The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 21

  “One hand is at work behind all this,” he said. “Our villain is the castellan of Ewyas Harold.

  ” “Maurice Damville.”

  “He had Warnod murdered to stir up hatred against the Welsh. He had Angharad here waylaid in order to heat up the blood of her bridegroom.” Ralph stood up and paced the hall. “Damville is clever, I have to hand him that. The red dragon in Archenfield pointed the finger towards the border. The same dragon in his own cornfield pointed the finger away from him.”

  “We arrived in this shire at the wrong time,” said Gervase, “just as his plans were coming to fruition. No wonder he was so quick to drop his claim to Orbec's land. He did not want us prowling around the margins of his own land in case we jeopardised his scheming.”

  “So you were removed from the scene.”

  “And the work of the commission ground to a halt.”

  “Not quite,” said Ralph. “More news on that front anon. Let's stay with Damville. I see why he wanted to stir the Welsh into a fury then set them on Orbec. But why have Warnod murdered so cruelly?”

  “He needed the poor man out of the way.”

  “Why?”

  Gervase shrugged. “Warnod must have had something that Damville desperately wanted. That charter, perhaps.”

  “It was in our hands.”

  “True.”

  “And Damville did not even know of its existence until we told him of it.” Ralph was thoughtful. “Besides, he waived his right to that land as soon as he realised it might bring us poking around too close to his own estates.” He stopped beside Gervase. “There must be something else he wanted from Warnod. What on earth was it?”

  Aelgar brought the cup across to her sister and offered it to her. It was her turn to provide the consolation. Since she had come home from Archenfield with the others, Golde had been moody and withdrawn. The ride had patently tired her, yet she would not rest. Aelgar pushed her gently onto a stool and held the cup out to her.

  “Drink it, Golde. It's only water.”

  “Later.”

  “Drink it.”

  Aelgar held it to her lips and made her sip it. Once she had tasted the water, Golde realised how dry her throat was and quaffed the whole cup. She looked up in thanks.

  “What is his name, Golde?” asked the other.

  “Whose name?”

  “You did not ride all that way simply to deliver the will. It was an excuse to see somebody. One of those commissioners, I think.” “It was,” admitted Golde.

  “Does he like you as much as you obviously like him?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then be happy.”

  “I cannot, Aelgar.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of who I am and who he is.”

  “You are as good as any Norman lord,” said Aelgar, with a show of spirit. “We were born into a noble house. Does he know that? Our father was a wealthy thegn. This man has no right to look down on you.”

  “He does not do that.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “We are, Aelgar.” Golde stood up to face her sister with an air of resignation. “My home is here and his is far away in Hampshire. My work is here and his takes him wherever the king sends him. My place is with you and … that is that.”

  “Your place is where your heart takes you.”

  “Then I have to stay here.”

  “No, Golde.”

  “I have foolish thoughts, I admit, but they fall apart when I examine them. How could I leave you? How could I walk away from the brewhouse when I have devoted myself to it all these years? How could I even dream of leaving Hereford?”

  “I did.”

  “That was different.”

  “No, Golde. I put my feelings first, as you must do.” A resilience was now showing. “Do not worry about me. The brewhouse will not fail because you are not here to run it. I work in it just as much as you.”

  “That is so.”

  “Ask but two questions and all else follows.”

  “What are they?”

  “Do you want him?”

  “Yes, Aelgar!”

  “Does he want you?”

  “I am not sure. I believe so.”

  “Find out for certain. Go to him now.”

  “I cannot,” said Golde in despair. “That's what grieves me most. He has ridden with the sheriff to Richard Orbec's estate. Welsh raiders crossed the border and killed a man. They fear a larger army will come. Ralph will have to fight them if it does.” She grabbed her sister's hands. “I would hate to lose him just as I have found him.”

  “Have faith, sister. He will come back.”

  “What if this army masses on the border?”

