The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Four

Idwal the archdeacon spread his opinions evenly throughout the cathedral.

During his short stay, therefore, he contrived to infuriate everyone to the same degree. His arrogance and his outspokenness were devastating. Robert Losinga, Bishop of Hereford, a man renowned for his learning and revered for his Job-like patience, found the scholarly Welshman too great an affliction to bear. His command to the dean was simple.

“Rid us of this tumult!”

Theobald went off to implement the order from on high. It would be a delicate task. The laws of hospitality were being breached and Christian fellowship was being negated, but their visitor had brought it upon himself. He had caused more upset than a swarm of bees during a choir rehearsal. The dean should feel no compunction in directing him to the road out of Hereford.

“Good morning, Archdeacon,” he said.

“Bore da.”

“You slept well?”

“Fitfully,” said Idwal. “Fitfully. I was much distracted by some remarks you made about the Holy Eucharist. I will take issue with you on that account.”

“This is not a convenient time for debate,” said the dean, hastily.

“Let us postpone our discussion until a more fitting moment. During another visit, perhaps.”

“Yes, I intend to come back here soon.”

“When you have the whole of Wales to visit?”

“I have met with such friendship,” said Idwal. “A man should always make a determined effort to see his friends.”

Theobald swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”

They were in the half-built cathedral cloister, picking their way among the slabs of stone. Two canons darted out of the way as they approached, fearful of being drawn into another conversation with the evangelical Celt. Idwal was wearing his grubby lambskin cloak.

Theobald’s hope rustled.

“You are dressed for travelling, Archdeacon,” he said.

“My life is one of perpetual motion.”

“You are leaving us?”

“Unhappily, yes.”

“Today?”

“Within a matter of hours.”

“This is sad news indeed,” said Theobald, rejoicing inwardly. “We looked for a longer visitation.”

“My plans have been upset and I have been compelled to change my itinerary slightly.”

“I wish you God speed!”

Theobald could not believe his luck. Having racked his brains to find a diplomatic means by which he could evict the little Welshman, he was instead being confronted with a voluntary departure. It was the clearest example of divine intervention that Theobald had met in a long while and he offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.

A gust of wind blew and a noisome vapour attacked his nostrils. He realised, with disgust, that it was the archdeacon’s cloak which was giving off the stink.

“Must you wear this common lambskin?” he asked.

“I like it.”

“Surely, a man in your position could well afford a richer fur? One that imparted more dignity and status to its wearer.”

“What had you in mind, Dean Theobald?”

“Sable, beaver, or fox skin.”

“They are such shifty animals,” said Idwal. “Their skins might do for English bishops and abbots but I am a plain man and therefore content with lambskin.”

“At the very least, you might wear cat skin.”

“That would be an abomination.”

“Why?”

“I have often heard the Angus Dei sung,” said the Welshman, “but I shudder at the thought of a Cattus Dei! ”

His cackle reverberated around the cloisters.

“I will hold you back no longer,” said Theobald, even more anxious to speed the parting guest. “Convey our best wishes to Bishop Herewald when you return to Llandaff.”

“But I will come back here first.”

“Here?”

“In a day or two at most.”

“You said even now that you were quitting Hereford.”

“The city only, not the county. I merely travel back to Ergyng once more.”

“To Archenfield, you mean? Why?”

“To solve a murder.”

“How are you implicated in that?”

“By birth, Dean Theobald,” said the other. “A man is killed and the blame is placed on my nation. You cannot expect me to stand idly by while such injustice occurs.”

“What will you do?”

“Find the real culprits and exonerate Wales.”

“Oh.”

“Ample reward then awaits me.”

“Reward?”

“Yes, Dean Theobald,” said Idwal, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder. “You, Bishop Robert, this cathedral. It calls to me. I cannot wait to cross swords with you all in debate once more.”

Theobald shuddered as the stench of the lambskin hit him.

The interrogation of Richard Orbec was long and probing but it yielded no firm results. His manors in Archenfield gave him a substantial holding that was second only to the King’s demesne in that part of Herefordshire. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret questioned his right to that land, while Canon Hubert’s opinion was clouded by the fact that the rent from the estate went towards the rebuilding of the cathedral.

