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

  Damville came in more slowly to pick his spot, jabbing with the lance as he circled his quarry. Ralph swung his sword at the swirling shield, but his attacks were met firmly. The spear kept him at bay. He simply could not get close enough to land a telling blow on body or limbs. As he dodged another vicious thrust, therefore, Ralph changed his tactics, feinting to lash at the body, but taking his sword down sharply in the opposite direction instead. Damville's spear was severed in two, its head rolling in the dust.

  They were now on equal terms. Hurting the stump of his spear at Ralph, his furious opponent leaped from the saddle and pulled out his own sword, unleashing such a barrage of blows that Ralph was driven back several yards by the onslaught. He recovered enough to hold his ground, but Damville was getting the better of the exchange. When their shields met with a clatter, it was Ralph who was finally pushed away. Sensing victory, Damville came after him with renewed energy.

  Ralph fought well and parried the iron whirlwind with his own sword. His temper was up now. Maurice Damville had committed terrible crimes and he was the chosen executioner. Such a man could not be allowed to live. Ralph came back at him with a flurry of blows and put him on the defensive. For the first time, Damville was forced to give ground. It hurt his pride. Ralph now had the surge of strength, but Damville had more mobility. The ankle which had caught in the stirrup was burning. Ralph found it increasingly painful to put his full weight on it.

  Damville took advantage of the weakness, giving more ground to make Ralph lurch after him, then dodging and weaving to put more strain on the twisted ankle. As Ralph lunged in again, Damville parried his sword blows, then dropped to a knee to slash at his feet. The blade passed beneath the bottom of the shield and caught the damaged ankle a glancing blow. Ralph yelled in pain and danced on one foot When Damville pounded away at his shield, Ralph was knocked to the ground.

  Even in such disarray, he had the instincts of a survivor. He heard the roar of triumph and saw the open-mouthed grin. His opponent was coming in for the kill. Ralph was ready for him. As Damville discarded his shield and used both hands to bring the weapon straight for the unprotected heart, Ralph rolled quickly to the side. One sword sank several inches into the ground, but another found its target with deadly accuracy. Thrusting with every ounce of energy he could muster, Ralph drove the weapon through the open mouth and up into the brain.

  Maurice Damville let out a gurgle of pain and collapsed on top of Ralph Delchard. Blood was still gushing from his mouth as they lifted him off. Cheers of congratulation rang out on every side. In one gruesome death, many debts had been paid. English and Welsh hearts were reconciled at last.

  Gervase Bret was the first to run to the aid of his friend. As he was pulled to his feet, Ralph was jocular.

  “Thanks, Gervase. I'm not quite as young as I once was.”

  Richard Orbec was sorry to bid farewell to Angharad. When he was introduced to her father, he was very touched by the kind things that she said about him. He was unused to compliments and awkward in his replies. Idwal was their interpreter.

  “She asks about the clothing, my lord.”

  “Tell her to keep it.”

  “But she said it was very special to you.”

  “That is why I give it to her as a gift.” He looked into her smiling face. “It becomes her so well and takes away memories that I should have outgrown long ago.”

  Idwal translated and Angharad nodded gratefully.

  Orbec groped for another compliment. “Tell her that she is the first lady ever to enter my house. I could not have met a more charming guest. Apologise for my being so stern at first. My anger soon melted.” He managed a smile. “If she ever wishes to visit me again, she and her family will always be most welcome.”

  Father and daughter were both delighted with the offer. Gervase came up to claim his share of gratitude. Angharad kissed him and her father embraced him warmly. He had heard the full story of the escape from Monmouth. Omri, too, was part of the leave-taking.

  “Will you ride back with Angharad?” asked Gervase.

  “No,” said the old man. “I'll follow the others home to Powys. When they've buried their dead and put all this behind them, they'll need a song and a jest to brighten up their court. I'll not want for employment.”

  “I hope we meet again.”

  “Anywhere, but Monmouth Castle.”

  They shared a laugh. Omri then departed with Cadwgan ap Bleddyn and his host towards the Black Mountains. Angharad and her father headed back towards South Wales with their soldiers. The reason that had brought the two families together no longer existed. Goronwy lay dead in the back of a cart along with the alliance between Deheubarth and Powys.

  “Where will you go now?” asked Orbec.

  “Back to Hereford,” said Gervase.

  “Evening draws in. You will not get back until well after dark.” He glanced after Angharad then shifted his feet. “You may stay the night at my house, if you wish, and set off first thing in the morning.”

  “I accept your invitation, my lord,” said Idwal with a cackle of pleasure, even though it had not been directed at him. “I have looked forward to meeting you and to seeing this chapel that you told me about.”

  “You, too, will be welcome, Archdeacon,” said Orbec. “You helped to avert a battle this afternoon. That deserves a good meal and a warm bed at the very least. Gervase?”

  “The meal and the bed sound too good to resist.

  ” “The invitation includes Ralph Delchard.”

  “I will have to refuse on his behalf, I fear.”

  “But he must be exhausted,” said Orbec. “His ankle is injured and he is bruised all over. Riding a horse will be agony for him. He needs to rest.”

