The Dragons of Archenfield

Chapter Six

As soon as they came within sight of the village, Canon Hubert regretted his decision to go there. Llanwarne was no more than a scatter of mean cottages around a tiny church, but it was not the buildings that arrested his eye. Standing on a hillock at the edge of the village, and speaking to a dozen or more Welsh peasants, was Idwal the Archdeacon. His voice enthralled them, his eminence impressed them, and his blend of learning and hwyl kindled their spirits. Idwal held his impromptu congregation in the palm of his hand.

“Lord save us!” said Hubert. “The Sermon on the Mount.”

“Blessed are the deaf,” murmured Brother Simon, “for they cannot hear him.”

Simon’s own discomfort was compounded by the sight of Golde talking with Ralph Delchard and Ilbert the Sheriff. Women had no place in the life and thoughts of a Benedictine monk as unsullied as Brother Simon. When the commissioner’s work took them to Essex, he had even been thrown into a turmoil by the presence of two innocuous nuns. Golde’s impact on his delicate sensibilities was far greater. The woman had not even spoken to him and she had done nothing specifically to earn his disapproval. She simply was.

Hubert watched Idwal toss his cloak back for effect.

“The lambskin has returned to its flock!” he observed.

The six newcomers dismounted their horses and tethered them.

Hubert led his donkey across to a water trough and let it slurp absent-mindedly. The soldiers went off to join their four colleagues and trade gossip. Ralph was too embroiled in his conversation to break away. It was the Welshman who became their self-appointed host.

“Welcome to Ergyng!” he said, ending his homily and scuttling over to them. “You are now in the diocese of Llandaff.”

“I thought I felt a distinct chill,” said Hubert.

“You came upon me preaching the Word to my people.”

“A common street is hardly consecrated ground.”

“I carry my cathedral with me on my back.”

“What is it called? The Church of St. Lambskin?”

“Mock not, Canon Hubert,” said Idwal. “Like Christ himself, I speak to my congregation on hill, on mountain, and in field. While I teach the Gospels there, it becomes hallowed ground. That is the great difference between us.”

“Yes,” said Hubert, “but I do not confuse idle gossip in the street with the revealed Word.”

“You and Brother Simon are Christians of the closed world. You retreated into the cloister to find God and hide him away under your habits.” Idwal waved a hand at the departing peasants. “I share Him with the common people. I go out-as Christ and his Disciples went out-to bring everyone closer to the wonder of God.”

“Such work is admirable in itself,” said Brother Simon with a half-smile, “but only a man with your gifts could undertake it. We serve God by a life of denial.”

“Then you deny His greater glory.”

Hubert was waspish. “Llandaff must miss you mightily. How will the edifice stand without you to support it with these pillars of theological wisdom?”

“Sarcasm is the mark of a lowly mind,” said Idwal.

Further exchange between them was cut short by the arrival of Ralph Delchard, who strolled across with Golde at his elbow. Brother Simon shrunk back a few paces and put both skeletal hands over his scrip in a forlorn gesture of defence.

“So early a return?” said Ralph with surprise.

“Richard Orbec barred us from his land,” said Hubert.

“Then he bars the way for the king. Did you not tell him that in round terms and brush aside any argument?”

“Twenty men-at-arms enforced his purpose.”

Ralph ignited. “Richard Orbec dared to offer violence to royal commissioners!”

“I’d have excommunicated him on the spot,” said Idwal.

“He was left in no doubt about our displeasure,” said Hubert. “But we were so few against so many.”

“One fewer now,” noted Ralph. “Where is Gervase?”

“He refused to be evicted so rudely. When we were out of sight of Richard Orbec’s knights, he went back to examine the holdings privily. I advised against the danger, but Gervase was headstrong.”

“He did no more than I would have done,” said Ralph with gathering fury. “Bar our way! I’d have barbered his beard with my sword! When the sheriff is done here, I’ll add a troop of his men to mine and cut a path to the very heart of his demesne!”

“Take me with you to care for the dead,” offered Idwal with a wicked gleam. “I will enjoy reading the burial service over Norman soldiers.”

“Look to your own, Archdeacon,” said Hubert.

