The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 17

  “I am ready for you, my lord.”

  Idwal the Archdeacon was depressingly bright at that time of the morning. As he mounted his horse, his eyes were glistening and his face was a mask of shining religiosity. Ralph had contained his homicidal urges in order to make use of the Welshman during the search. Mouths which had been closed to them on the previous day might open to the little archdeacon with the lambskin cloak.

  “Which way shall we ride?” asked Idwal.

  “To the place where Gervase was last seen.”

  “Richard Orbec's demesne? Will we be safe?”

  “He'll not stop me this time,” asserted Ralph. “Orbec promised me that he did not touch Gervase and I accept his word. But someone else may have struck on Orbec's territory. I would like to search it afresh to satisfy myself.”

  “Take me wherever you wish,” said Idwal. “I am yours.”

  They set off from Llanwarne at a steady pace. Ralph's men-at-arms were refreshed by a night's sleep and as eager as their master to track the young commissioner. Having ridden with him on assignments in Wiltshire and in Essex, they had come to like and respect Gervase Bret very much. Their duty was mingled with affection, but the prospect of action kept them alert.

  Ralph tried to keep ahead of Idwal, but the archdeacon was no mean horseman. He caught up to canter abreast.

  “They say this Richard Orbec is a holy man.”

  “It is a holiness mixed with hostility.”

  “Towards whom, my lord?”

  “Everyone. He treats his demesne as his refuge. Nobody is allowed to disturb him—on pain of death.”

  “A curious blend,” observed Idwal. “The instincts of a monk and the impulse of a murderer. What made the man so?”

  “Only he knows that.”

  “I would like to probe his mystery.”

  “He is more likely to probe your ribs with a dagger.”

  “Violence towards the Church? Never!”

  “Richard Orbec would not scruple to kill a pope who trespassed on his land,” said Ralph. “Besides, you will not be there to plumb the depths of his spirit. Orbec has Welsh subtenants on his land in Archenfield.”

  “Ergyng.”

  “Loosen their tongues for me.”

  “I will open their hearts and make them sing Te Deum.”

  “We want information about Gervase. Nothing more.”

  “I will want something else, my lord.”

  “What is that?”

  “An explanation of this outrage.”

  “Outrage?”

  “Ergyng is a part of Wales in the grasp of foreigners. But it was allowed to keep its old customs. Such things mean much to an ancient people like us.”

  “How does this affect Richard Orbec?”

  “He violates those Welsh customs,” said Idwal. “In every other part of Ergyng, my compatriots pay their dues in renders of honey, pigs, sheep, and so forth. It has always been so. This Richard Orbec, so they tell me, exacts rent from his Welsh subtenants in the form of money. They have no choice. Your commission should look into this abuse.”

  “We are already aware of it,” said Ralph, “but it lies not within our jurisdiction. Landlord and tenant come to their own agreements. We only take notice when there is corruption and misappropriation at work.”

  “You see exactly that here before your eyes!”

  “All I see is a man who prefers money to a few sesters of honey and a couple of sows. Orbec commits no crime.”

  “But he does, my lord. He desecrates our customs.”

  “We talk about no more than a handful of people.”

  “If it was one,” said Idwal with passion, “I would defend his rights. Richard Orbec is heaping the greatest shame upon people of my nation.”

  “How?”

  “By dishonouring their Cymreictod.”

  “Their what?”

  “Their Welshness.”

  Ralph nudged more speed from his horse and drew away. Idwal's company was taxing. He began to regret his decision to bring the archdeacon with him. There was another price to pay for his interpreter. Every time Ralph looked across at the Welshman, he was reminded of the latter's part in the return of Golde to her sister. But for Idwal's undue interference, she might well have been waiting for him on the previous night. Ralph toyed once more with the image of a leaden cask being lowered into a deep pit. He would toss the lambskin cloak joyfully in after it.

  “Another matter must be raised, my lord.”

  Idwal was not yet ready for his removal from the face of the earth. He brought his horse level with Ralph's again.

  “I could not touch upon it yesterday.”

  “Upon what?”

  “The question of the lady.”

  “Golde?”

  “Others were present,” said Idwal. “Canon Hubert and Brother Simon are worthy jousters for me to knock from their saddles in debate, but they were raised in monastic celibacy. Their flesh does not behave as that of other men.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Discretion, my lord. Biding my time. Telling you alone what could not be said before your two companions for fear it might bring blushes to their virgin cheeks.” He cackled merrily. “Though I share their love of God, it does not make me turn aside from all women. I am a married man.”

  Ralph gaped. “You have a wife?”

  “Wife and children, my lord. They pine for me even now.”

  “Return to them as soon as you may,” he urged.

  “Do you not want to hear of Golde?”

  “Will you ever tell the news?”

  “It was written on her face for all to see,” said Idwal. “Only eunuchs like Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could fail to know its import. I saw it at once.”

  “Saw what, man?”

  “She loves you.”

