The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Five

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn ascended the dais at the end of the hall and sat on the throne with an imperious air. His subjects were ranged around him in strict order of rank and position. As prince of Powys, he held sway over a border region that stretched from mid-Wales all the way north to Gwynedd, and he was eager to extend the frontiers of his territory. His crown bestowed both power and prestige. The court enabled Cadwgan to put them ostentatiously on display.

Like all Welsh princes, he kept a mobile court, shifting the seat of power according to caprice or necessity. He had come as far south as Elfael for this occasion. The court itself comprised a group of timbered buildings within an enclosure. Occupying the central position, the hall was by far the largest structure, long and wide with its roof timbers supported by thick oaken pillars. It was filled with members of his household, minor princelings who had come to pay homage, and a few privileged guests. Cadwgan provided generous hospitality for them all.

He was a compact figure in a long gown that trailed to the floor. His mantle was held at the shoulder by a gold brooch in the shape of a dragon. The circlet of gold around his brow bore the same motif.

Dark, brooding, and bearded, he was of medium height, but exuded such a sense of innate strength that he seemed much bigger than bis physical dimensions. His eyes roamed the hall with sovereign arrogance to drink in the respect and fealty of the assembly.

Power was a precarious commodity in a country as unsettled as Wales. It was far easier to acquire than to hold onto for any length of time. Dynasties were built on shifting political sands. Cadwgan knew the unwritten laws of kingship by heart. His first duty was to protect his title at all times. To this end, those who stood closest to him were always elite members of the teulu, his military retinue. A bold warrior himself, he knew how to select the best men to protect him.

He summoned the captain of his royal bodyguard.

“Goronwy!”

“My lord?”

“Come close for private conference.”

Goronwy smiled with anticipatory delight. He was a tall, slender young man with dark hair and complexion. His face was too squashed to be handsome, but there was a vitality in his eyes and manner, which saved him from being thought of as ugly. Goronwy wore light armour. Sword and dagger were at his belt.

Expecting good news, his smile broadened into a grin.

“Can the day be named, my lord?”

“Not yet, Goronwy.”

“But all has been arranged.”

“Something has upset those arrangements badly.”

Goronwy’s face clouded. “An accident?”

“Of a kind. It must be looked into speedily.”

“Send me, my lord. It is my wish and my duty.”

“No man would be more appropriate,” said Cadwgan with an affec-tionate hand on his arm. “You are my brother’s son and royal blood flows in your veins. Let it boil until this matter has been settled.

Show no mercy. Hound them.”

“What has happened?”

The tidings were not for common usage. They were whispered to the young man in the soft consonants of the Welsh language. Goronwy was momentarily crushed. He recovered at once and his temples pounded with rage. He listened carefully to his orders, nodding throughout and rubbing his palm against the handle of his sword.

The news had roused him to a pitch of fury. Goronwy was eager to be on his way.

“What of the men responsible for this crime, my lord?”

“Bring them to me.”

“Alive or dead?”

Cadwgan’s words were like soft caresses on the ear.

“Bring me their heads. They will suffice.”

Ralph Delchard sent word ahead of their approach. Ilbert the Sheriff was highly displeased to hear that they were coming. He had more than enough on his hands without the burden of peripatetic royal commissioners. They could not have arrived at a worse time. At the very least, they would be a gross encumbrance.

Controlling his temper, he rode a few miles north to meet them in the hope of heading them off before they penetrated too deeply in Archenfield. He did not wish to have anyone looking over his shoulder while he was about his business. His methods were necessarily cruel at times. He wanted to apply them without criticism or hindrance.

His annoyance was markedly increased when he saw the cavalcade. The presence of Golde made him seethe. When Ralph introduced himself and his companions, the sheriffs gaze never left the woman for more than a split second. For her part, Golde maintained a dignified silence; head up, eyes downcast.

Idwal pushed forward shamelessly to claim attention.

“I will help you solve this murder, my lord sheriff.”

“Will you, indeed?” said Ilbert, wincing at the sound of yet another Welsh voice. “What makes you think that?”

