The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Eleven

The council of war was held in the hall of Richard Orbec’s manor house.

Angharad had retired to a chamber on the floor above while the men discussed tactics and contingencies. Orbec himself was on his feet, constantly on the move as the argument became louder and more intense. Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, and Ilbert Malvoisin sat around the long table. Of the four of them, the sheriff was the most anxious to sue for peace.

“Give them what they want,” he said, “and this battle is concluded before it has even started. Hand over the lady and let them have their wedding in Powys.”

“No,” said Orbec, bristling. “That I cannot do.”

“Angharad refuses to marry this man,” reminded Gervase.

Ilbert was contemptuous. “Her refusal is neither here nor there.

She will do what her uncle orders her to do. We need trouble ourselves no further about her feelings in this matter. God save us! If women were allowed to choose their husbands on their own account, the better part of mankind would be forced to remain celibate.”

“It is not the lady’s feelings I consider,” returned Orbec, advancing on the sheriff. “It is my own. Goronwy killed my steward. That death must be answered. I will not appease a Welsh murderer.”

“Then this marriage is doomed,” observed Ralph with a wry grin.

“They want the bride, but you pursue the bridegroom. The couple are divorced before the nuptials even start.”

“Goronwy is mine!” insisted Orbec.

“Not by surrender,” said Gervase. “They would never exchange him for Angharad.”

“Then she stays here.”

“That only invites attack, my lord,” said Ilbert.

“Let it come. We are prepared.”

“Not if Goronwy’s uncle becomes involved. Even your defences would not hold out long against the full might of Powys.”

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn is bound by terms of peace,” said Gervase.

“He will not be drawn into this.”

“He has no choice,” argued the sheriff. “An affront has been offered to the house of Powys. It cannot be ignored. The men who ambushed this lady did so to enrage these fiery Welshmen.”

“And bring them down on this manor,” added Gervase.

“Only if we are foolish enough to keep her here,” said Ilbert. “One woman can end this whole business. Throw her out and let’s have peace again in this shire.”

“Goronwy must pay for his crime,” asserted Orbec, “or I’ll keep the lady here in perpetuity.”

“Your hospitality need not be that overgenerous,” said Ralph. “But I agree. She stays.”

“It is madness!” yelled Ilbert.

“Expediency.”

“We are stoking up a conflict.”

“No, my lord sheriff,” said Ralph. “We are risking a skirmish in order to prevent a war. Angharad and the madcap Goronwy are not two young lovers pining for each other. They are merely links in a chain. Join them together in the forge of matrimony and you join Deheubarth with Powys. Is that what you want? A chain that runs almost the whole length of the Welsh border?”

“Ralph counsels well,” said Gervase. “It is in our interests to keep these two apart.”

“My interest is to keep myself alive!” hissed Ilbert.

“Then return to Hereford,” said Orbec with scorn. “We will fight without you and send you news when it is safe to venture out of doors again.”

“Why fight at all?”

“Goronwy slew my reeve.”

“Are we all to be put in jeopardy over the death of a Saxon?” said Ilbert. He turned to Ralph. “I do not fear this marriage as much as you.

It need not bode ill for us. It is a way to reconcile Deheubarth with Powys, that is all. If we let them have amity between themselves on that side of the border, we will not have hostility on this side.”

Orbec was resolute. “The lady stays!”

“I agree,” said Ralph. “We would be poor hosts to turn her out so rudely. Angharad remains.”

“And brings the red dragon into this shire again.”

“It need not be so, my lord sheriff,” said Gervase. “We are arguing only about possibilities. How can we know what is in the mind of the Welsh unless we treat with them? This Goronwy is wild and impulsive, but his uncle is more politic. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn took a Norman wife in the name of peace. When they are weighed in the balance, his own marriage will always tip the scales against that of his nephew.”

“What are you advising, Gervase?” said Ralph.

“That we first find out exactly what danger we face. I side with my lord sheriff, but for a different reason. Peace is our first concern. Use words before weapons.”

“A weapon has already been used against my reeve,” said Orbec. “I will not let that pass.”

“Nor need you, my lord,” said Gervase, “but your quarrel is with Goronwy alone. Not with the whole house of Powys. One more thing.

Angharad must be shown to them. They must see that she is unharmed and not held against her will.”

