The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Eight

Creeping shadows brought the fruitless search to an end. It had been a long day in the saddle and Ralph Delchard and his men were dispirited as they headed back to Llanwarne. The whole of Archenfield had now been thoroughly explored, but it yielded no clue as to the whereabouts of Gervase Bret. The Golden Valley had been traversed and they had gone deep into Maurice Damville’s estates in Ewyas.

Ralph had even taken his men across the Welsh border in the direction of the Black Mountains, but there was still no trace of his friend.

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon welcomed them back.

“What news?” asked Hubert, eagerly.

“Nothing good,” said Ralph, dismounting from his horse. “We have not paused for one minute, but it was all to no avail. Gervase has vanished into thin air.”

“Most disquieting,” said Simon. “Canon Hubert and I must bear some of the blame here. We should not have left him alone to ride back to Richard Orbec’s demesne.”

“Gervase would not be stopped,” argued Hubert.

“It was our duty to make him stop.”

“Then why did you remain silent at the time?”

“I was praying for the intercession of common sense.”

“There is no point in bickering,” said Ralph. “I feel as guilty as either of you, but the fact of the matter is that Gervase made the decision himself. And it was the right decision. He doubtless learned much of value from his secret inspection of the Orbec holdings.

Unfortunately, the right decision produced an unforeseen result.”

“Where did you search?” asked Hubert.

“Anywhere and everywhere. There is not a bush in Archenfield that we have not looked under. Nobody could help us and most of them could not even understand our language. I never thought I would miss so sorely the company of Idwal the Archdeacon.”

Hubert flinched. “That mad Welshman?”

“We could have endured his madness for the benefit of his Welsh.

Idwal would have been a quick interpreter.”

“We could certainly have spared him here.”

“Where else did you ride, my lord?” asked Simon.

Ralph recounted the story of the visit to Maurice Damville’s demesne.

They were disturbed to hear of the appearance of a second blood-red dragon and speculated endlessly on its significance.

“How did Maurice Damville receive you?” said Hubert.

“With ill grace,” explained Ralph. “He demanded to know why we were trespassing on his land and urged us to leave as quickly as we had come.”

“You were not invited to Ewyas Harold Castle?”

“We were not, Hubert. This Damville is a surly host. He swore that Gervase was nowhere on his estates, then sent men to escort us out of Ewyas.” Ralph was simmering. “The laws of hospitality have left this benighted county untouched. Richard Orbec threatens us and Maurice Damville chases us away like boys stealing apples from his orchards. These indignities will not be borne!”

“Unleash the Celtic imbecile upon them,” said Hubert. “Idwal is a red dragon in himself.”

The archdeacon materialised at once out of the gloom.

“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” he said with an amiable cackle. “That is usually an invitation to debate.”

“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Simon.

“No sign of Gervase, then?”

“No, Archdeacon,” said Ralph, sadly. “None, I fear.”

“Tell me all.”

“When we have had refreshment. Riding through this wilderness all day is tiring business. We need food and drink to revive us. And I must first speak with someone else.” He looked around for the one face that might give him solace. “Where is Golde?”

“She is gone, my lord,” said Idwal.

“Gone?”

“Back home.”

“To Hereford?” Ralph’s heart sank. “When?”

“This afternoon. I counselled her to do so.”

“Why?”

“She was needed there. Duty bade her go and I was able to strengthen its call with a homily of my own.”

Ralph glowered. “You read her a homily?”

“This was no place for a lady, my lord. She should not have seen the way in which Warnod died.”

“Golde came here of her own volition.”

“She left at my persuasion.”

“What right had you to bully her away?”

“The right that all servants of the Lord are given at ordination,”

said Idwal, blithely. “To help those in distress and to ease the troubled mind. Golde was greatly comforted by me. She went home to offer comfort on her own account.” He glowed with self-satisfaction. “Did I not do well, my lord?”