  Work began early at the brewhouse on Castle Street. Golde was there to supervise it. Sacks of fresh barley were cut open for the day's usage. Fermentation was checked in the ale which had stood in the vats overnight. The carter arrived to return empty barrels and take away full ones. Golde tasted every consignment before she released it. Her husband had taught her well and she maintained the highest standards. Any ale which did not please her palate would be put aside. The distinctive flavour of her product had to be preserved at all costs.

  After a few hours in the brewhouse, she found a moment to slip back into the house. Aelgar was sitting in front of the fire with the same sombre expression on her face.

  “You must strive to get out of the house, Aelgar.”

  “Do you not want me here?” asked her sister.

  “Fresh air may restore you. The presence of others may give you interest. It is not good for you to lock yourself away with your memories.”

  “They are all I have now.”

  “Visit the market. Buy some fruit for us.”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “Brooding over Warnod will not bring him back.”

  “I know.” She looked up. “Will he forgive me, Golde?”

  “For what?”

  “Letting him go to his grave alone.”

  “Aelgar!”

  “I should have been there,” she said, wistfully. “He was my beloved. I should have watched them lower him into the ground and said a prayer for his soul.”

  “You can pray as well for him here as there,” said Golde. “Archenfield was no place for you. It was not his body that they buried but his ashes. It must have been a hideous sight. You were spared that. Warnod loved you truly. He would not have wanted you to witness such a scene.”

  “And he will not blame me?”

  “No, Aelgar. Nor let you blame yourself.”

  The girl gestured helplessly. “I miss him.”

  “Of course,” said Golde, squeezing her. “We both do.”

  “I cannot believe that he is gone.”

  “Time will slowly knit up your grief.”

  “I loved him so dearly, Golde. Yet he left so l
ittle behind. All that was to have been mine—ours to share—was burned to the ground. I have nothing save a few keepsakes, and I have been too afraid even to look at them for fear that they would make my grief overflow.”

  Golde's curiosity was aroused. She turned the girl to face her and knelt down to hold her hands. Red-rimmed eyes looked across at her. She kissed her sister on the cheek.

  “Keepsakes, you say?”

  “They are nothing much.”

  “Why have you not mentioned them before?”

  “They were mine,” said Aelgar. “Private treasures.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “Where I have hidden them these past months.”

  “Even from me? Your sister?”

  “Warnod made me promise.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, but I obeyed. He was to be my husband.”

  Golde nodded reassuringly and squeezed her hands.

  “May I see these keepsakes now?”

  Two strenuous hours at the oars inflamed the blisters on his hands and deepened the ache in his muscles. Gervase Bret took the boat into the bank again and moored it to a small boulder. He climbed ashore and offered his hand to Angharad.

  “Is it safe?” she asked.

  “We are well clear of Monmouth now.”

  “Horses could soon catch up with us.”

  “We are not pursued, Angharad,” he said. “Take my hand and step out. It will do us all good to stretch our legs.”

  “Yes,” agreed Omri. “My old bones do not like boats.”

  They had managed a few hours' sleep in the night without daring to leave their vessel. Cramps increased their general discomfort. Leaving at dawn, they were now further upstream and able to scan the landscape all around them. Grazing sheep were the only moving figures to be seen.

  Helped by Gervase, the old man clambered onto the bank. He yawned and stretched himself. Gervase guided the two of them to some nearby bushes which offered them complete cover and protection from the stiff breeze. Secure in their hiding place, they settled down on the grass.

  Angharad was embarrassed to be seen in such a sullied condition and tried to tidy her hair with hands that flitted like butterflies around her head. Gervase was far more conscious of his own bedraggled state. The dignity of a royal commissioner had been stained and soaked quite beyond recognition. He could feel the muck on his face and smell the stink on his attire. He was hardly in a presentable state to meet a lady from one of the royal houses of Wales.

  Omri seemed to read his mind. He gave a rich chuckle.

  “Adversity makes strange bedfellows,” he mused. “What else but a malign fate could have thrown we three together?”

  “Gervase saved us,” said Angharad, simply.

  “Indeed, indeed. I will compose a song to thank him.”

  “Do not mention the mud and the water,” said Gervase.

  “My music will cleanse you from head to toe. I will tell of a hero with golden lustre.” He sniffed deep and chuckled again. “And my song will have to put a peg on the noses of my listeners. Heroes do not stink of a night in a dungeon and a dip in the River Monnow.”

  Angharad laughed nervously, then looked around with frightened eyes. She drew her cloak around her shoulders.

  “You are sure we are safe, Gervase?” she said.

  “For the time being.”

  “Why have they not come after us?”

  “Because that was not their task,” said Gervase. “Their job was merely to hold us at the castle. They had no remit to organise a search if we chanced to escape.”

  “What of the men who took us to Monmouth?” she said.

  “They have long gone.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “We would have heard from them by now,” decided Gervase. “The road from Monmouth never strays too far away from this river. I heard a cart go past in the night and a drover took his cattle past at dawn. We were hidden from them by the banks of the river, but travellers were not hidden from us. A posse of soldiers at full gallop is a sound that we would surely not have missed.”