Brother Simon was a mute witness, but Corbin the Reeve was brought in on a number of occasions to clarify certain points relating to people and procedures in the county. It was left to Redwald to summarise his master’s position.

“The carucates under review are worked by subtenants who know only one landlord,” he said, turning to Richard Orbec. “He sits before you. We have a legal charter to enforce that claim and subtenants who will attest it upon oath.” He glanced down at the table. “You have shown us a charter, but its legality remains in doubt and its contents are, in any case, no longer relevant. Warnod is not here to press his claim and neither is anyone else on his behalf.”

“They may be,” said Gervase.

“When?”

“When we find them,” added Ralph.

There was no more to be said. The first session with Richard Orbec was over. Maurice Damville was due in the shire hall at any moment and it was politic to keep them apart. A brawl between two witnesses would achieve nothing. Ralph gave Orbec and Redwald leave to depart and they bade farewell.

“Do not stray too far,” Ralph warned.

“Why not?” said Orbec.

“We will need to call you again.”

“In order to give me an apology, I trust.”

Richard Orbec strode out with Redwald at his heels.

Mindful of the presence of Corbin, the commissioners spoke with glances and nods. All had come to the same conclusion. There were two Richard Orbecs. One was a rich and respectable Norman lord who led a solitary life in the Golden Valley, and who made generous donations towards the restoration work at the cathedral. The other Richard Orbec was a more disturbing figure, a malevolent being with wild eyes and a heart full of malice who would not have scrupled to put the torch to Warnod’s house with his own hand. The commissioners were not certain which of the conflicting personalities was the true man.

“Stand aside and let me in, you dolts!”

There was no such problem with Maurice Damville. What they first saw was the essential character of their next witness.

“Nobody dares obstruct my path with impunity!”

Pushing the men-at-arms aside, he stormed into the hall with Huegon a few paces behind him. When Damville reached the middle of the room, he paused to appraise the four men who sat behind the table ahead of him. Bluster made way for courtesy. He gave the commissioners a polite nod and adopted a conciliatory tone.

“Maurice Damville at your service!”

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” said Ralph. “It is much appreciated.”

He introduced the other members of the commission and they in turn were introduced to Huegon. Ralph was interested to observe Corbin’s reaction. The reeve had been almost obsequious towards the first witness. With the second, he was much more wary. Maurice Damville unsettled him.

When the visitors took their seats, Ralph outlined the problem which they were addressing. A thousand acres of land was caught between rival claims. Damville’s jaw tightened at the mention of Richard Orbec, but he said nothing. Schooled by Huegon on the journey to Hereford, he left the argument to his steward. The old man had a more persuasive touch.

“I am glad to know that royal commissioners can admit their mistakes,” he said, pleasantly. “Some sharp-eyed clerk at the Exchequer has clearly been through the evidence collected by your predecessors and found it wanting. You have come here to repair that deficiency.”

“That is precisely our task,” agreed Ralph.

“Then you will need to peruse our documents.”

“All in good time, my friend. Gervase is our lawyer. He will need to examine your claim word by word.”

“Before I do that,” said Gervase, taking his cue, “it is only fair to warn you that the case is altered since your first appearance in this hall.”

Huegon smiled. “You are ready to tear up Richard Orbec’s fraudu-lent charter?”

“We are obliged to consider a third claimant.”

“A third? ”

“Warnod of Llanwarne.”

Huegon remained impassive, but Maurice Damville’s mouth twitched with irritation. The two men conversed briefly in whispers. There was much shaking of heads before the steward answered for both of them.

“We do not know the man.”

“His father was a wealthy thegn before the Conquest.”

“A familiar story,” said Huegon, easily. “On our arrival here, he was dispossessed. Like most of the other Saxon nobles.”

“Not entirely, it seems,” said Gervase. “These manors in Archenfield were confirmed in his name and yet his son did not inherit them. We would know the reason why.”

“Start your questioning with Warnod.”

“That may be difficult,” said Gervase.

“He was murdered two days ago,” explained Ralph. “We have many talents in our armoury but communing with spirits is, I fear, not one of them.”