  “We have heard such rumours many times before,” said Aelgar. “We are at peace with the Welsh. There is a truce. They have no just cause to break it.”

  Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, prince of Powys, led his men down from the Black Mountains. They clattered along a narrow, winding road between hedges of hazel and thorn. The mountains were olive green in the evening sunlight. Five hundred men came out of them like a silver avalanche and rolled inexorably towards Ewyas Harold. The soldiers were armoured, their weapons sharpened, and their purpose heightened by a speech from their prince. They were lusting for battle.

  Down below them, waiting impatiently with his men, was Goronwy. They heard the noise of the hooves first, then saw the banners dancing above the host. Five hundred warriors to wreak a terrible revenge. Goronwy was inspired.

  He would mount the red dragon and ride it to victory.

  Chapter 11

  THE COUNCIL OF WAR WAS HELD IN THE HALL OF RICHARD ORBEC'S MANOR HOUSE. Angharad had retired to a chamber on the floor above while the men discussed tactics and contingencies. Orbec himself was on his feet, constantly on the move as the argument became louder and more intense. Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, and Ilbert Malvoisin sat around the long table. Of the four of them, the sheriff was the most anxious to sue for peace.

  “Give them what they want,” he said, “and this battle is concluded before it has even started. Hand over the lady and let them have their wedding in Powys.”

  “No,” said Orbec, bristling. “That I cannot do.”

  “Angharad refuses to marry this man,” reminded Gervase.

  Ilbert was contemptuous. “Her refusal is neither here nor there. She will do what her uncle orders her to do. We need trouble ourselves no further about her feelings in this matter. God save us! If women were allowed to choose their husbands on their own account, the better part of mankind would be forced to remain celibate.”

  “It is not the lady's feelings I consider,” returned Orbec, advancing on the sheriff. “It is my own. Goronwy killed my steward. That death must be answered. I will not appease a Welsh murderer.”

  “Then this marriage is doomed,” observed Ralph with a wry grin. “They want the bride, but you pursue the bridegroom. The couple are divorced before the nuptials even start.”

  “Goronwy is mine!” insisted Orbec.

  “Not by surrender,” said Gervase. “They would never exchange him for Angharad.”

  “Then she stays here.” “That only invites attack, my lord,” said Ilbert.

  “Let it come. We are prepared.”

  “Not if Goronwy's uncle becomes involved. Even your defences would not hold out long against the full might of Powys.”

  “Cadwgan ap Bleddyn is bound by terms of peace,” said Gervase. “He will not be drawn into this.”

  “He has no choice,” argued the sheriff. “An affront has been offered to the house of Powys. It cannot be ignored. The men who ambushed this lady did so to enrage these fiery Welshmen.”

  “And bring them down on this manor,” added Gervase.

  “Only if we are foolish enough to keep her here,” said Ilbert. “One woman can end this whole business. Throw her out and let's have peace again in this shire.”

  “Goronwy must pay for his crime,” asserted Or
bec, “or I'll keep the lady here in perpetuity.”

  “Your hospitality need not be that overgenerous,” said Ralph. “But I agree. She stays.”

  “It is madness!” yelled Ilbert.

  “Expediency.”

  “We are stoking up a conflict.”

  “No, my lord sheriff,” said Ralph. “We are risking a skirmish in order to prevent a war. Angharad and the madcap Goronwy are not two young lovers pining for each other. They are merely links in a chain. Join them together in the forge of matrimony and you join Deheubarth with Powys. Is that what you want? A chain that runs almost the whole length of the Welsh border?”

  “Ralph counsels well,” said Gervase. “It is in our interests to keep these two apart.”

  “My interest is to keep myself alive!” hissed Ilbert.

  “Then return to Hereford,” said Orbec with scorn. “We will fight without you and send you news when it is safe to venture out of doors again.”

  “Why fight at all?”

  “Goronwy slew my reeve.”

