The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Ten

They ran until their lungs were bursting and their legs were threatening to give way beneath them. Gervase Bret and Angharad staggered to a halt and fell against the trunk of a gnarled tree for support. Omri had been a valuable decoy. The old man and his harp bought them crucial minutes to make their escape into the woods. By the time the soldiers gave chase, the couple were the best part of a mile away.

The headlong race through the trees had been costly. Neither of them was dressed for sprinting over uneven ground. Catching on bushes, their clothing had been torn to ribbons. Unfriendly brambles had lashed at their arms and ground ivy had snatched at their feet.

They were more dishevelled than ever. Gervase was deeply concerned for Angharad. Shuddering with fatigue, she was bent almost double as she took in huge wheezing breaths. He reached down to pluck a twig from her hair and to brush some strands of bracken from her cloak.

Voices in the distance intensified their panic.

“They’re coming!” she gasped.

“We’ll have to hide.”

“They’ll find us.”

“Not if we’re careful.”

“I can’t run any farther, Gervase.”

“Lean on me.”

“My legs …”

“Shhhh!”

He touched her lips with gentle fingertips to still her voice.

Silence was vital if they were to elude the pursuit. Slipping an arm around her waist, he half-carried her deeper into the woods. Gervase hoped they would not see the strips of material that had been ripped away from their attire.

The soldiers would have split up again to continue their search.

No help could be beaten out of Omri. He was plainly unable to tell them in which direction the couple had fled. That limited the number of men who would be combing the woods.

The voices were coming nearer. Twigs were snapping under hooves, and branches were being broken off by armoured shoulders. Sound was magnified in the stillness of the woods and played tricks on their ears. Voices seemed to be all around them. Gervase dragged Angharad towards the thickest undergrowth and forced his way through the shrubs. The soldiers could now be heard quite clearly, reporting to each other as they crashed their way forward. There were three of them and they sounded angry.

Gervase reached a shallow ditch half-hidden by an outcrop of holly.

The ditch was filled with stagnant water and the holly leaves scratched at their hands and faces, but the choice of refuge was forced upon them. Gervase crawled in under the bushes and lay on his back so that he was partly submerged. He pulled Angharad on top of him using her cloak as a blanket to hide the two of them.

Their hearts were pounding. They felt the helpless fear of hunted animals. Angharad’s cheek was against his. He could hear the anxious short breaths and smell her terror. The horses came ever closer.

Long, prancing legs stopped within touching distance of them.

Angharad saw them from the corner of her eye and stifled a scream.

Gervase held her more tightly. He could feel her hot tears coursing down his cheek.

“They won’t have come this far,” said one voice.

“It depends how much of a start they had.”

“They’re on foot. The girl would slow him down.”

“I’ll slow her down when we catch her.”

Ribald laughter bounced off the trees and sent animals scurrying and birds flapping. A third man joined the others and ordered them to press on. The search moved slowly away from the fugitives. As they lay entwined in the ditch, they could hear swords hacking a path through the undergrowth. With an excuse to relax slightly, they stayed exactly where they were.

Gervase was at once moved and guilt-stricken. Stirred by the presence of a beautiful young woman in his arms, he was yet distressed that she was not his beloved Alys. Even in their desperate situation, he could take a momentary pleasure from being Angharad’s protector.

It felt like a form of betrayal. At the same time, however, it seemed so gentle and natural. Angharad was not nestling into him with the eagerness of a lover. She was a girl in torment, taken from her family to marry a man she loathed, ambushed on her way to Powys to meet her unsought bridegroom, imprisoned in Monmouth Castle, and now chased like a wounded doe through the woodland. Comfort in the arms of someone she trusted was all she desired.

Voices, hooves, and slashing swords faded to the margins of their hearing. They dared to embrace hope. Angharad lifted her head and peered around with care.

“Have they gone?”

“Stay here until we are sure.”

“And then?”

“We press on.”

“This is a nightmare, Gervase. Where are we?”

He wanted to reassure her somehow, but honesty won through.

“Lost.”

Ralph Delchard was too caught up in the welter of activity to attend to Golde immediately. He first sent a messenger to Hereford to inform the sheriff of the killing of Orbec’s steward and to alert him to the prospect of danger on the Welsh border. Urgent reinforcements were needed.