“This is beyond bearing!” said Ralph, warming to his theme. “Marcher lords have been allowed too much license. Because we let them build their little empires here on these godforsaken frontiers, they think they are above the law of the land. King William has already torn down one Earl of Hereford. He will just as easily tear down these other self-styled earls like Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville!”

Idwal beamed. “There is no sweeter music in a Welshman’s ear than the sound of invaders quarreling among themselves over land they stole from us.”

“Silence this dead sheep of an archdeacon!” howled Ralph.

“If only we knew how!” hissed Brother Simon.

Ralph fulminated, Idwal chuckled, Canon Hubert had an attack of pomposity, and Golde watched it all with interest. When the clamour abated, it was she who introduced a note of mild alarm.

“I fear for your companion, my lord.”

“Gervase?” said Ralph. “He can look after himself.”

“Richard Orbec is a strange man.”

“We have seen his strangeness at close quarters.”

“Your colleague is in grave danger,” she continued. “If he is caught by Richard Orbec, there is no telling what might happen to him.”

“He will not be caught,” said Ralph, confidently. “Gervase Bret is a lawyer. And there is no more slippery breed of men on this earth.

They will not catch him. Gervase will see exactly what he wishes to see.”

When his eyes finally opened, Gervase Bret thought at first that he had gone blind. He could see nothing. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of vomit, and he felt as if his body was being kicked simultaneously by a dozen feet. He opened his eyes wider, but still found himself staring into an impenetrable darkness. It was only when he became fully conscious that he realised where he was.

Bound hand and foot, Gervase was tied securely across the back of a horse like the carcass of a dead animal. Over his head was a sack, which, from its smell, had once contained barley. He was being dragged along at speed behind a group of riders. His stomach had revolted against the rough and indiscriminate bouncing to which it was subjected and spewed up the remains of his last meal. He was in agony.

Gervase tried to marshal his jangled thoughts. Where was he and in whose hands? The last thing that he could remember was the sight of Richard Orbec’s lands rolling northeastward from the hundred of Archenfield into the Golden Valley. Was he Orbec’s prisoner? Would a Norman lord dare to violate the privilege of a royal commissioner?

Buffeted unmercifully by one horse, he tried to count how many others cantered beside him. Four, at most. Voice were occasionally raised above the chaos of the hoofbeats, but the sacking muffled the sound. Gervase was trapped in a deep, black hole of pain and confusion. He could do nothing but wait, suffer more intensely, and pray.

Hooves splashed through water as they forded a stream. Gervase felt the spray on his hands. Wherever they were taking him, it was no leisurely ride. They were in a hurry.

Richard Orbec ate alone that evening. The meal was frugal and he permitted himself only one cup of wine with which to wash it down.

When a servant had cleared away the dishes, Orbec allowed the waiting reeve to enter. Redwald was flushed.

“I have been told what happened a few hours ago,” he said. “Was your behaviour wise, my lord?”

“It is not for you to question its wisdom, Redwald.”

“Indeed, not. But I am hired to administer your lands.”

“This was a case of trespass, not administration.”

“The commissioners act with royal warrant.”

“It carries no weight on my demesne.”

“My lord!”

“I’ve humoured them enough, Redwald,” said Orbec, quietly. “I answered their summons and replied to their questions. I even endured the unwarranted scrutiny of my private life by Canon Hubert. To what end?”

“They produced a counter-claim to some of your land.”

“It is worthless.”

“They had a charter.”

“It belongs to a corpse.”

“If someone else should inherit his claim …”

“What hope is there of that?” said Orbec with feeling. “I have right and title to those manors. Maurice Damville has renounced his claim and Warnod’s death repudiates his.”

“That is still no cause to offend the commissioners.”

“My will is cause enough!”

Orbec slapped the table with the flat of his hand for emphasis. His reeve backed away, trying to propitiate him with a nod and a smile.

Controlling himself again, his master rose from his seat and crossed over to Redwald. An air of melancholy now hung over him.

“Forgive my anger, Redwald.”

“I should beg your pardon for provoking it.”

“You touch on raw flesh.”

“It was not deliberate, my lord.”

“I know,” said Orbec. “I know. Only a Norman would understand my torment. It is the torment of loss, Redwald. The anguish of betrayal.

I once held some of the choicest land in the whole duchy of Normandy.