  “I know,” agreed Gervase, “but you will never persuade him to do so. He must ride with the sheriff to Hereford to attend to urgent business.”

  “What can possibly drag him back through the night?”

  “Ale.”

  Golde was about to retire to bed when he knocked. When she realised who it was, she was thrilled to see him again, but embarrassed that he had caught her at the house. Aelgar's presence made any privacy impossible and Ralph detected the faint aroma of ale. It was enough to change the venue of their meeting. He escorted her to the nearby castle, walking gingerly on the twisted ankle and telling her about events at Ewyas Harold. She was alarmed to hear about the duel, but relieved to see that he had come through it alive. Ralph felt it appropriate to enjoy a gentle boast about his prowess with the sword, but she was more concerned about his injury.

  Before she knew it, Golde had been conducted into the apartment which Ralph had shared with Gervase. His manner changed at once. Guiding her to a chair, he sat beside her.

  “We must talk, Golde.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And that is the first thing we must talk about,” he said. “My name is Ralph. Call it me from now.”

  “If you wish.”

  “I do,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

  “Thank you, Ralph.”

  He took her hand. “I have thought much about you.”

  “And I about you.”

  “Good things, I hope?”

  “For the most part, my lord … Ralph.”

  “Oh? Bad things, also?”

  “Not bad, perhaps. But worrying. Doubts, fears.”

  “Put them aside,” he said, lifting a hand to kiss it. “I am here, Golde. I endured a hellish ride and the even more hellish company of Ilbert the Sheriff to return to you. Have no more doubts about me.”

  “The doubts are about myself.”

  “In what way?”

  She bowed her head. “I am not sure that you will think me worthy of you.”

  “No woman could be more worthy of me, my love.”

  “You do not know me.”

  “I know you as well as I need, Golde.”

  “There is more.”

  “Explain.”

  She
hesitated.

  “Warnod's charter, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sent it to Winchester.”

  She was shocked. “How did you know?”

  “By your eagerness to become involved,” he said. “Part of that could be put down to your sister's grief, but her future interests were also served. You knew about a charter which gave him a legal claim to part of Orbec's land. If he was going to marry your sister, it was natural that he should show such an important charter to you.”

  “But he did not,” she said.

  “In that case, he gave it to your sister for safekeeping. Along with the will.”

  “That is not how the document came into my hands.”

  “Then how did it?”

  She braced herself. “I stole it from the sheriff.”

  Ralph froze. He remembered the earlier ride to Orbec's demesne when Ilbert Malvoisin had conversed with him. The sheriff had called her a thief. Ralph would hear no criticism of her then and put the notion straight from his mind, but here she was now, sitting before him confessing frankly to the same crime. His hands gently disengaged themselves.

  “I felt that you should hear the full story,” she said. “It is only fair to you. I would not like your interest in me to be based on a false assumption.”

  “Stealing from that oaf of a sheriff is no sin,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “Do not let it trouble your conscience so.”

  “If I do not tell you, Ilbert Malvoisin may.”

  “Is his version of events different from yours?”

  “Very different.”

  “I'll hear both and be the judge.” Golde was hurt when he stood up and moved away from her. It was painful enough to have to tell him her secret, but that pain would have, been lessened by his proximity. Instead, he was standing a few yards away and watching her with a mixture of suspicion and mild distaste.

  “The sheriff had the charter,” she said, plunging in. “Aelgar told him of it. She is a good girl, but a little naive at times and too impressed by status. Warnod had talked often of a claim to some land in the north of Archenfield, left to him by his father and confirmed as his by charter. When the first commissioners came, he wanted to show it to them to see if they would uphold his claim.”

  “But the charter had gone.”

  “Into Ilbert's possession.”

  “How?”

  “When Aelgar boasted of the document to him, he rode to Archenfield himself and asked to see it. Warnod could hardly refuse such a request from the sheriff, Ilbert promised to take it away to make sure that it was not a forgery.'' She gave a shrug. “He never gave it back. When your predecessors came to assess all the holdings in the shire, Warnod had no charter to produce. The sheriff refused to see him.”

  “Wait one moment,” said Ralph, sifting through her story with great care. “There is something I do not understand. Your sister told him of the charter? How could a young girl like that even come into contact with Ilbert?”

  “He came to the house.”

  “Why?”

  “I supply the ale for the castle.”

  Ralph tensed. “Is that all you supply, Golde?”

  “My lord!”

  “The sheriff would not bother with matters that his underlings would handle. I buy wine for my cellar, but I send another to make the actual purchase.”

  “Ilbert grew fond of me,” she said, quietly. “Against my wishes, I assure you, and without any encouragement from me. But I cannot control a man's feelings.”

  “You spurned him, then?”

  “Every time.”

  “Then nothing occurred between you?”

  “No.” There was a long pause. “Except that once.”

  His tone was glacial now. “Go on. Except that once?”

  “That charter was everything to Warnod,” she said. “If his claim could be enforced, he and my sister could live in happiness and comfort instead of scratching a living on his land in Llanwarne. I did it for them. For Aelgar.”

  “Did what?”

  “Secured the charter from the sheriff.”