Ralph Delchard seethed with anger and disappointment. The prospect of seeing Golde again was the one bright star in an otherwise black day. Idwal the Archdeacon had robbed him of that pleasure in the name of Christian duty. Ralph became an instant apostate. He joined the long queue of people who could cheerfully throttle the little Welshman with their bare hands, seal him in a leaden casket with his homilies, and bury him in the deepest pit that could be found.

Monmouth Castle was built in a loop of the River Monnow, a narrow but fast-flowing strip of water that joined the Wye itself less than half a mile below the town. A vital stronghold that commanded the approach to South Wales, the castle was stone-built and well fortified. The gatehouse had a daunting solidity and cobbles had been set into the ground beneath it. The bailey was compact and high-walled with a mixture of timber and stone buildings.

From his hiding place in the shadows, Gervase Bret took stock of their surroundings. He could make out a chapel, a hall, workshops, stables, and a small run of farmyard buildings. What he took to be the granary also rose up at him out of the gloom. He and Omri were in luck. The bailey was largely deserted. Guards were patrolling the battlements, but they were looking outward. Crude banter came from those in the gatehouse.

The dungeons were at the lower end of the bailey. Deep and dark, hidden behind a series of heavy doors, they would smother the sound of gaolers locked in their own cells. Gervase and Omri had created time for themselves to escape.

“Where is your companion?” whispered Gervase.

“Describe what you see.”

“Motte and bailey-like any other castle.”

“Paint a picture,” said Omri. “Give me detail.”

Gervase went through an inventory, seeing more clearly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Omri soon responded.

“There is nowhere in the bailey to hold my friend,” he decided.

‘Take me to the tower.”

“We will never gain entry to that.”

“We may not need to, Gervase.”

“How, then, will you reach your companion?”

“In the way that I know best.”

Gervase took his arm and guided him slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard, hugging the darkest corners and using all the cover that the various buildings offered. The motte itself was guarded by a thick stone wall, but its gates were left open to allow free access between the two parts of the castle. Gervase and Omri slipped through and flattened themselves against the cold stone.

A mound of earth now climbed dramatically in front of them. It was topped by the high stone tower in which the castellan and his family resided. No door would be left obligingly open here. Guards and guests would be inside the tower. Gervase Bret was almost ready to concede defeat.

“Take me closer,” said Omri. “Up the mound.”

They scrambled up the incline with great difficulty. Omri’s age had taken its toll and his harp was an additional handicap. When they reached the base of the tower, the old man was panting. He needed a few minutes to get his breath back, then he tucked himself in against the stone. With deft fingers, he played a few chords on his harp.

“What are you doing?” hissed Gervase.

“Sending a message.”

“You’ll rouse the whole tower.”

A man’s head poked out of a window higher up, but soon withdrew.

Evidently they were invisible from above. It gave them more confidence. With Gervase’s help, Omri made his way around to the opposite side of the tower, flattening himself against its slabs before he plucked at the strings again.

This time there was more response. Two figures leaned out of one window, saw nothing, exchanged a joke, and took their laughter inside. A third figure appeared at a lower window and waved a hand.

Gervase described what he could see. Omri was thrilled.

“We’ve found him!”

“But how do we get him down?”

“My old harp can only call him,” admitted Omri. “You must do the rest, Gervase. How high is the window?”

“Twenty feet or more.”

“Too high for you to climb, too long for him to jump.”

“We need a rope.”

Omri chuckled. “I’ll wait while you fetch one.”

“From where?”

Even as he asked the question, Gervase answered it. Outside the stables he had noticed a small cart, obviously used to bring provisions into the castle. When it was loaded up, it might well need ropes to secure its cargo. Gervase lay on his side and rolled swiftly down the mound until the ground finally levelled out. Running to the gate, he peered through into the bailey then stayed low as he scurried towards the stables.