Verdant acres in the vicinity of Bayeux. Most of it was lost. Taken from me when my back was turned. That will never happen again, Redwald.”

“Then do not provoke authority.”

“I merely defended my legal rights.”

“There may be repercussions.”

“Let them come.” Orbec went over to the window and looked out at the valley below, “Look at it, Redwald. The hand of God has touched this land. It is a source of continual joy to me. That is why I chose Herefordshire. It is the closest imitation of Normandy that I could find. I lost my beautiful estates near Bayeux, so I am rebuilding them here in England.”

“I am honoured to be part of that work.”

“Then do not question my actions again.”

“I will not, my lord.”

“You have been a shrewd counsellor and a faithful servant to me, Redwald, but I do not like to be crossed.”

“That is a lesson I learned a long time ago.”

“Never forget it,” said Orbec, spinning around to face him. “A threat to my land is like an attack on my person. I lash out to defend myself.

Anyone who comes between me and my anger will be swept aside.

Even you.”

Evening shadows fell slowly across Archenfield. Ilbert the Sheriff and his men had commandeered a manor house nearby, but it was too small to accommodate more guests. Ralph Delchard and his party were therefore offered lodging a little further south in Pencoed.

Though still worried about her sister, Golde permitted herself to be included in the invitation. There was much more to be learned about Warnod’s death and she was, in any case, reluctant to be parted from her new friend. Golde had a Saxon wariness of all Normans, but Ralph had somehow overcome her natural suspicion.

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were disappointed that there was no convenient religious house where they could lay their heads for the night. It was too late to return to the college of secular canons at Hereford cathedral, and the nearest Benedictine monastery was in Tewkesbury in the adjacent county of Gloucestershire. Brother Simon duly steeled himself to sleep under the same roof as a woman, while Hubert basked in the relief of escape from his theological adversary.

Idwal was to spend the night in Llanwarne at the cottage of the local priest.

Ralph sent his three companions on to Pencoed with an escort of four men-at-arms. The other half of his knights remained with their master. Ralph would not even consider his own departure until the safe return of Gervase Bret.

Ilbert the Sheriff lingered with him in Llanwarne.

“Where can he be?” wondered Ralph.

“It is easy to go astray in Archenfield,” said Ilbert.

“Gervase merely went to look at that land. We do not require him to measure each blade of grass on it. A sighting is all that is needed before he joins us here.”

“Let us hope that he himself was not sighted.”

“Gervase is too cunning for that,” said Ralph. “An alert mind and a fast horse will keep him clear of trouble.”

“I pray earnestly that it may.”

“Why do you say that, my lord sheriff?”

“Richard Orbec is a dangerous man.”

“Yes,” said Ralph as he recalled the satanic face. “We saw something of his character at the shire hall. A curious mixture, indeed.

Saint and soldier. Benevolent towards the cathedral yet hostile towards anyone who questions that benevolence.”

“Even more hostile to those who encroach on his land.”

“Why?”

“Ask directly of him. I do not know.”

“But you have had dealings with him over the years.”

“As few as I could,” said the sheriff, ruefully. “He can be as friendly as a brother one day, but turn into your mortal enemy on the next.”

“What of this private chapel of his?”

“They say it is his second home.”

“He is that devout?”

“Until something disturbs him. He moves straight from altar to sword then.”

“A belligerent Christian. The worst kind.”

“He will not show Christian tolerance towards trespass. That is why I fear for your colleague. If he does fall into Orbec’s clutches, there is no telling what might happen to him.”

“No man would dare to assault a royal commissioner.”

“Richard Orbec can change from man into devil.”

“If he so much as touches Gervase, he’ll answer to me.”

“You’ll first have to prove his guilt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your friend would not be the first trespasser on that demesne to vanish completely. I have pursued three such cases and found no trace of the men in question.”

“Where did they go?”

“It would take you a lifetime to find out.”

“Why, my lord sheriff?”

“Richard Orbec has vast estates,” said Ilbert. “Only he knows where the bodies are buried. Let us hope that this Gervase Bret does not stumble into an anonymous grave.”

