The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Seven

The manor house in Pencoed was a typical saxon dwelling. LONG, LOW, and built of stout oak, it consisted of a series of small bays which were used as rooms for family members and guests. Candles burned to illumine a house with ample space, but little practical comfort.

Though the thegn offered his hospitality freely, it did not meet the standards of his Norman guests. Canon Hubert complained about the smell of animals inside the building. It reminded him uncomfortably of Idwal’s cloak. There was another reason why some of them felt uneasy under its thatched roof. The house was very similar in shape and structure to the one in which Warnod had been burned to death.

Ralph Delchard was quite unable to sleep. He was too puzzled and disturbed by the disappearance of Gervase Bret. He chided himself for not being able to find his friend and vowed to resume the search in earnest the next morning. The confrontation with Richard Orbec had left him furious, but it had eliminated the obvious suspect. Gervase had not, in fact, been caught and punished by Orbec himself. Ralph was certain of that.

Recrimination made him restless. The house was far too stuffy for his lungs. Ralph let himself out quietly to get some fresh air and walked to the stables at the rear of the building. Leaning on a fence, he gazed upward and searched the heavens for the answers that he could not find elsewhere. Where was Gervase? Had he been ambushed?

Injured when thrown from his horse? Attacked by wild animals? Or did he just get hopelessly lost? Was he simply spending the night elsewhere?

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Gervase had met with trouble. Archenfield was no place for a lone rider. Warnod was a denizen of the area, yet he had come to grief. On the very day that Aelgar consented to be his wife, he was murdered in the most brutal and calculating way. His happiness had been snatched from him. Had Gervase fallen foul of the same band of killers?

What dreadful fate would they devise for him?

Ralph was still agonising when he heard the furtive tread of feet directly behind him. In a flash, his dagger was in his hand and he whirled round to defend himself.

Golde let out a small cry of alarm and stepped back.

“It is me, my lord!” she said.

“Golde?”

“I could not sleep. I heard someone leave the house.”

“It is so with me,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “My mind is in turmoil. Gervase is my dearest friend, almost a son to me. I will never forgive myself if anything untoward has befallen him.”

“I have prayed for his safe return.”

“Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were on their knees for an hour to the same end. They blame themselves for allowing him to go off alone to Richard Orbec’s demesne.” He gave a grim chuckle. “If prayers have any power, theirs will batter on the doors of heaven itself. Hubert can turn supplication into a most persuasive weapon.”

“What of you, my lord?” she said. “Have you not offered up a prayer of your own?”

“No, Golde. That is not my way.”

An owl hooted in the woods nearby. They were startled.

“I am too much on edge,” said Ralph with a smile. “A wise old bird in a tree can make me jump. Night belongs to him and his kind. We are interlopers.”

“There is nothing more you may do until morning.”

“That is true.”

“Be kind to yourself and try to get some rest.”

“I may say the same to you.”

Golde smiled quietly. “I am happy where I am.”

There was a long pause. Ralph stood close in the half-dark and inhaled her fragrance. Its sweetness enchanted him. Golde had removed her wimple and brushed out her hair. He could see the outline of her tresses as they rested on her shoulders.

“I wish that we met in happier circumstances,” he said.

“We have met, my lord. That is pleasure enough.”

“But I am vexed by the loss of a companion, you by the death of a close friend.”

“A shared anxiety gives us a bond,” she said, “though I must correct one thought. Warnod was no close friend of mine. He was my sister’s choice. I weep as much for her as for him. Aelgar has lost everything.”

“Except you.”

“Except me, my lord.”

“You must love her deeply to go to so much trouble.”

“I promised her to find out the truth,” said Golde. “It is the only way to put her mind at rest.”

“The truth might destroy her peace entirely.”

“No, my lord. Aelgar has many frailties, but she also has an inner strength. Uncertainty is what will gnaw into her soul. She must know. Who killed her man? And why? However ugly the facts, she is ready to confront them.”

“And you, Golde?”

“Me?”

“Can you stare the hideous facts in the face?”

She nodded. “It would not be the first time, my lord.”

A wolf howled in the distance, but neither of them even heard it now. They were too locked into each other to listen to anything more than the words that were spoken between them. Ralph felt strangely coy. He wanted to reach out to take her in his arms, but he was almost tentative.

“Why did you never marry again?” he asked.

“Because that is no route to happiness for me.”

“When did your husband die?”

“Three years ago, my lord.”

