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

  “Have you never thought to marry again?” asked Gervase.

  “Nobody could replace Elinor.”

  “Many ladies would like the opportunity to try.”

  “Then that is what they may do!” said Ralph with a chortle. “Let them come, one and all. Save for battle, there is no greater pleasure than wenching. I can tell you now that I look to find a comely lady or two in Hereford to take the sting out of this interminable journey. What else are women for?”

  Gervase bit back a reply and took a deep breath. “I will not rise to the bait this time.”

  “Then I'll not dangle it before you.” He leaned across to Gervase and lowered his voice. “Many have taken Elinor's place in my bed; none will ever oust her from my heart.”

  “So it is with me and Alys.”

  Ralph nodded. He became suddenly brisk and barked out a command, slapping the rump of Gervase's horse with the palm of his gauntlet and spurring his destrier into a canter that brought loud protest from the two riders directly behind him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were spattered in even more mud as a fresh volley was thrown up by the flashing hooves. Hubert was a round, fat, selfsatisfied prelate with an endless supply of red-cheeked, righteous indignation. Seated on a donkey that was all but invisible beneath his bulk, he ordered Ralph to slow down, then blustered impotently when his own mount quickened its pace to catch up the others. Brother Simon was a Benedictine monk buried deep in his black cowl, a laconic and emaciated man who had chosen the skinniest horse in Christendom to match his ascetic tastes. Clinging to the pommel of his saddle as his horse lunged forward, Simon bounced along precariously and prayed for all he was worth.

  They were twelve in number. Eight men-at-arms from Ralph's own retinue rode in pairs behind the holy men and towed the sumpter horses after them. An escort was vital on such a long journey. Like their lord, the knights wore helm, hauberk, and sword, and rode upon trained warhorses. Four of them carried a lance and four had bows slung across their backs. Necessary escorts on the long trail from Winchester, they would be able to lend force and status to the work of the commissioners.

  Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, Canon Hubert, and even the unsoldierly Brother Simon knew the value of a military presence while they were about their business. The men themselves hoped for some action and adventure in Hereford. It had been a tame, uneventful ride so far and they had exhausted all their crude jokes about the adipose canon and the spectral monk. With their destination rising up before them, they goaded their horses into a steady canter.

  As they approached the city from the southeast, Gervase also felt a glow of anticipatory pleasure. Their work would not be too onerous, but it promised to be full of interest. He glanced across at Ralph and called out above the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves.

  “Who will greet us this time?” he asked. “What creatures await us here?”

  “Creatures?”

  “Yes, Ralph. We met with wolves in Savernake Forest and ravens in the Blackwater Estuary. What does Hereford hold?”

  “The most dangerous animals of all, Gervase.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “More savage than wolves, more sinister than ravens.”

  “What are they?”

  “The worst foe that any man can encounter.”

  “Wild bears?”

  “No, Gervase,” shouted his friend. “Churchmen!”

  As they walked side by side into the choir, the noise was ear-splitting. Carpenters, woodcarvers, stonemasons, and smiths seemed to be everywhere, filling the cathedral with the most unholy sounds and adding unbearably to the din by raising their coarse voices above it. The visitor was profoundly shocked. He watched a block of stone being winched up to the top of a pillar by a giant of a man who was whistling at his trade as if completely unaware that he was on hallowed ground. God's work was being done by mindless heathens.

  Idwal turned an accusatory glare on his companion.

  “This is sacrilege!” he exclaimed.

  “No,” said the other calmly. “Burning the cathedral to the ground was sacrilege. That, I have to remind you, was the work of your compatriots from across the border. Rebuilding is an act of faith. Bishop Robert has decreed that the work be advanced as swiftly as possible.”

  “By this crew of noisy infidels?”

  “They are skilled craftsmen, Archdeacon.”

  “But wherein lies their skill?” demanded the irate Welshman. “In taking the Lord's name in vain? In turning His house into a fishmarket? Listen to that appalling sound!”

  The dean was imperturbable. “Building is a noisy occupation,” he said easily. “No man can carve solid oak or chisel rough stone in silence. And the fellows must talk to each other or how else can they know what is needed and when?” He put a hand on the other's shoulder and eased him toward the transept. “Let us step outside and leave these good men in peace.”

  “Peace!”

  “The rain may have stopped by now.”

  Dean Theobald was a tall, slim, dignified man of fifty in canonical robes. He moved with a stately tread and towered over the little Welshman beside him. Conducting his visitor back out into the fresh air, he took him far enough away from the building work for the clamour to subside to a distant hum. Idwal was clearly going to be a troublesome guest.

  “How is Llandaff?” Theobald asked politely.

  “Quiet!”

  “Your cathedral church was not razed to the ground.”

  “Indeed not,” said Idwal, “but it has suffered many other humiliations. I see it as my mission in life to right some of the terrible wrongs that have been inflicted upon us.”

  “Wrongs?”

  “I mention but one. All else follows from this.” He flung back his tattered lambskin cloak and drew himself up to his full height. “A Bishop of Llandaff should not have to kneel to an Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “Lanfranc is a great man.”