Raucous laughter was still coming from the gatehouse. Nobody had yet missed or heard the two gaolers. Gervase trotted on. There were no ropes on the cart itself, but he found a coil hanging on a nail inside the stables. It was stout hemp and more than long enough for their purpose. He was about to carry it away when his eye caught something else. It was an iron bar almost three feet in length. He snatched it up and bore his booty off to the tower.

Omri was still there and the figure was still at the tower window.

Gervase gestured with the rope and got a wave of acknowledgment from above. Omri was now in the way. Gervase took him gently back to the base of the mound and left him there with his harp. Ascending the incline once more, Gervase chose a point halfway up it to give himself an angle. He tied the end of the rope to the middle of the iron bar and had a few practice swings.

The figure above watched with fascination. Gervase signaled for him to withdraw into the chamber. When his target was ready, Gervase uncoiled the rope, took a firm grip on the bar, and tossed it upwards.

It reached the window, but bounced off the stone. The clang brought no enquiring eyes. A second attempt also failed and made more noise.

Figures appeared at two separate windows higher up the tower and looked down into the darkness for a few minutes before they finally vanished.

Gervase lay facedown on the mound until he felt it safe to look up again. The figure was back at the lower window. Something fluttered. Gervase guessed what it must be. Bedding was being placed across the stone base of the window to deaden the sound of the iron bar. It encouraged the marksman below. He waited until the space was again unoccupied before returning to his task. Holding the bar like a javelin, he hurled it straight and true. It went in through the window and landed with a muffled clink.

He was now perspiring freely with the effort and the excitement.

Gervase would still have to smuggle a blind man and a youth out of the castle yard, but he would meet that problem when he came to it.

Rescuing Omri’s companion from the tower was his immediate concern. He lay on the mound and waited, but the window remained empty. What was causing the delay? Had the noise aroused guards in the tower? Had they rushed into the chamber where the iron bar and rope now lay?

It was several minutes before relief came. The figure returned to the window and waved. The rope dropped slightly as the iron bar was fitted across the window to act as a brace for the descent. It was not a long climb, but the figure at the window hesitated. Gervase stood up and gestured his encouragement. Every second was vital if they were to get completely away. As the body finally emerged through the window, Gervase had some idea of the age and size of their companion.

The figure was hooded and clad in a cloak. He was of medium height and lithe movement. Holding the rope in firm young fingers, he began a slow and careful descent. The iron bar was a reliable accomplice. It held the weight easily. As the youth got lower, his confidence grew. Gervase reached up to help him, his outstretched hand brushing the heels above him. There was a sudden gasp as the climber lost his nerve and let go of the rope.

Gervase broke the fall, but he was knocked over in the process.

Lying across him was the sobbing figure of the youth they had come to rescue. Gervase sat up quickly to offer comfort and to still the noise, but the shock deprived him of all speech. The hood had fallen back to reveal long braided hair that fell down over one shoulder.

Omri’s companion was not a youth at all.

Gervase was looking into the face of a young woman.

Golde’s return to Hereford brought her sister consolation and alarm.

Delighted to see her, Aelgar was deeply upset by what she heard.

When the death of her betrothed was a distant event in Archenfield, it had somehow not seemed quite real. Golde’s visit brought it terrifyingly close. She had seen what little remained of the house in which Aelgar would have lived with her husband. Though she suppressed some facts out of kindness, Golde could not hide them all. Her sister shed many tears at the thought that the man she loved could provoke such hatred and brutality.

“Who were they, Golde?” she said.

“We will know in time.”

“Warnod was the kindest man on earth.”

“I thought him so.”

“Why did they have to kill him in that way?”

“It was revolting.”

“They destroyed everything that he owned.”

“Not quite.”

“And they destroyed me.”

Golde held her close and let her cry her fill. She had been right to come back home. Her heart told her to linger in Archenfield, but her head urged a return to Hereford. It was unfair to steal fleeting joy at the expense of her sister. Idwal’s advice had been unwelcome at the time, but she now accepted its soundness.