“You have never looked at another man since?”

“I have looked at several and found them wanting.”

“Did they not measure up to your husband?” he asked. “Is that why you have remained a widow? Because you are still mourning the one man who made you content?”

“No,” she said, softly. “There was no contentment in my marriage.

I was a faithful wife, but I could never love my husband. Companion-ship was the most that I could hope.”

“Not love him? Why, then, did you marry him?”

“Of necessity.”

“You were forced into this match?”

“It was arranged for me. I protested in vain.”

“Could your father be so unkind?” said Ralph, earnestly. “Did he have no concern for his daughter’s feelings? What made him wed you to a man whom you wished to put aside?”

“You, my lord. You and others like you.”

He understood. Golde’s father was one more victim of the Norman occupation, a proud Saxon thegn whose wealth and position had been reduced to insignificance. Where he might have offered the hand of his elder daughter to the son of another noble house, he was instead compelled to marry her off to a brewer from Hereford. Golde was accustomed to a life of recurring loss. She was resilient enough to survive, but it had given her a slightly cynical edge.

“Thus it stands with me, my lord,” she said with a resigned shrug.

“I knew misery with my husband. I sometimes wonder if it is even possible to be happy in marriage.”

“It is,” said Ralph. “I have known that joy.”

“Then I envy you.”

“Perhaps I should envy you, Golde.”

“Why?”

“Because you were able to put your marriage behind you and start afresh. Your life is better without your husband.” He turned away with a sigh. “Without my dear wife, mine is far worse. I still grieve over the loss of that brief joy.”

Ralph was astonished. He never talked about his wife to his friends, let alone to strangers. When he was standing alone in the moonlight with a beautiful woman, his marriage was the last thing he wanted to think about. Yet his words had come out so naturally. He felt no embarrassment. Golde had confided in him and produced an answering confession.

She touched his shoulder with the tip of her fingers. Ralph took her hand and kissed it tenderly. When he tried to enfold her in his arms, however, she held him off.

“This is not the time, my lord.”

“I want you,” he whispered.

“There are too many other things in the way.”

“That is the only reason?”

“It is reason enough.”

“Then you are not offended?”

Golde moved in close to brush her lips against his.

“No, my lord,” she said. “I am delighted.”

Pain and exhaustion finally overcame him. Gervase Bret fell asleep with his back up against the wall and his legs in the straw. Slumber was no escape from tribulation. His dream tormented him afresh. He was riding across Richard Orbec’s land once more when rough hands fell upon him and he was bound securely. Instead of being tied to a horse, however, he was strapped to the back of a huge red dragon, which galloped along the Welsh border, breathing fire and defiance in equal measure. Gervase was helpless. The creature’s spikes dug into his body. Its scales rubbed his skin raw. Its long tail curled up to thresh his back unmercifully until it ran with a waterfall of blood.

The dragon seemed to get bigger, the ropes tighter, and the pain more excruciating. Gervase had never known such agony. His gro-tesque mount was racing faster than ever. It suddenly stopped beside a river and rippled its whole body. Gervase was thrown high into the air before sailing down towards an outcrop of rock. He yelled in terror.

The cry and the bump brought him awake. The fiery dragon was no more than a gentle old man, plucking at the strings of his harp. The blood down his back had been the trickling moisture that ran down the wall. Thrown from the scales of a giant beast, he had simply fallen sideways and hit the ground in the dungeon.

Gervase collected himself and sat up again.

“I am sorry if I startled you, Omri.”

“Nothing can do that.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Long enough.”

“Is it night or day?”

“Still night,” said the Welshman. “Day will poke a finger of light in at you if you stay where you are now.”

“There is a window?”

“High in the wall behind me. When they put me in here, I felt my way around every inch of the cell. If you have no eyes, you learn to see with your fingers.” He put the harp aside and groped for something in the straw. “We are not alone down here, Gervase. We share this mean lodging with a tenant of much longer standing.”

“A tenant?”

“Here he is.”

Omri pulled the skull from the straw and offered it to Gervase. The latter shrank back for a second then mastered his fear. He took the skull and brushed the tufts of straw away from it. A beetle crawled out of one of its eye sockets.

“Who do you suppose he was?”

“Yet another nameless prisoner of fate,” said Omri.

“Where is the rest of him?”

“In the far corner. I covered his bones with straw.”

“Poor man!”