Ralph then took command of the remainder of Ilbert’s men, arguing that they were more likely to find Warnod’s killers among the raiders than from the indigenous population. The murder would not be solved by staying in Llanwarne, but by returning to that part of the Golden Valley where Goronwy and his men had penetrated with such effect.

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon agreed to go back to Hereford with two men-at-arms by way of an escort. Idwal’s role next came up for discussion. Opinions varied.

“I think I should ride with you, my lord,” he said.

“No!” refused Ralph. “Return to Hereford.”

“The archdeacon might be more use here,” said Canon Hubert, hor-rified at the prospect of travelling once more with the contentious Idwal. “He speaks Welsh.”

“He also speaks Latin,” said Ralph. “You, he, and Brother Simon will be able to quote the scriptures at each other.”

“My place is here,” avowed Idwal. “Among my people.”

“Then remain,” urged Hubert.

“I will.”

“No!” protested Ralph.

“Yes!” said Hubert.

“Perhaps there is a middle way,” suggested Simon. “A via media, as you might say. We will return to Hereford. You, my lord, will ride back to Richard Orbec’s demesne. And the good archdeacon will stay here in Archenfield.”

“Ergyng!” corrected Idwal.

“Among your flock,” added Hubert. “Thank you, Brother Simon. An admirable compromise. We will then each be allowed to pursue our imperatives in our own way.”

“My imperative is to defend my country,” said Idwal.

“Do it from Llanwarne,” decided Ralph.

“Take me to the heart of the action, my lord.”

“It will be no place for long-winded homilies.”

“What if there is armed conflict?”

“There will be if you insist on following me.”

“Before the two opposing sides clash,” said Idwal with a grand gesture, “I could interpose myself between them.”

Hubert was scathing. “They would take you for a stray sheep and ride over you.”

“At least I would be mistaken for a ram!” retorted the other. “And not for a pair of sanctimonious geldings like you two!”

The argument waxed on and Ralph left them to it. He took Golde aside for a quiet word. The chosen place could not have been more apposite. They were standing beside the tiny churchyard in which the last remains of Warnod lay buried.

“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Golde.”

“I would wait any length of time for you, my lord.”

“That thought excites me.” He looked at the document in his hand.

“Tell me in more detail how this will came into your possession.”

“It was given to Aelgar by her bethrothed.”

“Why?”

“She thought it a keepsake,” said Golde, “but I feel he had another purpose. Warnod knew that she would guard it like a secret treasure.

He wanted it kept safe.”

“A secret treasure is what it may turn out to be,” said Ralph, fingering the scroll. “Did you sister not read it and understand its import?”

“She is illiterate, my lord. It was from Warnod. That was enough for her. She held it to her at night like a letter of love.” Golde smiled. “She was not misled.”

“You have studied the document?”

“Aelgar is the sole beneficiary. Warnod could not write himself, but his character comes through in every line. No man could pen a more loving tribute to a woman. Warnod leaves everything to her.” She heaved a sigh. “Except that there is nothing now to leave.”

“There may be,” he said. “Warnod has claim to a thousand acres of land here in Archenfield. We have the charter that enforces that claim. So there is hope yet.”

“When will your business be concluded, my lord?”

“It will take some little time yet.”

“Will I, then, see you in Hereford again?”

“Nothing would keep me away.”

“I would be honoured if you called upon me.”

“That is the least that I will do, Golde.”

Their eyes met and their hands touched. It was too public a place for any more intimate exchange of vows. Enough had already happened. A commitment had been made on both sides. Ralph glanced across at the grave nearby.

“Your sister may yet have something of Warnod’s to cherish,” he said. “All will depend on the charter.”

“You must judge its legality.”

“I am more interested in its origin, Golde.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone sent it to the Exchequer at Winchester,” he said. “Not Warnod himself, to be sure, but someone with his interests at heart.”

He leaned in close to watch her reaction. “Can you suggest who that might be?”

Golde was uneasy beneath his scrutiny. She seemed to be torn between confiding completely in him and denying all knowledge of the document’s existence. Her answer was brief.

“Ask the sheriff, my lord.”

Ilbert Malvoisin was alarmed by me news. He hoped that the slaying of Richard Orbec’s steward was an isolated example of Welsh aggression, but he doubted it. Two red dragons had now appeared in Herefordshire and the arrow in Redwald’s back was further proof of stirrings across the border. If the sheriff was alarmed, the reeve was almost driven to hysteria. His bulky frame shook with trepidation.

