The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Two

The castle at Ewyas Harold had been built by Osbern Pentecost over fifteen years before the Normans had invaded Britain. It stood at the confluence of the Dore and Monnow rivers, staring out at the looming grandeur of the Black Mountains and guarding the road from Abergavenny. Like all the castles on the Welsh Marches, it was both a springboard for attack and a safe retreat in the face of retaliation by superior forces. Heavily refortified in the wake of the Conquest, it was now being further strengthened. Like its counterpart in Hereford, it was a typical motte and bailey structure, in this case making use of a huge natural mound that faced the higher ground to the north.

Maurice Damville hauled himself up into the saddle of his destrier and adjusted his helm. When he felt ready, he held out a hand and snarled an order. The waiting squire gave him the lance and stepped smartly out of the way. Everyone else in the bailey watched from a safe distance. Damville was a dangerous and unpredictable man at the best of times. When he was mounted on his warhorse with a weapon in his grasp, he could be lethal. The slaves who had been carting the ashlar remembered only too well what had happened to one of their number who had dared to question a decision made by his Norman lord. Maurice Damville had run him through with a sword out of sheer malice.

The castellan of Ewyas Harold was a tall, rangy man in his forties with a sinewy strength that he enjoyed showing off. Naked force had conquered the land on which the castle was built and he exemplified it. His keen spurs made the animal rear before breaking into a canter across the bailey. Standing directly in his path, his adversary was strong and unafraid. The rider gritted his teeth and dipped his spear.

When his horse ran straight at the mark, he pulled back his arm, then thrust home the weapon with awesome power-straight through the heart of his enemy. An involuntary groan of fear came from the slaves by the wall, but the soldiers acclaimed their master with shouts and laughs of approval.

No blood had been spilled this time, but it was still an impressive killing. The corpse was no more than a hauberk that had been stuffed with straw and set up against a stout post in the middle of the courtyard. Such was the violence and timing of the attack, however, the mail had been pierced as if it were paper, the lance had gone deep into the wood, and the post had snapped in two with a loud crack. Even in the best armour, a human being would have been impaled to the ground by the vicious force of the thrust.

Damville reined in his horse and swung its head round to view the devastated target. When he glanced across at the slaves, they went straight back to their work of unloading the stone slabs from the cart so that they could be hoisted up to reinforce the wall around the bailey. Damville was a hard taskmaster but they had to obey him. He was a law unto himself on that stretch of the Welsh border. They felt deeply grateful that one of them had not been lashed to the post in place of the straw soldier.

Dismounting with a grunt, Damville tossed the reins to a servant and beckoned his steward across. Huegon was a much older man with greying hair and a lined face. He had been standing near the main gate with a stranger. Damville removed a gauntlet and flicked a thumb at the newcomer.

“What does he want?”

“He brings a message from Hereford,” said Huegon.

“Who does he serve?”

“Corbin the Reeve.”

Damville gave a derisive snort. “Send him on his way with a dusty answer. I read no letters from that fat-gutted fool.”

“Corbin has his faults,” said the other, “but he is certainly no fool.”

“No,” admitted his master. “Perhaps he is not. Any man who can feather his nest the way that the greedy reeve has done must have some intelligence. Or native guile. I would not trust the fellow to tell me what day of the week it was. That big, oily face of his is a map of deceit.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Despatch the message unread.

That is all the reply that Corbin deserves.”

“But the letter is a summons.”

“A summons!” Damville was insulted. “For me!”

“Sent on behalf of royal commissioners,” said the steward. “What its nature is, I do not know, and neither does the fellow who brought it here post haste. All he can tell me is that it is a matter of urgency.

I think you should know what this letter betokens. Read it.”

“I am too busy.”

“Then let me glance through it on your behalf.”

Damville scowled, but he soon saw the wisdom of the advice. To spurn a letter from a despised reeve was one thing; to ignore a summons from officials on the king’s business was quite another. He gave a curt nod and Huegon collected the message and brought it across to him. Tearing it open, Damville read swiftly through its contents with growing irritation.

“I am called before them tomorrow!” he growled.

“For what purpose?”

“They do not tell me. That is what enrages me most.”

“Why have they come to Hereford?”

“In connection with this royal survey.”

“The Domesday Book?”

Damville was furious. “Call it what you will, I’ll have no more dealings with it. When the first commissioners came to the county, I went before them and gave all the evidence that was asked of me.