“I am an advocate for my nation.”

“We have too many of those at work already.”

“Show me the place where the crime occurred.”

“I am too busy pursuing my own enquiries,” said the sheriff, testily.

“I have no time to waste on the burblings of a wandering scholar like yourself.”

Idwal blenched. “I am neither burbler nor wandering scholar,” he said in a querulous voice. “Herewald, Bishop of Llandaff sent me on a mission throughout Wales.”

“Then attend to it.”

“I am needed here first.”

“Not by me, Archdeacon. I want no interfering churchmen getting under my feet. This is unholy work. Avoid.”

The sheriffs abrupt manner threw Canon Hubert and Brother Simon into a quandary. Delighted to see Idwal being rebuffed so sternly, they were yet witnessing open disrespect of a man of God. The Church of Wales was, in their opinion, a lower order of creation than that in which they had been called to serve, but it still merited the courtesy of a kind word. Torn between applauding and upbraiding the surly sheriff, Canon Hubert managed no more than a bout of meaningless spluttering.

Golde was next to take up the questioning.

“Has anyone been arrested for the murder?”

“Not yet.”

“But you know who the killers were?”

“We believe so.”

“Do you know why they chose Warnod as their target?”

The sheriff was blunt “I can no more answer that question than tell why you should ask it. Do you not have work enough in Hereford brewing your ale that you should ride about the countryside to interrupt my work?”

“That is too harsh a reply for a man,” said Ralph, tartly. “Let alone for a lady who has asked her question politely. We realise that you are jaded by your obvious failure to make any progress with your investigation, my lord sheriff, but you should not take out your frustrations on an innocent party such as our delightful guest here.”

Golde thanked him with a smile, but Ilbert fumed.

Canon Hubert tried to mollify him somewhat Nudging his donkey forward, he spoke on behalf of the whole commission.

“My lord sheriff,” he said. “You will wonder, no doubt, why fourteen sane people who could find a better lodging in Hereford are instead riding all the way to Archenfield.”

“It baffles me,” said Ilbert.

“Warnod brought us here. He is one of the main pillars that holds up our work. Take him away and it collapses.”

“Then you are standing in the ruins, Canon Hubert.”

“Ruins can be rebuilt-your own cathedral is a case in point.” Hubert was precise. “We need to know everything we can about the deceased- his character, his possessions, his way of life. Most of all, we need to know who killed him and for what reason. Our deliberations cannot proceed without this crucial information.”

“Does Golde form part of the commission?” said Ilbert with heavy sarcasm. “Or is she merely here to provide ale?”

“That remark is very unbecoming,” scolded Ralph. “The lady is here at my personal invitation. Offend her with your boorish comments and you offend me.”

Ilbert bit back a rejoinder as he met the unyielding gaze of Ralph Delchard. He decided that nothing would be served by antagonising the commissioners. It was in his interest to satisfy their demands and send them swiftly on their way. With a visible effort, therefore, he set aside his personal feelings and sounded a note of appeasement.

“I beg the lady’s pardon,” he said with rough courtesy. “Her appearance in such company as this took me by surprise and robbed me of my manners. It was unworthy of me.”

“Thank you, my lord sheriff,” said Golde.

She was poised and he was relaxed, but the look that passed between them was full of unresolved tensions. Ralph wondered what Golde had done to ruffle the sheriff.

“May we now ride on to Llanwarne?” she suggested.

“Yes,” urged Idwal. “My countrymen have need of my peculiar gifts.

I have to vindicate the red dragon.”

“If you know how to tame it,” said Ilbert, grudgingly, “you may yet be welcome in Archenfield.”

“Ergyng.”

“Call it what you will.”

“No man alive could stop me.”

Ralph was eager to press on. “Shall we set forward?”

“Hold there,” said Gervase. “Can we not make better use of our numbers here? The sheriff does not want all fourteen of us treading on his tail. While some ride on to view the place where Warnod died, others might strike off west to find the holdings that are the cause of the dispute. That way we get fuller value out of the daylight hours remaining.”