“They will not reach the city, will they?”

“No, Corbin. Hereford is safe.”

“It has fallen to the Welsh before.”

“That was a long time ago, Corbin.”

“It is within living memory,” said the reeve. “May I remind you that both a sheriff and a bishop of Hereford were killed in one battle with the marauders.”

“We have improved our defences since then.”

“The best defence against the Welsh is a degree of amity with them.

That is what we sought. We came to terms with them and peace was guaranteed. Until now.”

“Do not fly to the worst conclusions, Corbin.”

“Then offer me reassurance.”

“One Welsh arrow has been fired,” said Ilbert. “That is not even a skirmish.”

“It may be the prelude to one,” argued the reeve. “Add that one arrow to the burning of Warnod’s house and the scale of the danger is enlarged.” Corbin gestured with both hands. “What are we to say?”

“As little as possible.”

“Should we not ring the alarm bell in the city?”

“No,” said Ilbert. “The problem will be contained before it grows any larger. I will double the guard at the castle and on the city walls, but do so in no spirit of anxiety. These are merely sensible precautions.”

“What of you, my lord sheriff?”

“I will take men and join Ralph Delchard.” A grudging note sounded in his voice. “Though I do not relish the idea of meeting the man across a table in the shire hall, I would rather be with him in the event of trouble than with anybody. He is a true soldier.”

“Which way are they coming?”

“Calm down, Corbin. We do not know that they will come.”

“But if they do?”

“Ewyas is the most likely point of entry.”

“Maurice Damville.”

“He stands between them and us,” said Ilbert. “They will not get past the castle of Ewyas Harold, I assure you. Damville will see to that.”

The castle had been in a state of readiness for several hours. No further sightings of Welsh soldiers had been made from the battlements, but that induced no false sense of security. The enemy might still be there, unseen. Guards patrolled with extra vigilance. Down in the courtyard, other men-at-arms practised their swordplay. The armourer’s hammer had not paused all day.

Maurice Damville was in a state of high excitement. For him, the prospect of a battle was like the anticipated conquest of a new woman.

All would be resolved in one ecstatic embrace. As he tested his skill with a spear, the weapon felt alive in his hands. Damville feinted, moved in quickly, and swung the blade of his spear. It caught his opponent a glancing blow on the side of his helm and knocked him flying. The victor laughed and pulled the man back to his feet.

A cry from the gatehouse alerted them, but it was no danger signal.

The search party was returning. Damville ran to the end of the bailey as the gates swung open to admit the returning soldiers. They drew up in a penitential line before their lord. On the back of their captain’s horse was a white-haired old man, clutching a harp.

“Where are they?” bellowed Damville.

“They slipped through our fingers, my lord.”

“Again!”

“We lost them in a wood. They went to ground.”

“Did you not stay to find them?”

“For an hour or more, my lord. Without success.”

“Idiots!” roared Damville. He jabbed a finger at Omri. “And who, in the name of the devil, is this?”

“A bard, my lord. They call him Omri the Blind.”

“Then he is in good company with you sightless dolts!”

“He was Angharad’s companion.”

“I want the girl herself, not this old fool. Can you not perform a simple task? I asked for Angharad and that young commissioner, Gervase Bret. And who do I get in their stead?” He pulled Omri from the horse. “This! A blind old man with a harp. What use is he? Lock him up!”

Omri was taken away by two guards. Damville glowered.

“Get back out and find them!” he ordered.

“Yes, my lord.”

“They are out there somewhere. Get them both.”

Gervase Bret and Angharad struggled on up the hillside. They had no means of knowing how far they had walked or in what direction.

After their narrow escape in the wood, they had continued on their way at a brisk, but not reckless, pace. Gervase estimated that they had covered several miles, but the overcast sky blocked out the compass of the sun. He had the dreadful feeling that they might be traveling in the very direction from which they had first fled.

Angharad was a brave companion. Brought up in the sheltered domesticity of her father’s house, she was used to being waited on and cared for at every hour of the day. To be chased across rough countryside by hostile soldiers was nerve-racking. Coming as it did on top of the ambush, the experience was devastating. As she strode along gallantly at Gervase’s side, she hardly said a word. She was far too dazed.

