The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Nine

Ralph Delchard was tormented by a double loss. The baffling disappearance of Gervase Bret was always at the forefront of his mind. It gave him another night of feverish rumination and put him back in the saddle at dawn. Warnod’s murder had been a public event with a flaming message left behind for all to see. Ralph was forced to consider that Gervase might have been killed in a more private way and buried somewhere by stealth. They might never find him. If Gervase had met a violent end, then his death would somehow be linked to that of Warnod. Finding one set of killers would solve both murders.

While all his energies were directed towards hunting for some trace of his friend, Ralph was troubled by another loss. The hurried departure of Golde had wounded him. She had left no message, suggested no further meeting between them. Had the shared feelings on their first night in Archenfield been an illusion? Was her return to Hereford a signal to him in itself? Ralph felt the sharp pain of rejection.

In the short time he had known Golde, he had been drawn ever close to her. Had she encouraged him in order to spite him? Was it Saxon cunning that had ensnared him in order to inflict punishment?

“I am ready for you, my lord.”

Idwal the Archdeacon was depressingly bright at that time of the morning. As he mounted his horse, his eyes were glistening and his face was a mask of shining religiosity. Ralph had contained his ho-micidal urges in order to make use of the Welshman during the search.

Mouths which had been closed to them on the previous day might open to the little archdeacon with the lambskin cloak.

“Which way shall we ride?” asked Idwal.

“To the place where Gervase was last seen.”

“Richard Orbec’s demesne? Will we be safe?”

“He’ll not stop me this time,” asserted Ralph. “Orbec promised me that he did not touch Gervase and I accept his word. But someone else may have struck on Orbec’s territory. I would like to search it afresh to satisfy myself.”

“Take me wherever you wish,” said Idwal. “I am yours.”

They set off from Llanwarne at a steady pace. Ralph’s men-at-arms were refreshed by a night’s sleep and as eager as their master to track the young commissioner. Having ridden with him on assignments in Wiltshire and in Essex, they had come to like and respect Gervase Bret very much. Their duty was mingled with affection, but the prospect of action kept them alert.

Ralph tried to keep ahead of Idwal, but the archdeacon was no mean horseman. He caught up to canter abreast.

“They say this Richard Orbec is a holy man.”

“It is a holiness mixed with hostility.”

“Towards whom, my lord?”

“Everyone. He treats his demesne as his refuge. Nobody is allowed to disturb him-on pain of death.”

“A curious blend,” observed Idwal. “The instincts of a monk and the impulse of a murderer. What made the man so?”

“Only he knows that.”

“I would like to probe his mystery.”

“He is more likely to probe your ribs with a dagger.”

“Violence towards the Church? Never!”

“Richard Orbec would not scruple to kill a pope who trespassed on his land,” said Ralph. “Besides, you will not be there to plumb the depths of his spirit. Orbec has Welsh subtenants on his land in Archenfield.”

“Ergyng.”

“Loosen their tongues for me.”

“I will open their hearts and make them sing Te Deum. ”

“We want information about Gervase. Nothing more.”

“I will want something else, my lord.”

“What is that?”

“An explanation of this outrage.”

“Outrage?”

“Ergyng is a part of Wales in the grasp of foreigners. But it was allowed to keep its old customs. Such things mean much to an ancient people like us.”

“How does this affect Richard Orbec?”

“He violates those Welsh customs,” said Idwal. “In every other part of Ergyng, my compatriots pay their dues in renders of honey, pigs, sheep, and so forth. It has always been so. This Richard Orbec, so they tell me, exacts rent from his Welsh subtenants in the form of money. They have no choice. Your commission should look into this abuse.”

“We are already aware of it,” said Ralph, “but it lies not within our jurisdiction. Landlord and tenant come to their own agreements. We only take notice when there is corruption and misappropriation at work.”

“You see exactly that here before your eyes!”

“All I see is a man who prefers money to a few sesters of honey and a couple of sows. Orbec commits no crime.”

“But he does, my lord. He desecrates our customs.”