“He has not been very talkative,” said Omri with a wry smile. “That is the trouble with the dead. They do not speak Welsh.”

“He was thrown in here and left to rot!” said Gervase with sudden alarm. “The same ordeal may await us.”

“I think not, my friend.”

“They’ll let us starve to death in this hole.”

“We will live. That much is very clear.”

“Why?”

“Because our enemies do not need to kill us slowly when they could have done it much more swiftly on the road.” He gave a chuckle.

“Besides, they have fed me twice since I have been in here. Bread, water, and the remains of a chicken. This form of starvation is a tasty way to die.”

Gervase was reassured. As he shook the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, his mind cleared. His captors had gone to great trouble to bring him across the border into Gwent. Had Richard Orbec feared that Gervase might see too much on his clandestine visit to the disputed land? Or had someone else decided that the best way to halt the work of the commissioners was to remove one of them from the scene? Monmouth Castle was a Norman citadel on Welsh territory.

Had it been taken? Was the red dragon on the rampage again?

Omri the Blind might hold some of the answers.

“Only two of you survived,” he said. “Two from ten.”

“That is so.”

“Then where is your companion?”

“I do not know, Gervase.”

“Locked in another dungeon?”

Omri measured his reply. “My companion is … somewhere in the castle. But not in such a miserable condition as us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Instinct, my friend.”

“Why were you two spared?”

“We are not soldiers. We were unarmed.”

“All the easier to cut you down where you stood.”

“They preferred to keep us alive, Gervase.”

“For what purpose?”

“This is one,” said Omri, taking up the harp again to conjure some music from its strings. “There are no bards in England but they are revered in Wales.”

“Throwing you in here is an act of reverence?”

“I still breathe, I still eat, I still sing.”

“And your companion?”

Omri sighed. “I am more concerned about him than about myself.

Though I have sung at the courts of the great and the good, I have slept in barns and fields along the way. This dungeon stinks no worse than a stable. I can put up with it. My companion is less robust.”

“Young and vulnerable, then?”

“Do not bother about him, Gervase,” advised the old man. “Think only of yourself. Our case is different. We were brought here for one purpose, you for another.”

“You were ambushed in Wales and brought here,” said Gervase, puzzled. “Why to Monmouth? We have heard no rumours of insurrec-tion. Can the castle be in Welsh hands?”

Omri the Blind went off into a fit of laughter.

“Alas, no!” he said. “If it were, I would not be down here with you.

I would be up there in the hall, celebrating the occasion with a song of victory. Monmouth, I fear, is still a Norman castle.”

“Then why do they hold me here?” said Gervase with a burst of indignation. “Do they know who I am? What I am?”

“Only too well, I suspect.”

Gervase became restless. Rising to his feet, he picked his way around the little rectangle of stone and accumulated filth. When his foot met the pile of bones, he laid the skull gently beside them. Omri’s reconnaissance had been thorough. The window was high in one wall, set in a deep recess and slashed by thick bars. Standing on tiptoe, he could just touch the iron with his fingers. A welcome gust of air filtered in. Thin shafts of light would follow in time.

“That is not the way, Gervase,” murmured Omri.

“What?”

“You will never escape through that window.”

“How else?”

“Through the door.”

“We could never budge it.”

“They can,” said the old man. “With a key. It depends on how eager you are to get free of this foul.”

“I would do anything, Omri.”

“Even take a man’s life?”

Gervase hesitated. “Only if my own were in danger.”

“Practice with your weapon.”

“They took away my sword and dagger.”

“A piece of rope can be as deadly a weapon as either,” said Omri.

“And they left you with two lengths of it.”

Gervase stirred with excitement. There was hope.

Goronwy waited until first light before he ordered a more detailed search. He and his men had camped beside the clump of trees near Raglan. Dawn found them spread across a mile or more as they looked for more bodies. None were found. Goronwy gathered his soldiers in the shade of the trees and assigned new duties.

Two of them rode back towards Powys to take news of the ambush to Cadwgan ap Bleddyn. Two more carried the same message along the road towards Caerleon. A burial detachment was formed and the eight soldiers from the escort were laid in shallow graves to protect their bodies from scavengers. The stench of death was already begin-ning to spread.

Sleep had not dulled Goronwy’s rage. When he and his men rode up to Raglan itself, the young man’s temples were still pulsing madly.

