The Dragons of Archenfield d-3

by Edward Marston

  “Call him for nine o’clock,” decided Ralph.

  “Call them both at the same time,” said Gervase.

  The reeve raised an eyebrow. “Both?”

  “Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville.”

  “Together?”

  “That is what we require.”

  “Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville … together?” Corbin spluttered with amusement. “That is not practical. It is not wise. It is not safe.”

  “Why not?” yelled Ralph.

  “The sheriff will have another murder on his hands.”

  “Indeed, he will!” he said, leaping to his feet again. “And you will be the victim if you do not stop sniggering in our faces and obstruct-ing the course of law. God’s tits, man! We call four witnesses and you cannot produce one of them.”

  “You may have Richard Orbec alone,” said the reeve.

  “What about Maurice Damville?”

  “He, too, may be questioned on his own.”

  Gervase was puzzled. “Why not both men together?”

  “Because they are sworn enemies,” explained Corbin. “I would not put them in the same town, let alone in the same room. They despise each other with a deep and lasting hatred. Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville never meet, but they are at each other’s throats. And it will take more than your eight men-at-arms to break them asunder.” A smirk played around his thick lips. “Do you still wish me to invite them to the shire hall at the same time?”

  Chapter Two

  The castle at Ewyas Harold had been built by Osbern Pentecost over fifteen years before the Normans had invaded Britain. It stood at the confluence of the Dore and Monnow rivers, staring out at the looming grandeur of the Black Mountains and guarding the road from Abergavenny. Like all the castles on the Welsh Marches, it was both a springboard for attack and a safe retreat in the face of retaliation by superior forces. Heavily refortified in the wake of the Conquest, it was now being further strengthened. Like its counterpart in Hereford, it was a typical motte and bailey structure, in this case making use of a huge natural mound that faced the higher ground to the north.

  Maurice Damville hauled himself up into the saddle of his destrier and adjusted his helm. When he felt ready, he held out a hand and snarled an order. The waiting squire gave him the lance and stepped smartly out of the way. Everyone else in the bailey watched from a safe distance. Damville was a dangerous and unpredictable man at the best of times. When he was mounted on his warhorse with a weapon in his grasp, he could be lethal. The slaves who had been carting the ashlar remembered only too well what had happened to one of their number who had dared to question a decision made by his Norman lord. Maurice Damville had run him through with a sword out of sheer malice.

  The castellan of Ewyas Harold was a tall, rangy man in his forties with a sinewy strength that he enjoyed showing off. Naked force had conquered the land on which the castle was built and he exemplified it. His keen spurs made the animal rear before breaking into a canter across the bailey. Standing directly in his path, his adversary was strong and unafraid. The rider gritted his teeth and dipped his spear.

  When his horse ran straight at the mark, he pulled back his arm, then thrust home the weapon with awesome power-straight through the heart of his enemy. An involuntary groan of fear came from the slaves by the wall, but the soldiers acclaimed their master with shouts and laughs of approval.

  No blood had been spilled this time, but it was still an impressive killing. The corpse was no more than a hauberk that had been stuffed with straw and set up against a stout post in the middle of the courtyard. Such was the violence and timing of the attack, however, the mail had been pierced as if it were paper, the lance had gone deep into the wood, and the post had snapped in two with a loud crack. Even in the best armour, a human being would have been impaled to the ground by the vicious force of the thrust.

  Damville reined in his horse and swung its head round to view the devastated target. When he glanced across at the slaves, they went straight back to their work of unloading the stone slabs from the cart so that they could be hoisted up to reinforce the wall around the bailey. Damville was a hard taskmaster but they had to obey him. He was a law unto himself on that stretch of the Welsh border. They felt deeply grateful that one of them had not been lashed to the post in place of the straw soldier.

  Dismounting with a grunt, Damville tossed the reins to a servant and beckoned his steward across. Huegon was a much older man with greying hair and a lined face. He had been standing near the main gate with a stranger. Damville removed a gauntlet and flicked a thumb at the newcomer.

  “What does he want?”

  “He brings a message from Hereford,” said Huegon.

  “Who does he serve?”

  “Corbin the Reeve.”

  Damville gave a derisive snort. “Send him on his way with a dusty answer. I read no letters from that fat-gutted fool.”

  “Corbin has his faults,” said the other, “but he is certainly no fool.”

  “No,” admitted his master. “Perhaps he is not. Any man who can feather his nest the way that the greedy reeve has done must have some intelligence. Or native guile. I would not trust the fellow to tell me what day of the week it was. That big, oily face of his is a map of deceit.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Despatch the message unread.

  That is all the reply that Corbin deserves.”

  “But the letter is a summons.”

  “A summons!” Damville was insulted. “For me!”

  “Sent on behalf of royal commissioners,” said the steward. “What its nature is, I do not know, and neither does the fellow who brought it here post haste. All he can tell me is that it is a matter of urgency.

  I think you should know what this letter betokens. Read it.”

  “I am too busy.”

  “Then let me glance through it on your behalf.”