  “My ears would not have missed it,” said Omri. “I have heard every insect that crawled, every blade of grass that stirred. I have listened to the conversation of the fishes and the complaints of the frogs. No soldiers.”

  “Other enemies still linger,” said Gervase. “We must take no chances. When we have rested, I will search for food. There may be berries to sustain us and clean water to drink.”

  “Find a tree that grows dry clothing,” said Omri. “And some bushes that yield spices to sweeten our persons.”

  “Clothing must wait, but flowers may give us scent.”

  Angharad looked increasingly uncomfortable. She bent to whisper into Omri's ear. He nodded understandingly and hauled himself to his feet.

  “She would be alone awhile,” he said, feeling for Gervase's hand and pulling him up. “Let's stand aside. This is no place even for a blind man.”

  They left her to satisfy the wants of nature and found more cover behind the trunk of an elm. Its spreading branches dipped and creaked in the breeze. Gervase was grateful for a moment alone with Omri. Strategy needed to be decided.

  “What will you do with her?” Gervase asked.

  “Take her to Powys.”

  “Even though she does not wish to go?”

  “I obey the command of her uncle.”

  “Does he know how much she resists this match?”

  “Rhys ap Tewdr has only spoken to the girl once or twice in her entire life. Power falls to the man with the strongest arm. A Welsh prince is always too busy guarding his territory against rivals. Even Rhys ap Tewdr must fight off foolhardy pretenders. He does not have much time for his wider family.”

  “Until they can be used as pawns in marriage.”

  “That is your judgment.”

  “Is it not yours?”

  “I am hired to sing and crack a jest.”

  “And tell fortunes at the courts of the great.”

  “Only to those who will hear me.”

  “I will hear you, Omri.”

  “You”

  “Can you see into the future for us?”

  “I have already done so,” said the old man, with a sly grin. “Why do you think I agreed to escape with you? It was because I foresaw success. I knew that you would put us both on your back and fly over the walls of the castle.”

  “Was the river part of your prophecy?”

  “I deal in generalities, Gervase. Do not pin me down.”

  “What lies ahead for us now?”

  “Trouble, sorrow, and threats to our lives.”

  “And then?”

  “My vision becomes blurred.”

  There was movement in the bushes. Angharad came to join them with a posy of flowers in her hand. She inhaled their fragrance then held them under Omri's nose. The scent revived him.

  “I will pick some of my own,” he said, moving away.

  “Let me help you,” offered Gervase.

  “I would go alone.”

  It was the old man's turn to relieve himself. Gervase watched him grope his way towards the bushes, then he turned his attention to Angharad. She looked even more beautiful by daylight. The glow on her skin was captivating. Gervase basked in its glory. Angharad studied him carefully. After making sure that they were not overheard, she moved in close to whisper to him.

  “You have friends in Ergyng?”

  “If we can reach them.”

  “What will happen to me, then?”

  “We will arrange an escort for you,” said Gervase. “Omri will take you on to Powys.”

  “No!”

  “Your uncle has decreed it.”

  “My uncle does not have to marry that pig!” she said with quiet ferocity. “Goronwy is an animal. I will not share my bed with him. He frightens me.”

  “You only know him by report, Angharad.”

  “There are too many tales. They a
ll say the same thing about him. I want to please my uncle, but I will not tie myself to a madman for the rest of my life.” She clasped his hands. “Goronwy is strong and brutal. Think what he could do to me. Would you hand any girl over to a man like that?”

  “No,” he said. “But this is not my concern, Angharad.”

  “It is now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Omri is sweet and kind, but he is afraid to disobey. You are not bound by any orders from my uncle.” She clutched at his chest. “You have rescued me once, Gervase, and you must do it again.”

  “Rescue you?”

  “From Goronwy. You are the only hope I have.”

  “It is not my place.”

  “I need you,” she begged. “Do not force me to go to Powys. I will do anything to avoid that. Marriage to this ogre would be like suicide. Help me, Gervase.” She flung herself at him and clung tight. “Help me. Please, help me.”

  They rode for another mile or more and still there was no challenge. Indeed, their presence seemed to frighten people away rather than rouse their interest. Expecting an armed resistance, they instead sent peasants scurrying away from their fields, and fishermen abandoning their nets to seek the nearest refuge. Ralph Delchard and his men continued their search in a state of bewilderment.

  “Why do they run away from us?” said Ralph.

  “The sight of Norman armour unsettles them,” said Idwal.

  “Then they must quake with fear every day of their lives because Orbec's men-at-arms are everywhere.”

  “Not this morning, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me find out for you.”

  They were moving up the Golden Valley now and he spotted the first of the mills on the River Dore. While Ralph and the others waited, Idwal rode on down to see if his religion and nationality would reassure. They saw him meet two men beside the mill and fall into animated conversation with them. Idwal, for once, seemed to be doing most of the listening. One of the men pointed up the valley and the archdeacon nodded. He was soon cantering back to his companions.