The Dragons of Archenfield
( Domesday - 3 )
Edward Marston
Edward Marston
The Dragons of Archenfield
Their Lord they will praise,
Their speech they will keep,
Their land they will lose,
Except Wild Wales.
— TALIESIN
Prologue
He was coming down the hill when they struck. The ambush was so sudden and so unexpected that it threw him into a complete panic. Warnod had been riding along in the fading light of a warm evening with a reflective smile on his face and a feeling of deep satisfaction coursing through his whole body. The visit to Hereford had been a delight in every respect. As his horse picked its way along a track through the woodland, Warnod sat back in the saddle and savoured each detail of his outing. It had been worth all the effort. He would cheerfully have ridden ten times as far for a taste of such happiness.
The first arrow jerked him out of his reverie. It came whistling murderously from the gloom and shot across his path before thudding into the trunk of a sycamore. A second arrow was much closer, passing within a foot of his shoulder before spending its fury deep in the undergrowth. Warnod did not wait for a third missile. His heels kicked hard and the horse was soon plunging down the hill in a mad gallop.
Heart pounding and mind ablaze, Warnod ignored the bushes that lashed out at his legs and the branches that scratched angrily at his face. Hoofbeats drummed behind him in a terrifying rhythm. Fond thoughts of Hereford were wiped savagely away. Survival was paramount.
Warnod was less than a mile from home, but it seemed an impossible distance away. He might never even reach it. The thunder of pursuit was getting louder and louder. They were gaining on him.
Not daring to look over his shoulder, he strained his ears to work out how many horses were behind him. Six? Eight? A dozen? Far too many riders for him to fight off. Warnod had only a dagger at his waist and that was more for ornament than protection. He had no chance against a gang of armed robbers.
Riding hell for leather, he took his mount through a grove of alders with reckless unconcern and came out into open country. He was a more visible target now. The chasing pack fanned out across the field as they closed in on their quarry. Warnod swung his horse toward the deepest shadows in search of cover. He cursed his luck and berated himself for being caught so hopelessly off guard. His instinct for danger had been blunted by the visit to Hereford. On the journey home, he had felt supremely safe and with good reason.
Archenfield was no longer the turbulent frontier zone that it had once been. It was a more peaceable community. Lying in the south of the county, cradled by the Wye and its serpentine tributary, the River Monnow, it was an area with rich soil and lush pastures. By force of arms and strength of purpose, the Normans had imposed a stability on the district. Archenfield was a portion of Wales that now belonged irre-trievably to England. An air of resignation had descended on the indigenous Welsh population. They had come to terms with Saxon settlers and with Norman overlords. Violent attacks from across the border were things of the past-or so Warnod had believed until that moment.
Was he the victim of a Welsh raiding party? Or were these men fellow Saxons with a grudge against him? Warnod had no time to speculate. The riders had spread out in an arc behind him now, and seemed to be about to encircle him. Finally and miraculously, his house came into view. The low clump of buildings beside the trickling stream offered the only hope for him. His old mare was no match for the horsemen at his back. If he tried to ride on to the village beyond, he would be caught before he got close enough to raise the alarm. Warnod’s home was his promise of salvation.
He kicked a final spurt out of his animal and urged it on with harsh commands. Warnod was trembling with fear now. His head was aching, his mouth was dry, his hands were clammy, and his face was lathered with sweat. The last hundred yards were a protracted agony for him. The hounds of hell were on his tail. Somehow, he forced himself through the ordeal to reach the beckoning safety of his home. Reining in his horse, he leaped from the saddle and ran to the door of the house. He pushed it open, dived inside, slammed the door shut behind him, then dropped the stout wooden bar into place. They would need a small battering ram to get at him now.
Panting hard, Warnod yelled out in the darkness.
“Elfig! Hywel! Close the shutters!”
But his servants were nowhere to be found. His voice echoed through the empty house with rising desperation.
“Elfig! Hywel! Where are you!”
Warnod stumbled quickly through the murky interior of the building and saw that the narrow windows had already been shuttered. They could not fire their arrows at him through the apertures. The house was secure. He could take some comfort at last. Relief flooded through him, but it was cruelly short-lived. Loud banging on the door made him start with fright. He had not escaped their clutches after all.
They were going to smash their way in to get at him.
Groping his way through the gloom, he felt along a wall until his hands closed gratefully on the hilt of his sword. The weapon instilled some courage in him. They would not take him without a fight. Now in his thirties, Warnod was still strong and fit. He would defend himself with honour. Ridiculously outnumbered, he would at least make sure that he killed some of his adversaries before he was himself cut down. He would die with a bloody sword in his hand like a true Saxon thegn.
The house was a long, low structure divided into bays. Its walls were solid oak, its roof thatched, and its floor was sunk into the earth. The door was reinforced with extra timbers, but it could not indefinitely withstand such an unremitting assault Sooner or later, they would batter a way into his home. Taking a stance at the door, Warnod held his sword ready and waited for the first sound of splin-tering wood.
It never came. Instead, the hammering ceased altogether and an eerie silence followed. Had they given up and retired from the scene?