“Sage advice,” agreed Ralph. “I’ll on to Llanwarne with one party, Gervase. Take four of my men and anyone else who wishes to go with you. Survey those controversial acres that Richard Orbec is so determined to keep and Maurice Damville is so willing to cede on impulse.”

The sheriffs ears pricked up. “Damville giving in to Orbec?” he said in disbelief. “Can this be true?”

“I will explain as we ride along,” said Ralph. He turned to Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. “The road forks here. Archdeacon Idwal and Golde will accompany me. Which route will you choose?”

The choice was made for them. Hubert seized the chance to pluck out the Welsh thorn in his flesh, while Simon was able to rid himself of the alarming proximity of a beautiful woman. They elected to ride with Gervase. He was more amenable company in every respect.

Ilbert the Sheriff led the way south at a trot with Ralph Delchard beside him. Though the talk was of Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville, another person kept wafting her way into Ralph’s mind.

Golde was at once behind him and before his eyes. The journey from Hereford had enabled him to become more closely acquainted with her and there had been a deepening affection on both sides. Ilbert Malvoisin complicated the relationship between the two of them. Ralph sensed a rival.

Gervase Bret, meanwhile, veered off to the west with his six companions. The sheriff had given them directions and they rode at a brisk trot. The landscape was breathtaking. They passed through undulating countryside with wooded slopes, rich pastures, golden cornfields, and plentiful streams that trickled playfully along. When they paused to water their horses at one of those streams, they looked around to admire the scenery.

Gervase was particularly struck by the copse of silver birches on a rise ahead of them. With the sun hitting mem directly, their trunks gleamed like so many soldiers massed for a battle. He did not realise that some of those armoured figures were not made of wood.

Activity was brisk at the castle. Maurice Damville had returned to Ewyas Harold and was inspecting progress on the walls of the bailey.

Fearing severe punishment if they were deemed to be slacking, his slaves laboured with frenetic commitment. Masons had reinforced the battlements with slabs of stone dressed to shape, but rougher boulders were now being winched up or brought by hand. They were being piled at strategic points along the battlements.

Damville strutted along with Huegon beside him.

“We will need more skins of oil,” he said.

“Order has already been given, my lord.”

“Braziers, too,” added Damville. “Hot coals and boiling oil are worthy accomplices. See that fuel is provided.”

“The storehouse is full,” said Huegon, pointing to one of the timber buildings in the courtyard below. “The castle is well-supplied with all our needs. Food, wine, water, hay for the horses, and fuel for the braziers.”

“There is only one thing missing, Huegon.”

“My lord?”

“Women!” Damville laughed. “Fuel for my bed!”

“Ewyas Harold may not be the ideal place for the fairer sex at this moment,” said Huegon, tactfully. “Ladies have their function, it is true, but they must take their turn behind more pressing matters.”

“A fair, fat wench is a pressing matter in herself.”

“There will be ample time for sport.”

“One name will head all the others.”

“One name?”

“Aelgar.”

“The Lady of the Brewhouse.”

“She is more than that, Huegon,” said Damville with a wistful smile.

“Aelgar is an English rose in full bloom. My hand itches to snap her stem. Have you ever seen such fine eyes, such full lips, such a trim shape? I tell you this girl has bewitched me. I could almost believe I was in love.”

“Hereford lies a long way off yet, my lord.”

Damville accepted the covert reproach in his steward’s gaze. Huegon was, as usual, correct. In the short term, the pleasures of the chase had to be forsaken. They could be enjoyed at a later date. To postpone a delight was to intensify its quality. Damville was content.

His mind swung back to more immediate problems.

“Did we handle the royal commissioners aright?”

“We did what was needful, my lord.”

“It grieved me to give Orbec that land gratis.”

“What is given can as easily be taken back.”

Damville chuckled. “I’ll have the whole of his demesne in my grasp.

His house I’d destroy, but I’ll let his chapel stand as a privy.” He looked down over the battlement. “If only Richard Orbec were at my door right now.”

“He way well be so in due course.”

“I will be ready for him, Huegon.”