“We talk about no more than a handful of people.”

“If it was one,” said Idwal with passion, “I would defend his rights.

Richard Orbec is heaping the greatest shame upon people of my nation.”

“How?”

“By dishonouring their Cymreictod.”

“Their what?”

“Their Welshness.”

Ralph nudged more speed from his horse and drew away. Idwal’s company was taxing. He began to regret his decision to bring the archdeacon with him. There was another price to pay for his interpreter. Every time Ralph looked across at the Welshman, he was reminded of the latter’s part in the return of Golde to her sister. But for Idwal’s undue interference, she might well have been waiting for him on the previous night. Ralph toyed once more with the image of a leaden cask being lowered into a deep pit. He would toss the lambskin cloak joyfully in after it.

“Another matter must be raised, my lord.”

Idwal was not yet ready for his removal from the face of the earth.

He brought his horse level with Ralph’s again.

“I could not touch upon it yesterday.”

“Upon what?”

“The question of the lady.”

“Golde?”

“Others were present,” said Idwal. “Canon Hubert and Brother Simon are worthy jousters for me to knock from their saddles in debate, but they were raised in monastic celibacy. Their flesh does not behave as that of other men.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Discretion, my lord. Biding my time. Telling you alone what could not be said before your two companions for fear it might bring blushes to their virgin cheeks.” He cackled merrily. “Though I share their love of God, it does not make me turn aside from all women. I am a married man.”

Ralph gaped. “You have a wife?”

“Wife and children, my lord. They pine for me even now.”

“Return to them as soon as you may,” he urged.

“Do you not want to hear of Golde?”

“Will you ever tell the news?”

“It was written on her face for all to see,” said Idwal. “Only eunuchs like Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could fail to know its import.

I saw it at once.”

“Saw what, man?”

“She loves you.”

Work began early at the brewhouse on Castle Street. Golde was there to supervise it. Sacks of fresh barley were cut open for the day’s usage. Fermentation was checked in the ale which had stood in the vats overnight. The carter arrived to return empty barrels and take away full ones. Golde tasted every consignment before she released it. Her husband had taught her well and she maintained the highest standards. Any ale which did not please her palate would be put aside. The distinctive flavour of her product had to be preserved at all costs.

After a few hours in the brewhouse, she found a moment to slip back into the house. Aelgar was sitting in front of the fire with the same sombre expression on her face.

“You must strive to get out of the house, Aelgar.”

“Do you not want me here?” asked her sister.

“Fresh air may restore you. The presence of others may give you interest. It is not good for you to lock yourself away with your memories.”

“They are all I have now.”

“Visit the market. Buy some fruit for us.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Brooding over Warnod will not bring him back.”

“I know.” She looked up. “Will he forgive me, Golde?”

“For what?”

“Letting him go to his grave alone.”

“Aelgar!”

“I should have been there,” she said, wistfully. “He was my beloved. I should have watched them lower him into the ground and said a prayer for his soul.”

“You can pray as well for him here as there,” said Golde. “Archenfield was no place for you. It was not his body that they buried but his ashes. It must have been a hideous sight. You were spared that.

Warnod loved you truly. He would not have wanted you to witness such a scene.”

“And he will not blame me?”

“No, Aelgar. Nor let you blame yourself.”

The girl gestured helplessly. “I miss him.”

“Of course,” said Golde, squeezing her. “We both do.”

“I cannot believe that he is gone.”

“Time will slowly knit up your grief.”

“I loved him so dearly, Golde. Yet he left so little behind. All that was to have been mine-ours to share-was burned to the ground. I have nothing save a few keepsakes, and I have been too afraid even to look at them for fear that they would make my grief overflow.”

Golde’s curiosity was aroused. She turned the girl to face her and knelt down to hold her hands. Red-rimmed eyes looked across at her.

She kissed her sister on the cheek.

“Keepsakes, you say?”

“They are nothing much.”

“Why have you not mentioned them before?”

“They were mine,” said Aelgar. “Private treasures.”