Regrets were inevitable, but her life had been strewn with them.

Ralph Delchard was merely the latest. Golde forced herself to believe that he would not, in any case, have had any time for her. With a lost companion to find, a murder to solve, and official business to trans-act, he could not be bothered with the widow of a Hereford brewer.

Golde had good reason to see him again, but it would be on a more formal basis. Those moments alone in the moonlight at Pencoed were the sum of their happiness together.

Aelgar wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

“Now that Warnod has gone, who will look after me?”

“I will.”

“But that it not fair to you, Golde.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I should not be such a terrible burden on you.”

“We are sisters.”

“You are entitled to a life of your own.”

“I have one.”

“Not while I am here,” said Aelgar, softly. “That was why I was so pleased when Warnod asked me to marry him. Pleased for myself, of course, but pleased for you as well.”

“Me?”

“You carried me for long enough. Warnod was taking the load off your shoulders. Because of you I found my way to some happiness.”

She took Golde by the shoulders. “I thought that when I went to live in Archenfield you would be free to seek some happiness for yourself.

You deserve it.” There were tears in Golde’s eyes now. “Do not let my misery drag you down. I hate the feeling that I hold you back.”

“I am content to share my life with you, Aelgar.”

“Think of yourself for once. I did.”

“You?”

“I was ready to leave you for Warnod.”

“You loved him.”

“Cannot you also love, sister?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Golde.

Aelgar stood up and walked around the little room. She felt reassured by her sister’s presence, but she had not forgotten the visitor who came calling. As she remembered the face of Maurice Damville at her window, she trembled all over.

“He came for me again, Golde.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. After you left with those men.”

“What did he do? What did he say?” asked Golde with sudden anger. “Did he get into the house? Did he touch you?”

“Not with his hands,” said Aelgar. “Only with words. But they were almost as bad. He said he would be back one day, and I am frightened. Warnod had shielded me from him, but Warnod is no longer here. Who will save me, Golde?”

“I will,” she said firmly. “Have no fear. I will save you from Maurice Damville.”

The two guards chatted quietly on the battlements. Their eyes flicked occasionally to the great black void beyond the castle. Wales seemed closer and more oppressive at night. They felt sometimes as if they could reach out and touch the mountains. The men shared a joke and laughed.

Their backs were turned to the figure who crept up the steps with a dagger in his hand. They did not hear his soft tread or see his darting movement. He chose his moment and struck. A foot in the small of the back propelled one of the guards hard against the stone wall. The other man was felled with a blow and lay flat on his back with a knife at his throat. A knee pressed hard into his chest.

“Get up!” snarled Maurice Damville, himself rising.

“Is it you, my lord?” asked the man on the ground.

“Yes, but it could just as easily have been an enemy. Some rebel Welshman or one of Orbec’s men. Or even some foolish Saxon who thinks his lord works him too hard for too little.” He kicked the man hard. “You were not ready!”

“No, my lord,” admitted the other guard, still dazed.

“One man could have killed the two of you.”

“We guarded the wall. You came behind us.”

“So might your foes!” said Damville, feinting with the dagger to give the man another scare. “Guards are here to guard everything- including their own backs.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Maurice Damville was in a dark tunic that blended with the night.

The time for feasting was over and his men had to be kept on the alert. He believed in testing his defences for himself. When they were next on guard duty, these two soldiers would not so easily lose their concentration. He had cured them of that. It was important that the castle of Ewyas Harold was securely defended twenty-four hours a day.

Both men had got up now and were dusting themselves off. One of them marched back to his post further along the wall. The other watched his master nervously. Damville put a foot up on the wall and stared out into the dark.

“We must be ready,” he said quietly. “At all times.”

“Will they come, my lord?” asked the man.

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“They will come.”