  “The good archbishop may be three parts saint and one part human being, but that does not entitle him to hold sway over the Welsh nation. Llandaff had a church when Canterbury was still overrun by miserable pagans. The bright light of Christianity shone upon Wales centuries before its rays deigned to touch Kent.”

  “An interesting argument,” said the dean tactfully.

  “You will hear it in full before I leave Hereford.”

  Theobald groaned inwardly. “I feared that I might.”

  Idwal was the Archdeacon of Llandaff Cathedral in South Wales. A small, wiry, animated man in his late thirties, he had a manic glint in his eye and a combative nature. His piety and intelligence were not in doubt, but they were allied to a fierce patriotism. There was a flamboyance about his language and gesture that seemed incongruous in someone so shabbily dressed. His shoes were almost worn through, his hat was shapeless, and his cloak looked as if it had been dragged through every patch of mud on the long road from Glamorgan.

  Dean Theobald had a reputation for being able to get on amicable terms with almost anyone, but he sensed that he might have met his match in Idwal. There was something about the voluble Welshman that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in alarm. Welcoming the archdeacon would be nowhere near as pleasant as bidding him farewell.

  “How long will you be with us?” he asked.

  “As long as it takes,” said Idwal.

  “A couple of days? A week?”

  “We shall see.”

  “There surely cannot be much to detain you here,” said Theobald, probing for enlightenment. “If your bishop has sent you on a tour of your native country, you will not wish to spend much time on the wrong side of the border.”

  “Christianity knows no frontiers.”

  “That is certainly true.”

  “Besides, I could not come so close to your cathedral without paying Bishop Robert the compliment of a visit. Part of my work is to forge closer links with other dioceses. Since we regard whole areas of Herefordshire as essentially Welsh in spirit and incl
ination, this was an obvious port of call.”

  “It pleases us to offer you hospitality.”

  “The priests in Archenfield spoke well of your work.”

  “That is reassuring.”

  “Hardly,” said Idwal with a wicked cackle. “All it means is that you do not interfere with their ministry. The churches in Archenfield are part of the diocese of Llandaff. They look to a more ancient and distinguished see for their spiritual guidance. You understand now why I feel I have a bounden duty to pay my respects to you. The Welsh have left large footprints all over this beautiful county.”

  Theobald sighed. “Not only footprints, alas!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A man was murdered in Archenfield last evening. Close to the village of Llanwarne.”

  “Llanwarne!” gasped Idwal. “But I spent an hour at the little church there yesterday afternoon.”

  “Had you stayed until evening, you might have witnessed the tragedy. From a distance, that is. The victim was burned to death in his own home. The flames could be seen for miles.”

  “Dear Lord above!” Compassion brought tears into the wild eyes. “Poor man!” he said with quavering voice. “What a dreadful way to die! May his soul rest in peace! Burned alive! I break out into a fever whenever I read the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego going into the fiery furnace—and they came out unharmed. But this unfortunate creature! The suffering he must have endured! My heart goes out to him. Tell me who he was that I may include him in my prayers.”

  “A Saxon thegn. Of no real consequence.”

  “He deserves our sympathy as much as any man,” said Idwal. “Death makes us equal partners of one nation. To perish in the flames is like going to hell. Let us hope the ordeal took this noble Saxon to heaven.” He remembered the earlier remark and blinked in astonishment. “But what has a murder in Llanwarne got to do with Welsh footprints?”

  “Something was carved in the turf outside the house.”

  “What was it?”

  “The signature of the killers.”

  “In what form?”

  “A red dragon.”

  For the first and perhaps the only time in his life, Idwal was rendered speechless. Theobald savoured the phenomenon.

  By the time they clattered into the city through St. Owen's Gate, the travellers had slowed to a gentle trot. The drizzle had faded away, the wind had dropped, and the sky was visibly clearing. They were able to relax and take the measure of the place. Compared to Winchester, from which they had set out on their assignment, Hereford was small and compact. Less than a thousand people lived in a city that had a curiously cosmopolitan flavour. Apart from native Saxons and newcomers of Norman stock, it housed Welshmen, Bretons, Flemings, even a Dane or two. Frenchmanne Street lay to the north of the city as did Jews Street. The bustling market was truly a meeting place of nations. Haggling was done in many tongues.

  Ralph Delchard had been duly impressed with the fortifications. It was now thirty years since the Saxon ramparts had been stormed and pulled down by Welsh raiders. The ferocity of the attack had left castle and cathedral in ruins and the whole city in a state of shock. Norman expertise had been brought to bear upon the defences. The earthwork that encircled Hereford had been raised higher and made stronger, while the ditch that fronted it had been deepened. Pierced by six gates, the city walls had also been reinforced.

  A large motte and bailey castle was raised on the site of its hapless predecessor. Perched on the River Wye so that it could act as a moat on the southern side, the castle was protected on its other flanks by Norman thoroughness. As he led the others into the courtyard, Ralph threw an admiring glance at the high, solid walls all around them, and at the massive stone building set up on the mound ahead of them and screened by an additional wall. A few guards patrolled the ramparts. Other soldiers practised their swordplay. The clang of steel showed that the armourer was busy in his workshop. Ralph felt at home.

