The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Three

Richard Orbec rose before dawn and went straight to the tiny chapel. Its simplicity was striking. Four bare stone walls enclosed an area which could accommodate no more than a mere handful of worship-pers. The gold crucifix that stood on the little altar was the only concession to luxury. Wax candles burned on either side of it. There were no windows. It was more like a monastic cell than a chapel of a Norman lord.

Orbec knelt on the cold paving slab in an attitude of submission.

He remained alone in the dank chamber for the best part of an hour.

Nobody dared to interrupt him. Morning prayer was a solitary vigil that he never neglected. Members of his household had learned to stay well clear of their ascetic master during his devotions.

Breakfast was a hasty meal of bread and wine. Orbec then changed into his hauberk in readiness for the journey. He summoned Redwald, the manorial reeve.

“Is all ready?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have the documents?”

“In my satchel,” said Redwald, patting the leather pouch that was slung from his shoulder. “I have brought everything that may be asked for, my lord, and much that may not. Nothing has been left to chance.”

“Good.”

Richard Orbec was a stocky man of medium height with dark hair and a swarthy complexion. Unlike most Normans, he kept his hair long and wore a beard. When driven to anger, his green eyes would blaze and his face would take on an almost satanic quality. Most of the time, however, he was placid and personable. Still in his thirties, he moved with an athletic grace.

“Who else is called before the king’s tribunal?” he asked.

“I do not know, my lord. But I can guess one name.”

“Damville?”

“You will be able to renew your dispute with him.”

“I would rather do that with a dagger than with a pile of documents,”

said Orbec, ruefully, “but this way may prove just as effective. We caught him on the hip when we appeared before the first commissioners. Let us do the same with this new tribunal.”

“It may not be quite so easy, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Huegon is a wily steward and a persuasive advocate.”

Orbec smiled. “That is why I put you up against him.”

A big, shapeless, ungainly man in his forties, Redwald’s distinguishing feature was a long drooping moustache falling from beneath a broken nose. As the manorial reeve, he was responsible for the administration of his master’s estates in the county and he had given good service.

In employing a Saxon reeve, Orbec followed many of his countrymen in choosing an official with a sound working knowledge of the area and its inhabitants. Where Orbec differed from his compatriots was in talking to Redwald in the latter’s native tongue. An intelligent and cultured man, Orbec spoke a number of languages and had mastered the complexities of Anglo-Saxon with comparative ease. It earned him respect in the Saxon community and open derision from fellow Normans.

Richard Orbec saw the practical advantages. Peasants on his estates could say nothing in his hearing that he did not fully understand. By the same token, he could converse with Redwald in a wholly Norman gathering in a language totally beyond the comprehension-and beneath the dignity-of all but his reeve. These were valuable political assets.

“Maurice Damville has been quiet of late,” Orbec noted.

“It may be the calm before the storm, my lord,” warned Redwald.

“He is not a man to be trusted.”

“Come what may, I am prepared for him.”

“If he rides to Hereford, he will have men at his back.”

“So will I, Redwald. They are saddled and waiting even as we speak.” He saw the anxious look on the reeve’s face. “Do not be alarmed.

They’ll behave themselves. They’ll not seek a brawl with Damville’s knights.” His manner hardened into cold resolution. “Unless they have cause.”

“That is what I fear.”

Orbec grabbed his helm. “Let us be on our way.”

They left the house and mounted the waiting horses. Six men-at-arms were also in attendance, complaining noisily about having to get up so early to travel to Hereford, but secretly looking forward to a few hours of pleasure in the city. Richard Orbec called them to order with a curt command and the eight of them set off at a canter.

The manor house itself was large and capacious. Built of stone and of Norman design, it was an impressive dwelling that offered far greater comfort than a draughty castle. At the same time, however, the house was well fortified. It was surrounded by a deep ditch and a substantial mound that was in turn topped with a palisade. Entry to the property was over a timber drawbridge across the ditch. Orbec made sure that the drawbridge was kept in good working order.

Standing on a hill, the house commanded a superb view of the Golden Valley. It looked down on a scene of tranquil beauty. From its source above Dorstone a few miles to the north, the River Dore gargled happily with pebbles in its throat and meandered down to the point where the valley opened out into meadows and cornfields.