“And where are they now?”

“Where I have hidden them these past months.”

“Even from me? Your sister?”

“Warnod made me promise.”

“Why?”

“I do not know, but I obeyed. He was to be my husband.”

Golde nodded reassuringly and squeezed her hands.

“May I see these keepsakes now?”

Two strenuous hours at the oars inflamed the blisters on his hands and deepened the ache in his muscles. Gervase Bret took the boat into the bank again and moored it to a small boulder. He climbed ashore and offered his hand to Angharad.

“Is it safe?” she asked.

“We are well clear of Monmouth now.”

“Horses could soon catch up with us.”

“We are not pursued, Angharad,” he said. “Take my hand and step out. It will do us all good to stretch our legs.”

“Yes,” agreed Omri. “My old bones do not like boats.”

They had managed a few hours’ sleep in the night without daring to leave their vessel. Cramps increased their general discomfort. Leaving at dawn, they were now further upstream and able to scan the landscape all around them. Grazing sheep were the only moving figures to be seen.

Helped by Gervase, the old man clambered onto the bank. He yawned and stretched himself. Gervase guided the two of them to some nearby bushes which offered them complete cover and protection from the stiff breeze. Secure in their hiding place, they settled down on the grass.

Angharad was embarrassed to be seen in such a sullied condition and tried to tidy her hair with hands that flitted like butterflies around her head. Gervase was far more conscious of his own bedraggled state. The dignity of a royal commissioner had been stained and soaked quite beyond recognition. He could feel the muck on his face and smell the stink on his attire. He was hardly in a presentable state to meet a lady from one of the royal houses of Wales.

Omri seemed to read his mind. He gave a rich chuckle.

“Adversity makes strange bedfellows,” he mused. “What else but a malign fate could have thrown we three together?”

“Gervase saved us,” said Angharad, simply.

“Indeed, indeed. I will compose a song to thank him.”

“Do not mention the mud and the water,” said Gervase.

“My music will cleanse you from head to toe. I will tell of a hero with golden lustre.” He sniffed deep and chuckled again. “And my song will have to put a peg on the noses of my listeners. Heroes do not stink of a night in a dungeon and a dip in the River Monnow.”

Angharad laughed nervously, then looked around with frightened eyes. She drew her cloak around her shoulders.

“You are sure we are safe, Gervase?” she said.

“For the time being.”

“Why have they not come after us?”

“Because that was not their task,” said Gervase. “Their job was merely to hold us at the castle. They had no remit to organise a search if we chanced to escape.”

“What of the men who took us to Monmouth?” she said.

“They have long gone.”

“How can you be certain?”

“We would have heard from them by now,” decided Gervase. “The road from Monmouth never strays too far away from this river. I heard a cart go past in the night and a drover took his cattle past at dawn.

We were hidden from them by the banks of the river, but travellers were not hidden from us. A posse of soldiers at full gallop is a sound that we would surely not have missed.”

“My ears would not have missed it,” said Omri. “I have heard every insect that crawled, every blade of grass that stirred. I have listened to the conversation of the fishes and the complaints of the frogs. No soldiers.”

“Other enemies still linger,” said Gervase. “We must take no chances.

When we have rested, I will search for food. There may be berries to sustain us and clean water to drink.”

“Find a tree that grows dry clothing,” said Omri. “And some bushes that yield spices to sweeten our persons.”

“Clothing must wait, but flowers may give us scent.”

Angharad looked increasingly uncomfortable. She bent to whisper into Omri’s ear. He nodded understandingly and hauled himself to his feet.

“She would be alone awhile,” he said, feeling for Gervase’s hand and pulling him up. “Let’s stand aside. This is no place even for a blind man.”

They left her to satisfy the wants of nature and found more cover behind the trunk of an elm. Its spreading branches dipped and creaked in the breeze. Gervase was grateful for a moment alone with Omri.

Strategy needed to be decided.

“What will you do with her?” Gervase asked.

“Take her to Powys.”

“Even though she does not wish to go?”