“If the man is dead, his claim is void,” said Huegon.

“That is what his killer would like us to believe.”

Damville bridled. “You dare to suggest that I was involved in the murder of this man?”

“No, my lord,” said Ralph. “I merely remark that his absence is of signal benefit to you at this moment.”

“That is equally true of Richard Orbec,” said Huegon.

“The point was not lost on us.”

Canon Hubert had been watching Damville throughout. He was hiding behind the smooth and plausible tongue of his steward. Nothing of value would be elicited in a formal debate. Huegon was too practised at throwing a defensive ring of words around his master. It was important to lure Damville himself into the conversation. Hubert touched Ralph’s sleeve for permission to intervene. The latter gestured for him to speak.

“One thing puzzles me, my lord,” said Hubert. “You seem to me to be a strong-willed and sensible man. When you see what is in your own best interests, you doubtless pursue that course remorselessly.”

“I will not deny it,” said Damville.

“Then why quarrel so bitterly with your neighbour?”

“What neighbour?”

“Richard Orbec.”

“I do not consider him as such,” said Damville, crisply. “His land adjoins mine, it is true, but that is a circumstance to drive us apart rather than bring us together.”

“Even though amity would advantage you?”

“Amity?”

“Richard Orbec is a fellow Norman to the east,” said Hubert. “I need hardly remind you that a hostile country lies directly to the west of your castle at Ewyas Harold.”

“Wales has been quiescent for years,” said Huegon.

“That situation could change. Perhaps it already has. In that event, would it not be more sensible for you to make common cause with your strongest neighbour?” Hubert studied Damville’s reaction.

“Adversity can unite the worst of enemies.”

Damville scowled. “Orbec is more than my worst enemy.”

“Do you dispute his title to this land out of hatred?”

“We have a charter,” resumed Huegon, trying to shift the debate back to legalities. “You will see that it predates the counterclaim made by Richard Orbec.”

“But not the one made by Warnod,” said Gervase.

“He is no longer in the reckoning.”

“Perhaps he is,” said Ralph, thoughtfully. “While we sit haggling over charters in a musty shire hall, the man who is the key to this dispute lies in Archenfield. Or, at least, his ashes do. I submit that we suspend our enquiries here and move them to the place where they will have more meaning.”

“Is that wise, my lord?” said Hubert, uneasily.

“It is practical.”

“Yes,” agreed Gervase. “We would have an opportunity to view the land and see for ourselves what makes it so attractive to rival claimants.”

“It is settled,” said Ralph. “We go to Archenfield.”

“You will be able to meet the sheriff there,” said Corbin, helpfully.

“Ilbert sent word that he would need to spend at least a day or two more in the area.”

“An additional reason to make the journey,” decided Ralph. “The sheriff can not only give us fuller details of the murder itself. He can act as a witness in our investigation.”

“In what way?” asked Huegon. “Ilbert Malvoisin has no connection with the disputed land.”

“We believe that he may,” said Gervase.

Ralph wound up the proceedings with an apology to the two men for bringing them so far for such a short session. He asked Huegon to surrender the relevant charter so that Gervase could study it at his leisure and pronounce upon its authenticity. The steward looked for approval from his master, but was instead taken aside for an animated discussion. The two men walked afew yards away. Corbin inched forward to try to catch their whispers, but the commissioners waited patiently.

After several minutes, Huegon came back to the table.

“Our charter is no longer valid,” he announced.

Ralph was astonished. “You admit it is a forgery?”

“We withdraw it unconditionally.”

“On what grounds?”

“We do not wish to contest Richard Orbec’s claim.”

“Give us your reason, man.”

“My decision is reason enough,” said Damville, coming forward to look from one man to another. “We have wasted each other’s time.

Your work is done. I cede the land to Orbec. If he wishes to dispute it with a dead man, that is his business. Keep the name of Maurice Damville out of all future deliberations.”

He stalked towards the door with Huegon at the rear.

“You cannot yield up a thousand acres on impulse,” said Ralph.

“That is rank stupidity.”

“It is what I choose to do,” said Damville, pausing in the doorway.

“It may seem rash to you, but I have learned to trust my impulses.