Richard Orbec found it at once inspiring and restful.

“I love this part of the county,” he said. “It reminds me so much of Normandy. Orchards, mills, cattle, sheep. It is just like the land around Bayeux.”

“Not quite, my lord,” said Redwald. “You have no Saxons on your estates in Normandy.”

Orbec laughed. “A small price to pay for this beauty.” He became serious. “Nobody must take this away from me, do you hear? I am relying on you, Redwald. This is mine! ”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would kill to keep it. Save me that trouble.”

“I will do my best.”

“Confound these royal commissioners yet again.”

“They are not the real enemy.”

“No,” said Orbec. “Damville is. Defeat him soundly.”

“He has strong weapons at his disposal,” warned the reeve. “He will not easily be routed. Maurice Damville has the fire of ambition inside him.”

“So do I, Redwald. And mine burns even brighter.”

Corbin the Reeve did not improve on acquaintance. He irritated Gervase Bret, he annoyed Canon Hubert, and he even bored the normally over-tolerant Brother Simon. But it was Ralph Delchard who was the chief victim of the reeve’s supercilious manner, and he was in no mood to put up with it.

“Tell a plain tale in plain terms, man!” he howled.

“That is what I am doing, my lord.”

“Then why am I being driven slowly mad?”

“Show a little self-restraint,” advised Corbin with a condescending smile. “We will get there the sooner.”

“Damnation! Can you not answer a simple question?”

“When I am not impeded.”

“I’ll impede you with the point of my dagger in a moment,” threatened Ralph. “Give us the tidings without any more ado, you blockhead.

They are germane to our enquiries.”

“I am fully aware of that, my lord.”

They were in the shire hall, about to begin their examination of the witnesses. A trestle table had been set up with four chairs behind it.

On the opposite side of the table, chairs and benches were arranged in jagged rows. The hall itself was long, low, and narrow. Its thatched roof housed a veritable colony of spiders and mice. Having fought their way in through the small windows, the shafts of daylight lost their nerve and met for safety in a central position, abandoning the rest of the room to shadow. The place had a musty smell.

Gervase Bret took over the questioning of the reeve.

“Has anything new transpired about the murder?”

“Indeed,” said Corbin, tapping his chest with a beringed finger.

“I made a point of speaking with the sheriffs men who returned from Archenfield last night.”

“What did they say?”

“They were in a foul mood. So, I hear, was the sheriff.”

“Why?”

“They made little headway. Ilbert was peeved. Our good sheriff can get extremely peeved when given provocation.”

“Do you give him anything else?”

Corbin was affronted. “Ilbert Malvoisin and I are close friends, my lord. We work so ably together because we are well-suited by tempera-ment.”

“Hell’s teeth!” yelled Ralph. “There are two of them!”

“Enough prevarication,” snapped Canon Hubert. “Tell us what the sheriff’s men said. Are the killers apprehended?”

“Not yet.”

“Are their identities known?”

“Vaguely.”

“Is there any likelihood of an early arrest?”

“Probably not.”

“This news is not news at all.”

“There’s more, Canon Hubert,” said the reeve with a smirk of self-congratulation. “I drew the information out of the men by skilful means.

I have the trick of it.”

“Teach it to us!” whispered Brother Simon. “Then we may at last draw the information out of you.”

Ralph guffawed, Gervase smiled, and even Canon Hubert let his lip tremble at this unexpected sign of a sense of humour under the black cowl. Brother Simon retreated at once into anonymity but his wry comment had hit its target. Corbin the Reeve was stung into disclosing his tidings.

“They reached Llanwarne to find the house destroyed and Warnod burned to a cinder. Nothing remained. The man and his abode were wiped out.”

“Even the outbuildings?” asked Gervase.

“Everything,” said Corbin. “Not a stick remained standing, not an animal was left alive. Except one.”

“What was that?”

“The red dragon.”

“But it was merely carved in the turf.”

“I know, Master Bret,” he said, “but many people came running when they saw the fire blazing and they all avowed the same. The creature moved. The red dragon came to life!”