“I obey the command of her uncle.”

“Does he know how much she resists this match?”

“Rhys ap Tewdr has only spoken to the girl once or twice in her entire life. Power falls to the man with the strongest arm. A Welsh prince is always too busy guarding his territory against rivals. Even Rhys ap Tewdr must fight off foolhardy pretenders. He does not have much time for his wider family.”

“Until they can be used as pawns in marriage.”

“That is your judgment.”

“Is it not yours?”

“I am hired to sing and crack a jest.”

“And tell fortunes at the courts of the great.”

“Only to those who will hear me.”

“I will hear you, Omri.”

“You”

“Can you see into the future for us?”

“I have already done so,” said the old man, with a sly grin. “Why do you think I agreed to escape with you? It was because I foresaw success.

I knew that you would put us both on your back and fly over the walls of the castle.”

“Was the river part of your prophecy?”

“I deal in generalities, Gervase. Do not pin me down.”

“What lies ahead for us now?”

“Trouble, sorrow, and threats to our lives.”

“And then?”

“My vision becomes blurred.”

There was movement in the bushes. Angharad came to join them with a posy of flowers in her hand. She inhaled their fragrance then held them under Omri’s nose. The scent revived him.

“I will pick some of my own,” he said, moving away.

“Let me help you,” offered Gervase.

“I would go alone.”

It was the old man’s turn to relieve himself. Gervase watched him grope his way towards the bushes, then he turned his attention to Angharad. She looked even more beautiful by daylight. The glow on her skin was captivating. Gervase basked in its glory. Angharad studied him carefully. After making sure that they were not overheard, she moved in close to whisper to him.

“You have friends in Ergyng?”

“If we can reach them.”

“What will happen to me, then?”

“We will arrange an escort for you,” said Gervase. “Omri will take you on to Powys.”

“No!”

“Your uncle has decreed it.”

“My uncle does not have to marry that pig!” she said with quiet ferocity. “Goronwy is an animal. I will not share my bed with him. He frightens me.”

“You only know him by report, Angharad.”

“There are too many tales. They all say the same thing about him. I want to please my uncle, but I will not tie myself to a madman for the rest of my life.” She clasped his hands. “Goronwy is strong and brutal.

Think what he could do to me. Would you hand any girl over to a man like that?”

“No,” he said. “But this is not my concern, Angharad.”

“It is now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Omri is sweet and kind, but he is afraid to disobey. You are not bound by any orders from my uncle.” She clutched at his chest. “You have rescued me once, Gervase, and you must do it again.”

“Rescue you?”

“From Goronwy. You are the only hope I have.”

“It is not my place.”

“I need you,” she begged. “Do not force me to go to Powys. I will do anything to avoid that. Marriage to this ogre would be like suicide.

Help me, Gervase.” She flung herself at him and clung tight. “Help me. Please, help me.”

They rode for another mile or more and still there was no challenge.

Indeed, their presence seemed to frighten people away rather than rouse their interest. Expecting an armed resistance, they instead sent peasants scurrying away from their fields, and fishermen abandoning their nets to seek the nearest refuge. Ralph Delchard and his men continued their search in a state of bewilderment.

“Why do they run away from us?” said Ralph.

“The sight of Norman armour unsettles them,” said Idwal.

“Then they must quake with fear every day of their lives because Orbec’s men-at-arms are everywhere.”

“Not this morning, my lord.”

“Why?”

“Let me find out for you.”

They were moving up the Golden Valley now and he spotted the first of the mills on the River Dore. While Ralph and the others waited, Idwal rode on down to see if his religion and nationality would reassure. They saw him meet two men beside the mill and fall into animated conversation with them. Idwal, for once, seemed to be doing most of the listening. One of the men pointed up the valley and the archdeacon nodded. He was soon cantering back to his companions.

Watching the lambskin cloak approach, Ralph spared a thought for the man’s wife. What creature of flesh and blood could endure his unremitting volubility? Was she not crushed in bed by the sheer weight of words? By what weird process had their children been conceived?