“I’ll not yield her up!” asserted Orbec.

“You do not have to, my lord. But we must prove that she is alive and well. We cannot do that if she is locked away here. Angharad is our flag of truce. Let us wave her before them.”

“Gervase talks sense,” endorsed Ralph. “Instead of hiding behind these walls, let’s ride out to know their purpose. And take the girl with us. I’ll lead the embassy.”

Orbec was still unpersuaded but made no protest.

“You’ll need a good interpreter,” warned Ilbert. “The Welsh use words as other men use ropes. They’ll bind you hand and foot with lies and false promises.”

“Not if we speak their own language,” said Gervase.

“You are fluent enough in Welsh?”

“Not me. My knowledge of their tongue is not sufficient for this purpose. We need someone whose voice was schooled in Wales itself.

Someone who can talk a bird out of a tree. Someone who is as proud and as devious as they themselves.”

“Where would we find such a person?” said Orbec.

“He waits at your gate, my lord.”

“Saints preserve us!” said Ralph in horror. “Idwal!”

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn gazed at the castle of Ewyas Harold with an amalgam of hatred and respect. It was a despised monument to Norman occupation of Welsh land, but its effectiveness could not be denied.

The prince of Powys had been forced to admire the marcher lords.

Ewyas Harold was one more citadel to defend the border and taunt those who lived beyond it.

Goronwy was impatient. His pugnacity brooked no delay.

“Let us attack at once, my lord!” he urged.

“Control your haste, Goronwy.”

“I have taken inventory of the castle’s weaknesses.”

“You should have made more note of its strengths.”

“We have men enough to storm it, my lord.”

“They are my warriors,” reminded Cadwgan. “They answer to my command and not yours.”

“Why bring them if not to engage in battle?”

“A show of force can often achieve as much as force itself, Goronwy.

I will not spill blood if I can secure our purpose by another means.

We’ll parley.”

“Destruction is the only parley they understand.”

“It would only come at a terrible price.”

“I’d pay it willingly to get Angharad!”

“You may still have her,” said Cadwgan, “but not by violent means.

Our quarrel is not with this castle. Though I would love to see it wiped from the face of Ewyas, I will not lay siege without more cause.

You tell me that Richard Orbec is the man we seek. Let’s ride around this stronghold in a wide circle and confront Orbec instead.”

Goronwy glowered. “Is my uncle afraid of battle?”

“No!” snarled the other. “But I have fought too many. You are still young, Goronwy. You think that everything can be settled with a sword and spear. I have learned to conserve my strength for the moments when a man has to strike.”

“Such a moment is at hand.”

“I do not see it here.”

“Will you let them watch you walk tamely away?” cried Goronwy, pointing at the castle. “Will you let them jeer at us from the battlements? They cower behind their walls in fear. We have only to mount one assault and they will be glad to surrender.”

“There is no chance of that!” said Cadwgan, grimly.

“Look at the size of our army. They are terrified.”

A loud whistling noise took their eyes towards the castle. A huge boulder had just been catapulted over its walls in their direction. It fell fifty yards short of them, but its challenge could not be denied.

The whole army rumbled with anger and pulled back slightly.

“Does that look like fear, Goronwy?” said Cadwgan.

“They want a fight, my lord. Let them have it.”

“No!”

“They fired at us!”

“A warning shot only. I will fire one back.”

Cadwgan gave a signal and one of his soldiers brought his horse trotting forward. The prince gave him his orders and the man went off in the direction of the castle. He stopped when he was within hailing distance and translated Cadwgan’s questions into a language they could understand.

“Who speaks for you?” he boomed.

“Maurice Damville!” yelled the castellan, appearing on the battlements. “Who dares to threaten my castle?”

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, prince of Powys.”

“Send him back to his mountains.”

“We come in peace to search for a missing bride.”

“She is not here. Ask of Richard Orbec.”

“We have only your word that the lady is not within your castle. Let us search it to satisfy ourselves.”

“Away with you!” roared Damville. “I am not such a fool as to let marauding Welshmen through my gates. If you wish to fight, then do so with your army.”

“Do not provoke us, my lord. We have five hundred men.”

“Five thousand would not take us!”