He had found the reason for the delay and buried the victims of the attack. Rescue and retribution were now his twin aims. Raglan itself was a tiny hamlet made up of mean cottages. A mangy goat was tethered outside one dwelling. Chickens squawked outside another. Sheep ranged the hills all around.

The meagre population was dragged from its hovels to face Goronwy’s stern interrogation. They were simple souls. Their testimony was honest. They had seen the soldiers come down the road from Monmouth and they had heard the sounds of the attack. Beyond that, they had little to add. Violence had locked them indoors. They had been too frightened to venture out to see the results of the ambush.

Their description of the soldiers matched that of the shepherd boy who had been questioned in the night. Goronwy at least knew one vital fact. Welsh soldiers had been killed by Norman attackers. The armed escort from Caerleon had been ambushed by men from across the border.

Brandishing his sword, Goronwy rode up and down.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“No, my lord,” said the one of the peasants.

“Did you not hear anything as they went past?”

“Nothing.”

“No word? No command? No name?”

Another man edged forward. “I heard a name, my lord.”

“What was it?”

“The soldiers rode past my door as I was putting the harness on my donkey. A name was spoken and they laughed.”

“What name?”

“Cruel laughter, my lord. It made my blood run cold.”

Goronwy knocked him over with the flat of his sword.

“The name, you idiot!” he snarled. “What was the name?”

“Richard Orbec.”

Richard Orbec led the retreat at full gallop, taking his men in a wide loop before powering down the hill towards the house. Forty knights were sweating in their armour in the morning sun. Some carried spears, but most had swords in their hands. Their horses sent up a flurry of earth and grass as they descended the hill in an ordered retreat.

Orbec himself was first across the drawbridge and first to dismount inside the palisade. His men poured in through the gates and tugged their animals to a halt before jumping from the saddle. The drawbridge was hauled up and the gates were shut. On their lord’s command, the knights ran to defend various points on the ramparts against an invisible enemy.

It was an impressive performance, but it did not entirely satisfy Orbec. He pulled off his helm and beckoned his captain across.

“We are still too slow,” he said, sharply.

“We can ride no faster, my lord.”

“The men can be deployed more effectively once they are inside the defences. The weak point is at the rear of the house.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Station four more archers there.”

“I will.”

“We’ll have fresh timber cut to strengthen the palisade.”

The captain nodded. “Is that all for today, my lord?”

“We will practice one more time.”

“We are as ready now as we will ever be.”

“That is what I once thought,” said Orbec, crisply. “In Normandy.

You can never prepare enough for any eventuality. Trouble may strike when we least expect it. The speed of our response must be decisive.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Mount up again! We’ll ride in from the east this time.”

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were conscientious members of the commission. The Domesday returns for Herefordshire had thrown up a number of irregularities and it was their task to look into them. One of their number had unaccountably disappeared and a second had gone in search of him. Hubert and Simon felt it their duty to press on with the allotted task on their own. The village of Llanwarne could not provide them with a shire hall, but they could still examine a witness, if only in an informal manner.

Ilbert the Sheriff was very restive under questioning.

“I am not involved in this enquiry in any way!”

“We believe that you are, my lord sheriff,” said Hubert.

“The dispute is between Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec.”

“It also concerns Warnod.”

“His last remains are six feet below the earth.”

“A legacy yet survives.”

“Legacy?”

“Yes,” said Hubert. “Far be it from me to prefer the claim of a Saxon thegn over that of two Norman lords, but justice must be served here.

This great survey of ours is not simply an inventory of the nation’s wealth. It brings to light theft, fraud, forgery, wrongful annexation, and all the other appalling abuses that have taken place in the shires.”

“You talked of a legacy.”

“Warnod had a legitimate claim to the land that is part of Richard Orbec’s holdings. If that claim is upheld-and it lies within our power to make that judgment-then the property passes to Warnod’s heir.”

“He has no heir.”

“How do you know?”

“He lived alone. Without kith or kin.”

“That is so,” conceded Hubert, “but property may be willed to close friends just as easily as to family.”

“And it may be willed to the Church,” noted Simon.

Ilbert Malvoisin bided his time before he spoke. He had underesti-mated the two men. They were shrewd and persistent. Canon Hubert was the chief inquisitor, but Brother Simon would throw in a remark from time to time to show that he had missed nothing. The sheriff looked around for a way to disentangle himself from the dialogue.

They had strolled to the edge of the village. The sad vestiges of Warnod’s habitation could be seen in the distance. They could even pick out the mound of loose earth that had been shovelled over the red dragon.