“Arrant nonsense!” said Ralph, exploding with contempt “How can a hole in the ground take on flesh and blood? Those who came running to the scene must have been drunk or crazed or both. Show me a man who saw a real dragon and I will show you an idiot or a barefaced liar!”

Corbin was not deflected. “Their testimony was precise. We have the word of a dozen men or more, including the priest from the church at Llanwarne. In the crackling flames, the beast appeared to stir from its slumber.”

Ralph was sceptical. “When the sheriff and his men got to Archenfield, was the dragon still dancing around the field? Or did it simply appear so?”

“I speak but as I heard, my lord.”

“Did anybody see the assassins?”

“They saw, but did not recognise in the dark.”

“Those flames must have lit up the whole area,” argued Gervase. “If they saw the red dragon come to life, they must surely have noticed how many riders were fleeing and on what sort of horses. Also, in what direction they headed.”

“These things were, indeed, noted.”

“Well?” pressed Hubert.

“Ten men on Welsh ponies. Riding toward the border.”

“I’m surprised the dragon didn’t gallop after them,” said Ralph. “If I did not feel so appalled at the wretched fate of this man, Warnod, I would laugh at this confusion. Is there no firm evidence in this case?”

“Ilbert the Sheriff is collecting it.”

“From credulous fools who see phantom creatures?”

“From frightened people, my lord,” said Corbin, taking an indig-nant step toward him. “There have been consequences. Warnod had two servants, Elfig and Hywel.”

“I know,” said Gervase. “The old Saxon was beaten by that murderous crew and the young Welshman was spared.”

“He was not spared for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elfig died from his wounds yesterday,” explained Corbin. “His friends were so incensed at the injustice of it that they set upon Hywel. The Welshman now lies beaten. His kinsmen did not let it end there.”

“What have they done?” said Ralph.

“Assaulted those who attacked Hywel. Much blood has flowed and it has not all come from that slaughtered cow. The whole district is up in arms.” He flung back his mantle and put his hands on his hips.

“Now you will see why Ilbert the Sheriff is not able to come before you today. He is not just trying to solve one murder. He has to prevent several others from taking place in Archenfield.”

Ilbert Malvoisin was a big, solid man who sat foursquare in the saddle of his horse. When he saw yet another fight break out, he called to his men in a voice like a clap of thunder.

“Stop them!” he ordered. “Pull them apart.”

Watched by a knot of peasants, two youths were wrestling on the ground with ferocious vigour. They were not armed, but their hands had become deadly weapons. If the fight was allowed to continue, only one of them would get up alive.

“Knock their heads together!” boomed Ilbert.

Four soldiers descended on the combatants, dragging them apart before dashing their heads together. The two youths were dazed.

Already covered in blood, they were panting from their exertions and glaring wildly at each other. The Saxon youth was fair-haired and brawny, the Welsh, dark and wiry. When the two of them lunged at each other once more, the soldiers held them in iron grips.

“Who started this brawl?” demanded Ilbert.

Half-a-dozen voices piped up, but he silenced them with a wave of his hand and pointed at the two antagonists.

“You tell me.”

“He insulted our nation,” said the Welsh youth.

“They killed Warnod,” argued the young Saxon.

“They attacked Hywel.”

“And who beat old Elfig to death?”

“He said that all Welshmen were murdering barbarians.”

There were loud complaints from the onlookers, all of them Welsh and proud of their heritage. Ilbert quelled the noise at once.

“Silence!” he roared. “Let there be an end to this! We do not yet know who burned Warnod alive in his house. When we do, we will arrest them and bring them to account.”

“Not if they are safe across the border,” shouted the Saxon youth.

“They strike and flee-like all the Welsh.”

The accusation produced a fresh outbreak of protest, but it quickly faded as the sheriff pulled his sword from its scabbard and held it aloft. Since there was no longer an earl in the county, Ilbert Malvoisin was the most powerful man in Herefordshire. He could bring down all manner of ills upon them, if he chose, and they would have no court of appeal. Welsh eyes smouldered, but tongues were stilled for the moment.

“What would you have me do?” he said. “Take these two hot-blooded fools back to Hereford with me and throw them into the castle dungeons? Three months in the dark among the rats would cool their tempers, I fancy. Is that what you wish?” His swordpoint swung to the Saxon. “Is it?”