Gervase kept hold of her hand, more for reassurance than guidance. His eyes scanned the landscape for signs of danger or hopes of assistance. None appeared. Whenever they did pass an isolated cottage or a remote mill, the occupants closed their doors to them. Gervase could understand their fear. After the soaking in the river and the additional drenching in the ditch, he was a disturbing sight. Their flight through the wood had not improved Angharad’s beauty. Her face was spattered with mud, her cloak torn and blotched, and her hair tugged loose from its braiding.

Angharad came out of her reverie and turned to him.

“What will become of me?”

“I do not know.”

“They must not send me to Powys.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Omri was a friend, but he would not save me.”

“He had his duty.”

“We had to leave him,” she said, trying to justify their actions.

“There was no other way. I hope they did not hurt him when they found him down by the river.”

“They had no cause.”

“That would not stop them.”

Gervase had tried not to think about Omri. He was still troubled by pangs of guilt about the old man. In assisting their escape, Omri had put himself at the mercy of the pursuing soldiers. They might well have tormented him.

“Who are they, Gervase?”

“I do not know.”

“Why do they want to catch me?”

“To keep you from going to Powys.”

“But why?”

“They have their reasons, Angharad.”

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance and they crouched down at once.

The hillside offered little cover. Movement would only attract attention. It was better to lie flat in the hope of not being seen. Gervase pressed her to the ground and kept a hand in the small of her back as they lay side by side. Horses reached the crest of the adjoining hill and the riders paused. Gervase counted a dozen of them.

He lay quite still, but they did not evade notice. One of the riders pointed in their direction and the others looked towards the hill.

The soldiers set off again at a canter. Gervase and Angharad had been seen.

“Quick!” he said, jumping to his feet and helping her up. “Run, Angharad!”

“The horses will catch us!”

“Run!”

The nearest cover was a clump of bushes at the top of the hill, but they had to race up a steep incline to reach it. Gervase was hampered by her fatigue. Though he tried to pull her along by her hand, Angharad kept stumbling and slowing him down. The thunderous hooves climbed up towards them and the soldiers yelled for them to stop. Gervase would not give in, forcing himself on and making one last effort to reach some sort of cover.

But their luck finally ran out. The good fortune which had attended them at the castle and in the wood now deserted them. Angharad twisted her ankle and fell. Gervase tried to pick her up, but was kicked to the ground by the first soldier to arrive. He rolled over and reached for his dagger, but he was too late. A spear was already at his throat to pin him where he lay.

He looked into stern eyes separated by an iron nasal.

“Who are you?” said the man.

Goronwy kept the castle of Ewyas Harold under observation, but remained out of view himself. He had had time to rest and take refreshment now, but the food had not satisfied the hunger for revenge that still clawed at him. He wanted more action. Having tasted blood on Richard Orbec’s land, he was ready to wade triumphantly into it.

Norman castles were well-built, but they had been stormed before. To leave Ewyas Harold a smoking ruin would be to send a signal the length of the whole border: Wales was rampant once more.

It had started as a search for his stolen bride, but the contest had taken on larger proportions now. Goronwy would not settle for the safe return of Angharad. And he would certainly not pay any ransom for her. Her abduction was a profound insult to him and to the house of Powys. It could only be answered in one way.

His captain came scrambling up to the vantage point and lay beside him in the bushes. Ewyas Harold castle was a bleak citadel under a lowering sky. The captain appraised it.

“How many men will it take?”

“A hundred.”

“Five times that number are on their way.”

“The messenger has arrived?” asked Goronwy.

“Your uncle has responded to your request.”

“He is sending five hundred men?”

“No, my lord,” said the man. “He is bringing them.”

Golde rode back towards Hereford with Canon Hubert and Brother Simon, but her presence still hovered in Archenfield. Ralph Delchard was deeply moved. In the space of a few minutes, he and Golde had made solemn decisions that called for days of serious meditation.

Time had not been needed. Simply to see her again had lifted him out of his anxieties and preoccupations. Warnod’s will would be a mighty weapon in the forthcoming duels with Richard Orbec and Ilbert Malvoisin. Both men had assumed that it had been destroyed in the blaze at the house. Its appearance as a piece of evidence in the shire hall would astound them.