What more do they want?”

“There is only one way to find out.”

“I will not be sent for in this manner, Huegon.”

“If they are here by royal warrant-”

Maurice Damville turned away with an imperious gesture. The last thing he needed at that point in time was to be questioned before a tribunal in Hereford. It would be a blow to his pride and take him away from more pressing matters. Pacing up and down, he weighed his anger against the more moderate response of his steward. Huegon was a wily man whose advice was invariably sage, but Damville was minded to disregard him on this occasion. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, snatched off his helm, and glared at the messenger through black eyes. His question was hurled like a spear.

“Did you see these commissioners arrive?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the man, nervously.

“How many did they number?”

“Four.”

“With men-at-arms at their back?”

“Eight, my lord.”

Damville was contemptuous. “Only eight swords to enforce this demand! They’ll need ten times that number to get me to Hereford tomorrow.” He took a menacing step towards the now trembling messenger. “Nobody can command my presence at such short notice. Tell them that I am in no mood to oblige them. Away with you!”

“Not so fast, sir!” interceded Huegon, catching the man by the arm as he tried to scurry away. “Wait for a proper answer. This was but spoken in jest.”

Anxious to quit the place, the messenger agreed to stay while further discussion was held, but it would not take place in the bailey. Damville was already striding purposefully towards the motte, mounting the rough stone steps that led up to the tower and sweeping in through the door. Huegon went after him but waited until they were in the hall before he spoke. Maurice Damville was easier to handle in private.

A gaping audience such as he had in the bailey always brought out the worst in him.

The old man closed the door of the hall behind him.

“Your reply was ill-considered,” he said quietly.

“So was their summons.”

‘They have been sent by the king.”

“That is my main objection to their presence. I will not have every inch of my land poked at and pried into by King William. I endured it once, but not again. These royal commissioners will hear nothing from me.”

“Do you not wish to hear anything from them?”

“Why should I?”

“Because they come from Winchester.”

Damville’s expression changed visibly. His temper slowly subsided to be replaced by a calculating curiosity. He ran a hand across the lower part of his lean face.

“What can they tell us?”

“Whatever you wish to get out of them. They come from court. Their news is fresh.” He lowered his voice to a persuasive whisper. “Take me with you and let us meet their enquiries with a show of obedience.

They will the sooner be sent on their way. As long as they are in Hereford their presence is a hindrance and may advantage your foe.”

“Orbec?”

“If you are summoned, the likelihood is that he will have to bear witness as well. Richard Orbec disputes your land. Will you let him put his case to these commissioners while you stay sulking here?”

Damville crossed to the fireplace and spat into the flames. He brooded for several minutes before turning to face the steward. Mastering his rage, he nodded.

“I will go.”

“It is politic.”

“Orbec will only tell them more lies.”

“That would not be the end of it,” said the old man. “If he attended their tribunal and you did not, they would wish to know the reason why. They would come looking for you here and that is to be avoided at all cost.”

Maurice Damville allowed a sly smile to lighten his features. In repose, his face had a kind of brutal charm. Fair hair swept back from a high forehead and the cleanshaven chin was square and strong. He reached out to slap his companion on the shoulder.

“Where would I be without you, Huegon?”

“Still toiling in Normandy.”

“You always give good counsel.”

“But you do not always pay heed to it.”

“True,” said Damville, accepting the mild rebuke. “This time, I will.

Let us satisfy these commissioners and pack them off to Winchester.

But not before we have used them to strike a blow at Orbec. That would content me most.” He walked the steward back to the door. “Send word that I will present myself at the shire hall at noon tomorrow. When my business is finished, I will return here with all speed.”

“Unless you have a reason to linger in Hereford.”

“What?” Damville saw the twinkle in the old man’s eye and grinned.

“I had almost forgotten that.”

“Would you rather I had not reminded you?”

Maurice Damville’s laughter echoed through the hall.

Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail and offered up his prayers. Work on the cathedral had stopped for the day. Alone in the building, he was able to commune with his Maker in silence. Gervase was a devout but sometimes erratic Christian. Educated in a monastery, he had been imbued with a love of study and prayer, and was on the point of taking the cowl himself when more worldly concerns pressed in upon him. Something of those concerns threaded their way into the words that he was now sending up to heaven.