Grunting noises made Maurice Damville turn. Two slaves were struggling to carry a large boulder between them. They dropped it onto a waiting pile then hurried off. Damville swooped on the missile and picked it up without effort. Heaving the jagged stone over the battlement, he let out a wild cry of triumph.

“Richard Orbec!”

With an awesome thud, the boulder sank deep into the ground.

The messenger was waiting for him as he came out of the tiny chapel.

Richard Orbec was bareheaded and wore only a tunic. His mind was still exercised by the febrile thoughts with which he had wrestled before the altar. It took him a few seconds to collect himself.

“Well?” he said.

“They are heading this way, my lord.”

“The whole commission?”

“Three only,” said the man. “Their leader rode off towards Llanwarne with the sheriff, taking four of his men-at-arms with him. The others escort the three who travel towards your demesne.”

“What speed do they make?”

“Slow but steady. An hour will get them here.”

“They must be stopped,” said Orbec, decisively. “When they sit behind a table in Hereford, commissioners with a royal warrant have some power. It turns to vapour when they dare to encroach on my property.

A show of force will teach them their place. Have twenty men armed and ready to ride.”

“Yes, my lord. How will I deploy them?”

“I’ll lead them myself,” said Orbec. “If I speak directly to these interlopers, they will more readily understand the danger that they court.”

He glanced guiltily back at the chapel, then moved quickly away.

“Fetch my sword and armour! We leave immediately!”

They were shocked when they saw the scene of devastation. Warnod’s house had been reduced to ashes. Only a few charred timbers remained to show where he had once lived with his doomed family. Golde let out a gasp of horror and brought her hands up to her mouth. Idwal sighed with compassion. Even Ralph Delchard was initially jarred.

He walked around the perimeter of the house.

“What could one man do to deserve all this?” he said.

“The blameless often suffer the most in this world,” observed Idwal, darkly. “Thank heaven his suffering is over!”

“There were no witnesses, my lord sheriff?”

“None that will come forward,” said Ilbert.

“An inferno like this? Think of the noise, the light.”

“Everyone was struck deaf and blind.”

“By fear.”

“Or by agreement,” said the sheriff. “I begin to wonder if they were all part of the conspiracy. The Welsh will always protect their own.”

“I deny your accusation with every breath in my body!” said Idwal, quivering with indignation. “Do not tie this crime around the necks of my compatriots when you do not have a shred of evidence to do so.”

“You forget the red dragon,” argued Ilbert.

“That is something I will never forget!” affirmed the archdeacon.

“But you have no proof that this emblem carved in the ground was put there by a Welshman. It could just as easily have been hacked out of the earth by a Saxon, Norman, or Breton. The shape of a dragon is not unknown to them.”

“Idwal has a point,” agreed Ralph, pensively.

“Remember the servants,” said Ilbert. “Elfig and Hywel. One beaten, one spared. One now dead, one alive. One scourged for his nationality, one saved by it.”

“He was not saved for long,” said Ralph, “if reports that we hear are true. This young servant is your most valuable witness. What has he vouchsafed?”

“Nothing beyond the fact that he was bound and gagged.”

“Did you not question him with sufficient vigour?”

“I used every threat I could to loosen his tongue.”

“To no avail?”

“Hywel is beyond us, my lord. He speaks only Welsh.”

“Then he is not beyond me,” said Idwal, confidently. “Where is the lad? Let me speak with him at once.”

“He was severely wounded by the attack upon him.”

“Then I will medicine his injuries while we talk.”

Ralph Delchard encouraged the idea. The softer arts of a Welsh archdeacon might succeed where the rough questioning of a Norman sheriff had failed. When Ilbert finally accepted this, they mounted their horses and rode off towards the village itself. Hywel was being cared for in a fetid hovel that belonged to his uncle. Idwal and Ralph were admitted to the dwelling. The former was at home in the mean surroundings, but the latter coughed as the stench hit his throat.

