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

  Watching the lambskin cloak approach, Ralph spared a thought for the man's wife. What creature of flesh and blood could endure his unremitting volubility? Was she not crushed in bed by the sheer weight of words? By what weird process had their children been conceived? Ralph had a vision of their progeny as tiny sermons with arms and legs. The woman herself was a martyr. Marriage to the gushing urgency of the archdeacon was surely a giant step towards sainthood.

  “I spoke with them,” said Idwal, halting his mount.

  “Do they think we have leprosy?” said Ralph.

  “They fear all soldiers. The manor house was raided.”

  “By whom?”

  “Nobody knows,” said Idwal. “That is what makes it so alarming. But Richard Orbec's reeve was killed with an arrow and soldiers were seen galloping away.”

  “When was this attack?”

  “At dawn this morning. Word has spread like wildfire.”

  “Let's find out more about this.”

  Ralph abandoned the search and led his men in the direction of Richard Orbec's manor house. The intruders might possibly have some connection with Gervase's fate. It was important to learn all that he could about them as soon as possible. Ralph had seen at first hand the forceful way in which Orbec shielded his land from visitors. It would require courage and daring to launch an assault on the man's house.

  When the building came in sight, they could see the strong military presence at once. The drawbridge was up and the palisade was manned. Helmets glinted on all four sides of the manor. Richard Orbec would not be caught unawares again. They were fifty yards from the gate when a voice ordered them to stop and state their business.

  “I am Ralph Delchard and I seek immediate conference with your lord. We come as friends. If there is danger, we will gladly lend what help we can.”

  “Wait there.”

  A message was sent up to the house. When the drawbridge was lowered five minutes later, Richard Orbec himself came out on his horse. He was in full armour.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “To hear details of this attack,” said Ralph. “It cost you a steward, but the same men may also have deprived me of my dearest friend. Who were they?”

  “Raiders from across the border.”

  “Welshmen?”

  “Never!” howled Idwal.

  “Who is this?” said Orbec.

  “I am the Archdeacon of Llandaff, but I speak for the whole of Wales. You are deceived in your judgment, my lord.”

  “I pulled the arrow out of my reeve's back,” said Orbec. “It came from a Welsh bow.”

  “But not necessarily shot by a Welshman.”

  “Keep out of this,” snapped Ralph. “Let's hear the tale in full before we rush to judgment.”

  “You have heard it,” said Orbec. “I left the chapel just after dawn. Redwald, my reeve, met me and chanced to step in front of my body. He presents too large a target to miss. The arrow killed him instantly.”

  “You say that he stepped in front of you?”

  “Accidentally and foolishly. Had he stayed where he was, Redwald would now be telling you how Richard Orbec was picked off by a Welsh archer.”

  “I refuse to believe it!” said Idwal.

  “Did you give pursuit?” said Ralph.

  “We were after them within minutes, but they got clear away.” Orbec gestured with his hand. “Since then, I have looked to my defences, as you see. This was a small party. We saw the marks of their hooves in the wood above the house. A larger force may come next time.”

  “Why?”

  “To kill me.”

  “For what reason?”

  “That has yet to be disclosed.”

  “Have hostile soldiers come over the border before?”

  “Not for several years.”

  “Did you do something to provoke their ire?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There is the questions of the renders,” said Idwal. “If you had respected Welsh customs in Ergyng …”

  Orbec blinked. “What is he babbling about?”

  “Ignore him, my lord,” said Ralph. “Have you informed the sheriff of this attack?”

  “No.”

  “What of your neighbour, Maurice Damville?”

  “I send no messages to him.”

  “But a Welsh raid must surely be of concern. The castle of Ewyas Harold is first in the line of attack. If a larger force did come, Damville would bear the brunt of it.”

  “That is his problem.”

  “Will you not unite in the face of an enemy?”

  “I look after my own,” said Orbec, sternly. “One man has been killed. I will not lose another so easily.”

  “I, too, have lost a man,” said Ralph. “I came here this morning to look for him. You have problems enough of your own, as I can see, but we must talk. If we try, we may help each other. I would appreciate a word in private.”

  Richard Orbec stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The green eyes flashed, but Ralph was equal to their glare. The long perusal eventually came to an end.

  “Follow me,” said Orbec.

  “Thank you.”

  Ralph nudged his horse forward and Idwal followed suit.

  “Alone!” insisted Orbec.

  Idwal protested in both languages, but his words bounced off the backs of the two departing Norman lords. When they had ridden over it, the drawbridge was lifted and secured. The Welshman and the eight men-of-arms were left outside.

  “These are sad tidings, my lord,” said Ralph, falling in beside Orbec. “We met your reeve. He seemed a sound man.”

  “Redwald was an excellent reeve.”

  “Cut down by a stray arrow.”

  “Not stray, my lord. It was meant for me.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have shot it?”

  “Yes,” said Orbec, “but I did not wish to name a name in front of your companion. He could be an intelligencer.”

  “Idwal? He is an archdeacon.”