Gentle footsteps moved over the paved stones behind him. Dean Theobald was surprised to find a stranger on his knees in an attitude of such deep prayer. Genuflecting before the altar, he moved to the shadow of a pillar and waited patiently until the visitor was about to leave.

When Gervase rose and turned, he was met by a smile of welcome.

Theobald had had time to guess at whom he might be.

“Gervase Bret, I believe?” he said.

“You know my name?”

“Canon Hubert spoke of you. He also spoke of one Ralph Delchard but, from his description, I did not look to find your colleague so accustomed to taking his place at an altar rail.” They shared a polite laugh. “I am Dean Theobald and it is a privilege to have Canon Hubert and Brother Simon in our community for a short while.”

“They will be grateful guests.”

“Yes,” agreed Theobald. “I am not sure that the same may be said of another whom we have under our roof at the moment, but it is our duty to extend Christian fellowship to all. Even those with more eccentric modes of belief.” He took Gervase out through the door before stopping to look at him properly. “Why did you come to the cathedral?”

“To pray.”

“But why here? The castle has its own chapel.”

“I would be mocked if I was seen going into it.”

“By this Ralph Delchard?”

“Yes,” said Gervase tolerantly. “He pretends to deride the Church, but I know that he worships God in his own way.”

“That is what I tell myself about Archdeacon Idwal.”

“Archdeacon Idwal?”

“An unworthy remark,” said Theobald, repenting at once. “Please ignore it. But what do you think of our cathedral?”

“It will be quite beautiful when it is finished.”

“That will not be in our lifetime, alas! Bishop Robert initiated the rebuilding six years ago and you see what little progress has been made since then. The work is painstakingly slow and fearfully expensive.”

“It will be worth it.”

“We believe so. It will never compare with Winchester or with Canterbury, of course, but we feel that God will not be displeased by our humbler creation.” He gestured with his hand. “Would you care to take a proper look around?”

Gervase accepted the invitation without hesitation. Not only was he genuinely interested in the cathedral and its operation, he warmed to its friendly dean. There was an unforced dignity about the man which was very appealing. But Gervase had another reason for tour-ing the precincts with his amenable host. No important event in the county escaped the attention of the church. It was the common storehouse in which every scrap of information, rumour, or scandal was routinely placed. Theobald could be extremely useful.

“We were alarmed to hear of this murder,” said Gervase.

“It has shocked us all profoundly. Warnod did not deserve such a grisly fate.”

“Who was he?”

“A thegn from Archenfield,” said Theobald. “His father was a wealthy man in the reign of King Edward. Warnod was set to inherit nineteen manors. But most of the land was taken from him after the Conquest. Warnod was left with only the vestiges of his estate.”

“That much I knew. The man was the one of the subjects of our enquiry. Some of the land which legitimately remained in his keeping was also expropriated. The name of Maurice Damville came into the reckoning on that account.”

“It would, I fear!”

“Richard Orbec, too, is implicated.”

Theobald smiled ruefully. “Never one without the other. Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec dispute everything out of force of habit, as you will very soon discover.”

“What manner of man was this Warnod?”

“An honest, God-fearing fellow who never complained at the blows that rained down upon him. And there were plenty of those, I can tell you.”

“Apart from the loss of his inheritance?”

“That was but the start of it,” said the dean with a sigh. “Warnod was ill-starred. His first child died of a terrible sickness, the second was drowned in the Wye. He and his poor wife were distraught. Just as they were getting over those tragedies-if any human being can ever fully do that-the wife herself was killed when she was thrown from a horse. It was a most unhappy household.”

“And yet he bore these tribulations?”

“With great courage.”

“Did he have many enemies?”

“None that I can name. But then I did not know him very well myself. What I tell you is merely what I have heard in the last twenty-four hours.” Theobald shrugged. “I cannot fathom the reason for the murder. Warnod was well respected. With every reason to hate all Normans, he came to terms with our arrival far better than most.

Then there are the Welsh.”

“Corbin the Reeve told us of the red dragon.”

“A hideous epitaph to leave behind.”

“It seems like a clear message.”

“I am not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“Because, by all accounts, Warnod rubbed along extremely well with his Welsh neighbours.” He glanced involuntarily towards the refectory. “I could use some of his talent in that direction myself.”

“Perhaps he offended them in some way.”

“Far from it. Archenfield is still largely inhabited by people of Welsh descent. Warnod even went so far as to learn the rudiments of their language.”

“And yet they burned him to death.”

“That has not yet been proved.”