Damville waved an arm to unseen soldiers in the bailey below and the catapult was fired again. The boulder went high over the messenger’s head and landed much closer to the waiting soldiers.

They backed away with gathering fury and looked towards their prince for the excuse to retaliate. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn had seen enough.

Recalling his messenger with a wave, he passed a command through the ranks.

The soldiers divided into four groups and surrounded the castle.

Dozens of them dismounted and took their bows from across their backs. Some of the arrows in their quivers were bound with rags beneath the heads. Flasks of oil, which had hung from pommels, were uncorked and used to soak the rags. Fires were lit and the material set alight. The air was suddenly filled with blazing fire as flights of arrows descended from all sides. Some bit harmlessly into the ground and others bounced off stone, but a number landed in the thatched roofs of the timber buildings; flames crackled. Men rushed to put them out with wooden pails of water.

Horses neighed and bucked in the stables at the sight of fire, but it was soon brought under control. A second flight of arrows followed the first and with more effect. One man fell from the battlements as his eye was pierced. Two others were burned to death as the skin of oil beside them was set instantly alight and exploded with rage. More roofs blazed and one of the storehouses began to smoulder. Once again, however, water was on hand to douse the worst of the anticipated attack.

The taunting figure of Maurice Damville appeared again.

“Thank you,” he shouted in the direction of Cadwgan. “Now that you have warmed our hands for us, let us warm your arses for you.”

He let his arm fall. “Fire!”

Archers on the battlements sent volleys in reply. The Welsh bowmen turned to run out of range, but a number of them were wounded or maimed. Damville shook with laughter. Battle had been engaged and blood drawn on both sides. He was confident of success. The advantage of Welsh numbers was outweighed by the strength of his defences.

Soldiers in light armour were vulnerable targets from the battlements.

Without siege engines and scaling ladders, the men of Powys were no match for him.

His laughter soon died as a new factor entered the fray. Riding north along the border road came another army of Welsh warriors, no more than a hundred strong this time, but with a weapon that made Damville take their threat far more seriously. Four carts had been commandeered from nearby farms and lashed together in a line. Keen axes had felled a massive oak and sharpened one end to a gleaming white point. Resting on the four carts, it was towed by a dozen horses and pushed along from behind by the willing hands of Welsh peasants. Word of the ambush had at last reached Angharad’s father. He had come in search of his daughter.

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn rode to meet the newcomers and friendly greetings were exchanged. The prince of Powys recalled his men from around the castle so that they stood on a ridge with their backs to Wales. Maurice Damville was allowed to see the full power of the force that threatened him. Six hundred men with a battering ram of such size were a different proposition. The soldiers along his battlements grew uneasy and loud muttering began. Damville bullied them into silence with yells and threats then looked out at his enemy.

A stillness had fallen on the attackers as well. They were drawn up in a long line to await the signal to attack. Cadwgan conversed quietly with Angharad’s father, then he pointed towards the castle.

The messenger rode out again and stopped within hailing distance.

“Is Angharad within your castle?” he called.

“No!” shouted Damville.

As his defiant bellow faded away, it was replaced by a more haunting and melodious sound, faint at first, but growing in volume and intensity as it wafted through a window in the tower. Behind the song was the plaintive note of the harp and every Welshmen on the ridge knew who was playing it.

“Omri Dall!” said Cadwgan. “They are inside!”

Goronwy was manic. “He holds Angharad prisoner!”

“We have heard enough.”

The prince of Powys gave the command and six hundred men came trotting down from the ridge towards the castle in a menacing line with the battering ram pulled along behind. It was a daunting sight and even Maurice Damville felt the icy touch of apprehension. It was ironic. They were attacking his castle to release someone who was not even in there. Ready to provoke their ire before, he now wished that he had calmed it.

Discomfort ran along the battlements, but he enforced discipline at once, marching along with a sword in his hand and ordering his archers to have their arrows ready. The oncoming surge rolled ever closer and the battering ram slowly gathered speed. Goronwy was at the head of the charge with his temples throbbing violently and a vision of his bride before his eyes. It seemed as if nothing could stop a savage battle that would bring hideous casualties on both sides.