The ride seemed endless, the pace jarring. Gervase Bret was bruised and shaken by the time they finally reached their destination. When the horses slowed to a trot, he gathered his wits about him to listen for what sound came through the sacking. He could hear water; not the slow trickle of a stream, but the deep surge of a river. Hooves went over cobbles and voices talked indistinctly. A hollow clack then told him that they were walking across a timber bridge.

His head was still aching and his whole body felt as if it had been trampled, but he tried to put discomfort aside. A series of shouts penetrated the sacking, but they came so suddenly and so fast that he could not identify them. What he did hear very clearly was the opening of two huge wooden gates. As the hinges squealed there were more shouts, then the horses went forward and met more cobbles.

Gervase decided that they must be in the courtyard of a castle. No time was allowed for more speculations. He was unstrapped from the horse and pulled from its back by two men. They dragged him without ceremony towards another door and banged on its iron studs.

Bolts and a key were heard this time. When the second door swung open to admit them, their prisoner was taken down a circular staircase that seemed to burrow to the very centre of the earth. Gervase complained noisily as he scuffed the hard stone, but his captors paid no heed.

A third door was opened by a key and then a fourth. He had finally come to the end of his journey. One of the men untied the sack and lifted it from his head. The other man kicked him hard. Gervase went sprawling headfirst into a pile of noisome straw. As the door clanged shut behind him, he was back in thick darkness again.

The dungeon was damp and inhospitable. The reek of filth and excrement clutched at his nostrils like a hand. Breathing stertor-ously, he rolled over on his back and tried to assess his injuries.

Blood was trickling down his forehead after its collision with the floor, and a few pieces of sodden straw clung to his face. His limbs and body were racked with pain, but nothing seemed to be broken.

Gervase was about to take a more detailed inventory when something was borne in upon him. He was not alone. A loud rustle in the straw made him tense. Still bound, he was completely at the mercy of an attacker.

“Who’s there?!” he yelled.

“Cyfaill!” said a soothing voice. “Croeso!”

The hall at the castle of Ewyas Harold was filled with noise and laughter. Maurice Damville was a man with an insatiable appetite for pleasure. Seated at the head of the table, he ate voraciously and drank to excess. His knights revelled in his company. Their lord could be ruthless, often perverse, and sometimes utterly depraved, but he had a vein of generosity that made his vices seem less objectionable. When they were entertained at the castle the men were always given a lavish banquet. There were no ladies this time, no minstrels, and no dancers, but the feast was above reproach.

Damville ordered his cup to be filled with more wine.

“I will have to teach her to make this,” he said before taking a long sip. “One of many things I will teach her!”

“Who, my lord?” asked Huegon.

“Who else?”

“Aelgar?”

“The fairest maid in the county,” said Damville. “There is no stain on her beauty save one-she makes ale! I’ll not have that Saxon piss in my castle. Aelgar will learn to tend a vineyard and make the finest wine.”

Huegon was surprised. “Will she be here long enough?”

“Of course.”

“Ladies enough have already graced your bed, my lord.”

“They shall do so again, Huegon. Your argument?”

“It is merely an observation.”

“Let’s hear it. Come, man. You’ll not offend me.”

“Well, my lord,” said Huegon, carefully. “In that case, I have to point out that your passions rarely last a week.”

Damville guffawed. “They rarely last five minutes if she is just some comely milkmaid with the morning sun upon her hair!” His laughter faded. “But you are right, Huegon. Women arouse me and my interest soon wanes. That is what makes Aelgar so different. I have wanted her for months. The longer she keeps me at bay, the more I respect and desire her. Aelgar is not like the others, Huegon. My passion will not be extinguished after a few nights of madness between those thighs of hers.”

“What are you telling me, my lord?”

“When she moves into the castle, she stays.”

Huegon pursed his lips. “Is that advisable?”

“It is what I wish.”

“But the girl is a mere Saxon.”

“Of noble family. You can see it in her bearing.”

“Your own dear wife is due to visit Ewyas Harold in-”

“She can be stopped,” said Damville. “My wife and family belong in Normandy and there they’ll stay. I’ll have another wife at this castle.

Aelgar.” He grinned at the steward. “I look to you to give the bride away. Bend your thoughts to it. I want the nuptials without the wedding itself. Charm the lady. Talk her into my bed.”

“That will not be easy, my lord.”

“There have been troublesome courtships before.”