Ralph had a vision of their progeny as tiny sermons with arms and legs. The woman herself was a martyr. Marriage to the gushing urgency of the archdeacon was surely a giant step towards sainthood.

“I spoke with them,” said Idwal, halting his mount.

“Do they think we have leprosy?” said Ralph.

“They fear all soldiers. The manor house was raided.”

“By whom?”

“Nobody knows,” said Idwal. “That is what makes it so alarming.

But Richard Orbec’s reeve was killed with an arrow and soldiers were seen galloping away.”

“When was this attack?”

“At dawn this morning. Word has spread like wildfire.”

“Let’s find out more about this.”

Ralph abandoned the search and led his men in the direction of Richard Orbec’s manor house. The intruders might possibly have some connection with Gervase’s fate. It was important to learn all that he could about them as soon as possible. Ralph had seen at first hand the forceful way in which Orbec shielded his land from visitors. It would require courage and daring to launch an assault on the man’s house.

When the building came in sight, they could see the strong military presence at once. The drawbridge was up and the palisade was manned. Helmets glinted on all four sides of the manor. Richard Orbec would not be caught unawares again. They were fifty yards from the gate when a voice ordered them to stop and state their business.

“I am Ralph Delchard and I seek immediate conference with your lord. We come as friends. If there is danger, we will gladly lend what help we can.”

“Wait there.”

A message was sent up to the house. When the drawbridge was lowered five minutes later, Richard Orbec himself came out on his horse. He was in full armour.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“To hear details of this attack,” said Ralph. “It cost you a steward, but the same men may also have deprived me of my dearest friend.

Who were they?”

“Raiders from across the border.”

“Welshmen?”

“Never!” howled Idwal.

“Who is this?” said Orbec.

“I am the Archdeacon of Llandaff, but I speak for the whole of Wales. You are deceived in your judgment, my lord.”

“I pulled the arrow out of my reeve’s back,” said Orbec. “It came from a Welsh bow.”

“But not necessarily shot by a Welshman.”

“Keep out of this,” snapped Ralph. “Let’s hear the tale in full before we rush to judgment.”

“You have heard it,” said Orbec. “I left the chapel just after dawn.

Redwald, my reeve, met me and chanced to step in front of my body.

He presents too large a target to miss. The arrow killed him instantly.”

“You say that he stepped in front of you?”

“Accidentally and foolishly. Had he stayed where he was, Redwald would now be telling you how Richard Orbec was picked off by a Welsh archer.”

“I refuse to believe it!” said Idwal.

“Did you give pursuit?” said Ralph.

“We were after them within minutes, but they got clear away.” Orbec gestured with his hand. “Since then, I have looked to my defences, as you see. This was a small party. We saw the marks of their hooves in the wood above the house. A larger force may come next time.”

“Why?”

“To kill me.”

“For what reason?”

“That has yet to be disclosed.”

“Have hostile soldiers come over the border before?”

“Not for several years.”

“Did you do something to provoke their ire?”

“Nothing.”

“There is the questions of the renders,” said Idwal. “If you had respected Welsh customs in Ergyng …”

Orbec blinked. “What is he babbling about?”

“Ignore him, my lord,” said Ralph. “Have you informed the sheriff of this attack?”

“No.”

“What of your neighbour, Maurice Damville?”

“I send no messages to him.”

“But a Welsh raid must surely be of concern. The castle of Ewyas Harold is first in the line of attack. If a larger force did come, Damville would bear the brunt of it.”

“That is his problem.”

“Will you not unite in the face of an enemy?”

“I look after my own,” said Orbec, sternly. “One man has been killed.

I will not lose another so easily.”

“I, too, have lost a man,” said Ralph. “I came here this morning to look for him. You have problems enough of your own, as I can see, but we must talk. If we try, we may help each other. I would appreciate a word in private.”

Richard Orbec stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

The green eyes flashed, but Ralph was equal to their glare. The long perusal eventually came to an end.

“Follow me,” said Orbec.