  “How?”

  “I took it, my lord.”

  “Yes, but how?” he pressed. “There's more besides. How?”

  “I agreed to come to him one night.”

  “To that pig of a sheriff?” he said in disgust.

  “Hear me out in full and you may not be so harsh on me. I did it to gain access to his chamber here. His wife sleeps at their house in Leominster. He often stays at the castle when business keeps him here.”

  “I am sure that he does!”

  “I knew that the charter would be here,” she said. “If I spent the night in his chamber, I would have a chance to find it. It was our only hope.”

  “So you slept with that ogre first.”

  “No!” she protested. “I did not and could not do that!”

  “The two of you alone all night in his chamber?”

  “We were not alone.” A faint smile showed. “I brought some ale with me. A very special brew. The sheriff preferred wine, but learned to drink my ale to please me. I knew that he would take this potion if I offered it.”

  “Potion?”

  “I have been brewing for many years,” she said. “There is little I have not learned about the trade. I can make an ale that tastes like honey, but has the kick of a donkey. One sip of it would send the strongest man to sleep.”

  “He drank it down?”

  “The whole draught.”

  Ralph began to laugh. “What happened?”

  “He did not wake up until noon the next day.”

  “By which time you and the charter had long gone.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My absence he noticed at once and realised he had been duped. The theft of the charter he did not discover till later. He is certain that I took it, but has no means of proving it.”

  “And is this the full extent of your crime?” he said as he came back to her. “Teaching a lecherous sheriff a lesson that he will never forget?”

  “I thought it would turn you away from me.”

  He grinned. “Has it?”

  “It did at first.”

  “You have my deepest apology and profoundest thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Yes, Golde,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Without that charter, we should not have come to Hereford with such haste. Warnod was abused. You brought it to our attention. There were other matters that arose from the returns of the first commissioners, but that piece of land in Archenfield was the main one.” He hugged her then laughed aloud. “I would love to have seen Ilbert the Sheriff snoring away like that! No wonder he was blunt with you.”

  “It was not only the charter that I stole from him.”

  “Something far more precious was taken away from under his greedy nose?”

  “Ilbert has not touched ale since. He sticks to wine.”

  “Let's forget Ilbert,” he said. “There is no place for him here. I came back to be with you, Golde. You have been honest with me and I respect you for that.” He pulled her close. “I merely wish to ask one question of you.”

  “What is that?”

  “Will your sister expect you back tonight?”

  Golde looked at him and all her doubts fed away.

  “She will have to learn to manage without me.”

  The events of the day had exposed a vein of conviviality in Richard Orbec which had been hidden for some years. He was a generous host. In the hall of the manor house Gervase Bret and Idwal the Archdeacon were treated to a delicious meal and offered a choice of fine wines. The dishes set before them were so tempting and so plentiful that the Welshman fell on them with a vengeance, gormandising with such relish that he actually stopped talking for a while.

  Orbec himself was a revelation. He joined happily in the banter and led the laughter. The death of Maurice Damville seemed to have lifted a huge rock from his back. He was no longer pressed down into a life of fru
gality, self-denial, and defensiveness. Orbec ate more during that one meal than during the whole of the week. Wine brought out a gentle mockery in him.

  “Are you telling us, then, that God was a Welshman?”

  “Probably,” said Idwal.

  “Do you have any Scriptural basis for this claim?”

  “It is something I feel in the blood and along the heart, my lord. We are a nation with hwyl. Not a spiritless people like the Saeson. Not agloomy race like the Normans. We love our religion with a passion unlike any other. God put that passion there for a purpose.”

  “We have noticed,” said Gervase with a smile.

  “What, then, is your ambition?” asked Orbec.

  “Ambition is a sin,” said Idwal, waving an admonitory finger before using it to pop another eel into his mouth. “The quest for personal gain is unchristian. What I have is not the sneaking lust of an ambition, but the soul-enhancing joy of a mission in life.”

  “And what might that be?

  ' “To become Archbishop of Wales!”

  “Your country has no archbishop,” Gervase pointed out. “We will, my friend, we will. My mission is clear. When it pleases God to choose me, I will become Bishop of St. David's without—I hope and pray—having to be consecrated by the Archbishop of Canterbury. That will make me nominal head of the Welsh Church. I can then don my lambskin cloak and go to Rome for an audience with the Pope himself.”

  “What will be your request?” said Orbec.

  “It will be a demand,” corrected Idwal. “To recognise that we are a separate people with our own spiritual identity. To appoint me Idwal, Archbishop of Wales.”

  He reached across the table for another piece of bread and almost fell from his seat. Rich food and heady wine had overtaxed a constitution that was accustomed to simpler fare. Idwal began to sway dangerously.

  “I must take my leave of you,” he said with an air of maudlin contrition. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I must now beg the use of your chapel so that I can get down on my knees and ask a pardon for my gross indulgence.”

  Orbec called a servant to help the Welshman out. They bade him good night, then finished the last flagon of wine. Gervase was ready to retire to his bed, but Orbec wished to talk a little longer. The latter's joviality fell away. A more soulful mood gripped him.