“Not like this one. She has a sister, Golde. Some might say her equal in beauty. A determined lady, by all accounts. It will be difficult to prise Aelgar away from her.”

“Then I’ll take both at once!” roared Damville. “Two sisters in one bed. We’ll make something much sweeter than ale between us.” A shadow of guilt passed across his face. “No, Huegon. It must not be like that. Aelgar is enough in herself. She is very special to me.”

“So I see, my lord.”

“I need her!”

Aelgar stared into the dying embers of the fire. It was only kept alight so that it could be used for cooking, but she huddled over it. On a warm evening, she was shivering. The sound of the bolt made her look up. The servant girl was shutting up the house for the night.

“Golde has not returned yet,” she said in dismay. “Do not lock my sister out.”

“She will not come back tonight.”

“How do you know?”

“It is too dark. The city gates are closed.”

Aelgar was pitched into an even greater state of anxiety. Golde was her only support. Her sister had warned her that there was a possibility that she might have to spend the night away, but Aelgar had not taken that threat seriously. It now confronted her with quiet menace.

She would have to spend a whole night alone with her grief and apprehension. Golde had nursed her until now. Her absence was devastating. Aelgar would have to lie by herself in the darkness, mourning a man she loved and fearing a man she hated. Warnod was dead, but Maurice Damville was still hideously alive. She could not hold him off forever.

Aelgar snatched up a knife from the table and hurried off to bed.

The weapon was not only for her protection. As she lay brooding in the darkness, she turned its point towards her beleaguered heart.

Hours had passed. He could wait in Llanwarne no longer. When Gervase Bret did not make his way to the village, Ralph Delchard knew that some mishap had befallen him. Against the advice of the sheriff, he decided to lead a search party. He and his four knights were soon galloping hard in the direction of Richard Orbec’s demesne.

They did not have to ride far across his land. It was a fine night and their torches made them visible for miles. Word of their arrival was quickly taken to Orbec himself. As Ralph led his men into a hollow by a stream, he was suddenly met by a wide semicircle of flame.

Twenty armed men held a torch apiece. In the flickering light they were ghostly. Ralph and his men reined in their horses. Richard Orbec had a sword in his hand as he eased his horse forward. His voice was steely.

“Who is it that dares to trespass on my land?”

“Ralph Delchard.”

“Turn round and ride straight back,” said Orbec.

“Not until I find Gervase Bret.”

“He is not here, my lord.”

“I believe that he is.”

“No,” said Orbec. “We stopped him as we will stop you and anyone else reckless enough to tread on my land. He left hours ago with his companions.”

“They came back,” explained Ralph, “but he did not. Gervase is like me, my lord. He is not easily frightened. Since he could not come here by right, he came by stealth. When your back was turned, he made his way onto Orbec territory-as you well know. Hand him over!”

“He is not in my custody.”

“God help you if he has come to any harm!”

“It has not been at my hands.”

“Gervase is here!” yelled Ralph. “Surrender him!”

“I cannot and I would not.”

Richard Orbec came close to look him full in the face.

“I speak in all honesty,” he said. “Your friend is not here. If he had been taken by my men-let me be honest about this as well-he would have been punished in a manner that he would not forget. He was warned, my lord, and I do not make idle warnings.”

“Neither do I!” retorted Ralph.

“Leave my land while you still may.”

Ralph reached for his sword, but thought better of it.

“Do you swear that Gervase is not held by you?”

“On my honour!” vowed Orbec.

Ralph Delchard was totally bewildered.

“Then where, in God’s name, is he?”

Gervase Bret forced himself up into a sitting position and turned his back so that his bound wrists were facing his companion. The man was old, but his fingers were nimble. Feeling his way to the ropes, he undid them in a minute. Gervase massaged his wrists then shook his hands vigorously in the air to restore some movement to them.

When his fingers began to obey him again, he used them to loosen the bonds around his ankles. Aching in every joint, he stood up and stretched himself properly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I am glad to be of service. Who are you?”

“My name is Gervase Bret.”

“I am Omri.”

The old man spoke no English, but Gervase knew more than a smattering of Welsh. It had served him well during their visit to the Savernake Forest in Wiltshire, but it would be even more crucial here.

The son of a Breton father, Gervase had learned his father’s native tongue, a language that had a close affinity with Welsh. Conversation, though halting at times, was therefore possible.