“Thank you.”

Ralph nudged his horse forward and Idwal followed suit.

“Alone!” insisted Orbec.

Idwal protested in both languages, but his words bounced off the backs of the two departing Norman lords. When they had ridden over it, the drawbridge was lifted and secured. The Welshman and the eight men-of-arms were left outside.

“These are sad tidings, my lord,” said Ralph, falling in beside Orbec.

“We met your reeve. He seemed a sound man.”

“Redwald was an excellent reeve.”

“Cut down by a stray arrow.”

“Not stray, my lord. It was meant for me.”

“Do you have any idea who could have shot it?”

“Yes,” said Orbec, “but I did not wish to name a name in front of your companion. He could be an intelligencer.”

“Idwal? He is an archdeacon.”

“Religion might be a convenient disguise. It allows him to pass among you and gather information freely. Why has he attached himself to you when he has no official place in your commission? This much I do know. Somebody led those Welsh soldiers to the one place from which an arrow could be fired. What does that suggest?”

“A spy.”

“I treat all the Welsh as such. And most Saxons.”

“You said that you knew the assassin?”

“I can guess at his identity.”

“Who is he?”

“A wild man from the house of Powys,” said Orbec. “You have seen the way I drill my men and marshal my defences. How would you plan an assault on me?”

“With a substantial force or a very small one.”

“A very small one argues cunning and valour. To come this far across the border is no light matter. They took grave risks.” He gazed up at the wooded slope from which the arrow was discharged. “I know of only one Welshman who would dare to insinuate himself this far into my land.”

“Who is he?”

“The prince’s nephew.”

“What is his name?”

“Goronwy.”

Goronwy and his men had retreated across the border and camped beside the road to consider their next move. The Black Mountains were at their back and the castle of Ewyas Harold was a couple of miles in front of them. Goronwy was pleased that he had made his presence felt, but angry that he had killed the wrong man. Ever since the name of Richard Orbec had been put into his ear, he had a target for his rage. He would not rest until he had cut out that man’s heart with a dagger.

Angharad was alive. Of that there could be no doubt. They would not have killed her train and taken her off to murder her elsewhere.

His bride was, he believed, held by Richard Orbec. He did not even speculate on the motive. Whether it was lust, spite, or the seizing of a hostage in order to exact a ransom, it did not matter. Angharad, his Angharad, a lovely young girl, destined for his bed, had been taken by force. Orbec would be taught to rue his outrage.

While his men lit a fire to roast the chickens they had stolen from a nearby farm, Goronwy took one of his men with him and rode towards Ewyas. It was another commote which had been cut ruthlessly away from Wales by the Normans. The castle of Ewyas Harold was a token of that ruthlessness. When they got within sight of it, they reined in their horses and assessed its strength. Its site had been chosen well. Approach from any direction would soon be seen.

The ditch was deep and the high walls looked impregnable. Even from that distance, they could see figures on the battlements.

Goronwy’s companion mixed valour with discretion.

“Richard Orbec’s house is an easier target.”

“This one would test our mettle more.”

“We do not have men enough.”

“We will,” said Goronwy.

“Why waste time here?” argued the man. “Our business lies in the Golden Valley.”

“Sack this castle and we ride straight through into Orbec’s territory. He will not look for us to come from this direction. Besides,”

said Goronwy, “my blood is up and I will kill any Norman I can find.

We will start here. Ewyas Harold Castle will whet my appetite.”

Maurice Damville was called up to the battlements by his guards.

Two figures had been sighted in the distance, but they were too far away to identify. Damville ran up the stone steps to look for himself.

He was just in time to watch Goronwy and his companion leave.

Their light armour denoted them as soldiers. Here was no casual observation of his stronghold. The castle had been studied with a view to attack.

“They are coming,” said Damville. “Double the guard!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Alert the whole garrison.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“They are coming,” he said, almost gleefully. “At last!”

