waterfall in full flow, a daffodil in bloom, a bird on the wing.”

  “Birds on the wing do not merit eight men-at-arms to escort them on the road.” Gervase was persistent. “Who is she and why was she going to the court of the prince of Powys?”

  “Tell him,” she said.

  “Leave this to me, Angharad.”

  “If you do not, then I will.” She smiled at Gervase and touched his arm in gratitude. “He risked his life for us. Why should he bother with two strangers when he could have escaped on his own much more easily? Gervase is kind. He can be trusted. Tell him, Omri.”

  The old man sighed and nodded. He picked up his harp and plucked at the strings to draw out a plaintive melody. His words were heightened by the music.

  “Angharad hails from a royal house,” he chanted. “She is the niece of Rhys ap Tewdr, prince of Deheubarth and lord of the whole of South Wales. Had he but known where we were kept, Rhys ap Tewdr would have stormed Monmouth Castle with a thousand men and left not a stone of it standing. And all the bards of Wales would have celebrated the event in song for another century.”

  His fingers lay still, but the music hung on the wind for a few more moments before it died away. Gervase had heard enough to be able to guess the rest.

  “A dynastic marriage?”

  “Even so, my friend.”

  “With someone from the house of Powys?”

  “Goronwy, the nephew of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself.”

  Angharad tensed at the name and said something so rapidly in Welsh that Gervase did not understand it. What he did observe, how- ever, was her evident distress.

  “This match does not please the lady, I think.”

  “Angharad is … not overjoyed by the choice.”

  “She is not the only one,” said Gervase. “An alliance between Deheubarth and Powys? They would make a powerful combination. King William himself would not be delighted with this marriage.”

  “It has other opponents,” admitted Omri.

  “Who are they?”

  “The men who ambushed us on the road. I do not know who they are, but they clearly had a strong reason to stop this marriage. Killing eight soldiers and abducting the bride are not very generous wedding presents.”

  “I do not want him,” said Angharad. “I hate Goronwy.”

  “You have never even met him,” said Omri, reasonably. “What you hate is what you have heard about him. And any man may suffer from false report.”

  “Who is he?” asked Gervase.

  “The captain of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn's retinue.”

  “A soldier then. Brave and strong.”

  “He would not hold the position that he does without bravery and strength. They say that Goronwy is fearless—and I have heard that on a dozen tongues, so it cannot be denied.” He sagged slightly. “But they say other things, too.”

  “I could never love this man,” wailed Angharad.

  “Why not?”

  “He must not be my husband. I would rather spend the rest of my life in that castle than be forced to marry this Goronwy. My uncle is cruel!”

  “What has she heard about this man?” said Gervase.

  “He has a reputation,” confessed Omri.

  “Reputation?”

  “It may be completely unfair to him.”

  “And it may be true.”

  “It is true!” Angharad insisted. “It is true.”

  “What is this reputation for, Omri?”

  “Ruthless slaughter. They say that he is consumed with blood-lust. That is why Angharad is terrified of this man. When he has a weapon in his hand, he runs mad.”

  Goronwy slit th
e man's throat and left him dead in the bottom of the ditch. The Saxon guide had served his purpose. He had led them to their destination. Lying flat on his stomach in the undergrowth, Goronwy kept the house under surveillance. He was over a hundred yards away, but his position on the wooded slope allowed him to see over the fortifications. Dawn was rising and the birds were in full voice. The scene was tranquil.

  When a figure came out of the chapel, Goronwy held out a hand to one of his men. Bow and arrow were passed over. This was no death to be delegated. Goronwy wanted the pleasure of execution himself. Another man came to meet the first outside the chapel. They talked in earnest. Goronwy rose up and knelt, fitting the arrow to the bowstring.

  Below in the half-light, the conversation continued. The newcomer was a big, shambling man with deferential gestures. He was patiently talking with his lord. Goronwy rose steadily to his feet. Strong fingers pulled back the bowstring. The assassin waited. This was him. Goronwy was certain. This was the man who had ambushed his young bride. Revenge would be swift and sweet.

  The arrow whistled through the air with the hatred of a young lifetime riding on its back. The aim was true, but its speed was fractionally too slow. Before it could strike its target, the bigger man stepped unwittingly in front of the other. The arrow hit him directly between the shoulder blades and killed him outright. He pitched ridiculously forward.

  Richard Orbec caught his dead reeve in his hands.

  Chapter 9

  RALPH DELCHARD WAS TORMENTED BY A DOUBLE LOSS. THE BAFFLING DISAPPEARance of Gervase Bret was always at the forefront of his mind. It gave him another night of feverish rumination and put him back in the saddle at dawn. Warnod's murder had been a public event with a flaming message left behind for all to see. Ralph was forced to consider that Gervase might have been killed in a more private way and buried somewhere by stealth. They might never find him. If Gervase had met a violent end, then his death would somehow be linked to that of Warnod. Finding one set of killers would solve both murders.

  While all his energies were directed towards hunting for some trace of his friend, Ralph was troubled by another loss. The hurried departure of Golde had wounded him. She had left no message, suggested no further meeting between them. Had the shared feelings on their first night in Archenfield been an illusion? Was her return to Hereford a signal to him in itself? Ralph felt the sharp pain of rejection. In the short time he had known Golde, he had been drawn ever close to her. Had she encouraged him in order to spite him? Was it Saxon cunning that had ensnared him in order to inflict punishment?