Goronwy overcame the barrier of language by sheer force. He could speak no English and the man could speak no Welsh, but the young captain soon made himself understood. Two of his soldiers stripped the man’s tunic off so that his back was exposed. They each pulled a wrist so that the victim was in an attitude of crucifixion. Goronwy’s whip took over the conversation. Six searing blows ripped the skin away and left rivulets of blood all over the man’s torso. His screams echoed through the rustling trees.

They had reached the English border and crossed over into Archenfield. Their victim was a hapless Saxon freeman who was returning home late to his cottage. Goronwy’s men had swooped on him and carried him away to a secluded wood. Their captain was merciless in his interrogation.

“Orbec!” he repeated. “Richard Orbec.”

The man now lay writhing in agony on the ground.

“Orbec!” shouted Goronwy.

“I hope he kills you,” said the man through his pain. “Every last one of you!”

Goronwy bent low to apply the whip again. The man howled and twitched even more violently. The two soldiers lifted him bodily and brought him face to face with their captain. Goronwy took a flaming torch from another of his soldiers and held it near the man’s eyes.

“Orbec!” he hissed. “Richard Orbec.”

He pointed at the man, then jabbed his finger in the air to indicate that they wanted directions. The heat of the fire made the man cringe.

Goronwy moved the torch ever closer.

“Richard Orbec!” said the man. “I’ll take you!”

Goronwy smiled. They spoke the same language at last.

Rope could be a friend as well as a foe. When Gervase Bret was tied to the back of a horse, he cursed the bonds that dug into his wrists and ankles. Those same lengths of rope had enabled him to escape from the dungeon and the coil from the stables had liberated the third prisoner from her tower. There had been no time for introductions and explanations. After taking the girl down to Omri at the base of the mound, Gervase went back to retrieve the rope.

Paying it out, he cracked it like a whip to dislodge the iron bar from its position. When he cracked even harder the next time, the end came out through the window with the bar at an angle. Gervase dived to evade the missile and it sunk into the earth a few feet away. Rope and bar were gathered up and he slithered back down the mound.

Even on his own, he knew that he would stand little chance of getting away through the main gate of the castle. Encumbered by an old man and a young woman, he would be mad even to attempt escape in that direction. Rope had been their salvation so far and it might be so again.

From the top of the mound, Gervase had been able to take his bear-ings. The tower was enclosed by a wall and below that was a ditch.

Beyond the ditch-used as a natural moat-was the River Monnow.

That had to be their way out of the town. Gathering his companions, he hustled them around the tower and up the steep bank to the wall.

When she looked over it, the young woman put a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry of horror.

“What is it, Angharad?” whispered Omri.

“We have to climb down the outside wall,” said Gervase. “There’s a ditch below. I’ll tie the rope around you and lower you one by one.”

Angharad understood his halting Welsh and shook her head.

Descent from that height was far more dangerous than her climb from the window. Omri sensed her distress.

“I’ll go first!” he said.

The old man felt for the rope and tied one end around his waist.

Gervase wound the end with the bar around his waist and shoulders.

“Pull hard on the rope twice when you untie it,” he said.

“Will it be long enough to reach the bottom?”

“You’ll soon find out.”

Angharad was moved at the sight of the blind man daring to risk such a descent. As she handed him his harp, she gave him an affec-tionate kiss on the cheek. Gervase braced himself and slowly paid out the rope. Omri was not heavy. They could hear his feet grating gently on the outside wall. Angharad watched until he vanished into the darkness at the base of the castle. Gervase suddenly felt all the strain taken off him. The rope had been just long enough.

“He made it.”

“Is he safe?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Gervase, feeling two tugs on the rope. “Safe and sound.

Your turn now.”

She hesitated for a moment, but the sound of commotion near the gatehouse soon swept away her reservations. The escape from the dungeon had been detected. A search would soon be under way.

Gervase helped her to tie the rope around her slender waist, then lowered her as gently as he could. She was lighter than Omri and her feet bounced softly off the wall.

Two more pulls on the rope told him that she had joined Omri.