Then she came. Dressed in white and escorted by four men, Angharad came riding around the angle of the castle. She was an arresting sight. She wore a white gown with elbow-length sleeves over a white chemise. Her mantle was edged with gold braid and a gold belt hung at her waist. Her head was uncovered so that her face could be seen by all. Angharad held herself like a true princess- proud, dignified, and unafraid.

She and her companions drew to a halt between the castle and the Welsh battle line. Archers on the battlements lowered their bows.

The cavalry reined in their horses. The battering ram was slowed and stopped. An eerie stillness fell. All eyes were on Angharad. She did not look like a helpless prisoner now. Her father burst into tears with relief. Goronwy stared at her with his heart on fire.

Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret waited on one flank. Richard Orbec and Idwal the Archdeacon on the other. She said nothing, but held the two sides at bay with the sheer magic of her presence.

Angharad gestured her spokesman forward. His cadences rolled towards his countrymen.

“I am Idwal of Llandaff,” he chanted. “A man of your own nation with your own values and ambitions. I speak as an envoy of peace.

Lay down your weapons. There is no longer any reason to fight.

Angharad is safe, as you see. She is here with us of her own free will. She was ambushed and held in captivity, but she was rescued by this man.” He pointed to Gervase. “He risked his life to save hers.

She was brought to the Golden Valley and taken in by this man.” He indicated Orbec. “He fed her and clothed her even though one of your number murdered his reeve. His name is Richard Orbec and he makes one demand through me.”

Idwal was not allowed to make it. As soon as Orbec was identified, Goronwy broke from the line and galloped towards him with his sword flailing. Too much hatred was boiling inside the Welshman to be dispersed by a few conciliatory words from the archdeacon. The name of Orbec was lodged in his mind like a spike. Killing the man was the only way to pluck it out. It was also the only way to claim his bride.

With a blood-curdling cry, Goronwy closed on his quarry. Concerned for her safety, Gervase took the reins of Angharad’s horse and led her a little distance away. Idwal bombarded the oncoming rider with warnings of eternal damnation, but they bounced harmlessly off. Ralph Delchard held his ground, but drew his sword as a precaution.

Richard Orbec also had his weapon out of its scabbard. He nudged his mount forward and kept it prancing on its toes. Orbec and Goronwy were starkly contrasted, the one a dignified figure in full armour on a huge destrier, the other a reckless warrior in light armour on a much smaller horse.

Power confronted passion. Ambition faced revenge. As the two men clashed, it seemed as if the conquest of Wales was about to be played out in miniature. Goronwy’s wild assault was easily rebuffed. Orbec simply deflected the blows from the Welshman’s scything sword and swung his horse in a quick loop to confuse his assailant. Goronwy roared with fury and came in again, but every slash of his sword was parried with expert ease.

The Welsh horde was strangely silent, admiring Goronwy’s courage in launching the attack, but disapproving of his folly in riding within range of the archers on the battlements. Those in the castle or in front of it also watched without a murmur. As the swords met time and again, only the clang of metal echoed across the grass.

Goronwy’s frenzy robbed him of all control. He simply hacked away repeatedly with his weapon. Richard Orbec was a more complete soldier. He had greater strength and vastly better technique. It was clear to all that he could knock his man from the saddle at will, yet he chose not to do this. Orbec contented himself with a defensive role, letting Goronwy expend his energy in a series of futile attacks.

The Welshman’s frustration became too great to bear. When he next closed on Orbec, he flung himself at the Norman and tried to buffet him to the ground, but his adversary was ready for him. Moving his horse sharply away and smashing a forearm against Goronwy’s chest, Orbec sent him sprawling to the ground. Once again, he had held back. When he might have finished his man, he allowed him to get to his feet again.

Goronwy was fired by a sense of indignation. He had been humili-ated in combat in front of his own men. He vowed to cut out Orbec’s heart and hold it up on the point of his sword. He let out the most ear-splitting war cry yet. Before he could strike again, however, the plaintive voice of Angharad was heard.

“Goronwy!”

He froze and turned to look up at her. That moment of immobility was his downfall. Up on the battlements, Maurice Damville took a small axe from his belt and hurled it down with vicious power. It came spinning through the air with gathering speed to strike Goronwy full in the face and to split his head in two like a cleft apple. Blood spurted everywhere. The Welshman fell backward with a thud.

Angharad screamed and was immediately shielded by Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret. Orbec glowered up at Damville in disgust.