  Damville scowled, but he soon saw the wisdom of the advice. To spurn a letter from a despised reeve was one thing; to ignore a summons from officials on the king’s business was quite another. He gave a curt nod and Huegon collected the message and brought it across to him. Tearing it open, Damville read swiftly through its contents with growing irritation.

  “I am called before them tomorrow!” he growled.

  “For what purpose?”

  “They do not tell me. That is what enrages me most.”

  “Why have they come to Hereford?”

  “In connection with this royal survey.”

  “The Domesday Book?”

  Damville was furious. “Call it what you will, I’ll have no more dealings with it. When the first commissioners came to the county, I went before them and gave all the evidence that was asked of me.

  What more do they want?”

  “There is only one way to find out.”

  “I will not be sent for in this manner, Huegon.”

  “If they are here by royal warrant-”

  Maurice Damville turned away with an imperious gesture. The last thing he needed at that point in time was to be questioned before a tribunal in Hereford. It would be a blow to his pride and take him away from more pressing matters. Pacing up and down, he weighed his anger against the more moderate response of his steward. Huegon was a wily man whose advice was invariably sage, but Damville was minded to disregard him on this occasion. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, snatched off his helm, and glared at the messenger through black eyes. His question was hurled like a spear.

  “Did you see these commissioners arrive?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the man, nervously.

  “How many did they number?”

  “Four.”

  “With men-at-arms at their back?”

  “Eight, my lord.”

  Damville was contemptuous. “Only eight swords to enforce this demand! They’ll need ten times that number to get me to Hereford tomorrow.” He took a menacing step towards the now trembling messenger. “Nobody can command my presence at such shor
t notice. Tell them that I am in no mood to oblige them. Away with you!”

  “Not so fast, sir!” interceded Huegon, catching the man by the arm as he tried to scurry away. “Wait for a proper answer. This was but spoken in jest.”

  Anxious to quit the place, the messenger agreed to stay while further discussion was held, but it would not take place in the bailey. Damville was already striding purposefully towards the motte, mounting the rough stone steps that led up to the tower and sweeping in through the door. Huegon went after him but waited until they were in the hall before he spoke. Maurice Damville was easier to handle in private.

  A gaping audience such as he had in the bailey always brought out the worst in him.

  The old man closed the door of the hall behind him.

  “Your reply was ill-considered,” he said quietly.

  “So was their summons.”

  ‘They have been sent by the king.”

  “That is my main objection to their presence. I will not have every inch of my land poked at and pried into by King William. I endured it once, but not again. These royal commissioners will hear nothing from me.”

  “Do you not wish to hear anything from them?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because they come from Winchester.”

  Damville’s expression changed visibly. His temper slowly subsided to be replaced by a calculating curiosity. He ran a hand across the lower part of his lean face.

  “What can they tell us?”

  “Whatever you wish to get out of them. They come from court. Their news is fresh.” He lowered his voice to a persuasive whisper. “Take me with you and let us meet their enquiries with a show of obedience.

  They will the sooner be sent on their way. As long as they are in Hereford their presence is a hindrance and may advantage your foe.”

  “Orbec?”

  “If you are summoned, the likelihood is that he will have to bear witness as well. Richard Orbec disputes your land. Will you let him put his case to these commissioners while you stay sulking here?”

  Damville crossed to the fireplace and spat into the flames. He brooded for several minutes before turning to face the steward. Mastering his rage, he nodded.

  “I will go.”

  “It is politic.”

  “Orbec will only tell them more lies.”

  “That would not be the end of it,” said the old man. “If he attended their tribunal and you did not, they would wish to know the reason why. They would come looking for you here and that is to be avoided at all cost.”

  Maurice Damville allowed a sly smile to lighten his features. In repose, his face had a kind of brutal charm. Fair hair swept back from a high forehead and the cleanshaven chin was square and strong. He reached out to slap his companion on the shoulder.

  “Where would I be without you, Huegon?”

  “Still toiling in Normandy.”

  “You always give good counsel.”

  “But you do not always pay heed to it.”

  “True,” said Damville, accepting the mild rebuke. “This time, I will.

  Let us satisfy these commissioners and pack them off to Winchester.

  But not before we have used them to strike a blow at Orbec. That would content me most.” He walked the steward back to the door. “Send word that I will present myself at the shire hall at noon tomorrow. When my business is finished, I will return here with all speed.”

  “Unless you have a reason to linger in Hereford.”

  “What?” Damville saw the twinkle in the old man’s eye and grinned.

  “I had almost forgotten that.”

  “Would you rather I had not reminded you?”

  Maurice Damville’s laughter echoed through the hall.

  Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail and offered up his prayers. Work on the cathedral had stopped for the day. Alone in the building, he was able to commune with his Maker in silence. Gervase was a devout but sometimes erratic Christian. Educated in a monastery, he had been imbued with a love of study and prayer, and was on the point of taking the cowl himself when more worldly concerns pressed in upon him. Something of those concerns threaded their way into the words that he was now sending up to heaven.