Even more pleasing than the will itself was the fact that Golde had brought it. It could just as easily have been sent by messenger, if not retained in Hereford until the commissioners were ready to resume their work there. Golde had taken precious time away from her business to deliver the message in person, even hiring an escort to ride with her. That action brushed away any doubts that Ralph might have had about her feelings towards him.

He chuckled to himself as he recalled what Idwal had said to him.

The archdeacon had finally got something right.

“Where do we meet them, my lord?” asked his captain.

“At the next village,” said Ralph.

“How long will they be?”

“My message urged all speed.”

“Will the sheriff respond?”

“As fast as he may,” said Ralph. “Unless I am very much mistaken, Ilbert Malvoisin looks to be Earl of Hereford one day. He will not gain the title by skulking in the city when there is trouble on the border.

He will respond.”

They were riding northwest in the direction of Richard Orbec’s holdings for a rendezvous with the sheriff and his men. The reinforced party could then ride on with confidence to widen the search for Gervase Bret and to hunt for the killers of Warnod and Redwald the reeve. Ralph would be doing what he liked best-taking his men into action with a sword in his hand-but he did not feel the usual thrill of anticipation. Golde kept intruding gently into his mind. He had never met a woman who had so easily and so painlessly taken up lodging in his heart.

It was baffling. Golde was everything that would normally have rebuffed his interest. She was a woman of Saxon birth, the widow of an unloved husband, and the brewer of a liquid that Ralph regarded as a species of poison. Yet he wanted her. There was a sense of independence about her that drew him ineluctably to her side. His main goal was still to track down his dearest friend. If Gervase were to be found alive, however, Ralph would celebrate the joyous event by racing off to be with Golde.

“He is still trailing us, my lord,” said the captain.

“What?”

“The archdeacon.”

“Can we never shake him off?” moaned Ralph.

“He is like a burr-he sticks.”

Ralph turned in his saddle and saw the diminutive figure a quarter of a mile behind them. Forbidden to ride in their company, Idwal was following in their wake. His whole life was a verbal confrontation between Wales and England. If a real battle was to take place, he did not wish to miss the opportunity to be involved in some dramatic way.

“Shall I frighten him off?” offered the captain.

“It would be a waste of time.”

“What does he want, my lord?”

“Listeners.”

They reached the meeting point, but had a long wait before the sheriff finally arrived with fifty men at his back. He thanked Ralph for sending the warning and gave him an account of the precautionary measures he had taken in Hereford itself. The two men rode together at the head of their troops. Ilbert wanted more detail about events on the Orbec demense and Ralph obliged him. The latter then took the opportunity to broach another matter.

“You know Golde, I see.”

“She is a presence in the community.”

“She would be a presence wherever she went,” said Ralph. “But you seemed to have a closer acquaintance with her.”

“That is all past,” said the sheriff huffily.

“Then there was something?”

“A private matter of no account.”

“It must have some weight if it still troubles you.”

“I have put it behind me, my lord. Ask no more.”

“But I do,” pressed Ralph. “The lady interests me. If you have anything to say against her, take care. You will find me ready to defend her name against all slander.”

“Then I will hold my tongue.”

“Why?”

“The truth might cause offence.”

“What truth, my lord sheriff?”

“As I have said, it is all done. We are reconciled.”

“You cannot leave me in the air like this,” complained Ralph. “There is a charge against the lady’s character, I can tell. When I saw the two of you together, I sensed a tension between you. What was its cause?”

“Golde is a thief,” said the sheriff bluntly.

“Never!”

“I speak but as I know, my lord.”

“Then speak no more falsehood of her or I will not be answerable for my temper. The lady is abused here. I know it.”

Ilbert let Ralph sulk in silence for a while then raised the topic that had been exercising his mind. Ralph and he were riding shoulder to shoulder as comrades. The sheriff attempted to build on that relationship.

“Your help is much appreciated, my lord.”

“I harry the Welsh in order to regain a friend.”

“Whatever your motives, it is comforting to have such an experienced soldier at my side. Neither of the men we ride towards would support me as they should. Richard Orbec is too bound up in his own concerns and Maurice Damville is too ambitious to take orders from any man.”

“Ask the favour,” said Ralph.

“What?”

“I know when I am being licked into a giving vein.”

“That is not the case at all.”