“Did Warnod make a will?” asked Ilbert.

“Most assuredly,” said Hubert.

“How can you be so certain?”

“We spoke to the priest here. He advised Warnod how the document should be drawn up. Warnod was illiterate.”

“Apart from the priest, has anyone see this will?”

“Not yet.”

“Is it not likely to have been consumed in the fire?”

“Warnod’s claim to the land was not.”

“We have that charter in our possession,” said Simon.

Ilbert winced slightly. “That makes no difference,” he said, recovering quickly. “The charter is useless without will, and the will is invalid without a beneficiary to urge his claim.”

“The beneficiary may not be aware of his good fortune.”

“That situation may remain.”

Canon Hubert swatted an errant fly from his sleeve and changed the angle of attack. His tone was quite artless.

“Warnod’s father was a farsighted man,” he observed.

“His father?”

“A Saxon noble with several manors in this county. He did not trust Normans. He had experience of us long before the Conquest.

King Edward invited many of our countrymen to this particular part of his kingdom.”

“I am well aware of that, Canon Hubert.”

“Warnod’s father was forearmed,” said the other. “When the inva-sion came, he knew what to expect-confiscation of his lands and a reduction of his prestige.”

“The normal consequences of defeat.”

“He fought to circumvent them. Rather than have his holdings taken by the state, he granted them to the Church with the proviso that he-or his heirs-might one day regain possession of them again.”

“He hid his property under the skirts of religion,” added Simon.

“He was not alone in using this device.”

“Why do you tell me all this?” grunted Ilbert.

“Because some of that land appears to have attached itself to your own holdings, my lord sheriff,” said Hubert. “A few carucates here, a virgate or two there. It mounts up. Your Christian duty is to give to the Church, not to take from it. We see a hand in the offertory box.”

“That is a monstrous accusation!”

“But not unjust.”

“I made sworn statements before the first commissioners and showed them every document that was required. There was no impropriety.”

His voice boomed even louder. “May I remind you that I am the sheriff here, the king’s own representative in this county? Do you seriously believe that a person of my eminence would stoop to the crimes that you allege?”

Hubert was bland. “I do, indeed, believe it.”

“Calumny!”

“I know it to be true.”

“God’s blood, man!” roared Ilbert. “I am the sheriff!”

“Roger of Breteuil was the Earl of Hereford,” reminded Hubert, unperturbed by the outburst. “Until he was unwise enough to join in revolt against the king. If an earl is capable of high treason in this county then its sheriff is more than capable of some astute land-grabbing.”

“I was vindicated by the first commissioners.”

“They did not have the full information before them.”

“What information?”

“It is largely contained in Warnod’s charter.”

“That relates to Orbec’s land,” argued the sheriff with vehemence.

“You said so even now. Why do you link me with this charter?”

“Tell him, Brother Simon.”

The monk cleared his throat to pronounce the sentence.

“Your name was written across the top of it.”

A long morning in the saddle had produced no satisfactory results.

Ralph Delchard and his eight men-at-arms had combed the north of Archenfield with the utmost care. They rode along and around the disputed holdings of Richard Orbec in the firm belief that he himself would have had his own land searched for any signs of an intruder.

Gervase Bret was nowhere to be seen. Though they questioned everyone they passed on their way, they learned nothing of value.

They crossed the Golden Valley and headed towards Ewyas. It was conceivable that Gervase had strayed as far as Maurice Damville’s land, and Ralph was keen to explore every possibility. His men fanned out across an area of a hundred yards or so, peering into ditches, searching behind bushes, and even using their swords to fish around in the water of a shallow stream. Gervase still did not appear.

Ralph tugged his horse over to the captain of his men.

“Where can he be?”

“I doubt that he came this far, my lord.”

“He would hardly have gone back to Hereford,” said Ralph. “That leaves only south and west. The curiosity that took him to Richard Orbec’s land may have brought him onto Maurice Damville’s estate.”

“Either way he was running a risk, my lord.”

“Gervase had his wits about him.”

“He was still a lone man in unknown territory.” He stopped his horse and gazed ahead. “The castle cannot be too far distant. We must look to receive the same welcome there that we did from Richard Orbec.”

“That will not deter me,” asserted Ralph. “I’ll go to Damville’s castle and on into Wales itself if it is the only way to track down Gervase.”

A shout from one of the men directed their attention off to the left.