  Gentle footsteps moved over the paved stones behind him. Dean Theobald was surprised to find a stranger on his knees in an attitude of such deep prayer. Genuflecting before the altar, he moved to the shadow of a pillar and waited patiently until the visitor was about to leave.

  When Gervase rose and turned, he was met by a smile of welcome.

  Theobald had had time to guess at whom he might be.

  “Gervase Bret, I believe?” he said.

  “You know my name?”

  “Canon Hubert spoke of you. He also spoke of one Ralph Delchard but, from his description, I did not look to find your colleague so accustomed to taking his place at an altar rail.” They shared a polite laugh. “I am Dean Theobald and it is a privilege to have Canon Hubert and Brother Simon in our community for a short while.”

  “They will be grateful guests.”

  “Yes,” agreed Theobald. “I am not sure that the same may be said of another whom we have under our roof at the moment, but it is our duty to extend Christian fellowship to all. Even those with more eccentric modes of belief.” He took Gervase out through the door before stopping to look at him properly. “Why did you come to the cathedral?”

  “To pray.”

  “But why here? The castle has its own chapel.”

  “I would be mocked if I was seen going into it.”

  “By this Ralph Delchard?”

  “Yes,” said Gervase tolerantly. “He pretends to deride the Church, but I know that he worships God in his own way.”

  “That is what I tell myself about Archdeacon Idwal.”

  “Archdeacon Idwal?”

  “An unworthy remark,” said Theobald, repenting at once. “Please ignore it. But what do you think of our cathedral?”

  “It will be quite beautiful when it is finished.”

  “That will not be in our lifetime, alas! Bishop Robert initiated the rebuilding six years ago and you see what little progress has been made since then. The work is painstakingly slow and fearfully expensive.”

  “It will be worth it.”

  “We believe so. It will never compare with Winchester or with Canterbury, of course, but we feel that God will not be displeased by our humbler creation.” He gestured with his hand. “Would you care to take a proper look around?”

  Gervase accepted the invitation without hesitation. Not only was he genuinely interested in the cathedral and its operation, he warmed to its friendly dean. There was an unforced dignity about the man which was very appealing. But Gervase had another reason for tour-ing the precincts with his amenable host. No important event in the county escaped the attention of the church. It was the common storehouse in which every scrap of information, rumour, or scandal was routinely placed. Theobald could be extremely useful.

  “We were alarmed to hear of this murder,” said Gervase.

  “It has shocked us all profoundly. Warnod did not deserve such a grisly fate.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A thegn from Archenfield,” said Theobald. “His father was a wealthy man in the reign of King Edward. Warnod was set to inherit nineteen manors. But most of the land was taken from him after the Conquest. Warnod was left with only the vestiges of his estate.”

  “That much I knew. The man was the one of the subjects of our enquiry. Some of the land which legitimately remained in his keeping was also expropriated. The name of Maurice Damville came into the reckoning on that account.”

  “It would, I fear!”

  “Richard Orbec, too, is implicated.”

  Theobald smiled ruefully. “Never one without the other. Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec dispute everything out of force of habit, as you will very soon discover.”

  “What manner of man was this Warnod?”

  “An honest,
God-fearing fellow who never complained at the blows that rained down upon him. And there were plenty of those, I can tell you.”

  “Apart from the loss of his inheritance?”

  “That was but the start of it,” said the dean with a sigh. “Warnod was ill-starred. His first child died of a terrible sickness, the second was drowned in the Wye. He and his poor wife were distraught. Just as they were getting over those tragedies-if any human being can ever fully do that-the wife herself was killed when she was thrown from a horse. It was a most unhappy household.”

  “And yet he bore these tribulations?”

  “With great courage.”

  “Did he have many enemies?”

  “None that I can name. But then I did not know him very well myself. What I tell you is merely what I have heard in the last twenty-four hours.” Theobald shrugged. “I cannot fathom the reason for the murder. Warnod was well respected. With every reason to hate all Normans, he came to terms with our arrival far better than most.

  Then there are the Welsh.”

  “Corbin the Reeve told us of the red dragon.”

  “A hideous epitaph to leave behind.”

  “It seems like a clear message.”

  “I am not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, by all accounts, Warnod rubbed along extremely well with his Welsh neighbours.” He glanced involuntarily towards the refectory. “I could use some of his talent in that direction myself.”

  “Perhaps he offended them in some way.”

  “Far from it. Archenfield is still largely inhabited by people of Welsh descent. Warnod even went so far as to learn the rudiments of their language.”

  “And yet they burned him to death.”

  “That has not yet been proved.”

  “Corbin seemed to feel that it had.”

  “Our reeve is rather prone to summary judgments.”

  “How else do you explain the red dragon?” said Gervase.

  Theobald shook his head. “I cannot, Master Bret. Nor can I explain the strange treatment of the two servants.”

  “Servants?”

  “In Warnod’s house. Elfig and Hywel.”

  “A Saxon and a Welshman.”