“No, my lord,” said the youth.

“Will you swear to keep the peace?”

There was a reluctant nod of acceptance. Ilbert turned his attention to the other combatant, who was bleeding more profusely, but seething with a deeper rage.

“What of this wild young Welshman?”

“I have a score to settle with him, my lord.”

“I have already settled it.”

“You will not stay in Archenfield forever.”

“Do you dare to defy die sheriff?” hissed Ilbert “It is the castle dungeon for you, then. Pinion the rogue.”

“Stay, my lord,” said an elderly man, breaking clear of the group to run across. “This is unjust. Why should my grandson be punished when the other youth goes free?”

“Because that is my decision.”

“This is Archenfield, my lord,” pleaded the other. “We are allowed to live by Welsh customs here.”

“Some of your customs are not to my taste,” said Ilbert with a glance at the dragon carved in the turf nearby. “Your grandson will learn some manners in Hereford. If you wish to join him there, obstruct me further.” The old man stepped back. “Away with the whole pack of you!”

The onlookers dispersed with mutinous mutterings. The Saxon youth glowered at the prisoner before trotting off towards the wood.

Ilbert Malvoisin took another look at the mythical beast which had sparked off all the unrest.

“Cover it up!” he ordered. “Bury that red dragon under the earth again. It has caused enough trouble already.”

Richard Orbec was punctual. He arrived at the shire hall at the appointed time. Four of Ralph Delchard’s men-at-arms were on sentry duty outside the building to keep curiosity at bay and ensure privacy for the day’s deliberations. They recognised Orbec by common report and stood aside. As the newcomer swept into the hall with Redwald lumbering beside him, they found four more soldiers on duty.

Corbin the Reeve grasped another opportunity to insinuate himself into the action.

“Welcome back, Richard,” he said. “Prompt as usual.”

Orbec flicked him a neutral glance. He clearly had far less respect for the reeve than the latter had for him. Corbin introduced the commissioners one by one and polite greetings were exchanged. The visitor presented Redwald to the tribunal. He and his reeve were then offered seats. The four commissioners sat behind the table. Brother Simon had a quill poised in his hand to act as scribe.

Corbin was still a large and intrusive presence.

“We will not keep you from other duties,” said Ralph.

“I have made myself available to you, my lord.”

“We will call you when we need you.”

“I prefer to remain,” said Corbin, lowering himself onto a bench. “I will be a silent observer. You have my word.”

Ralph conferred briefly with the others. They elected to endure Corbin’s trespass in return for his undoubted value as a source of information. He would be a useful point of reference in the debate with Richard Orbec, and with Maurice Damville. Whatever his short-comings-and they had counted many-the reeve was exceedingly well-informed about personalities and events in and around Hereford.

As leader of the commission, Ralph Delchard spoke first. He tried to put their first witness at his ease and thus off guard.

“I know Orbec well,” he said, amiably.

“Do you?”

“I was born and brought up in Lisieux.”

“Most of my estates in Normandy are near Bayeux.”

“A beautiful town,” said Ralph. “Would you not rather trade its charms for this ale-swilling city of Hereford?”

“No,” said Orbec, simply. “I prefer it here.”

Ralph was appalled. “You prefer England to Normandy?”

“I prefer peace to discord.”

They knew what he meant. Twenty long years of Norman occupation had imposed a measure of harmony that was lacking in the duchy from which the invaders came. Baronial feuds were rife in Normandy, and much violence went unchecked and unpunished. To a man wearied of the endless strife, life in the Golden Valley could indeed seem like a glorious escape.

“I hope that we do not destroy your peace,” said Ralph.

Orbec was blunt. “I will not permit it.”

“It is we who dispense any permission,” said Canon Hubert, pedan-tically. “You are under scrutiny, my lord.”

“On what account?”

“Several matters need to be raised,” noted Ralph as he glanced down at the document in front of him, “but one in particular dominates all others. Archenfield.”

“What is the problem?” asked Orbec. “I hold land in the hundred of Archenfield, it is true, but Redwald here will show you the charters which support my claim.”

“Maurice Damville also has claims upon that land.”

“False claims.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“It was seen, my lord. By your predecessors.”