  “Religion might be a convenient disguise. It allows him to pass among you and gather information freely. Why has he attached himself to you when he has no official place in your commission? This much I do know. Somebody led those Welsh soldiers to the one place from which an arrow could be fired. What does that suggest?”

  “A spy.”

  “I treat all the Welsh as such. And most Saxons.”

  “You said that you knew the assassin?”

  “I can guess at his identity.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A wild man from the house of Powys,” said Orbec. “You have seen the way I drill my men and marshal my defences. How would you plan an assault on me?”

  “With a substantial force or a very small one.”

  “A very small one argues cunning and valour. To come this far across the border is no light matter. They took grave risks.” He gazed up at the wooded slope from which the arrow was discharged. “I know of only one Welshman who would dare to insinuate himself this far into my land.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The prince's nephew.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Goronwy.”

  Goronwy and his men had retreated across the border and camped beside the road to consider their next move. The Black Mountains were at their back and the castle of Ewyas Harold was a couple of miles in front of them. Goronwy was pleased that he had made his presence felt, but angry that he had killed the wrong man. Ever since the name of Richard Orbec had been put into his ear, he had a target for his rage. He would not rest until he had cut out that man's heart with a dagger.

  Angharad was alive. Of that there could be no doubt. They would not have killed her train and taken her off to murder her elsewhere. His bride was, he believed, held by Richard Orbec. He did not even speculate on the motive. Whether it was lust, spite, or the seizing of a hostage in order to exact a ransom, it did not matter. Angharad, his Angharad, a lovely young girl, destined
for his bed, had been taken by force. Orbec would be taught to rue his outrage.

  While his men lit a fire to roast the chickens they had stolen from a nearby farm, Goronwy took one of his men with him and rode towards Ewyas. It was another commote which had been cut ruthlessly away from Wales by the Normans. The castle of Ewyas Harold was a token of that ruthlessness. When they got within sight of it, they reined in their horses and assessed its strength. Its site had been chosen well. Approach from any direction would soon be seen. The ditch was deep and the high walls looked impregnable. Even from that distance, they could see figures on the battlements.

  Goronwy's companion mixed valour with discretion.

  “Richard Orbec's house is an easier target.”

  “This one would test our mettle more.”

  “We do not have men enough.”

  “We will,” said Goronwy.

  “Why waste time here?” argued the man. “Our business lies in the Golden Valley.”

  “Sack this castle and we ride straight through into Orbec's territory. He will not look for us to come from this direction. Besides,” said Goronwy, “my blood is up and I will kill any Norman I can find. We will start here. Ewyas Harold Castle will whet my appetite.”

  * * *

  Maurice Damville was called up to the battlements by his guards. Two figures had been sighted in the distance, but they were too far away to identify. Damville ran up the stone steps to look for himself. He was just in time to watch Goronwy and his companion leave. Their light armour denoted them as soldiers. Here was no casual observation of his stronghold. The castle had been studied with a view to attack.

  “They are coming,” said Damville. “Double the guard!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Alert the whole garrison.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “They are coming,” he said, almost gleefully. “At last!”

  Damville went back down the steps at speed and into the bailey. He summoned his captain and barked orders. The castle was soon alive with activity. Shouts came from the gatehouse. A messenger was approaching. The doors were heaved open so that the horseman's gallop could take him on into the centre of the courtyard.

  He brought his steaming horse to a halt in front of Damville and leaped from the saddle. The parchment was taken from his belt and handed over at once.

  Maurice Damville broke the seal and read the missive. His grin soon turned to a sneer of contempt. He scrunched the letter up and hurled it back at the messenger. The captain's orders were countermanded.

  “Saddle up. Take a dozen men.”

  “Are they not needed here, my lord?”

  “Do as I say!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Ride hard and this may not take long,” said Damville. “You will return here well in time. Have the men waiting and I will give instruction.”

  The messenger picked up the discarded letter from the ground.

  “Is there any reply, my lord?”

  “Yes,” snarled Damville. “Here it is.”

  He knocked the man to the ground with his forearm.

  Gervase Bret rowed intermittently for a few more hours before exhaustion obliged him to ship his oars and drift into the bank. He chose a place where the Monnow cut deep and the banks were high enough to conceal them. Gervase had torn strips of material from his tunic to bind around his hands, but the blisters still burned like hot coals. He was fit and strong, but no boatman. The effort of rowing three of them along the winding course of the river took him close to total fatigue. His whole body was now one continuous ache and perspiration was streaming down his face.

  “Where are we?” asked Omri.

  “I do not know,” said Gervase, “but we still have some way to go, I am sure. That fisherman we met a little way downstream said we had four or five miles yet before we reach Archenfield. Or Ergyng, as you all insist on calling it. We have come nowhere near that distance since then.”

  “You would be quicker on foot,” said Omri.

  “I might be, but what of you?”

  “We could hide somewhere while you went for horses.”

  “No,” said Angharad. “I will not leave Gervase.”

  “Then the two of you must go,” suggested Omri. “I will only slow you down. My walking days are over. And I am hardly fit for catching horses.”