Columns of smoke were rising steadily into the air on the far side of a wooded slope. Muffled yells could be heard. Ralph reacted quickly.

Signalling his men to follow, he set off at a gallop, skirting the wood and riding down to a wide plain.

Harvesting had begun in the cornfields and the sheaves stood in rows across the fields. Five or six of the sheaves had been set alight and were blazing away. A handful of peasants were scampering around trying to move the other sheaves out of the way so that they could not be ignited by flying sparks. A few armoured knights were urging them on.

Ralph recognised Maurice Damville at once. Not content with giving orders, he had dropped from his saddle and was trying vainly to stamp out the flames that were eating one of the sheaves. Riding across to him, Ralph threw a glance at the devastation.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“Murdering Welshmen!”

“You came in time to save the bulk of the crop.”

“But not to catch those devils,” said Damville, turning to glare up at Ralph. “Look what they did.”

“It could have been much worse.”

“Yes. They might have butchered the rest of my sheep.”

“Sheep?”

Damville pointed. “Ride over to the ditch.”

Ralph and his men went in the direction indicated and found a ditch that bisected the fields. Lying on its bank was a ewe with its throat cut and its belly ripped wide open. Another animal then made a grisly appearance. Carved into the ground on the other side of the ditch, a few inches deep and three or four yards long, was a crude but unmistakeable shape. The sheep’s blood had been poured into the mould and it was still lying in thick patches on the surface of the bare earth.

As the sun hit them, those vivid patches moved and shimmered with such animation that the men stepped back in alarm.

“Dear God!” said Ralph. “A red dragon! Alive!”

Night had brought her much closer to Ralph Delchard, but it had driven her even further away from the others. Canon Hubert shunned her, Brother Simon fled from her, and Ilbert the Sheriff pointedly avoided her. Golde sought the company of the one man in Llanwarne who was pleased to talk to her.

“What have you found out, Archdeacon?” she said.

“No more than I expected,” said Idwal. “Warnod was not murdered by a Welshman. What would be his motive?”

“Hatred?”

“The man befriended his neighbours.”

“Envy?”

He was scornful. “We would never envy the Saeson! ”

“Malice?”

“Foreign to our nature,” he said. “No, dear lady, look elsewhere for your killers. Closer to home. And when you find them, deal with them after your own fashion.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is Ergyng. Welsh territory under the heel of the Normans.

King William annexed this land by force, but he let us keep our customs here. Do you know how we deal with murderers?”

“No,” she said. “How?”

“If a Welshman kills a Welshman, the relatives of the slain man gather and despoil the killer and his relatives, and burn their houses until the body of the dead man is buried the next day before midday.”

“An eye for an eye.”

“That is the custom here,” explained Idwal. “The king receives a third part of the plunder, but the relatives of the slain man have the rest free.”

“This is crude justice.”

“Crude, but effective. It makes a man think twice before striking a blow against another.”

“That custom does not apply to Warnod. He was a Saxon.”

“The law differs for him. If anyone kills one of the king’s men or breaks into a house, he gives the king twenty shillings as payment for the man, and a hundred shillings in forfeiture. If anyone has killed a thegn’s man, he gives ten shillings to the dead man’s lord.”

“Warnod’s death cannot be paid for with a fine.”

“Which justice would you choose now: ours or yours?”

“Let us first catch the murderers,” she suggested.

“Why is it so important to you?” he said, cocking his head to one side like a bird on a fence. “This is no place for a lady, especially one as gracious as you. Why are you so ready to give up the comfort of Hereford for this?”

“Warnod was a friend of my family.”

“Your family?”

“He knew my father … and my sister.”

“Ah,” said Idwal, sensing a blighted romance. “That is very sad. I grieve for you-and for you sister, too. Death parts all lovers in the end, but this was a cruel divorce. It was better that you came in your sister’s place. The sight of Warnod’s house should not be inflicted on her.”

“She will have to be told.”

“Use soothing words upon her.”

“I will.”

“And as for you,” he continued, “your duty is done. You have travelled to Ergyng and gazed upon the scene of his slaughter. Do not distress yourself by lingering further.”

“But I must, Archdeacon.”

“Why?”

“Until they find the killers.”

“That may take days, weeks.”

“I gave my solemn word to my sister.”

“You have honoured it,” he pointed out. “But there is nothing else that you may usefully do in Ergyng. Return to Hereford. Your sister’s distress cries out to you. She needs you there to offer comfort.”