Gervase moved at speed. Jamming the iron bar between the battlements, he cocked a leg over the wall and grabbed the rope. It took his weight. Leaning out so that he could use his legs to brace himself, he walked and slid his way down through the darkness. Growing noises from within the castle made him rush even more. As soon as he saw the ground, he abandoned the rope and jumped, landing in the muddy ditch and falling over.

He was on his feet again at once, collecting his two companions and towing them as fast as he could along the river bank. Omri was gasping for breath within a minute.

“We need horses, Gervase.”

“I’ve changed my mind about that.”

“Why?”

“We could never outrun them on the road.”

“Then how else do we get away? On foot?”

Gervase at last found what he had been hoping he would.

“No, Omri,” he said. “In a boat.”

Anxiety over Gervase Bret and annoyance over the unexpected departure of Golde had left Ralph Delchard in a state of dejection. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon lifted his spirits slightly. Over a frugal meal at the house in Pencoed, they explained how they had discom-fited Ilbert the Sheriff.

“I wish I had been there,” said Ralph. “I was looking forward to locking horns with Ilbert Malvoisin.”

“His case will need to be addressed more fully at a later date,” said Hubert. “But I feel that we have let him know what sort of men he is up against.”

“Canon Hubert was magnificent,” said Simon.

“Thank you.”

“He played the sheriff like a fish.”

“Since when have you been an angler, Brother Simon?”

“We are both fishers of man, Canon Hubert,” said the wraith beside him, laughing tinnily at his own wit.

“Why did the sheriff leave Llanwarne?” said Ralph.

“There is nothing left for him to do,” said Hubert.

“Nothing left! What of Warnod’s murder? He will not solve that by sitting in Hereford with that excrescence of a reeve. Ilbert should be here.”

“He has left men to continue the enquiry.”

“A sheriff should lead it,” insisted Ralph. “This is no random killing. It was a calculated act of savagery that was committed in part to frustrate our work. Find the murderers and we unravel all the mysteries that brought us here.”

“Perhaps that is why he left,” said Hubert.

“The sheriff?”

“He is reluctant to aid us in our work.”

“That is not surprising, Hubert. If we nail our charges to the Malvoisin tail, he will forfeit a substantial amount of land and pay a fine in the bargain.” He drained his cup of wine. “No wonder he has fled back to Hereford.”

“Might there not be another reason?” said Simon, meekly.

“And what is that?”

“Speak up, Brother Simon,” urged Hubert. “You are fully entitled to an opinion. Though you travel as our scribe, you can also write ideas into the ledgers of our minds.”

“That was beautifully phrased, Canon Hubert.”

“Enough fawning, man,” said Ralph. “This reason?”

“Personal interest.”

“We have just disposed of that.”

“Personal interest in Warnod’s death,” said Simon as he enlarged his argument with diffident steps. “Cui bono? Who gains by the poor man’s demise?”

“Not the sheriff,” said Canon Hubert. “He had to ride down here to quell a feud between Saxons and Welsh.”

“And when that is done, he leaves.”

Ralph tapped the table with a finger. “Simon has a point. The good sheriff was far more interested in the consequences of Warnod’s death than in the actual murder. Law and order had to be restored. That done, he leaves the search for the killer to lesser men.”

“Your conclusion?” pressed Hubert.

“I leave you to draw that,” said Simon. “I merely point out that Ilbert Malvoisin stood to profit by the death of Warnod and the destruction of his possessions. Including-or so the sheriff supposed-his charter and his will.”

“The same may be said of Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville,”

added Ralph. “They, too, gained by the sudden disappearance of the man with a claim to their land.”

“To Orbec’s land,” reminded Hubert.

“Yes. Damville waived his right.” Ralph frowned and tapped the table again. “Now, why did he do that?”

“Not in the true spirit of altruism, to be sure.”