Damville went back down the steps at speed and into the bailey. He summoned his captain and barked orders. The castle was soon alive with activity. Shouts came from the gatehouse. A messenger was approaching. The doors were heaved open so that the horseman’s gallop could take him on into the centre of the courtyard.

He brought his steaming horse to a halt in front of Damville and leaped from the saddle. The parchment was taken from his belt and handed over at once.

Maurice Damville broke the seal and read the missive. His grin soon turned to a sneer of contempt. He scrunched the letter up and hurled it back at the messenger. The captain’s orders were counter-manded.

“Saddle up. Take a dozen men.”

“Are they not needed here, my lord?”

“Do as I say!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ride hard and this may not take long,” said Damville. “You will return here well in time. Have the men waiting and I will give instruction.”

The messenger picked up the discarded letter from the ground.

“Is there any reply, my lord?”

“Yes,” snarled Damville. “Here it is.”

He knocked the man to the ground with his forearm.

Gervase Bret rowed intermittently for a few more hours before exhaustion obliged him to ship his oars and drift into the bank. He chose a place where the Monnow cut deep and the banks were high enough to conceal them. Gervase had torn strips of material from his tunic to bind around his hands, but the blisters still burned like hot coals. He was fit and strong, but no boatman. The effort of rowing three of them along the winding course of the river took him close to total fatigue. His whole body was now one continuous ache and perspiration was streaming down his face.

“Where are we?” asked Omri.

“I do not know,” said Gervase, “but we still have some way to go, I am sure. That fisherman we met a little way downstream said we had four or five miles yet before we reach Archenfield. Or Ergyng, as you all insist on calling it. We have come nowhere near that distance since then.”

“You would be quicker on foot,” said Omri.

“I might be, but what of you?”

“We could hide somewhere while you went for horses.”

“No,” said Angharad. “I will not leave Gervase.”

“Then the two of you must go,” suggested Omri. “I will only slow you down. My walking days are over. And I am hardly fit for catching horses.”

“I think that we should stay together,” said Gervase.

“And break your back at those oars?”

“I will be fine again after a little rest.”

“We are right out in the open here,” said Angharad. “It does not feel safe. I do not want to leave Omri, but it is only for a little while. We will come back for him.”

There was conviction in her voice, but none in her face. Gervase sensed that her predicament was far more important to her than the old man’s welfare. Once free of her companion, he felt certain, Angharad would want to press on without him. Fond as she was of Omri, she would rather abandon him in order to secure her own escape from the journey to Powys. Gervase was in a cleft stick. He liked the wry old bard and was enchanted by Angharad. One of them would have to be disappointed.

“We stay together,” he decided.

“No,” she protested, “that is foolish.”

“I will not be alone,” said Omri. “I have my harp.”

“We must go, Gervase,” she urged. “It is our only hope.”

He felt sad at her readiness to leave the old man to his own devices.

Omri would be quite defenceless. His instinct told him that he should somehow protect them both, but that would consign him to more misery at the oars. He was still agonising over the situation when the decision was taken for him. The faint drumming of hooves could be heard in the distance. Omri was a swift interpreter.

“They’re looking for us!”

“We will be caught!” cried Angharad. “They will see us.”

“Hold still,” said Gervase.

He jumped from the boat and scrambled up the bank to peer over the top. There were a dozen or more of them. They were still some way off, but their search was systematic. As some stayed on the road, others fanned out on each side. Three of them were picking their way along the river.

Gervase slid back to the boat. They seemed trapped.

The search party was thorough. They came at a steady trot and swept along a front of over a hundred yards. Their quarry would not be difficult to spot. A white-haired old bard, a girl, and a young man in the garb of a Chancery clerk were unfamiliar sights. Sooner or later, they would find a trace of them or meet someone who had seen the trio. It was only a question of being patient and methodical.

Their leader held to the road and directed the others.

“What do we do with them?” said his companion.

“Let us find them first.”

“They say the girl is very fair.”

“No hands must be laid upon her!” said the other.

“Not even in sport?”

“You can have the old man instead.”

“What pleasure lies in that?”

An answering voice came singing through the air.