They have never betrayed me yet.”

“You cannot just walk away like this!”

“I can and I will. I am weary of the whole affair!”

Before Ralph could protest, Maurice Damville and Huegon went out through the door. The session was definitively over.

It was market day and the streets were thronged with people as Golde made her way towards the shire hall. Brewing ale in such large quantities was a demanding business, but she had to leave it to her assistants that morning. Blood was thicker than alcohol. Her sister’s needs took priority over the fermentation of the ale. Aelgar was not the most robust girl at the best of times. Recent events had made her almost frail and defenceless. Golde had to be both mother and sister to her.

When she reached the shire hall, they were just coming out. Corbin the Reeve was talking airily with four men. She recognised Ralph Delchard at once and guessed the others to be his fellow commissioners. Two of them set off in the direction of the cathedral and a third-the youngest of them-towards the castle. Golde stepped in to accost the others.

“Forgive this intrusion,” she said.

“No intrusion at all, dear lady,” said Ralph with smiling gallantry.

“It is a pleasure to see you again. Corbin is not unknown to you, I take it.”

“We are acquainted,” said die reeve, coldly.

“Has the sheriff still not returned?” she said.

“No.”

“He is still investigating this murder?”

“What business is that of yours?” said Corbin.

“I merely ask out of curiosity.”

He was brusque. “It is not my duty to provide tittle-tattle for the ale-wives of Hereford.”

“But it is your duty to be polite to a lady,” chided Ralph. “Since you cannot do anything else properly, at least try to rise to that.” He beamed at Golde. “Forgive his bad manners. Ignorance walks hand in hand with petty officialdom.”

“I am no petty official!” asserted the reeve.

“Let us step back into the hall,” suggested Ralph as he offered Golde his hand. “It is too noisy out here in the street. And we are delaying Corbin from important work like counting up taxes in the name of the King.”

He gave the reeve a wink then escorted Golde back into the building.

His men-at-arms had left now and the two were quite alone. Ralph gave himself the pleasure of taking a proper look at her. She was as appealing as at their first encounter. A clear-eyed woman of independent means and independent spirit Even in her plain working apparel, she had a charm that he found quite irresistible.

“If there no more news?” she asked.

“The killers are still at liberty,” he said. “Warnod’s death has ignited passions in Archenfield. There has been much unrest. The sheriff, we hear, is hampered in his search. He has to keep Saxons and Welsh from coming to blows.”

“Two days have passed. Ilbert the Sheriff must have learned something by now.”

“Assuredly, he has. But the only channel of information that we possess is that egregious reeve of yours.” Ralph rolled his eyes. “Getting news out of him is worse than squeezing blood from a stone. It is frustrating.”

Golde was deflated. “Is there nobody who can help?”

“Only Ilbert the Sheriff.”

“But he is in Archenfield.”

“We will be there ourselves before the day is out.”

“You go to Llanwarne?” she said, eagerly.

“To a place not too far distant from it.”

“Take me with you, my lord!”

“What?”

“Let me ride beside you,” she implored. “I will be no bother to you or to your companions, I swear, but I simply must go to Archenfield.”

“Why?”

“To see for myself!”

Ralph was struck by the intensity of her plea. It brought her face close to his own and he could see the supplication in her eyes. Her breath was soft and sweet, her fragrance bewitching. A wave of envy washed over him.

“He was indeed a fortunate man.”

“Who?”

“Warnod.”

“Fortunate!” she exclaimed. “To end his life like that?”

“To have someone like you to mourn him, Golde.”

“Warnod was … a good man.”

“Of that there is no doubt.”

“He was kind and generous.”

“You would not love any man who was not.”

She gave him a curious stare, then backed away slightly.

“I fear that you mistake me, my lord.”

“The man left your house that night, did he not?”

“I admitted as much.”

“Why else should he ride so far to visit a beautiful widow?” She turned abruptly away. “I do not mean to offend you, Golde. You ask an extremely large favour of me. I am entitled to know your reason for doing so.”

“If I tell you, will you take me?”

“I will consider it,” he promised.

She swung round. “Warnod did not come to my house to call on me, my lord. But on another. It is for her sake that I make these enquiries.”