“It is true,” said Golde. “I must send word.”

“Why send it when you can deliver it in person?” His head came upright and he scrutinised her face. “What other reason detains you here with us?”

Golde almost blushed.

They had spent the best part of a day in preparation for the event.

Fed in their cell that morning, they noted every detail of the procedure. Two guards came. One unlocked the door and stood aside, leaving the key in the lock. His partner carried a rough wooden tray. On it were two cups of water and two bowls of bread soaked in milk. The tray was placed in the middle of the floor and the man departed. His colleague closed the door and locked it again.

Sufficient light striped its way into the dungeon for Gervase to pick out something of the men’s appearance. The one with the tray was young and sturdy, the other was older and leaner. Their weaponry had also been noted. Both wore daggers. The older man also carried a club at his belt in case he had to subdue an unruly prisoner. They wore mailed shirts over their tunics, but both were bareheaded.

Neither of them spoke. Omri’s gentle banter and Gervase’s earnest pleas did not extract one word from them. They came, they fed, they went. They would come again.

“What time?” asked Gervase.

“It was mid-evening yesterday,” said Omri. “About an hour or so before you arrived. They gave me time to eat my meal then cleared the things away.”

They had left the tray this time and Gervase was grateful. The stout wood made a useful additional weapon. He offered it to Omri, but the old man shook his white locks.

“I am a man of peace, Gervase. I might sing a man to death, but that is the only assault I will offer his person.”

They finalised the details of their plan and rehearsed it in the gloom. It was bold enough to work, but hazardous enough to end in disaster. They would need more than a touch of good fortune in order to succeed. Surprise was their main weapon. A blind old man with a harp would be a useful decoy.

“Supposing we do get out of here?” said Omri.

“We shall-God willing!”

“What then?”

“We leave the castle itself.”

“How?”

“We’ll find a way somehow.”

“On foot?”

“How else?”

“I’ll only slow you down.”

“We’ll find two horses in the town.”

“Three, Gervase.”

“Three?”

Omri sounded hurt. “I could never leave without my companion.

We came together, we must leave together.”

“But we have no means of knowing where he is.”

“Leave that to me.”

“Omri,” said Gervase, alive to the dangers, “we cannot take anyone with us. It is out of the question.”

“Then you go alone.”

“Why take all that extra risk?”

“Because it is my duty,” said the Welshman. “There is no other way, believe me. If I arrive in Powys alone, they will not respect my age and my reputation. I will be sorely punished for abandoning the friend who lies here.”

“Would you rather stay in this fetid dungeon?”

“Yes, Gervase.”

The old man was adamant. It added a new and more troublesome element to the escape attempt, but Gervase had to agree to it in the end. He turned his mind to the initial stage of their plan. Everything that followed hinged on that.

“They’re not coming!” he said with concern.

“Give them time, Gervase.”

“You said that it was mid-evening yesterday.”

“They’ll come to suit themselves,” said Omri with philosophical calm. “We are not important guests. When they remember us, they’ll be here.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Test the rope again. All depends on that.”

Twenty minutes later, they heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Descent would be long and slow. They took up their positions.

Omri stood beneath the window plucking his harp and singing in a deep and soulful voice. Gervase waited near the door armed with two weapons. The delay had favoured them. Light had faded badly inside the cell.

The key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. The older man who guarded it now held a lantern. The younger man entered with another tray of food, but he did not get far. As his foot caught in the taut rope that was hidden beneath the straw, he pitched forward and landed on his face, dropping tray and contents in the process.

Gervase was on him at once, hammering him on the back of the head with the other tray and knocking him unconscious.

The older guard took a moment to realise what was happening.

Pulling out his club, he came rushing at Gervase, but the latter was ready for him, using the tray like a shield and parrying the blows from the club. It was his second weapon that was critical. Twisted around Gervase’s hand was the other length of rope. He swung it in a circle several times to build up momentum before striking with vicious force.

One blow was enough. It caught the guard on the side of the temple and sent him crashing into the wall. He slumped to the floor immediately. The human skull at the end of the rope had split on impact, but it had proved its worth. The older man would not revive for an hour.

Grabbing a dagger from the first guard, Gervase took Omri by the arm and hustled him out. He slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock. Other keys on the same ring would take them through the doors above. They climbed slowly up the spiral staircase in the darkness. Gervase held his dagger at the ready and Omri clutched his harp.

The first stage was over. They were out.