  “I think that we should stay together,” said Gervase.

  “And break your back at those oars?”

  “I will be fine again after a little rest.”

  “We are right out in the open here,” said Angharad. “It does not feel safe. I do not want to leave Omri, but it is only for a little while. We will come back for him.”

  There was conviction in her voice, but none in her face. Gervase sensed that her predicament was far more important to her than the old man's welfare. Once free of her companion, he felt certain, Angharad would want to press on without him. Fond as she was of Omri, she would rather abandon him in order to secure her own escape from the journey to Powys. Gervase was in a cleft stick. He liked the wry old bard and was enchanted by Angharad. One of them would have to be disappointed.

  “We stay together,” he decided.

  “No,” she protested, “that is foolish.”

  “I will not be alone,” said Omri. “I have my harp.”

  “We must go, Gervase,” she urged. “It is our only hope.”

  He felt sad at her readiness to leave the old man to his own devices. Omri would be quite defenceless. His instinct told him that he should somehow protect them both, but that would consign him to more misery at the oars. He was still agonising over the situation when the decision was taken for him. The faint drumming of hooves could be heard in the distance. Omri was a swift interpreter.

  “They're looking for us!”

  “We will be caught!” cried Angharad. “They will see us.”

  “Hold still,” said Gervase.

  He jumped from the boat and scrambled up the bank to peer over the top. There were a dozen or more of them. They were still some way off, but their search was systematic. As some stayed on the road, others fanned out on each side. Three of them were picking their way along the river.

  Gervase slid back to the boat. They seemed trapped.

  The search party was thorough. They came at a steady trot and swept along a front of over a hundred yards. Their quarry would not be difficult to spot. A white-haired old bard, a girl, and a young man in the garb of a Chancery clerk were unfamiliar sights. Sooner or later, they would find a trace of them or meet someone who had seen the trio. It was only a question of being patient and methodical.

  Their leader held to the road and directed the others.

  “What do we do with them?” said his companion.

  “Let us find them first.”

  “They say the girl is very fair.”

  “No hands must be laid upon her!” said the other.

  “Not even in sport?”

  “You can have the old man instead.”

  “What pleasure lies in that?”

  An answering voice came singing through the air.

  “Mehefin ddaeth, fugeiliaid mwyn …”

  The harp was a small instrument that could be tucked under Omri's arm, but its strings produced a sound that reverberated between the banks of the river. As the horses quickened their pace, the song increased in sweetness and volume. The leader signaled to his men and all converged on the source of the melodious sound.

  Two men and a frightened girl were no match for thirteen armed soldiers. The men grinned as they made their way along the river. Their search had borne fruit and they would be rewarded by their lord. Meanwhile, there would be the satisfaction of feasting their eyes on a Welsh beauty.

  “Mor wyn a'r oen, ni wnawn ei fam…”

  The boat was around the bend in the river at a point where the bank was steepest. Picking their way through the trees, they arrived in a group directly above the vessel.

  “Cr
oeso!” said Omri.

  The Welsh beauty was an old man with a harp. There was no sign of the others. The leader dismounted and tried to question Omri, but no common language existed between them. The soldiers split up and looked all around them.

  Half a mile away, Gervase and Angharad were running for their lives.

  The visit to Richard Orbec's fortified manor house changed their plans. Not even Idwal's glib tongue could explain away the presence of a Welsh arrow between the shoulder blades of Orbec's reeve. Ralph Delchard dismissed the archdeacon's earlier assurances that there would be no incursions from across the border. Redwald's death was indisputably the result of an attack by a Welsh raiding party. Warnod's murder and the red dragon carved in Maurice Damville's cornfield were further evidence of a hostile Welsh presence.

  “You are safe as long as you are with me,” said Idwal.

  “I would rather not put that to the test,” said Ralph.

  “No Welshman would attack you when I am here.”

  “One is already doing so. With words.”

  “I offer you wise counsel.”

  “Save it for the Bishop of Llandaff.”

  “But I am your talisman, my lord.”

  “You would not stop me getting an arrow in the back.”

  “I still have doubts about the archer.”

  “Redwald doesn't.”

  Ralph took his men back in the direction of Llanwarne. If a more serious onslaught was to come from across the border, he was singularly ill-prepared to cope with it. Eight men-at-arms and a loquacious churchman were an inadequate defence against light-armoured Welsh horsemen who could move at speed and shoot their arrows with deadly accuracy. Ralph needed additional soldiers. Only then could he resume the search for Gervase Bret.

  The sheriff had left a handful of men in Llanwarne to continue the investigation into Warnod's death. Ralph would despatch one of them to Hereford at full gallop to spread word of the danger and to collect reinforcements. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could also be sent back to Hereford for their own safety. There was little more they could achieve by staying. If, as Orbec predicted, the Welsh did come in greater numbers, there would be far too many dragons in Archenfield for anyone's comfort.

  “Let me go to them, my lord,” offered Idwal.

  “It is too late for that.”

  “I can act as an envoy. To calm them down.”