Hywel lay on a makeshift bed of straw. He was a sturdy youth with dark hair and a tufted beard, both still clotted with blood. One eye was hideously swollen, the other was ringed with a black bruise. A fresh scar had baptised his forehead and there were scratches all over his face. His tunic had been torn to expose gashes and bruises all over his body. One of his hands was swollen to twice its normal size, but it was his right leg which had suffered the worst damage.

Broken in two parts, it was bound tightly with strips of cloth to a wooden splint.

When the youth tried to move, he was clearly in agony.

“Rest, rest, Hywel,” soothed the archdeacon in Welsh. “We have not come to hurt you. I am Idwal of Llandaff. When I passed through here two days ago, your body was sound and your mind untroubled.

What miseries have befallen you since!”

Hywel said nothing. He glanced resentfully at Ralph.

“He comes as a friend,” reassured Idwal, inspecting the injuries as he talked. “Who set this leg for you?”

“The priest,” mumbled the youth.

“He was done his work well,” noted the other. “Mark that, Hywel.

The Church repairs what men break asunder.” He clicked tongue.

“But he might have bathed your wounds with more thoroughness.

Bring water!”

An old woman, who had been huddling with alarm in a corner, got up and scurried out. Idwal continued to soothe the patient with soft words before offering up a prayer for him. When the old woman came in with an earthenware pot, he took it from her and used the hem of his own garment to dip in the water. Squeezing it out, he knelt beside Hywel and bathed his face and hair with gentle strokes. Ralph did not understand a word, but he was intrigued by the way that Idwal was slowly winning the confidence of the wounded servant.

“Tell me what happened, Hywel.”

“I have told my story many times.”

“Tell it once more to me,” coaxed Idwal. “Men came to the house and bound you. Is that not true? Did you chance to get a close look at any of them?”

“They took me from behind, when I was chopping wood.”

“You are a strong lad. Did you not struggle?”

“There were too many of them.”

“Did you not cry out for help?”

“They gagged me and blindfolded my eyes.”

“Then you were still able to hear their voices.”

“No,” said Hywel, recalling memories that were branded into his young mind. “They said nothing. All I heard was poor Elfig’s screams as they beat him. And the crackle of the flames much later.”

“How much later?”

“An hour or two at least. I cannot be sure.”

“What else did you hear?”

Hywel shuddered. “Their shouts and jeers as the house burned down. But they were too far away for me to pick out their voices.”

“How were you released?”

“By my kinsman. He was roused by the noise.”

“And what did you see when you were untied?”

“The house in flames and ten men riding off.”

“Nothing else?”

“The red dragon. Alive! ”

Idwal attended to the wounds for a few minutes and translated what he had so far heard for Ralph’s benefit. The latter suggested the next question and the archdeacon rendered it back into his own language.

“Where had Warnod been when he returned home?”

“To Hereford.”

“Why?”

“He did not say.”

“What sort of mood was he in when he left Llanwarne?”

“Happy.”

“Was he a kind master, Hywel?”

“Yes.”

“How did he treat you and Elfig?”

“Well.”

“Did he have many enemies in Ergyng?”

“None that I know of.”

Idwal bent in close. “Who do you think killed him?”

The boy’s one visible eye filmed over with tears. He was still deeply distressed about the fate of his master and shaken by the savage beating he had been given. Desperate to help, the youth had no more information to offer. After going through some of the details a second time, Idwal thanked him and promised to call on him again to tend his wounds and to offer succour.

Ralph Delchard stepped quickly outside the hovel and gulped in fresh air. Golde was some distance away, locked in conversation with the sheriff. His manner seemed much less hostile towards her.

Idwal came out of the house and gave Ralph an account of everything else that the youth had said.

“I still do not spy a Welsh hand in this,” argued Idwal.

“Nor do I,” said Ralph.

“Why?”

“Because this attack was planned. They knew that Warnod was away from his house and they knew when he was likely to return and by what route. No random band of killers from over the border would have had that intelligence.”

“Why burn him alive when they could have cut him down?”

“They wanted to send a signal.”

“To whom?”

“Everyone.”

“All that is signalled was an outbreak of violence.”