Ralph’s interest quickened. “Then he was not …?”

“He was not and never could be.”

“That puts the matter in a very different light,” he said, stroking his chin. “My companions will not like it, I warn you now. Gervase will see you as a distraction. Canon Hubert will view you as an abomination. And Brother Simon is so terrified of any woman that he will disappear into his cowl like a snail going back into its shell.”

Golde was thrilled. “Does that mean you will take me?”

“What is my reward to be?” he teased.

“As much ale as you can drink.”

“That is a punishment, not a reward!”

“Then all I can offer is my heartfelt thanks.”

Golde came close again and looked up into his face with a gratitude that was fringed with real affection. Life as a widow had accustomed her to the unwanted attentions of many men, but Ralph Delchard was different. She trusted him. It would not be a pleasant ride to Archenfield and grim tidings would await her there, but she could withstand the pain all the more easily with him to support her.

“One last question, Golde.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“This other person whom Warnod came to see.”

“Well?”

“Who is she?”

Golde searched his eyes and found what she needed. He would not betray her confidence. There was the merest hint of polite lechery in his gaze, but there was also a store of integrity and understanding.

“Who is she, Golde?”

“My sister.”

Aelgar knew that it was him as soon as she heard the horses clatter past the side of the house. A sword was used to bang on the front door. The servant girl came in from the brewhouse.

“Do not answer it!” ordered Aelgar.

“Why not?”

“Bolt the door!”

“Who is it?”

“Do as you’re told and bolt the door!”

Aelgar was so rarely angry that the girl knew she was in earnest.

The servant ran to bolt the door as instructed. She then cowered in a corner as the banging became louder and more insistent. The door was shaking.

“Come on out!” roared a man’s voice.

“Say nothing!” Aelgar hissed to the servant.

“I want to see you, Aelgar. Come on out.”

“Perhaps you should go in, my lord,” said another man.

There was crude laughter from outside the door.

Aelgar looked around desperately for a means of escape. She could run to the brewhouse, but they could find her just as easily in there.

Her only hope lay in remaining so still that she convinced them that the house was empty. She gestured to the frightened servant to keep silent. The girl put both hands over her mouth and crouched down even lower.

Aelgar’s strategy did not work. She herself backed slowly up against a wall and sat on the floor. There was a tapping on the shutter above her head. It was a gentle noise like the sound of a bird fluttering in a cage. Aelgar slowly rose to peer through the window and almost fainted with shock. The lean face of Maurice Damville was grinning at her.

“Come to me, my darling!” he coaxed.

“No!”

“I only wish to talk to you.”

“Go away!”

“Open the door.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I have brought a present for you, my pretty one.”

“I want no presents.”

“Here it is,” he said. “In my hand.”

But when his hand came up to the window it was only to grab at her through the narrow space. Aelgar jumped back in the nick of time and the sinewy fingers were left grasping thin air. She snatched up the broom that was lying against the wall. It was made of birch twigs lashed tightly together. Aelgar swung the broom at the hand and produced a howl of pain.

More crude laughter came from Damville’s soldiers.

“You’ll pay for that, you little vixen!”

Her courage deserted her. Terrified that she had now provoked him, Aelgar dropped the broom and ran to the ladder that was angled up into the roof. She scrambled up the rungs and tucked herself under the thatch so that she was not visible through the window.

Damville cursed and banged on the door again, but the timber held.

The jeers of his men finally made their master burst into laughter.

Here was no nubile milkmaid who could be taken on a whim. Aelgar had quality and spirit. She needed to be stalked by a more cunning hunter. He knew that the prize would be more than worth the effort.

“Good-bye, my darling!” he called. “I must go.”

“Thank God!” she sighed.

“But I’ll be back for you soon.”

The hooves clacked off down Castle Street and were soon swallowed up in the general hubbub of market day. Aelgar had survived the visit this time, but there would be another.

Maurice Damville would not endure refusal for long.

“No, no, no!” protested Canon Hubert with crimson jowls shaking. “I refuse to countenance this act of madness.”

“Your disapproval is noted,” said Ralph, cheerfully.