  “Are we all to be put in jeopardy over the death of a Saxon?” said Ilbert. He turned to Ralph. “I do not fear this marriage as much as you. It need not bode ill for us. It is a way to reconcile Deheubarth with Powys, that is all. If we let them have amity between themselves on that side of the border, we will not have hostility on this side.”

  Orbec was resolute. “The lady stays!”

  “I agree,” said Ralph. “We would be poor hosts to turn her out so rudely. Angharad remains.”

  “And brings the red dragon into this shire again.”

  “It need not be so, my lord sheriff,” said Gervase. “We are arguing only about possibilities. How can we know what is in the mind of the Welsh unless we treat with them? This Goronwy is wild and impulsive, but his uncle is more politic. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn took a Norman wife in the name of peace. When they are weighed in the balance, his own marriage will always tip the scales against that of his nephew.”

  “What are you advising, Gervase?” said Ralph.

  “That we first find out exactly what danger we face. I side with my lord sheriff, but for a different reason. Peace is our first concern. Use words before weapons.”

  “A weapon has already been used against my reeve,” said Orbec. “I will not let that pass.”

  “Nor need you, my lord,” said Gervase, “but your quarrel is with Goronwy alone. Not with the whole house of Powys. One more thing. Angharad must be shown to them. They must see that she is unharmed and not held against her will.”

  “I'll not yield her up!” asserted Orbec.

  “You do not have to, my lord. But we must prove that she is alive and well. We cannot do that if she is locked away here. Angharad is our flag of truce. Let us wave her before them.”

  “Gervase talks sense,” endorsed Ralph. “Instead of hiding behind these walls, let's ride out to know their purpose. And take the girl with us. I'll lead the embassy.”

  Orbec was still unpersuaded but made no protest.

  “You'll need a good interpreter,” warned Ilbert. “The Welsh use words as other men use ropes. They'll bind you hand and foot with lies and false promises.”

  “Not if we speak their own language,” said Gervase.

  “You are fluent enough in Welsh?”

  “Not me. My knowledge of their tongue is not sufficient for this purpose. We need someone whose voice was schooled in Wales itself. Someone who can talk a bird out of a tree. Someone who is as proud and as devious as they themselves.”

  “Where would we find such a person?” said Orbec.

  “He waits at your gate, my lord.”

  “Saints preserve us!” said Ralph in horror. “Idwal!”

  Cadwgan ap Bleddyn gazed at the castle of Ewyas Harold with an amalgam of hatred and respect. It was a despised monument to Norman occupation of Welsh land, but its effectiveness could not be denied. The prince of Powys had been forced to admire the marcher lords. Ewyas Harold was one more citadel to defend the border and taunt those who lived beyond it.

  Goronwy was impatient. His pugnacity brooked no delay.

  “Let us attack at once, my lord!” he urged.

  “Control your haste, Goronwy.”

  “I have taken inventory of the castle's weaknesses.”

  “You should have made more note of its strengths.”

  “We have men enough to storm it, my lord.”

  “They are my warriors,” reminded Cadwgan. “They answer to my command and not yours.”

  “Why bring them if not to engage in battle?”

  “A show of force can often achieve as much as force itself, Goronwy. I will not spill blood if I can secure our purpose by another means. We'll parley.”

  “Destruction is the only parley they understand.”

  “It would only come at a terrible price.”

  “I'd pay it willingly to get Angharad!”

  “You may still have her,” said Cadwgan, “but not by violent means. Our quarrel is not with this castle. Though I would love to see it wiped from the face of Ewyas, I will not lay siege without more cause. You tell me that Richard Orbec is the man we seek. Let's ride around this stronghold in a wide circle and confront Orbec instead.”

  Goronwy glowered. “Is my uncle afraid of battle?”

  “No!” snarled the other. “But I have fought too many. You are still young, Goronwy. You think that everything can be settled with a sword and spear. I have learned to conserve my strength for the moments when a man has to strike.”

  “Such a moment is at hand.”

  “I do not see it here.”