“Exactly,” said Ralph. “Then there was the red dragon.”

“A false trail.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Hywel was feverish. He did not see that dragon alive.”

“In his mind’s eye, he did.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“He is Welsh.”

The remark sent Idwal into a burst of invective against Saxons and Normans alike. Ralph did not hear him. He was too busy looking in the direction of the border.

“Who are the most dangerous men in Wales?”

“Look elsewhere for your murderers, my lord.”

“I ask but in the spirit of enquiry,” said Ralph. “I know little of the Welsh beyond the fact that they are fierce soldiers. I fought against them near Chester many years ago. They were bloody encounters with no quarter given.”

“Praise the Lord! We have always had brave warriors.”

“Brave warriors need great leaders.”

“We have had our share of those,” observed Idwal with pride. “I could recite a long list of immortal heroes. In recent memory, Gruffydd ap Llewelyn was the most famous. Prince of Gwynedd and Powys, and lord of all Wales. A mighty man on the battlefield. You may yoke the name of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn with that of Richard Orbec.”

“Orbec?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Idwal with a dry cackle. “Richard Orbec is helping to rebuild the cathedral that Gruffydd destroyed when he sacked the whole city.” He became solemn. “Not that I condone the attack on a cathedral or on any place of worship, mind you. Ecclesiastical buildings of all kinds should be sacrosanct. Gruffydd was too impulsive.”

“That was over twenty years ago,” said Ralph. “Where are your fear-some princes now?”

“Rhys ap Tewdr is lord of Deheubarth and rules the whole of South Wales without challenge.”

“King William brought him to heel in St. David’s.”

“Your king was on a pilgrimage to the shrine!”

“A cloak to hide his real purpose,” said Ralph. “He went with an army to remind this Rhys ap Tewdr of the power of Norman soldiers.

The lord of Deheubarth had the sense to become reconciled with the King. Who else can you cite?”

“Rhys holds the south, Gruffydd ap Cynan, the north.” Idwal shook his head sadly. “In name only, alas. The prince of Gwynedd was imprisoned by deceitful Normans. He rules his land through the bars of a dungeon.”

“It may be the safest throne on which to set him.”

“His time will come again, my lord.”

“But it is not at hand yet,” said Ralph. “You tell me of your two most powerful men. Rhys ap Tewdr in the south and Gruffydd ap Cynan in the north. Neither is a threat to us. What of the prince of Powys?”

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn?”

“Would he be a leader to unite your people?”

“Hardly!” said Idwal with asperity.

“Why not?”

“Because he has come to composition with the enemy and diluted the blood of his royal house.”

“In what way?”

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn is married to one of your own. The daughter of a Marcher lord, Picot de Say. His wife has taken all the fight out of him.”

“Our ladies keep warm beds.”

“The prince of Powys is as crafty as a fox, but he has been caged by marriage. Look for no trouble from him.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“I have met the man myself.”

“Does he not have a strong army around him?”

“Yes,” said Idwal. “Brave warriors, bred for battle, but they stand idle in Powys. You will not hear a peep out of Cadwgan and his soldiers.”

Goronwy led a troop of forty men down through the Black Mountains.

Light armour allowed them to move fast. As captain of his uncle’s teulu, Goronwy was a highly trained soldier who honed his military skills with unvarying regularity. Like their leader, the soldiers were expert horsemen who could use sword and spear with dexterity in the saddle. Several of them also had bows and quivers of arrows slung across their backs. As they clattered along the narrow mountain roads, nobody dared to question their purpose or obstruct their path.

They were on an important mission that brooked no delay. Goronwy had not spoken a word since they had left his uncle’s court. Suffused with anger, his face squeezed in upon itself. The forehead narrowed, the eyes half-closed, the cheeks were sucked in, and the mouth became a thin strip of red amid the black hair of his beard. An invisible hammer continued to pound the anvil inside his head until his temples threatened to burst apart.

When they reached the foothills, they saw a small group of travellers coming towards them. Goronwy gave a signal with his hand and his men cantered on to surround the little cortege. Terrified by the ring of hostility around them, the travellers pleaded for mercy. Their spokesman was an ancient figure in a tattered cloak.