“Where are we?” asked Gervase.

“I do not know.”

“How were you brought here?”

“By horsemen. We were ambushed.”

“We?”

“There were ten of us,” said Omri. “Travelling north from Caerleon on an important errand. They attacked us near Raglan. We stood no chance.”

“Where are the others?”

“Only two of us survived.”

Omri was a tall, cadaverous, white-haired man with huge eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. Gervase could only make out a vague shape in the gloom, but the eyes told him where the long, narrow face was. Omri was a benign presence. His voice was deep and mellifluous.

“How long have you been here?” said Gervase.

“A day that seems like a year.”

“And you did not see where they brought you?”

The old man laughed softly. “No, I did not.”

“What is the joke?”

“It is only comical to those who know me, Gervase. In Wales I have another name. Omri Dall.”

“Omri the Blind.”

Gervase was covered in embarrassment and started to apologise, but the old man cut him short. He was in no way offended by the mistake.

“Besides,” he said, “we meet on equal terms.”

“Equal terms?”

“Both locked in a world of darkness.”

“But where?” said Gervase. “Where?”

“It should not be too difficult to work out,” said Omri. “Captured at Raglan then taken at a canter for no more than a couple of hours or so. That could put us in Chepstow.”

“Chepstow Castle?”

“Though my guess would be Monmouth.”

“Would it?”

“Did you not hear that river?” said the old man. “A steady flow, but nothing like the torrent of the Wye as it races towards the estuary.

Our river is the Monnow. Smaller and more obedient. This castle must be Monmouth.”

Gervase was slightly relieved at the news. Monmouth put them much closer to his place of capture than Chepstow, but he was still being held against his will.

“Why were you brought here?” asked Omri.

“I do not know.”

“How were you taken?”

With great difficulty, Gervase pieced the story together, as much for his own benefit as for that of his companion. Omri listened intently throughout, intrigued by the reason that first took Gervase to Herefordshire.

“We have heard of this famous Domesday Book.”

“It is a description of all England.”

“Then I am glad that I live in Wales.”

“When it is completed, it will be an extraordinary document,” said Gervase. “It touches the lives of everyone in the nation.”

“Perhaps that is why you are here, my young friend.”

“Here?”

“Someone may not want his life touched.”

Gervase immediately thought of Richard Orbec. The latter would yield nothing to the commissioners in the shire hall and it was on his land that Gervase had been attacked. Puzzled by his own presence in the dungeon, he was yet able to show an interest in Omri’s plight.

“Where were you travelling?” he asked.

“To the court of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”

“The prince of Powys?”

“I was to have sung at a banquet,” explained the old man. “And told fortunes to those brave enough to know them.”

“You are a minstrel?”

“Bard, jester, and seer. Send for Omri Dall and you get all three of me. I can beguile you with a song, amuse you with a jest, or terrify you with a look into the future.”

“I will settle for your friendship,” said Gervase.

“A day or two locked up in here,” said Omri, “and you will be begging me for entertainment. The guards were kinder to me than to you.” He played a chord on a harp. “They let me keep my instrument. I take that as a good omen.”

“You said earlier, I believe, that you travelled on an important errand.”

“That is so. I was carrying a message.”

“From whom?”

“Friend to friend.”

“From Caerleon to Powys.”

“My life is an endless journey around the courts of Welsh princes,”

said Omri. “I am known and trusted by all. Seek for me in Powys and you will find I have ridden on to Gwynedd. Ask for me there and they will tell you I am in Ceredigion. By the time you catch up with me, my songs are lifting the spirit in Brycheiniog.”

“What do you sing about?”

“What else, but Wales?”

Gervase was reminded of the Archdeacon of Llandaff. Both men had a deep and loving patriotism. While Idwal was relentlessly argu-mentative, however, Omri was gentle and unforced. The Welsh churchman used words to batter his adversaries into defeat; the Welsh bard was more likely to lull them into agreement with a sly melody.

Under other circumstances, Gervase would have found the old man’s company enchanting, but a higher priority occupied his mind. He had to escape. Someone needed him out of the way for a particular reason. His attackers could just as easily have killed him as knock him senseless. Instead, they chose to spirit him out of Archenfield.