“You visit two of the plagues of Egypt upon us.”

“A woman and a Welshman?”

“Yes,” moaned Hubert. “The woman will lead you astray and the Welshman will talk the ears off my donkey.”

He was not happy with the travel arrangements. It was bad enough to be wrested away from the relative comfort of the shire hall and from his accommodation at the cathedral. Canon Hubert was now being forced to share the journey with an urgent widow and an eager archdeacon. It was Purgatory.

Brother Simon was at least prepared to compromise.

“The archdeacon is fit company,” he said, exhausting every last drop of Christian charity at his disposal, “but the woman is not. Let us take one without the other. I would sooner bear the pain of endless theological argument than the discomfort of a female presence.

Women terrify me!”

“Has lust never found its sly way into that celibate body of yours?”

mocked Ralph. “Embrace sin gladly, Brother Simon. Give yourself some pleasure to repent.”

“Heaven forbid!”

Gervase Bret did not even bother to offer an opinion on the subject.

When Ralph made a decision, he held firm to it regardless of opposi-tion. Golde would ride with them to Archenfield in the company of Idwal the Archdeacon. Gervase was the only man in Hereford willing to befriend the roving ambassador from Llandaff, who, hearing of their journey to Archenfield, was quick to attach himself to them.

Gervase alone foresaw Idwal’s value. In an area that was predomi-nantly Welsh, they would need a skilful interpreter.

When they finally set off, they were fourteen in number. Ralph led the way with Golde at his side on a palfrey. At the rear of the column were Gervase and Idwal, the latter riding a Welsh pony and still wearing his malodorous cloak. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon rode in the very middle of the cavalcade, thus occupying an intermediate station between sinful thought and sacerdotal torture. While Simon watched the woman up ahead through apprehensive eyes, Hubert cocked an ear to catch the latest ramblings of the man he privately referred to as the Celtic imbecile.

Gervase was intrigued by the garrulous Welshman.

“Do you always travel alone, Archdeacon?”

“No, Gervase. God is always at my side.”

“But you take no companions? No priests or deacons?”

“I prefer to seek friends along the way.”

“You are more likely to encounter foes.”

Idwal chuckled. “Not in Wales. I am too well-known and too well-respected. I can ride from Caerleon in the south to Caernavon in the north with not a hand raised against me. I need no protection from my own countrymen.”

“But you are not in Wales now, Archdeacon.”

“I am, Gervase. Spiritually.”

A snort from up ahead told them that Canon Hubert had caught the last remark. His donkey chose that moment to relieve itself without breaking its stride. It seemed to Hubert an apt comment on the lilting lunacy behind him.

Untroubled by harsh criticism from man and beast, Idwal was in full flow on the subject of the red dragon. His face was turned in the direction of his native country and his voice took on a declamatory note.

“Long centuries ago,” he chanted, “Merlin prophesied the future struggles of the Welsh people. He revealed to our great chieftain a stone chest hidden at the bottom of a lake.”

“Would that chieftain’s name be Vortigern?”

“Indeed, it would. Vortigern himself. Lord of the Britons, as the Welsh were once called. Vortigern commanded that the stone chest be opened and out of it came a white dragon and a red dragon. Immediately, they began a fierce battle. At first, the white dragon drove the red one to the middle of the pool, then the red one, provoked into fury, drove the white one hither and thither.”

“What did it signify?” asked Gervase.

“Merlin explained that. The red dragon signified the Britons, the white, the Saeson, as we call them.”

“The Saxons.”

“Red for Wales, white for England. ‘Woe to the red dragon,’ exclaimed Merlin, ‘for her calamity draws nigh, and the white dragon shall seize on her cells. Then shall the mountains be made plains, and the glens and rivers overflow with blood. The Saeson shall possess almost all the island from sea to sea, but afterward our nation shall arise and bravely drive the Saeson out of their country.’ Thus spoke Merlin and thus it came to pass.”

“There is no mention of the Normans in that prophesy.”

“They are just a more monstrous white dragon.”

“And will the red dragon arise and drive them out?”

“In time, my friend. In time.”

“What of the emblem left by Warnod’s killers?”