“Corbin seemed to feel that it had.”

“Our reeve is rather prone to summary judgments.”

“How else do you explain the red dragon?” said Gervase.

Theobald shook his head. “I cannot, Master Bret. Nor can I explain the strange treatment of the two servants.”

“Servants?”

“In Warnod’s house. Elfig and Hywel.”

“A Saxon and a Welshman.”

“Living under his roof without undue discomfort.”

“Were they trapped in the bonfire with him?”

“They were both spared,” said Theobald, “but they have rather different tales to tell.”

“In what way?”

“They were seized at the house by a gang of men. Bound and gagged, they were dragged a hundred yards away so that they could not warn their master on his return.”

“Wherein lies the difference between the servants?”

“Elfig was beaten senseless. Hywel was unharmed. Was it a case of Welshmen relenting with one of their own?”

“Not necessarily,” argued Gervase. “The Saxon may have resisted the attackers and been punished for his boldness.”

“Hardly. Elfig is a frail old man. They are not at all sure that he will survive the attack.”

“And the other servant? Hywel?”

“Still young and virile.”

Gervase was baffled, but he had no opportunity to ask any further questions. They were close to the refectory now and their conversation was rudely interrupted by the sounds of a violent quarrel from within. Dean Theobald blenched. The college of regular canons maintained the most strict decorum. Voices were never raised within the cathedral precincts and disputes were never allowed to become acrimonious. Theobald moved to quell the disturbance. Pushing open the door of the refectory, he sailed in with Gervase Bret at his heels.

“Dyfryg!” shouted Idwal.

“Ethelbert!” roared Canon Hubert.

“Dyfryg was a holy man.”

“So was Ethelbert.”

“He was King of the East Angles. Offa had him killed when Ethelbert came here to marry his daughter.”

“Miracles resulted. That is why Ethelbert was made a saint and why this cathedral is dedicated to him.”

“It should honour St. Dyfryg instead!”

Both men became aware of the presence of Theobald at the same time, but they reacted in opposite ways. Hubert was immediately contrite, abandoning the argument with the testy Welshman and mouthing his apologies for his loss of control. Idwal was completely unabashed. Two new faces simply meant two more people with whom to debate the merits of St. Dyfryg.

“Let us have your opinion, Dean Theobald,” he said.

“My opinion is that you are both guests here and should not seek to violate the peace of our community.”

Idwal chuckled. “It was a friendly discussion. Canon Hubert and I were just exchanging views on the nature of sainthood. Bishop Dyfryg was born in Ergyng-Archenfield, as you insist on calling it. His ministry touched much of this county. Why is this not the cathedral church of St. Dyfryg?”

The two combatants were sitting either side of the long oak table that ran down the length of the refectory. Half-eaten meals and half-drunk mugs of ale showed that everyone else had fled from the scene.

Brother Simon had gone with them, unable to stop the fierce argument and unwilling to be drawn into it. Idwal me Archdeacon was a small man with a powerful presence. His truculent scholarship had cleared the room.

“Well?” he demanded. “What is your view, Theobald?”

“I have given it,” said the dean crisply. “Excuse me while I have private conference with Canon Hubert.”

“They’re running away. I won the debate!”

“I will speak with you in due course, Archdeacon.”

On that icy note, Theobald took Hubert out of the refectory, convinced that the only way to end the dispute was to separate the two men, and wondered how soon he could assist their Welsh visitor back across the border. Gervase Bret was left alone with Idwal, who, now divested of his filthy cloak, was still wearing his mean travelling apparel. His hat had been removed to reveal straggly hair.

The mad eyes switched their beam to Gervase.

“And who might you be, young sir?”

“Gervase Bret. Travelling with Canon Hubert.”

“That shameless bigot?”

“He has his redeeming features.”

“So do we all.” Idwal swallowed the dregs of his ale and appraised the newcomer. “Gervase, eh? And what do you know about St. Dyfryg?”

“More than you would imagine.”

“You have actually heard of him?”

“Of course. He was a monk who helped to spread Christianity in this area. His first foundation was indeed in Archenfield.”

“The Welsh call it Ergyng.”

“Dyfryg may have known it as Ariconium, its Roman name.”

“That is where he did much of his apostolic work,” said Idwal wistfully. “I traced his holy footsteps through the area only yesterday.”

Gervase pricked up his ears. “In Archenfield?”