The archers drew their bows on the battlements. Incsensed by what they had seen, the Welsh host was ready to charge again.

Idwal the Archdeacon bravely interposed himself between the two forces and raised his voice to full volume.

“Do not be roused to battle!” he shouted in Welsh. “This death will be paid for in full. The man who ambushed a beautiful young bride has just murdered her bridegroom. You all saw him-Maurice Damville, castellan of Ewyas Harold.”

Hearing his name, Damville acknowledged it with a cheerful wave.

His old defiance had returned. He pointed down at Goronwy’s body and laughed derisively.

“He is the true enemy here,” continued Idwal in his own tongue,

“and has many crimes to answer for. It is not your task to bring him to account. He will pay for this cowardly murder. The sheriff will arrest him and he will stand trial.”

“He will stand trial now!” ordered Cadwgan. “He slew my nephew.

That crime cannot be settled in an English court of law. Move aside that we may raze his castle to the ground.”

Idwal extended both arms. “Why kill so many men on both sides to get at one?”

“Move aside, I say!”

The prince of Powys began to marshal his men again and the battering ram was retrieved. Angharad would not be able to halt them this time. Seeing the sudden change of mood, Ralph Delchard took control. He rode up to the castle walls alone to address Damville directly.

“This slaughter will serve nobody’s purpose,” he said. “Your plans have gone awry, my lord. You killed Warnod and set an ambush for Angharad in order to sow the seeds of enmity along the border. But she escaped and we divined your purpose. You will be arraigned by the sheriff and held for trial in due course.”

“The sheriff will have to take me first.”

“I may leave that to this army here, if you wish. They are but the first wave you will have to repulse. More will surely follow. Is that what your men seek?” he said, raising his voice so that the whole castle could hear. “Will you throw away your own lives for this murderer you serve?”

Damville’s soldiers looked out at the battle line and the battering ram. If the Welsh were held at bay, there would be the sheriff and his men to follow them. If they were beaten off, the king himself would send a larger army to know the reason why. The castle of Ewyas Harold was doomed. That realisation showed in every face but one.

“We will fight to the last man!” yelled Damville.

“You are he,” said Ralph.

“I will never give myself up to the sheriff.”

“There is no need. A simpler procedure may be followed here. It will resolve the matter forthwith.”

Damville glowered at him. “What simpler procedure?”

“Trial by combat,” said Ralph. “Against me.”

To subdue the tumult in her mind, Golde threw herself into her work.

When she was busy in the brewhouse with her assistants or taking further orders from her customers, she had no time to fret about her future. It was only when she watched some casks being loaded onto a cart that he slipped back into her thoughts. The casks were destined for the castle and it was there that she had first met Ralph Delchard.

Seeking a sheriff whom she resented, she had instead been shown kindness by a man she had come to love. She smiled as she recalled his opinion of ale. Of all the men she might have chosen, she picked one who despised the brew with which she made such a comfortable living.

“Are we finished for the day, Golde?”

“I think so.”

“Shall we eat together?”

“I am not hungry.”

“He will not thank you for starving yourself.”

“Leave me, Aelgar. I would not be teased.”

But her sister had come to renew her earlier advice. The death of her own beloved had awakened her to the readiness with which she had planned to walk out of the house in Castle Street. Golde had not been consulted at any stage, but she did not complain about that. She had shared in Aelgar’s happiness and that was enough for her.

The roles were now reversed. In her despair, the younger sister could pluck comfort from Golde’s happiness. The problem was that the latter was still reluctant to bask in the pleasure herself. Doubts continued to assail her.

“You love him, Golde. He loves you. What else matters?”

“The truth, Aelgar.”

“What truth?”

“There should be trust and honesty between us.”

“Is there not?”

“Up to a point.” Golde looked across at her. “How much did you confide in Warnod?”

“Everything.”

“You held nothing back? No little secrets?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you tell him all your faults?”

“I have none.”

“That is one of them,” said Golde with a smile. “To think you are perfect. Was there complete trust between you and Warnod? On both sides?”

“On both sides,” said Aelgar. “To share a man’s life properly, you have to commit yourself to him. I trusted Warnod utterly. If he had not trusted me, he would never have given me that will to keep.”