“What does that leave us with, Hubert? Three men, all fundamental to our enquiry, all with sound reasons to kill the fourth witness.” He spread his arms wide. “Who is the villain behind the murder? Orbec, Damville, or the sheriff?”

“We must first solve another riddle.”

“And what is that?”

“The red dragon.”

Gervase Bret rowed for the best part of an hour before he felt it was safe to rest. The boat they had stolen was one of a number of small fishing craft that had been moored upstream from the castle. Most of them were coracles, round vessels that required great skill to manoeuvre with any speed. Gervase opted for the battered rowing boat, first helping his passengers in, then wading chest-high in the river to push them along so that the plash of oars did not attract any interest. Once clear of the town, the sodden Gervase had climbed aboard and shifted the craft by more conventional and less irksome means.

They travelled with painful slowness. Gervase’s back was soon aching and his hands were a mass of blisters. His passengers offered sympathy, but neither could realistically take a turn at the oars. Fearful that their voices would carry, they hardly spoke at all. Omri sat in the stern with an arm around the shivering Angharad, who eventually drifted off to sleep on his shoulder. Gervase struggled on until the pain became too great, then guided the boat into the bank. He tied it to the trunk of an overhanging willow.

“We have put some distance between us and Monmouth,” he said.

“So we should be safe for a while.”

“You deserve the rest,” said Omri. “How do you feel?”

“Wet.”

“Angharad and I are eternally grateful.”

“Angharad should be grateful to you,” said Gervase. “For lying so convincingly. If I had known that we were rescuing a young lady, I would have thought twice about the whole enterprise.”

“That is why I kept the truth from you.”

“Who is she?”

“A friend,” said Omri. “A friend and companion.”

Angharad awoke with a start and looked around. Enough moonlight found its way through the willow fronds for Gervase to be able to see her face properly for the first time. It was arresting in its beauty. She was no more than eighteen. The long hair framed a heart-shaped face with the most luminous skin he had ever seen. Large brown eyes, a small upturned nose, and full lips enriched the portrait.

Something else could be seen in the faltering light. There was an air of nobility about her. Even in her confused and muddied condition, Angharad had natural poise.

“Thank you,” she said.

“His name is Gervase,” prompted Omri.

“Thank you, Gervase.”

“Are you all right, Angharad?”

“I think so.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No,” she said. “Nobody touched me. They locked me in a chamber.

That is all.”

“Did they tell you why?”

“They said nothing at all.”

“Did you not overhear them speaking?”

“Yes, but not in Welsh.” She turned to Gervase. “Where are we?”

“I am not sure. Somewhere on the River Monnow.”

“This old boat is as hard as stone,” said Omri, as he adjusted his position, “but it is better accommodation than Monmouth Castle could offer us.”

“Where will we go?” she said.

“Wherever the river takes us,” said Gervase. “Further north it is the border of the place where I was captured.”

“What is that called?”

“Archenfield.”

“Ergyng,” corrected Omri.

Her face lit up. “You have friends in Ergyng?”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “Good friends. They will give us food and horses.” He looked down at himself. “And I can change into some dry apparel.”

“You have suffered much for our sakes, Gervase,” said Omri. “If I could soothe your blisters with a song or dry your clothing with a jest, I’d happily do both, but my talents are barren in this situation.”

“There is one thing you can do for me.”

“Ask and it is yours.”

“Tell me who Angharad really is.”

“A friend. No more.”

“There is much more, Omri.”

“Look at the dear creature,” he said, “for I cannot except in my mind’s eye. Angharad is a miracle of nature-a waterfall in full flow, a daffodil in bloom, a bird on the wing.”

“Birds on the wing do not merit eight men-at-arms to escort them on the road.” Gervase was persistent. “Who is she and why was she going to the court of the prince of Powys?”

“Tell him,” she said.

“Leave this to me, Angharad.”