“Yes, my lord,” added Redwald, responding to a nudge from his master. “The first commissioners rejected the testimony of Maurice Damville and found in our favour.”

“That was before a third claimant appeared.”

“A third? ” Corbin was surprised. “This is news to me.”

“Why did he not come forward before?” said Orbec.

“Because he was prevented from doing so.”

“By whom?”

“By someone who stood to gain by his absence.”

Orbec raised an eyebrow. “Is that an accusation against me?”

“Only you will know that, my lord,” said Ralph.

“Who is this third claimant?” pressed Corbin.

“You took a vow of silence,” chided Hubert.

The reeve held up his palms in apology, then put three fingers to his lips by way of a promise not to interrupt again. He watched intently from his bench.

“May I know the name of this man?” said Orbec, calmly.

“You already do.”

Ralph’s gaze was searching. He was finding the witness extremely difficult to fathom. Richard Orbec gave nothing away. His manner was relaxed and his face expressionless. Ralph could see the soldier in his bearing, but there was much more to the man than that. Deep secrets lurked behind those green eyes.

Orbec made his first mistake. Assuming that he was in the presence of men who spoke exclusively in Norman-French, he addressed his reeve in Anglo-Saxon.

“We must both tell the same story, Redwald.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ll not yield a square yard of Archenfield.”

“Nor shall you.”

“I have not built up my estates to see them cut down as they were in Normandy.” Orbec was adamant. “That will never happen again. Take note.”

“I do take note, my lord,” said Gervase Bret in the same tongue. “I note that you are as proficient in this language as I am, yet without my advantage of a Saxon mother.”

Orbec was duly startled. Ralph was exasperated.

“We will not conduct this examination in gibberish.”

“Saxon is a fine language,” said Gervase, slipping easily back into Ralph’s own tongue, “but I believe you will hear no more of it in this hall.” He looked at Orbec and got an answering nod. “I felt it only fair to warn you, my lord,” he said. “Be fair with us in return.”

“I will be.”

“To return to the subject of dispute,” said Ralph. “The land concerned runs along the border between Archenfield and the hundreds of Ewyas and Golden Valley. It amounts in all to a total of …” Exasperation showed again as he consulted the document in front of him.

“Why must they confuse me with all these carucates and numbers of ploughs? The hide is the simplest measurement of land.”

Gervase came to his aid. “The total area is just under a thousand acres. Use mat as a round figure.”

“We can account for every acre,” asserted Redwald.

“So can Maurice Damville,” countered Hubert.

“Not to mention our third claimant,” said Ralph with a grin. “Is the name of Warnod familiar to your ear?”

“It is,” admitted Orbec with a noncommittal shrug. “I believe that the land under discussion once belonged to his father. But Warnod is hardly a claimant. The poor man was murdered at his home in Llanwarne.”

“His kinsmen will inherit his land,” said Gervase, “and they will contest this claim on Warnod’s behalf.”

“He has no kinsmen in this county,” said Orbec, firmly.

“Can you be sure?”

“Certain of it.”

“Then he may have willed his holdings to another.”

“That, too, would produce no third claimant.”

“Why not?”

“Because we cannot know who the beneficiary is unless we have sight of a will,” argued Orbec, “and that went up in smoke when the house was burned. Along with this supposed charter that legitimates his claim to my land. The name of Warnod does not belong in this dispute at all. No will, no charter, no claim.”

“The charter survived, my lord.”

“How do you know?”

Gervase picked up a scroll of parchment from the table.

“Because I have it here in my hand.”

Orbec was visibly shaken. “How did you come by it?”

“The document was sent to Winchester.”

“By whom? Not Warnod, I’ll wager. He would never trust a Norman tribunal to find against a Norman. Another hand is at work here.

Who sent that document to the Exchequer?”

“We have no idea,” said Ralph, blithely. “It is one of the things we came to Hereford to find out.”

The brewhouse was at the rear of the premises, attached to the house by a short and aromatic passageway. There was no way to keep all the fumes out of the house itself, but Golde had done her best. A thick curtain hung in front of the door and absorbed some of the pungent odours of her profession. Rushes and herbs inside the dwelling acted as a further barrier against the pervasive smell of ale.