  “Welcome to Hereford, sirs!”

  “Thank you,” said Ralph.

  “I am Corbin the Reeve.”

  The figure who greeted them beside the stables was a fleshy man in his forties with a smile that seemed more of a mask than an indication of genuine pleasure at their arrival. Seated astride a chestnut stallion with handsome trappings, Corbin wore a tunic and mantle of the finest cloth and cut. His hat was trimmed with sable. Gold rings congregated on both flabby hands. The reeve was evidently a man who liked to display his wealth.

  Ralph performed the introductions, then dismounted as an ostler came to take his horse. Gervase and the men-at-arms followed suit. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon remained in the saddle. While the others lodged at the castle, they would be offered accommodation at the cathedral. Corbin also stayed mounted so that he could look down at his visitors from a slightly exalted position. His manner was lordly.

  “I trust that your business can be despatched with all due celerity,” he said. “You catch us at a difficult time and we would not be diverted from our duties any longer than is necessary.”

  “Our work takes precedence over all else,” said Ralph.

  “That is a matter of opinion, my lord.”

  “It is a matter of fact,” added Hubert coldly. “We have not ridden all this way for the benefit of our health or for the uncertain joy of making your acquaintance. A royal warrant sends us here. We will not leave until we have obeyed its commands to the letter.”

  “May I know what those commands are?” asked Corbin.

  “Of course,” said Ralph. “When we choose to tell you.”

  “Nothing will be achieved without my assistance,” warned the reeve. “I am here to offer help, but I cannot do that if you preserve this mystery about your needs and intentions.”

  Ralph bristled at his tone. “Our immediate needs should be obvious to the naked eye,” he said. “We have ridden long and hard through unkind weather. Rest and refreshment would not come amiss. Show my men where they are to be housed and provide someone to escort Canon Hubert and Brother Simon to the cathedral. They are not horsemen and the journey has been an act of martyrdom for them.”

  “Indeed it has,” agreed Hubert.

  “Suffering ennobles the soul,” murmured Simon.

  “Only in certain circumstances.”

  “If you say so, Canon Hubert.”

  The reeve looked at the four of them with mild disdain.

  “This is a mean embassy,” he observed. “When the first commissioners visited Hereford, they included Bishop Remigius of Lincoln, with a clerk and two monks in attendance, and three barons of high standing supported by a troop of men-at-arms. They were shown all that there is to be shown about the disposition and ownership of land in this county. What is the purpose of this second visit and why does it carry less weight?”

  “Your horse will carry less weight if you bandy more words with me,” said Ralph irritably. “Find a servant to guide my colleagues to the cathedral and see my men bestowed in their lodgings. Do you not recognise an order when you hear one?”

  Corbin glowered down at him for a second before manufacturing a smile of appeasement. He clicked his fingers and waved his hands. When the soldiers were taken care of and the two ecclesiastics were led away by a servant, Ralph and Gervase were themselves taken to the living quarters in the main building. The apartment which they shared was small but serviceable, and it offered them a fine view of the Wye through its arched window. The beds were soft and other small touches of comfort recommended themselves to the weary travellers.

  When they had changed out of their wet clothing, they went down to the hall to find Corbin the Reeve waiting for them. Food and drink had been set out at the end of the long oak table and a fire was crackling nearby. Their host waved them to the bench and hovered in the background as they slaked their thirst, Ralph choosing wine, but Gervase preferring the local ale. Corbin had already helped himself to a cup of wine and he drained it before taking up the conversation again. His ton
e was now noticeably more conciliatory.

  “I would be friends with the king's officers,” he said.

  “Then master the laws of friendship,” suggested Ralph through a mouthful of chicken. “Or avoid my sight.”

  “How may I be of service?”

  “Do you really wish to know?”

  “Let me tell you,” said Gervase quickly, heading off the obscenity that he knew was about to tumble from Ralph's lips. “We will be in session at the shire hall early in the morning. Four witnesses must be summoned before us.”

  “Do you think you could manage that?” mocked Ralph.

  “Tell me their names and they will be there.”

  “The first is well known to you, I think,” said Gervase.

  “Who is he?”

  “Ilbert the Sheriff.”

  “Why do you need to question him?”

  “That is a matter between us and the sheriff himself,” said Ralph, pouring more wine from the jug. “Your job is simply to bring him to the shire hall at the appointed time.”

  “Then it will not be tomorrow.”

  “It must be tomorrow,” insisted Ralph.

  “The sheriff is indisposed. Who is your next witness?”

  “A man called Warnod,” said Gervase. “He holds land in Archenfield and is at the heart of our enquiries.”

  “Then your journey has been wasted.”

  Ralph stiffened. “Is this Warnod indisposed as well?”

  “Completely.”

  “Then I will have to send some of my men to bring him before us by force. Nobody has the right to ignore our summons. Neither earl, nor bishop, nor reeve.” He turned to glare at Corbin. “We will start with this indisposed sheriff of yours. Ask—nay, tell in round terms—this Ilbert to present himself at the shire hall at nine o'clock in the morning.”

  “That will not be possible, my lord.”

  “Make it possible!”

  “The sheriff is too busy hunting.”