“Mehefin ddaeth, fugeiliaid mwyn …”

The harp was a small instrument that could be tucked under Omri’s arm, but its strings produced a sound that reverberated between the banks of the river. As the horses quickened their pace, the song increased in sweetness and volume. The leader signaled to his men and all converged on the source of the melodious sound.

Two men and a frightened girl were no match for thirteen armed soldiers. The men grinned as they made their way along the river.

Their search had borne fruit and they would be rewarded by their lord. Meanwhile, there would be the satisfaction of feasting their eyes on a Welsh beauty.

“Mor wyn a’r oen, ni wnawn ei fam…”

The boat was around the bend in the river at a point where the bank was steepest. Picking their way through the trees, they arrived in a group directly above the vessel.

“Croeso! ” said Omri.

The Welsh beauty was an old man with a harp. There was no sign of the others. The leader dismounted and tried to question Omri, but no common language existed between them. The soldiers split up and looked all around them.

Half a mile away, Gervase and Angharad were running for their lives.

The visit to Richard Orbec’s fortified manor house changed their plans.

Not even Idwal’s glib tongue could explain away the presence of a Welsh arrow between the shoulder blades of Orbec’s reeve. Ralph Delchard dismissed the archdeacon’s earlier assurances that there would be no incursions from across the border. Redwald’s death was indisputably the result of an attack by a Welsh raiding party. Warnod’s murder and the red dragon carved in Maurice Damville’s cornfield were further evidence of a hostile Welsh presence.

“You are safe as long as you are with me,” said Idwal.

“I would rather not put that to the test,” said Ralph.

“No Welshman would attack you when I am here.”

“One is already doing so. With words.”

“I offer you wise counsel.”

“Save it for the Bishop of Llandaff.”

“But I am your talisman, my lord.”

“You would not stop me getting an arrow in the back.”

“I still have doubts about the archer.”

“Redwald doesn’t.”

Ralph took his men back in the direction of Llanwarne. If a more serious onslaught was to come from across the border, he was singu-larly ill-prepared to cope with it. Eight men-at-arms and a loquacious churchman were an inadequate defence against light-armoured Welsh horsemen who could move at speed and shoot their arrows with deadly accuracy. Ralph needed additional soldiers. Only then could he resume the search for Gervase Bret.

The sheriff had left a handful of men in Llanwarne to continue the investigation into Warnod’s death. Ralph would despatch one of them to Hereford at full gallop to spread word of the danger and to collect reinforcements. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could also be sent back to Hereford for their own safety. There was little more they could achieve by staying. If, as Orbec predicted, the Welsh did come in greater numbers, there would be far too many dragons in Archenfield for anyone’s comfort.

“Let me go to them, my lord,” offered Idwal.

“It is too late for that.”

“I can act as an envoy. To calm them down.”

“You are more likely to inflame them to greater wrath.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers …”

“Unless the Welsh are actually winning the battle.”

Ralph spurred his horse into a gallop that left Idwal well behind.

He was vexed that the search for Gervase had been temporarily abandoned, but there was no virtue in making themselves easy targets in open country.

When they reached Llanwarne, they were met by Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. They came running out to see if the premature return of the search party meant that Gervase had been found, hoping that he would still be alive, but fearing that his dead body might be strapped across a horse. Their faces crumpled when they realised that their companions were empty-handed.

“What happened?” said Canon Hubert. “Why come back?”

But Ralph Delchard did not even hear him. He had seen another figure nearby and she blotted out every other sight and sound in the vicinity. Golde was standing there with a fond smile that washed away all his recriminations. Ralph was almost tongue-tied in his excitement.

“I am delighted to see you again, Golde.”

“The pleasure is mutual, my lord.”

“Why have you come?”

“To bring you a gift.”

“I have it when I gaze upon your face.”

“It may make you smile even more,” she said, handing him a thick scroll that was secured with a ribbon. “Take it.”

“What is it?”

“Something that Warnod gave to my sister.”

“Warnod?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “His will.”