“If you do not, then I will.” She smiled at Gervase and touched his arm in gratitude. “He risked his life for us. Why should he bother with two strangers when he could have escaped on his own much more easily? Gervase is kind. He can be trusted. Tell him, Omri.”

The old man sighed and nodded. He picked up his harp and plucked at the strings to draw out a plaintive melody. His words were heightened by the music.

“Angharad hails from a royal house,” he chanted. “She is the niece of Rhys ap Tewdr, prince of Deheubarth and lord of the whole of South Wales. Had he but known where we were kept, Rhys ap Tewdr would have stormed Monmouth Castle with a thousand men and left not a stone of it standing. And all the bards of Wales would have celebrated the event in song for another century.”

His fingers lay still, but the music hung on the wind for a few more moments before it died away. Gervase had heard enough to be able to guess the rest.

“A dynastic marriage?”

“Even so, my friend.”

“With someone from the house of Powys?”

“Goronwy, the nephew of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself.”

Angharad tensed at the name and said something so rapidly in Welsh that Gervase did not understand it. What he did observe, however, was her evident distress.

“This match does not please the lady, I think.”

“Angharad is … not overjoyed by the choice.”

“She is not the only one,” said Gervase. “An alliance between Deheubarth and Powys? They would make a powerful combination.

King William himself would not be delighted with this marriage.”

“It has other opponents,” admitted Omri.

“Who are they?”

“The men who ambushed us on the road. I do not know who they are, but they clearly had a strong reason to stop this marriage. Killing eight soldiers and abducting the bride are not very generous wedding presents.”

“I do not want him,” said Angharad. “I hate Goronwy.”

“You have never even met him,” said Omri, reasonably. “What you hate is what you have heard about him. And any man may suffer from false report.”

“Who is he?” asked Gervase.

“The captain of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn’s retinue.”

“A soldier then. Brave and strong.”

“He would not hold the position that he does without bravery and strength. They say that Goronwy is fearless-and I have heard that on a dozen tongues, so it cannot be denied.” He sagged slightly. “But they say other things, too.”

“I could never love this man,” wailed Angharad.

“Why not?”

“He must not be my husband. I would rather spend the rest of my life in that castle than be forced to marry this Goronwy. My uncle is cruel!”

“What has she heard about this man?” said Gervase.

“He has a reputation,” confessed Omri.

“Reputation?”

“It may be completely unfair to him.”

“And it may be true.”

“It is true!” Angharad insisted. “It is true.”

“What is this reputation for, Omri?”

“Ruthless slaughter. They say that he is consumed with blood-lust.

That is why Angharad is terrified of this man. When he has a weapon in his hand, he runs mad.”

Goronwy slit the man’s throat and left him dead in the bottom of the ditch. The Saxon guide had served his purpose. He had led them to their destination. Lying flat on his stomach in the undergrowth, Goronwy kept the house under surveillance. He was over a hundred yards away, but his position on the wooded slope allowed him to see over the fortifications. Dawn was rising and the birds were in full voice. The scene was tranquil.

When a figure came out of the chapel, Goronwy held out a hand to one of his men. Bow and arrow were passed over. This was no death to be delegated. Goronwy wanted the pleasure of execution himself.

Another man came to meet the first outside the chapel. They talked in earnest. Goronwy rose up and knelt, fitting the arrow to the bowstring.

Below in the half-light, the conversation continued. The newcomer was a big, shambling man with deferential gestures. He was patiently talking with his lord. Goronwy rose steadily to his feet. Strong fingers pulled back the bowstring. The assassin waited. This was him.

Goronwy was certain. This was the man who had ambushed his young bride. Revenge would be swift and sweet.

The arrow whistled through the air with the hatred of a young lifetime riding on its back. The aim was true, but its speed was frac-tionally too slow. Before it could strike its target, the bigger man stepped unwittingly in front of the other. The arrow hit him directly between the shoulder blades and killed him outright. He pitched ridiculously forward.

Richard Orbec caught his dead reeve in his hands.