“Do not harm us, friends,” he implored in quaking Welsh. “We are poor people with nothing worth stealing. Spare us.”

“We are not robbers!” snarled Goronwy with disgust. “We are soldiers of the prince of Powys, Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”

“We did not look to find you this far south.”

“North, south, east, west! We ride where we choose.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, apologetically.

“Where have you come from?”

“Caerleon.”

“What did you see along the road?”

“Nothing of any note.”

“Whom did you meet?”

“Nobody, my lord.”

“You are lying.”

“It is the truth,” said the old man. “Ask any of my companions. We have ridden all the way from Caerleon and seen not a soul on the road.” He stretched out an arm to point. “We came by the quieter paths through-”

“Stop lying!” interrupted Goronwy.

He enforced his command with a swish of his sword. The outstretched arm was severed in two below the elbow and the old traveller reeled in the saddle. Goronwy kicked his horse into a canter and continued on his way. For half a mile, they could still hear the piteous howls of their victim.

Goronwy was unrepentant. “Nobody lies to me,” he said with a grim smile. “I should’ve cut his tongue out as well.”

Ilbert the Sheriff swiftly revised his opinion of the Archdeacon of Llandaff. Though everything about the man made his hackles rise, he soon came to see how useful he could be. Idwal was a calming influence on the Welsh community, moving among them to listen to their tales of woe, offer comfort, and counsel moderate action. Belli-cose in theological debate, the archdeacon was also an ambassador for peace. Ilbert decided to make the best use of him that he could.

It left Ralph Delchard alone with Golde for the first time since they had quit Hereford. She was numbed by the implications of what she saw at Warnod’s house and she wondered how she could soften the hard tale when she told it to her sister.

Ralph related what he had learned from Warnod’s servant, but it took them no closer to understanding the motive that lay behind the attack. He turned to more personal affairs.

“You talked intently with my lord sheriff just now.”

“I had many questions to put to him.”

“He seemed more ready to answer them than earlier.”

“Ilbert Malvoisin is a sullen man at times, but he can be brought around to a more pleasant state of mind.”

“Your charms would bring anyone around, Golde.”

She acknowledged the compliment with a brief smile.

“You know him well, I think?” he continued.

“The sheriff?”

“When you first met, he was peppery. When I saw you even now, he was very attentive towards you. If a man shifts so quickly between anger and reconciliation, it usually means that his heart is engaged.”

“Not by me, my lord,” she said, sharply.

“He was all but fawning upon you.”

“Ilbert Malvoisin is married.”

“You are not.”

“Nor do I look to be,” she insisted. “One time was enough. I have had to tell that to many who came calling.”

“Including the sheriff?” he fished.

Golde was terse. “The sheriff and I meet in the way of business.

I supply ale to the castle, he buys it. That is the extent of our relationship. Now and in the future.”

“I see.” He cast another line into the water. “Is there someone else already in your life?”

“There is, my lord.”

“Oh.”

“My sister. Aelgar.”

“What I meant was that-”

“I know what you meant,” she said, “and my answer still holds.

Aelgar is my prime concern at the moment. Two days ago, she consented to marry Warnod.” She rode over his surprise. “Yes, I know that he was much older and already bereft of one wife. But he was a good man. Kind and considerate. He understood our ways. Warnod would have been a loving husband.”

“Did you approve of the match?”

“Aelgar is a strange girl,” she explained. “Young and still very much a child. She is at the mercy of her beauty. You have no idea what a curse it can sometimes be. For every man who looked at me, five would stare at Aelgar.” She met his gaze. “Warnod is not the man I would have chosen for her, but I came to see his virtues. He wooed her for over a year. She loved him truly. I believe that he would have made my sister happy and rescued her from all that attention.”

“What will become of her, Golde?”

“I do not know.”

“You cannot shield her forever,” he said, gently. “She has lost one husband, but there are other good men in the world. If she is even half as lovely as her sister, she will have an extremely wide choice.”