When Golde came in, the girl was in exactly the same spot with exactly the same distraught look on her face. Golde put a consoling arm around her sister’s shoulders and lowered her onto the wooden stool in front of the fire. The house on Castle Street was not large, but it was always warm and impeccably clean.

Golde knelt on the flagstone to hold her sister’s hands between her own. She squeezed them gently.

“Spare yourself, Aelgar,” she said, softly.

“How can I?”

“You were not to blame.”

“But I was, Golde. I was.”

“You punish yourself for sins you did not commit.”

“I will never forgive myself.”

“Aelgar!”

“I helped to kill the one thing I held dear.”

“That is not true.”

“What life is left to me now?”

“A good life. An honest life.”

“Bereft of all joy. My hopes are shattered.”

“Rebuild them, sweet sister.”

“Nobody could rebuild after such a loss.”

Golde became wistful. “I did.”

It was Aelgar’s turn to offer condolence. She bent forward to kiss her sister’s forehead. Both of them let tears run freely for a few moments. Golde then controlled her pain and stood up. As the elder sister, she had to be strong enough for both of them.

She looked down at Aelgar and let out a long sigh.

“What a cruel blow too much beauty can be!”

“I feel as if I want to scratch it away out of spite.”

“That is not the way, Aelgar.”

“Then what is? What is? Teach me, please.”

The entreaty brought Aelgar to her feet. She was a few inches shorter than Golde and years younger. Barely nineteen, she still had the bloom of youth on her cheeks. She wore a plain gunna of green linen and a white wimple. The heart-shaped face was distorted by grief and striped with concern, but its essential loveliness shone through. Golde had the more mature charms, but few men noticed her when Aelgar was present. The latter’s innocent beauty was almost overwhelming.

Golde took her sister by the shoulders.

“Watch and pray,” she advised.

“I have done little else.”

“Hold fast to your memories. Let them stay you.”

“They only pluck at my entrails, Golde,” said the younger woman.

“I dare not sleep for fear that those memories will haunt me afresh.

I must know” she said with sudden intensity. “I must find out the truth.”

“In time. In time.”

“Now, Golde. I have a right to be told.”

“Yes, Aelgar,” conceded the other. “Who has a better right than you? I will go to them again.”

“Take me with you!”

“Stay within and mourn in private.”

“But I have questions of my own to ask.”

“Put them to me. I will seek the answers.”

Aelgar’s intensity drained slowly out of her. She dropped to the stool again and stared into the flames with a wan expression on her face. Her voice was distant.

“The worst is over, Golde. I fear nothing now.”

“I do.”

“What?”

Golde took her sister’s hand again and kissed it.

“What do you fear?” asked Aelgar.

“Him.”

Maurice Damville led the charge. The shepherd was herding his flock on the lower slopes when the riders came over the crest of the hill. Damville and his knights could not resist the temptation. Spurring their horses into a frenzied gallop, they tore down the incline with battle cries and obscenities mingling on their lips.

The sheep scattered in a mad panic and the old shepherd was knocked flying by the flank of a passing destrier. They pursued the fleeing animals for a few minutes, hacking at them to frighten or wound rather than to kill. When the cavalcade reassembled again, the flock was spread over half a mile or more.

Damville’s sport was not yet over. On the plain ahead of them was a small farm with a cluster of rickety outbuildings. A fresh-faced Saxon girl came out of the byre with a wooden pail filled to the brim with milk.

She was no more than fifteen, but her hair was the colour of straw and her skin shone in the morning sunlight. Her bare arms were splashed with milk. One glance was all that Maurice Damville needed.

He kicked his horse into a canter and bore down on the girl. Too frightened to run, she stood rooted to the spot until he brought down an arm to scoop her up and carry her off. The pail was dropped and its contents seeped into the grass. Urged on by whoops of envious delight from his men, Damville rode behind the cover of some bushes before he dismounted. The screams lasted for several minutes.

In one swoop, the girl lost her milk and her maidenhead.

Two hours in the shire hall had taught Richard Orbec some respect for the commissioners. They could not be deceived or fobbed off.

Ralph Delchard was a stern inquisitor. Gervase Bret was a percep-tive lawyer. Canon Hubert was relentless in pursuit of the truth.