“Ask the favour and let’s have done with it.”

“It is not a favour, my lord. Merely a request.”

“Put it to me.”

“I simply wish to say that I hope we can come to some amicable agreement with regard to your work here.”

“Of course,” said Ralph. “We’ll dispossess you and fine you as amicably as we can.”

“Is there not another course we could pursue?”

“Do I detect the odour of bribery?”

“No,” asserted Ilbert, colouring under his helm. “All I ask for is a balance between justice and practicality. If something works well, why change it?”

“If a man beats his wife well, why stop him?”

“I have to go on living in Hereford, you do not.”

“In view of what we have uncovered, I am very grateful.” Ralph clapped him on the shoulder. “Save your breath, my lord sheriff. This is one battle. The shire hall will be another.”

“I am sure that we can come to an understanding.”

“We already have.”

“All it takes is a little effort on both sides.”

Ralph chuckled as he thought of the document that was safely tucked away in the satchel that Brother Simon had borne off to Hereford.

“Yes, my lord sheriff,” he said, cheerily. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Richard Orbec watched impassively as they came into the room. Still in full armour, he was standing in the hall of his manor house with an armed soldier on either side of him. Gervase Bret and Angharad had been allowed to wash and change before they faced his interrogation. The men who had run them to earth had been from the demesne in the Golden Valley. Instead of being recaptured by enemies, they were in the hands of a putative friend. At the moment, however, there was nothing friendly in his manner. Orbec kept them on their feet while he fired questions at Gervase.

“Who is she?” he snapped.

“Angharad, my lord. Niece of Rhys ap Tewdr.”

“The prince of Deheubarth?” His interest kindled. “What were you doing with the lady?”

“It is a long story.”

“Tell it in full without prevarication.”

Gervase related all that had happened to him since he had been ambushed on Orbec’s demesne. Not understanding a word, Angharad waited quietly with her eyes downcast and her hands folded. She was wearing a man’s tunic and mantle. They were much too large and hung in folds about her, but they did not diminish the regal quality that she bore. Listening attentively to Gervase’s account, Orbec never let his gaze leave Angharad.

“Who is this man she rides to Powys to marry?”

“Goronwy, nephew of the prince.”

“A murderer!”

Orbec’s explosive denunciation made Angharad jump and she looked to Gervase for comfort. He put a hand on her arm. In a clean tunic and mantle himself, Gervase felt restored and renewed. He was not going to be browbeaten by their host.

“There is no need to frighten your guest,” he chided. “We did not ask to come here, my lord. If we offend you in some way, lend us horses and we will happily quit your land.”

“You have been far too happy to trespass on it,” said Orbec. “This is the second time that you were caught here without licence for your visit.”

“We strayed onto your land by mistake.”

“And the first time?” He rode over Gervase’s gabbled apology. “Yes, my friend. Another mistake.” He turned to Angharad once more. “Does she know she is to wed a killer?”

“Only too well, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“That is why she resists the match. All the time we have been together, she has implored me to save her from this Goronwy. The man’s reputation puts the fear of God into her.”

“His reputation does not deceive,” said Orbec.

“You know of the man?”

“He paid me a visit-and killed my reeve.”

“This same Goronwy?”

“It had to be him,” insisted Orbec. “He put an arrow in Redwald’s unprotected back. And now I know his reason for coming here. There she stands. He thought that I held his bride in captivity. Now I do.”

Angharad begged for a translation of the words that had darkened Orbec’s face even more. Gervase gave her an edited version in Welsh of what was said. She began to tremble.

“Tell her that I will not harm her,” said Orbec.

Gervase relayed the message. She replied to it.

“She begs you not to hand her over,” said Gervase. “She knows that Goronwy is a bad man and will have none of him.”

“In that, at least, she shows some taste.”

Orbec looked at her strangely for a long while. Dismissing the two soldiers, he summoned food and wine. When he waved his guests to seats, they sank down with the utmost gratitude. Gervase had never been so pleased to see a tray of meat brought in. The wine tasted like nectar. Angharad ate more sparingly, but emptied her cup within minutes. It seemed to enliven her. Colour returned to her face and animation to her manner.

“It was not her fault, my lord,” argued Gervase.

“Fault?”