“It is not the will that worries me.”

“Then what is it?”

“His charter.”

Aelgar was surprised. “Have you not told him yet?”

“I am not sure that I should.”

“He may find out by other means.”

Golde sighed. “That’s my fear. All would be lost.”

“Tell him, sister. He will understand.”

“It may make him think ill of me.”

“Not if he loves you, Golde. Put him to the test.”

“I am afraid to do so.”

“Then let me do it for you,” volunteered the other. “I can praise you in ways that you would not. I am involved here. It was I who first told you of the charter. I should be the one to explain to him in full.”

“No,” said Golde, reaching a firm decision at last. “You are right. He must be told. But not by you. It is my duty and I must not shirk it.

Since I have been blessed with the chance to meet this man, I must have the courage to speak openly with him. I will tell all. It is the only way.”

Maurice Damville bowed to necessity. He had no alternative. His carefully laid plot had been sundered by the escape of Gervase Bret and Angharad. With them safely in custody in Monmouth Castle, he could have controlled events with ease and directed all the hostility at Richard Orbec. That was no longer possible. He had been overtaken by events and his own men had now revolted against him. Lured by the promise of lavish gains, their ambition waned in the face of six hundred men with a battering ram. Their lord must fight on alone.

The contest took place outside the castle on the land facing the Welsh border. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn and his men formed a wide circle around the combatants. The body of Goronwy had been discreetly moved from the scene and lay under sacking in the back of one of the carts. Reunited with her father, Angharad did not dare to watch the duel. She had at least been rescued from the ordeal of marriage to Goronwy and that was a big consolation. Omri had been released from the castle to join his compatriots. Though he could not view the contest, he would later celebrate it in song.

Idwal did all he could to stop the bloodshed, shuttling between the Norman and the Welsh onlookers with bilingual excitement, but finding no support. Richard Orbec wanted to take Ralph’s place against Damville, but the challenge had already been thrown down. Ilbert Malvoisin and his men had also arrived to witness the event.

Gervase Bret made a final attempt to dissuade his friend.

“This is not your fight, Ralph,” he argued.

“I have made it so.”

“If anyone should meet him, it should be me. I was the victim of Damville’s machination. Let me confront him.”

“He is too fierce an opponent for you, Gervase.”

“I can use a sword.”

“Damville has chosen a lance first,” said Ralph. “It needs a trained soldier to go up against him. Leave this to me. I’ll meet him on even terms.”

“Five years ago, perhaps.”

“What’s that you say?”

“You are not quite as young as you once were,” said Gervase with tact. “Time slows a man down. That could be fatal.”

“I am as strong and lusty as ever I was,” said Ralph, hurt by any suggestion of weakness on his part. “I’ll fight three Maurice Damvilles, one after the other.”

The sheriff called the men to order and Gervase moved reluctantly away. Maurice Damville deserved the ultimate punishment, but he was an expert soldier at the height of his powers. Sitting in commission with Gervase and the others was not the best preparation for Ralph Delchard. The latter would have to draw deep on his experience if he were to survive the duel.

Ilbert Malvoisin reminded the two men of the rules of combat, then withdrew to the edge of the circle. Ralph Delchard and Maurice Damville mounted their horses, put on their helms, and took the long, oval shields that were handed to them. Their left arms went through the two vertical straps on the back of the shield and gripped the reins. From shoulder to shin, they were now covered on the undefended side. The spears came next to be used as lances for thrust-ing. Ralph adjusted his grip as he searched for the right balance.

Maurice Damville had supreme confidence that he would rip his opponent apart at the first charge. There would be immense satisfaction in that. But for the arrival of the royal commissioners, Damville’s plans would have succeeded. Single combat might frighten some, but he embraced it gladly. In killing Ralph Delchard, he would escape trial at the hands of the sheriff. Exile would follow, but at least he would live to rebuild his shattered dreams of power. All he had to do was disappoint his audience by destroying their champion.

The sheriff gave the signal and the contest began. After prancing on their toes, the high-spirited destriers were at last released into action. They cantered towards each other at a steady pace that allowed their riders to sit firm in the saddle. Dipped lances rose to strike and shields were held ready to parry. Ralph watched his man every inch of the way, banking down the exhilaration of combat with the cool judgment of experience. There was no margin for error. Damville would be an extremely difficult opponent.