Gervase was anxious to find out why and he could not do that while he was imprisoned in the dungeon of Monmouth Castle.

One thing was certain. Ralph Delchard would be looking for him.

His friend would already have initiated a search. Ralph would not rest until Gervase had been tracked down, but that might take an extremely long time. Castle dungeons were holes in the region of hell. Once thrown into them, prisoners did not often come out alive.

Escape for him meant escape for his companion as well.

“You did not tell me the nature of your message.”

“No,” said Omri. “I did not.”

“Do you take it from one prince to another?”

“I would be a poor messenger if I could not keep a secret. Who would put water in a bucket that leaks?”

“All I wish to know,” said Gervase, “is whether or not you were expected in Powys.”

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself awaits our arrival.”

“Will he not be vexed when you do not appear?”

“Not vexed, Gervase. Moved to anger.”

“And what will he do?”

The old Welshman played a few chords on his harp.

“Send someone to rescue us.”

Darkness slowed Goronwy and his men, but it did not stop their punitive ride south. Travellers who had helped them were brushed harshly aside. Those with no useful information to impart were either beaten or wounded for their lack of cooperation. As warriors of the prince of Powys, they were fierce and peremptory, but Goronwy was fired by a deeper commitment. He had a personal stake in this act of revenge.

A mile from Bryngwyn, they finally picked up the trail. A shepherd boy was sleeping under a hedge near his flock. The sound of their horses brought him awake and their torches made him blink and shield his eyes. Dressed in a sheepskin, he was no more than sixteen.

“Where are we, boy?” demanded Goronwy.

“Near Bryngwyn, my lord. On the road to Raglan.”

“You live nearby?”

“Our sheep graze these hills.”

“And you tend them?”

“Night and day, my lord.”

“Then you’ll have good eyes,” said Goronwy, “and a fine view of the road from on high. Help me, boy, or you’ll have a lot less sheep still standing on four legs.”

“I’ll help you all I can,” said the boy, terrified.

“We look for travellers who may have passed this way early this morning.”

“How many in number, my lord?”

“No more than ten or twelve. Two people with an armed escort, riding towards the Black Mountains.”

“I do not remember them, my lord.”

Goronwy bent down to lift him bodily into the air.

“Think carefully, boy,” he warned. “I do not want to be known as Goronwy the Sheep Killer, but I’ll slaughter all your flock if it is the only way to get the truth out of you. Ten or twelve travellers. One of them, an old man, tall and spare, with white hair blowing in the wind. If you saw him once, you would not forget Omri Dall.”

“I saw him not at all.”

“Will you lie to me?” He shook the boy and dropped him to the ground. “I ask you one more time. Did you see them?”

“Not riding north, my lord,” gibbered the boy. “I saw a troop of soldiers, but they were heading south at a gallop. And there were twenty or more of them in all.”

“When was this?”

“A few hours after dawn.”

“On this road?”

“No, my lord. They came on the road from Monmouth.”

“And where did you see them?”

“Just below Raglan,” said the boy, pointing. “Some of my sheep had strayed and I went to catch them. I was up there when I heard all the noise.”

“What noise?”

“Screams and shouts. It frightened me, my lord. I ran away and have not dared to go back since.”

“Show us the place.”

“It is dark.”

“Take us there now!”

The boy was hauled up from the ground once more and put astride the back of Goronwy’s horse. Clinging on for dear life, he was taken along the track at a brisk trot. He showed them where he had been that morning and indicated the clump of trees from which the disturbance had come.

Goronwy flung him aside and led his men at a canter towards the trees, their torches moving like a giant serpent through the night.

Dismounting at the edge of the trees, they formed a line to begin their search. It was soon over.

The first body lay against the trunk of an elm, impaled by a spear.

Another soldier was hanging lifelessly over a fallen log, like a rag doll. Two more had their throats cut and a third had been felled with an axe. The last three bodies were in a tight group, as if struck down while trying to defend someone.

With a torch in his hand, Goronwy kicked each body over to search his face with the darting light. Eight soldiers were accounted for, but there was no sign of the two people they had been guarding. Goronwy ordered his men to widen the search, but no more bodies could be found.

Standing amid the corpses, he let out a hiss of relief.

“Still alive!”