Golde almost blushed. “She will, my lord.”

“What of you, then?”

“Me?”

“When your role is done. When Aelgar is settled.”

“That may not be for some time.”

“But then? ”

The candour of his affection was touching. She felt her pulse quicken under his gaze. A bleak purpose had brought her to Archenfield, but Ralph Delchard had breathed some warmth into the journey for her.

He was a Norman lord and she was a humble brewer, but she was not abashed in his presence. She let him know it.

“I am the daughter of a Saxon thegn,” she said.

He grinned. “I saw the nobility in your bearing.”

“Come no closer,” ordered Richard Orbec. “This is my land.”

“We have a right to view it,” said Canon Hubert.

“To view it, but not to trespass upon it.”

“These holdings are in dispute, my lord,” said Gervase Bret, reasonably. “We come to see why they have attracted such interest from three rival claimants.”

“One, Master Bret,” said Orbec.

“Did we lose two along the road?”

“Maurice Damville, as I hear, has resigned his interest.”

“That still leaves you and Warnod.”

“I will not be dispossessed by a handful of ashes in Llanwarne,”

said Orbec. “Until you show me a legal and enforceable will that bestows on someone the right to contest part of my demesne, I will not let you step onto my property.”

“Then we may have to do so by force,” blustered Hubert. A line of twenty men-at-arms advanced a few paces towards him. “You will not intimidate me. We are here at the king’s express behest. His soldiers are at our beck and call.”

“But they are in Winchester-mine are here.”

“King William will be told about this.”

“He is in Normandy on more important business.”

“Very well,” said Gervase, conceding defeat. “We will but ride along the periphery of your land. That will give us a fair idea of its worth and quality.” An astringent note intruded. “But you do yourself no favours, my lord. When you are so eager to keep us away from your holdings, we are bound to wonder if you are hiding something from us.”

“I am.”

“What is it?”

“Myself.”

Richard Orbec left half his men to form a barrier against the visitors and rode off towards his house with the others. Gervase Bret gestured to his own party to withdraw. In the shade of some trees, they dismounted to consider their next step. Canon Hubert was outraged at the turn of events. His position gave him the right to inspect any land in the county and he hated to be baulked. Brother Simon, on the other hand, was almost relieved that their passage had been blocked. He argued that it was still possible for them to ride back to Hereford before darkness completely overtook them. The prospect of a cathedral from which Idwal the Archdeacon had been exorcised was very enticing.

“Put that thought aside, Brother Simon,” said Hubert. “We would be better advised to join the others in Llanwarne and seek shelter for the night in that vicinity. This murder may well have some bearing on Richard Orbec’s reluctance to admit us to his demesne.”

Gervase suggested a compromise. Having come this far, he did not wish to leave empty-handed. While the others rode on to Llanwarne, therefore, he would contrive some means to take a closer look at Richard Orbec’s disputed land.

“Alone?” said Canon Hubert. “I admire your courage, Gervase, but I question your sanity. What can one man do that seven of us could not?”

“Be less visible.”

For the benefit of the watching sentries, Gervase rode off with his companions on the road to Llanwarne. As soon as they were in thick cover, however, he bade farewell and doubled back in a wide circle.

Orbec’s land was fringed with woodland and dappled with orchards.

It would not be impossible to gain access to at least some of the holdings with relative safety. Using what cover he could, Gervase picked his way along with care.

The countryside was entrancing. Rich, luscious, and rolling gently towards the horizon, it was land that any man would fight to keep.

Birdsong filled the air and insects buzzed over standing pools. Gervase manoeuvred his way towards a grove of sycamores on a gentle slope.

From their shelter, he could enjoy the view at his leisure. Dismounting among the trees, he tethered his horse and crept forward to find himself a vantage point. The greater part of the disputed land unfolded before him like a green carpet. Gervase could even catch a faint glimpse of Richard Orbec’s house.

His survey was short-lived. He heard the crack of a twig beneath a foot, but his reactions were far too slow. Before he could even move, a wooden club struck him on the back of the head to send him tumbling forward into oblivion.