Immediate proof was given of his expertise. There was a resound-ing clash as the two men closed and thrust hard with their weapons.

Ralph’s spear was easily deflected upward by his opponent’s shield, but his own defence was not quite as sound. Damville’s lance chose a sharper angle and a lower point of contact, striking the shield with such force that Ralph was knocked off balance and unseated. A gasp came from the watching throng as he was dragged along the ground with one foot still caught in the stirrup.

Kicking himself free, he rolled over to meet the attack that would certainly come. His spear had been knocked from his hand on impact, but the shield was still on his arm. He used it with more care this time, watching the lance that now came hurtling towards him, taking its point in the centre of his shield and parrying it away. Damville’s speed took him past Ralph and gave him time to pull out his sword. As his adversary swung his horse around again, Ralph had a means of attack as well as defence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She asks about the clothing, my lord.”

“Tell her to keep it.”

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

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

Idwal translated and Angharad nodded gratefully.

Orbec groped for another compliment. “Tell her that she is the first lady ever to enter my house. I could not have met a more charming guest. Apologise for my being so stern at first. My anger soon melted.”

He managed a smile. “If she ever wishes to visit me again, she and her family will always be most welcome.”

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

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

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

“I hope we meet again.”

“Anywhere, but Monmouth Castle.”

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

“Where will you go now?” asked Orbec.

“Back to Hereford,” said Gervase.

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

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

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

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

“The invitation includes Ralph Delchard.”

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

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

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

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

“Ale.”

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

Before she knew it, Golde had been conducted into the apartment which Ralph had shared with Gervase. His manner changed at once.

Guiding her to a chair, he sat beside her.

“We must talk, Golde.”

“Yes, my lord.”

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

“If you wish.”

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

“Thank you, Ralph.”

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

“And I about you.”

“Good things, I hope?”

“For the most part, my lord … Ralph.”

“Oh? Bad things, also?”

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

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

“The doubts are about myself.”

“In what way?”

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

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

“You do not know me.”

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

“There is more.”

“Explain.”

She hesitated.

“Warnod’s charter, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“You sent it to Winchester.”

She was shocked. “How did you know?”

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

“But he did not,” she said.

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

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

“Then how did it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is his version of events different from yours?”

“Very different.”

“I’ll hear both and be the judge.”

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

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

“But the charter had gone.”

“Into Ilbert’s possession.”

“How?”

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

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

“He came to the house.”

“Why?”

“I supply the ale for the castle.”

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

“My lord!”

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

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

“You spurned him, then?”

“Every time.”

“Then nothing occurred between you?”

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

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

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

“Did what?”

“Secured the charter from the sheriff.”

“How?”

“I took it, my lord.”

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

“I agreed to come to him one night.”

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

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

“I am sure that he does!”

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

“So you slept with that ogre first.”

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

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

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

“Potion?”

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

“He drank it down?”

“The whole draught.”

Ralph began to laugh. “What happened?”

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

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

“Yes,” she said. “My absence he noticed at once and realised he had been duped. The theft of the charter he did not discover till later.

He is certain that I took it, but has no means of proving it.”

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

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

He grinned. “Has it?”

“It did at first.”

“You have my deepest apology and profoundest thanks.”

“Thanks?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that?”

“Will your sister expect you back tonight?”

Golde looked at him and all her doubts fed away.

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

The events of the day had exposed a vein of conviviality in Richard Orbec which had been hidden for some years. He was a generous host.

In the hall of the manor house Gervase Bret and Idwal the Archdeacon were treated to a delicious meal and offered a choice of fine wines.

The dishes set before them were so tempting and so plentiful that the Welshman fell on them with a vengeance, gormandising with such relish that he actually stopped talking for a while.

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

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

“Probably,” said Idwal.

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

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

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

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

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

“And what might that be?’

“To become Archbishop of Wales!”

“Your country has no archbishop,” Gervase pointed out.

“We will, my friend, we will. My mission is clear. When it pleases God to choose me, I will become Bishop of St. David’s without-I hope and pray-having to be consecrated by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

That will make me nominal head of the Welsh Church. I can then don my lambskin cloak and go to Rome for an audience with the Pope himself.”

“What will be your request?” said Orbec.

