The Dragons of Archenfield d-3

by Edward Marston

  “Do not answer it!” ordered Aelgar.

  “Why not?”

  “Bolt the door!”

  “Who is it?”

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

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

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

  “Come on out!” roared a man’s voice.

  “Say nothing!” Aelgar hissed to the servant.

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

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

  There was crude laughter from outside the door.

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

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

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

  “Come to me, my darling!” he coaxed.

  “No!”

  “I only wish to talk to you.”

  “Go away!”

  “Open the door.”

  “Leave me alone.”

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

  “I want no presents.”

  “Here it is,” he said. “In my hand.”

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

  More crude laughter came from Damville’s soldiers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Thank God!” she sighed.

  “But I’ll be back for you soon.”

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

  Maurice Damville would not endure refusal for long.

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

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

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

  “A woman and a Welshman?”

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

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

  Brother Simon was at least prepared to compromise.

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

  Women terrify me!”

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

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

  “Heaven forbid!”

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

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

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

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

  Gervase was intrigued by the garrulous Welshman.

  “Do you always travel alone, Archdeacon?”

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

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

  “I prefer to seek friends along the way.”

  “You are more likely to encounter foes.”

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

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

  “I am, Gervase. Spiritually.”

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

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

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

  “Would that chieftain’s name be Vortigern?”

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

  “What did it signify?” asked Gervase.

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

  “The Saxons.”

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

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

  “They are just a more monstrous white
dragon.”

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

  “In time, my friend. In time.”

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

  “They were not true Welshmen,” insisted Idwal.

  “A red dragon was carved in the turf.”

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

  “How can you be so sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The bearded rider turned to his companion.

  “What do they want?” he said.

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  “Follow them.”

  “I will.”

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

  “Yes, my lord.”

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

  Is that understood?’

  “Clearly, my lord.”

  “I’ll permit no trespass. By anyone!”

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

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

  The situation was profoundly aggravating.

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

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

  “I know. More’s the pity!”

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

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

  “Both are equally onerous.”

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

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

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

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

  “In the meantime, my lord sheriff?”

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

  “The worst of it seems to be over.”

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

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

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

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

  Wales had been awakened.

  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.”