Were they looking for another mode of entry? He ran to a window and peered through the tiny crack. Nobody was in sight. He moved to a window on the other side of the house and applied his eye to a split in the wooden shutter. There was still no sign of life. Warnod’s spirits rose. Had he escaped his enemies? Was he being spared? Could he dare to relax?
The answer was immediate. A new and appalling sound broke through the silence and shattered any foolish hopes he may have had. It was the helpless cry of an animal in great pain and it grew in volume and intensity until it was quite deafening. Unable to get at their human prey, they were slaughtering the cow in the byre. Warnod was outraged. His first instinct was to rush to the aid of the creature, but that was clearly what they were tempting him to do. He would be casting aside his own chance of survival in a forlorn attempt to save an already doomed cow.
A last pitiable groan of protest was followed by a ragged cheer from the crude butchers. Hooves and feet approached the house. Warnod went back to a window and peered through the crack again. Five figures came into view, but it was too dark to identify them. Four were on horseback, the fifth on foot. It was this last man who attracted Warnod’s attention. Selecting a spot some thirty yards or so from the house, he knelt down and-using his sword like a spade-began to dig away the turf. Warnod was utterly mystified.
Another man joined the others from the direction of the byre, lugging a heavy wooden pail and spilling some of its contents along the way.
Warnod was even more confused. A hole in the ground and a bucket of water? What strange game were his tormentors playing? One of the horsemen looked up at the house and gave a signal to unseen accomplices. A hideous crackle soon went up as they set fire to the thatch.
Warnod shuddered with horror. They were going to burn him alive!
He rushed to the door and flung the bar aside. Better to die fighting against overwhelming odds than to be eaten up in the flames. But he had no choice in the matter. When he wrenched at the door, it would not open. He realised in a flash what had happened. The men had not been trying to hammer a way into the house. They had been boarding up its one exit so that he would be trapped inside.
Hacking wildly at the door with his sword, he felt the first wave of heat hitting him like a body blow. It made him stagger back. He looked around for another means of escape and dived at a window, flinging back the shutter in the hope of being able to squeeze through the narrow gap. But the window frame had also been boarded up from outside. His home had been deliberately turned into his coffin.
The thatch was a raging inferno now and he had to dodge the sparks that showered down all over the floor. The walls of the house were also alight so that he was surrounded by a hissing rectangle of flame. Smoke attacked his eyes and lungs. Scorching heat buffeted him to and fro. The sword fell from his hand as he lumbered around in the brilliant light. Jeers of delight came from the watching men.
They had set a cunning trap and he had fallen into it.
Warnod saw that now. They had not meant to ambush him at all.
He had been allowed to escape so that they could drive him back to a house already prepared for him. To serve their malign pleasure, he would be burned to a cinder. The heat was now overpowering and the smoke all but blinded him. Lurching across to the window, he summoned up all his remaining energy to shout his defiance at them, but the words died in his throat. What he saw through the greedy flames robbed him of all power of speech.
Everything was lit up by the repulsive glow of the fire. The man who had dug at the turf stepped back to admire his handiwork. He had cut a shape in the ground, inches deep and some two yards in length. The profile was crude but instantly recognisable. The man with the pail poured its contents on to the bare earth and Warnod saw that it was not water at all. By the glare of the blaze, he watched the thick scarlet liquid that plopped from the bucket stain the ground, which had been exposed by the digging. It was the blood of the slaughtered cow.
All resistance now left him. His tunic, his shoes, even his hair caught fire. The pain was indescribable. Overcome by smoke and roasted by the surging heat, he collapsed in a heap on the floor, taking with him the memory of what he had seen carved in the ground and enriched with fresh blood.
It was the emblem of Wales.
Y Ddraig Goch.
The Red Dragon.
Chapter One
Herefordshire gave them a wet welcome. For the last few hours of their journey, a steady drizzle fell on the little cavalcade and severely dampened their spirits. A stiff breeze added to their discomfort, hurling the rain into their faces, plucking at their bodies, and unsettling the horses. Progress was slow and tedious over the muddy ground. Their chosen route offered no protection from the elements.
Ralph Delchard was glistening all over with moisture.
“A curse on this rain!”
“It will soon ease off,” said Gervase Bret.
“Not before it has soaked us to the skin.”
“Take heart, Ralph. Another mile and we are there,” Gervase raised a finger to point. “Look ahead of you. The castle is within sight. We shall have food, shelter, and a warm fire there.”
“If we are not drowned before we reach the place!” Ralph was in a petulant mood. “This is madness, Gervase. Why on earth did we bother to come to Hereford? It will take us the best part of a week to get there and back, yet our duties will be discharged in a couple of days at most. What, in God’s name, are we doing in this rain-sodden county?”
“Obeying orders.”
“Ha!”
Gervase smiled. “We are on the king’s business.”
“The business of a conqueror is conquest. I should be leading my knights in battle against the Welsh, not dragging them through this quagmire to wave a few mouldy documents under someone’s nose.”
“Those documents are important,” argued Gervase. “They help to bring silver into the royal coffers. War is costly. You cannot raise an army without money.”