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

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

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

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

“Idwal was right,” he said. “Ambition is a sin.”

“That depends on the nature of the ambition, my lord.”

“Mine was based on a craving for power. I fought to acquire this demesne so that I could surround myself with a vast moat of land and hide here within my citadel.” He gave a bleak smile. “Not all that land was acquired honestly.”

“We have taken note of that, my lord,” said Gervase.

“Maurice Damville was partly to blame,” continued Orbec. “As long as he was my neighbour, I could not rest for one second. I had to patrol my estates like an army of occupation lest he steal them away as he stole so much else. Now that Damville is gone, my imperatives have changed.”

“You were the victim of his malice, my lord.”

“There was more to it than that, Gervase. He did not devise his plan simply to spite Richard Orbec and bring the fury of the Welsh down on me. He had a wider ambition than that.”

“What was it?”

“To become Earl of Hereford.”

“By inciting violence on the border?”

“Precisely by that means,” said Orbec. “Why do you think he spent so much time on his fortifications? Ewyas Harold was the bulwark against the Welsh. If they had ridden around it and laid waste on my estates, Damville would then have sallied forth and harried them back across the border. He would have been given the credit for ending a Welsh incursion that he himself had provoked.”

“And thereby strengthened his claim to be made earl.”

“The shire has lacked a controlling hand since Roger of Breteuil was disgraced and imprisoned. The king has been careful not to appoint another earl. Welsh hostility along a sensitive border might well change his mind. He would need a powerful man with a stronghold in a strategic position.”

“Maurice Damville.”

“Yes, Gervase,” said the other. “Warnod was killed to set the plan in motion. Angharad was captured to unsettle the Welsh and you were abducted to stop a royal commission from straying too close to Ewyas at a crucial time. And all to serve one overriding ambition.”

“To be the Earl of Hereford.”

“And to hold the whiphand over all of us.”

Gervase was grateful for the insight into Damville’s designs, but there were questions about Orbec himself that had still to be addressed.

His host seemed to read his mind.

“You are wondering why, Gervase.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Why do I lead the life of a hermit when I have such wealth and position? Why do I skulk away?”

“Maurice Damville is only part of the explanation.”

“She was the rest of it.”

“She?”

“Cecilia.”

“Your betrothed?”

“Yes,” said Orbec, staring into his wine. “It was because of Cecilia that I came to England to start anew and build afresh. My problem was that I brought her with me. In my mind and in my heart I even kept the apparel she would have worn to our wedding.”

“The white gown and mantle that Angharad put on?”

“Now they are gone and Cecilia has at last left this house.” He drained his cup then rolled it between his palms as he relived his story. “I had everything, Gervase. Power and standing. Fine estates near Bayeux. A beautiful woman to share it all with me. But good fortune always produces envy. And it came from the one place I did not expect.”

“Within your own family?” suggested Gervase.

“My half-brother, Stephen. I gave him so much, but he wanted far more. While I was away in England, he took it all by force. Including my beloved Cecilia.”

“Could she not resist him?”

“Four men-at-arms held her down while he raped her. She could not live with the shame of it, Gervase. By the time I got back to Normandy, Cecilia had taken her own life and I had lost everything in Bayeux that I held most dear.”

“What did you do?”

“I turned into a devil. I visited the horrors of hell upon Stephen and those four men. I made them suffer such pain that they begged me to kill them.”

The cup fell from his hands and bounced to the floor with a hollow clack. Gervase watched it roll across the flagstones and stop in front of the fireplace. Orbec was staring down at the hands which had been responsible for the slaughter.

“I now understand why you fled to England,” said Gervase. “And why you built that chapel in your house.”

“I pray for the souls of those five men every day,” said Orbec. “They deserved to die, but not in that hideous way. They released something inside me that I have tried to keep locked away ever since.

Damville came close to setting it free again, but I held it in.” He looked up at Gervase. “I pray for Cecilia as well. The chapel is dedicated to her memory. But I pray, above all else, for forgiveness.”

Richard Orbec’s gifts to the cathedral now took on a new light.

They were self-imposed acts of penance. The new ceiling for which he was paying would be an epitaph to the woman he loved and the five men he slew. The tiny chapel was at once a house of God and a cage for the Devil.