“I visited all the churches there.”

“Including the one at Llanwarne?”

“I spent an hour with the priest in the afternoon.”

“A man was murdered less than a mile from there.”

“Unhappily, it is so,” said the Welshman, “and I have already included Warnod’s name in my prayers. Elfig, too, for the old servant lies grievous sick from his beating.”

“What did you see?” asked Gervase.

“Nothing. I left the village by four.”

“You may have noticed something of significance without even realising it. The men who burned Warnod’s house were in the area well before he returned to his home.” He came to sit opposite Idwal.

“Rack your brains, Archdeacon. Piece it together again in your mind.”

“I will try.”

“Tell me exactly what you did in Archenfield.”

“First of all, I called it Ergyng….”

Gervase suppressed a smile.

Ralph Delchard had much to keep him occupied at the castle. Having inspected the lodging assigned to his men, he gave them their orders for the morrow and warned them not to carouse too long or too wildly in the city that night. He then explored the whole building to familiarise himself with its layout and appreciate the finer points of its construc-tion. It was good to have high stone walls around him. A soldier by training and instinct, Ralph knew from personal experience that Norman success in subduing the English-and keeping the Welsh and Scots at bay-depended largely on their skill at building castles.

His stroll eventually brought him to the main gate. Two guards were talking idly but, at his approach, separated to take up sentry positions. Ralph saw the opportunity to gather some intelligence. He chatted casually with them to win their confidence, then tossed a name into the conversation.

“What can you tell me of Richard Orbec?”

The two soldiers exchanged a glance. The bigger of them, a broad-shouldered man with a gruff voice, answered for both.

“He is a power in this county.”

“I know that from the size of his holdings,” said Ralph. “What of his character, his likes and dislikes, his reputation? Describe the man to me.”

“Richard Orbec likes to keep himself to himself,” said the guard.

“He rarely stirs from his estates unless someone is unwise enough to trespass on his land or his patience. Slow to rouse, he is a ruthless man when his temper is up. I have known him to ride the length of the county to punish some insult or affront to his dignity.”

“A proud man, then. Strong, aggressive.”

“And lonely.”

“Does he have no wife and family?”

“None, my lord. Some say he has a religious streak, and he has certainly been generous towards the cathedral. Parts of the choir were rebuilt with Richard Orbec’s money.” He traded another look with his partner. “Others take a darker view of his dislike of women.”

Ralph saw the cold snigger in the eyes of both men.

“Maurice Damville also interests me,” he said.

“Treat him with caution, my lord.”

Ralph was peremptory. “I will treat him as I think fit. If he proves quarrelsome, he will find that the King’s writ runs in Herefordshire as in every other county.” He relaxed a litttle. “The two men are not the best of friends, I hear.”

“True, my lord,” said the soldier, with a grim chuckle. “The sheriff spends much of his time keeping them apart. Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville have too many old scores to settle.”

“Damville sounds to be hot-tempered and violent.”

“None more so. He is also a famous lecher in these parts. He keeps his wife and family in Normandy so that they may not interfere with his sport. They say he has bastards all over the county. In fact…”

The man’s voice trailed away as he looked through the open postern gate. Two figures were walking quickly towards the castle. When Ralph saw the first of them, he immediately lost interest in the men’s gossip. A tall, graceful woman was bearing down on them in an el-egant gunna of white linen and a blue mantle. Her wimple enclosed an oval face whose soft beauty was enhanced by a sense of anxiety.

The small, thin girl beside her, in meaner attire, was evidently a servant and claimed no more than a cursory glance from Ralph.

He crossed to the gate to offer a polite welcome.

“May I be of service to you?” he said.

“Has the sheriff returned?” asked the woman.

“I fear not.”

“When is he expected?”

“Nobody seems to know,” he said. “Perhaps I may be able to help you in his stead. My name is Ralph Delchard, sent here by royal warrant that makes the sheriff answerable to me as long as I am in Hereford. Step inside and we will find somewhere with a measure of privacy. I can see that you have come on a matter of some urgency.”

The woman hesitated before responding with a fleeting smile.

Ralph’s blend of gallantry and easy authority was reassuring. She allowed him to take her hand as she stepped through the gate. Both of the guards gave the newcomers a nod of recognition. When Ralph led the two women across the bailey, the servant girl walked a few paces behind them. He spoke to her mistress with respectful curiosity.

“May I know your name?”