  “Will you let them watch you walk tamely away?” cried Goronwy, pointing at the castle. “Will you let them jeer at us from the battlements? They cower behind their walls in fear. We have only to mount one assault and they will be glad to surrender.”

  “There is no chance of that!” said Cadwgan, grimly.

  “Look at the size of our army. They are terrified.”

  A loud whistling noise took their eyes towards the castle. A huge boulder had just been catapulted over its walls in their direction. It fell fifty yards short of them, but its challenge could not be denied. The whole army rumbled with anger and pulled back slightly.

  “Does that look like fear, Goronwy?” said Cadwgan.

  “They want a fight, my lord. Let them have it.”

  “No!”

  “They fired at us!”

  “A warning shot only. I will fire one back.”

  Cadwgan gave a signal and one of his soldiers brought his horse trotting forward. The prince gave him his orders and the man went off in the direction of the castle. He stopped when he was within hailing distance and translated Cadwgan's questions into a language they could understand.

  “Who speaks for you?” he boomed.

  “Maurice Damville!” yelled the castellan, appearing on the battlements. “Who dares to threaten my castle?”

  “Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, prince of Powys.”

  “Send him back to his mountains.”

  “We come in peace to search for a missing bride.”

  “She is not here. Ask of Richard Orbec.”

  “We have only your word that the lady is not within your castle. Let us search it to satisfy ourselves.”

  “Away with you!” roared Damville. “I am not such a fool as to let marauding Welshmen through my gates. If you wish to fight, then do so with your army.”

  “Do not provoke us, my lord. We have five hundred men.”

  “Five thousand would not take us!”

  Damville waved an arm to unseen soldiers in the bailey below and the catapult was fired again. The boulder went high over the messenger's head and landed much closer to the waiting soldiers. They backed away with gathering fury and looked towards their prince for the excuse to retaliate. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn had seen enough. Recalling his messenger with a wave, he passed a command through the ranks.

  The soldiers divided into four groups and surrounded the
castle. Dozens of them dismounted and took their bows from across their backs. Some of the arrows in their quivers were bound with rags beneath the heads. Flasks of oil, which had hung from pommels, were uncorked and used to soak the rags. Fires were lit and the material set alight. The air was suddenly filled with blazing fire as flights of arrows descended from all sides. Some bit harmlessly into the ground and others bounced off stone, but a number landed in the thatched roofs of the timber buildings; flames crackled. Men rushed to put them out with wooden pails of water.

  Horses neighed and bucked in the stables at the sight of fire, but it was soon brought under control. A second flight of arrows followed the first and with more effect. One man fell from the battlements as his eye was pierced. Two others were burned to death as the skin of oil beside them was set instantly alight and exploded with rage. More roofs blazed and one of the storehouses began to smoulder. Once again, however, water was on hand to douse the worst of the anticipated attack.

  The taunting figure of Maurice Damville appeared again. “Thank you,” he shouted in the direction of Cadwgan. “Now that you have warmed our hands for us, let us warm your arses for you.” He let his arm fall. “Fire!”

  Archers on the battlements sent volleys in reply. The Welsh bowmen turned to run out of range, but a number of them were wounded or maimed. Damville shook with laughter. Battle had been engaged and blood drawn on both sides. He was confident of success. The advantage of Welsh numbers was outweighed by the strength of his defences. Soldiers in light armour were vulnerable targets from the battlements. Without siege engines and scaling ladders, the men of Powys were no match for him.

  His laughter soon died as a new factor entered the fray. Riding north along the border road came another army of Welsh warriors, no more than a hundred strong this time, but with a weapon that made Damville take their threat far more seriously. Four carts had been commandeered from nearby farms and lashed together in a line. Keen axes had felled a massive oak and sharpened one end to a gleaming white point. Resting on the four carts, it was towed by a dozen horses and pushed along from behind by the willing hands of Welsh peasants. Word of the ambush had at last reached Angharad's father. He had come in search of his daughter.