Orbec and Redwald put their case with skill, but it was severely weakened by the appearance of a charter which seemed to grant the land in question to Warnod.

When Gervase had displayed the document and allowed the two men to inspect it, he made way for Canon Hubert to take over the questioning. The latter used a different method of attack. He bestowed a flabby smile upon Orbec.

“You have been a most generous patron of the Church.”

“I think I know my duty,” said Orbec.

“Your gifts go beyond the limits of duty,” continued Hubert. “Dean Theobald was kind enough to conduct me around the cathedral. Your endowments are writ large in stone and timber. God will reward you for this munificence.”

“It pleases me to hear you say that, Canon Hubert.”

“You have, I am told, a private chapel at your house.”

“I do.”

“Consecrated by no less a person than Bishop Robert.”

“He deigned to visit my abode and grace my table.”

“Gratitude took him there,” said Hubert. “If all the marcher lords had your belief in Christianity, we should have far more churches and far less castles.” He leaned across the table to purr his question.

“Why have you done all this?”

“Because I felt moved to do so.”

“Yes, but from what motives?”

“Does it matter?”

“Profoundly.”

“I donate money and the cathedral is restored.” Orbec was dismissive. “That is all there is to it. The ceiling of the nave will look just as beautiful, whether my reasons for meeting its cost are shallow or meaningful. People will admire that ceiling many years after my reasons have followed me into my grave.”

“You are trying to evade my point,” said Hubert. “But you raise an ethical dilemma about means and ends. Does a good result justify a bad reason? It does not, my lord. It never can. The church would rather be poor and honest than flourish on riches that have been wrongfully acquired. Reasons and results must be cohere.”

“My wealth is sinful. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I merely seek to establish a motive. Why?”

“Because I am a good Christian.”

“Whence comes this goodness, my lord?”

“From the same source as your own.”

“I wear my reason for all to see,” said Hubert, indicating his attire.

“Is yours so shameful that it must be kept hidden?”

“I came here to discuss my holdings,” said Orbec with vehemence.

“My spiritual needs are not relevant here.”

“But they are,” insisted Hubert, “because they help to establish your character. A man who seeks only to serve the greater glory of God is unlikely to seize land that is not legally his or to indulge in some of the corrupt practices that our investigation has uncovered. Good men do good works from pure motives.”

Richard Orbec weighed his words carefully.

“Then I am not a good man, Canon Hubert,” he said, quietly. “No soldier is or can be a good man.”

“That is nonsense!” protested Ralph.

“Men put on armour to kill.”

“To defend themselves from being killed.”

“A soldier is a violation of the sixth commandment. ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’ What else is a battle but an act of slaughter? You may dress it up in fine words and shower it with incense to make it smell the sweeter, but there is no disguising the truth. War is ritualised murder.”

“Not if it is a just war!” argued Ralph.

“The two words insult each other.”

“A man is entitled to fight for his rights.”

“Not with a sword and spear.”

“I have great sympathy with your view,” said Canon Hubert, with a sidelong glance of reproof at Ralph. “Conquest will always contain the seeds of evil.”

“The same may be said of the Church,” growled Ralph.

“That is blasphemy!”

“It is cold fact, Canon Hubert. Holy men march behind soldiers and reap the benefits of our labour. The Church’s one foundation in this country is the Battle of Hastings.”

“No, my lord,” said Hubert, complacently. “You fought and we sought reconciliation with God. That is why the bishops in Normandy drew up the Penitential Ordinance that was confirmed by the papal legate, Bishop Ermenfrid of Sion.”

Richard Orbec rose involuntarily from his seat.

“Take special note of the first article in that decree,” he said with unexpected passion. “Whoever knows he has killed in the great battle is to do one year’s penance for each man slain. Remember that. Each man slain.”

“You are too young to have fought at Hastings,” said Ralph.

“There are other battles. With other deaths.”

Orbec’s mien had altered completely. Dignity and self-possession had been supplanted by wild agitation. But it was his expression which alarmed the others. The green eyes were hot coals of fire and the bearded face was twisted with hate. Even Ralph Delchard was taken aback at first.

They were looking into the face of Satan.