“Golde, my lord.”

“You live in the city?”

“At the west end of Castle Street,” she said. “It is the merest step away.”

“I wondered why the guards seemed to know you.”

“They have seen me here many times. I have business in the castle that makes me a frequent visitor, though I have come on a different errand this time.”

Ralph did not press her for details. They would come when they were away from public gaze. Instead, he chatted amiably about his first impressions of the city. Only when they reached the tower did his manner change. He opened the door of the solar and gestured for her to go in.

Golde met his eyes and saw the frank affection in them. He saw an answering flicker of interest that was replaced by a look of concern, but she signalled her trust by asking her companion to wait outside.

Ralph followed her into the room and closed the door behind him. He waved her to a chair, but she preferred to stand.

“May I call for some wine?” he said.

“No, thank you.”

“Can I offer you any other refreshment?”

“I have simply come in search of information.”

“About what?”

“There are rumours of a cruel murder.”

“Why do they arouse your interest?”

“Because the name I heard whispered was Warnod.”

“You know the man?”

“I know of him,” she said carefully. “And I would be glad to learn the truth of the matter. Marketplace gossip can often be misleading.

I hope to hear that Warnod may not have been the victim of this crime.”

Ralph heaved a gentle sigh. “Then your hope is likely to be dashed, I fear.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Warnod was killed last evening by unknown assassins.”

“How?”

“The details might distress you.”

“How? ” she insisted.

“He was barricaded into his house and burned alive.”

Golde winced but quickly regained her composure. Ralph was struck once again by the haunted beauty of her face. In his opinion, Saxon women did not usually compare with the ladies of Normandy, but here was a startling exception. Still in her twenties, she had the look of someone well acquainted with adversity yet able to meet it with a brave heart. Though apprehension had brought her to the castle, what Ralph now caught was a sense of her innate resilience.

Expecting bad news, she had adjusted to it with remarkable control.

“Are you sure you would not like something?” he asked.

“No, my lord.”

“The wine is tolerable.”

“I do not drink wine.”

“Neither do most people around here,” he complained in jocular tones. “They prefer the local ale. It is beyond belief. They could have the finest wine from Normandy yet they drink this disgusting English ale.” He saw a half-smile. “What is the joke? Have I said something comical?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you despise our taste for wine?”

“It is not my place to do so.”

“Then why did you smile even now?”

“That comment about disgusting English ale.”

“It is flat, evil-smelling, and revolting to look at. I loathe it. But why should that amuse you?”

“Because I brew the ale for this castle.”

Ralph goggled. “You! ”

“For castle and cathedral,” she said proudly. “It is a worthy occupation and I have yet to receive a complaint. My husband was the most successful brewer in Hereford and I inherited his business when he died. Do not be amazed, my lord. Many of the best brewers in the city are women.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said, covering his embarrassment with a chuckle. “And I was not condemning your ale. It has a quality all of its own, I am sure, but I was raised amid the vineyards of Normandy.

Wine is nectar to me.”

Golde smiled to show that she was not offended by his remarks. In the brief moment when their eyes locked, he saw a vulnerability which had not been there before. It was as if their discussion of ale had thrown her off guard. He stepped in close to her to take advantage of the moment.

“What really brought you here this evening?” he said.

“I wished to make enquiry.”

“Is this Warnod related to you in some way?”

“No, my lord.”

“A friend, perhaps? A customer for your ale?”

“He is … known to me. That is all.”

“It would take more than that to fetch you in search of the sheriff,”

he suggested. “Warnod is known to many people, but they are not all queueing up at the castle gate to learn the details of his murder. I think you have a more serious reason. Confide in me and I will not betray you.”

She turned away. “I will take my leave.”

“Wait,” he said, touching her arm to stop her. “This is important to me. I am part of a commission sent to look into abuses that have come to light in this county. Warnod was to have been called before us. His evidence would have been crucial. His death is an inconvenience, to say the least. I wish to see if it is in any way linked to our arrival here, so anything-anything at all-that you may tell me about Warnod will be of value.” He took his hand from her arm. “Please, help me. If this man means something to you, help me to find his killers.”

Golde bit her lip and looked up at him, wrestling with her conscience and wondering how far she could trust him. Ralph met her gaze and waited until the words eventually slipped quietly from her lips.

“Warnod was a friend,” she confessed. “When he was riding back to Archenfield, he was on his way home from a visit to my house.”