“They were not true Welshmen,” insisted Idwal.

“A red dragon was carved in the turf.”

“It was an insult to us and not a portent.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because my heart tells me so,” said Idwal, punching his chest.

“We are a proud people, Gervase, and we cherish our warrior history.

Our nation will arise one day to reclaim the land that the white dragon has taken from us. But we will not send ten callous assassins to burn one man to death in his home. With banners held high, we will come in all our glory under a new and courageous Welsh prince.”

“And who will that prince be?” wondered Gervase.

Idwal fell silent, but his face was shining with joy.

In the shelter of some trees, two horsemen watched from a hill almost half a mile away. They could see the column wending its way along the track in the afternoon sunshine. Even at that distance, they could recognise Ralph Delchard, sitting upright in his saddle and talking with a female companion. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could also be picked out, black-clad figures among the glinting helms and hauberks. One of the men at the rear had to be Gervase Bret.

The bearded rider turned to his companion.

“What do they want?” he said.

“I do not know, my lord.”

“Follow them.”

“I will.”

“Take three men and trail them every inch of the way.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Send me reports of everything they do and everywhere they go. If they so much as set foot on my land, I wish to be informed instantly.

Is that understood?’

“Clearly, my lord.”

“I’ll permit no trespass. By anyone!”

Richard Orbec threw a last, hostile glance at the procession below before swinging round to canter off in the opposite direction. His peace was being invaded.

Ilbert the Sheriff had imposed a form of a truce on Archenfield, but he had neither the men nor the time to maintain it indefinitely. The district was sparsely populated with its inhabitants scattered over a wide area. There was no way that he could subdue every corner of it.

The situation was profoundly aggravating.

“I’ve a mind to ride back to Hereford and let them get on with it!” he said. “If they want to kill each other, they might as well go ahead. In a week or so, when it’s all over, we’ll simply come back and bury the dead.”

“It might not end there, my lord sheriff.”

“I know. More’s the pity!”

“Welsh passions run deep. This argument may spread.”

“We must contain it,” emphasized the sheriff. “It must not cross the border at any cost or we are doomed.” He heaved a rueful sigh. “Which task is worse? Keeping the Welsh and the Saxons apart in Archenfield? Or preventing Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec from fighting a duel?”

“Both are equally onerous.”

Ilbert the Sheriff was standing near the little church in Llanwarne with the captain of his men-at-arms. They had been counting the cost of one night’s villainy in the area. In the wake of Warnod’s death, his old servant, Elfig, had expired from his beating, and his Welsh servant, Hywel, had been viciously attacked. Five more people from each community had been seriously wounded and several had suffered minor assaults. Three prisoners had been trussed up for the return journey to Hereford.

Warnod’s house was a pile of debris in the distance.

“Will we ever find his killers?” said the captain.

“We have to find them,” asserted the sheriff. “It is the only way to lay this whole business to rest. There must be a reason why Warnod was singled out for attack. If we dig deep enough, we will uncover it.”

“In the meantime, my lord sheriff?”

“Keep the patrols for a day or two more.”

“The worst of it seems to be over.”

“Thanks to our show of strength,” said Ilbert. “It is the only thing these people understand. Superior force. By acting swiftly, we stamped out the flames of civil strife. We may take due credit for our ruthless efficiency.”

Congratulations were premature. No sooner had the sheriff spoken than voices were raised nearby in a derisive cheer. Ilbert and the captain ran to their horses and leaped into the saddles. The shouts gave them direction, but it was the smoke which guided them to the exact spot. It curled up into the clear sky like a giant finger mat beckoned them on.

Everyone had fled from the scene when they arrived, but their purpose was vividly evident. A fire was crackling merrily. Sitting in the heart of it was a large red dragon, crudely fashioned from wood and daubed with dye. Several arrows had been shot into the beast to speed its symbolic death.

Ilbert the Sheriff and his captain watched with horror. The red dragon did not submit quiedy to its fate. As its wooden frame began to crack and blacken, a sudden burst of flame roared from its mouth and made the two men jump back in alarm. At the very moment of its demise, the red dragon came back to life with fiery defiance.

Wales had been awakened.