Ralph was scornful. “Peace unnerves me. I am a soldier born and bred. Put a sword in my hand and I come alive.”
“Even in this weather?”
The drizzle seemed to thicken and the breeze blew it even harder into their faces. Ralph Delchard pulled his cloak more tightly around him. He was a big, boisterous, well-built man with a vigour that had not been sapped by middle years. His face was raw-boned but handsome, with an authority in the eyes and the upward tilt of the chin.
Having borne arms at the Battle of Hastings, he was a Norman lord with the pride of a victor still burning deep inside him.
At the same time, he was capable of laughing at himself.
“No, Gervase!” he said with a chuckle. “I am no rain warrior. Give me dry weather on the battlefield. Sunshine shows off my armour to the best advantage and puts me in the right frame of mind to kill. It is a wonderful feeling.”
“I will take your word for it, Ralph.”
“Have you never wanted to meet a man in armed combat? To test your strength and skill against a worthy adversary?”
“Never.”
“Come, Gervase. You dissemble.”
“Never, I swear it.”
“Even you must have a spark of aggression somewhere.”
“If I do, I seek to contain it.”
“Supposing you were pushed to the limit?”
“Words are the best weapons to resolve a quarrel.”
“And if Alys were in danger?” asked Ralph, teasing his young companion. “If some brutish Viking were molesting your beloved, would you stand calmly by and try to talk him out of it? Alys would not thank you for that.”
“It is not a fair question.”
“Every man can be roused to kill. Even you.”
“At least I would take no pleasure in it.”
Gervase Bret was uncharacteristically sharp with his friend. As a rule, he took Ralph’s good-natured mockery in his stride, but it had caught him on a raw spot this time. Betrothed to Alys, he was constantly being sent away from her, and the absences were increasingly difficult to bear. Gervase was a slender man of medium height with the studious air of a Chancery clerk. An astute lawyer, he had a boyish innocence that made him look much younger than his twenty-five years and a mature intellect that made him seem decades older.
He and Ralph made an effective team and he did all he could to avoid friction between them.
His apology came hard upon the irritable rejoinder.
“I take that back, Ralph. I spoke harshly and hastily.”
“There was a grain of truth in what you charged.”
“Mention of Alys provoked me.”
Ralph grinned. “Alys would provoke any man. She is very beautiful and you are very fortunate. I worship the lady. If the truth be told, I called up her fair name out of envy.”
“Envy? Of whom?”
“You and Alys. No matter how hard the rain or how cold the wind, thoughts of her will keep you dry and warm. And while you trudge through the mud of this godforsaken place, Alys waits in Winchester and dreams of nothing but her wonderful Gervase.” Ralph shrugged.
“Love is truly a blessing. Lose it and you feel excommunicated from life.”
Gervase was surprised to hear such serious comment from his friend. Ralph Delchard was normally such a jovial and extrovert character. It was true that he became soulful after too much wine, and had even been known to break into maudlin song, but he rarely talked about the problems in his private life. His wife had died years before trying to bring their only child into the world and the boy soon joined his mother in the grave. A contented man had been cut completely adrift. Interest had waned, purpose wilted. Ralph usually hid those painful memories behind a whirl of a
ction.
“Have you never thought to marry again?” asked Gervase.
“Nobody could replace Elinor.”
“Many ladies would like the opportunity to try.”
“Then that is what they may do!” said Ralph with a chortle. “Let them come, one and all. Save for battle, there is no greater pleasure than wenching. I can tell you now that I look to find a comely lady or two in Hereford to take the sting out of this interminable journey.
What else are women for?”
Gervase bit back a reply and took a deep breath. “I will not rise to the bait this time.”
“Then I’ll not dangle it before you.” He leaned across to Gervase and lowered his voice. “Many have taken Elinor’s place in my bed; none will ever oust her from my heart.”
“So it is with me and Alys.”
Ralph nodded. He became suddenly brisk and barked out a command, slapping the rump of Gervase’s horse with the palm of his gauntlet and spurring his destrier into a canter that brought loud protest from the two riders directly behind him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were spattered in even more mud as a fresh volley was thrown up by the flashing hooves. Hubert was a round, fat, self-satisfied prelate with an endless supply of red-cheeked, righteous indignation. Seated on a donkey that was all but invisible beneath his bulk, he ordered Ralph to slow down, then blustered impotently when his own mount quickened its pace to catch up the others.
Brother Simon was a Benedictine monk buried deep in his black cowl, a laconic and emaciated man who had chosen the skinniest horse in Christendom to match his ascetic tastes. Clinging to the pommel of his saddle as his horse lunged forward, Simon bounced along precariously and prayed for all he was worth.
They were twelve in number. Eight men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue rode in pairs behind the holy men and towed the sumpter horses after them. An escort was vital on such a long journey. Like their lord, the knights wore helm, hauberk, and sword, and rode upon trained warhorses. Four of them carried a lance and four had bows slung across their backs. Necessary escorts on the long trail from Winchester, they would be able to lend force and status to the work of the commissioners.
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