“The murder of your reeve. She is hardly more than a child, caught up in the politics of an alliance. If Goronwy did come here in search of her, you should forget Angharad herself and ask another question.”

“Which is?”

“Why did this assassin come? What gave him the idea that his betrothed was in custody here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then let me put one into your head, my lord,” said Gervase. “Someone told him. Whoever ambushed her escort on the road left your name as the culprit. The same men wanted me out of the way as well, so I was captured on your land. That, too, threw suspicion on you and no doubt brought Ralph Delchard hammering noisily on your door.”

“Twice,” said Orbec with a faint smile.

“Does any name suggest itself?”

“It does.”

“We both agree on that at least,” said Gervase. “It has been a long day for me, but it has given me ample time to reflect on events. In different ways, Angharad and I were weapons to be used against you.

Blame the man who forged us.”

Angharad leaned across to whisper in Gervase’s ear.

“What does she say?” said Orbec.

“She asked if you were married, my lord.”

He recoiled slightly and shook his head. She spoke again.

“In the chamber where she changed, Angharad saw the gown of a lady. They would not let her put it on.”

“It is not to be worn,” said Orbec, softly.

“She took it for your wife’s attire.”

“And so it would have been.”

Richard Orbec fell silent. The green eyes were fixed on a spot in the air. Neither of them dared to intrude on him. Gervase was touched to see a vulnerable side to an otherwise hard and unyielding man.

Angharad needed no translation. The man’s grief was all too visible and it was bathed in a deep guilt. His mind was years in the past.

A tap on the door brought his introspection to an end. In response to his call, a servant entered with deference.

“Visitors at the gate, my lord.”

“Who are they?”

“Ilbert the Sheriff and others besides.”

“I’ll see what they want.”

Orbec left the hall and Angharad immediately aimed a flurry of questions at Gervase. He made her speak slowly so that he could understand her.

“What will he do with me?” she asked.

“I do not know.”

“Will he hand me over to Goronwy?”

“No, Angharad,” said Gervase, wanting to put her mind at rest without telling her about the deadly visit of her intended. “That is the last thing he will do. He has a personal score to settle with Goronwy.”

“Then he will hold me as a hostage?”

“I think not.”

“He is a strange man,” she said. “I cannot tell if he likes me or hates me. His eyes say both things at once.”

“He will not harm you, Angharad.”

“When you asked him about a wife …?”

“Yes?”

“Why was he so sad?”

“Memories.”

Angharad plied him with more questions and he did his best to answer her. Having been with her only in the most trying circumstances before, it was a joy to sit in comfort and enjoy her company.

Footsteps interrupted them. They came running into the house and approached the hall. The door was flung open and Ralph Delchard stood framed in it.

“Gervase!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive and well.”

“Half-alive.” The two men embraced warmly. “But what are you doing here?”

“My tale can wait,” said Ralph, dismissively. “How came you here?

And who is your charming companion?” He bowed to Angharad then gave Gervase a knowing wink. “Is this lady the reason that you went astray?”

“In a manner of speaking, she is.”

“I long to hear this story, but first embrace me again. I thought we’d lost you forever, Gervase.”

They embraced a second time, then sat down opposite Angharad.

Gervase recounted the salient points of his adventures at speed. When the narrative reached Orbec’s demesne once more, Ralph became serious.

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

“Maurice Damville.”

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

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

“So you were removed from the scene.”

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

“It was in our hands.”

“True.”

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

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

“Drink it, Golde. It’s only water.”

“Later.”

“Drink it.”

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

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

“Whose name?”

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

“It was,” admitted Golde.

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

“I think so.”

“Then be happy.”

“I cannot, Aelgar.”

“Why not?”

“Because of who I am and who he is.”

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

“He does not do that.”

“Then what is the problem?”

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

“Your place is where your heart takes you.”

“Then I have to stay here.”

“No, Golde.”

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

“I did.”

“That was different.”

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

“That is so.”

“Ask but two questions and all else follows.”

“What are they?”

“Do you want him?”

“Yes, Aelgar!”

“Does he want you?”

“I am not sure. I believe so.”

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

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

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

“What if this army masses on the border?”

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

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

Down below them, waiting impatiently with his men, was Goronwy.

They heard the noise of the hooves first, then saw the banners dancing above the host. Five hundred warriors to wreak a terrible revenge.

Goronwy was inspired.

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