The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3)

by Edward Marston

  “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 twentyfour 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.”

  “Living under his roof without undue discomfort.”

  “Were they trapped in the bonfire with him?”

  “They were both spared,” said Theobald, “but they have rather different tales to tell.”

  “In what way?”

  “They were seized at the house by a gang of men. Bound and gagged, they were dragged a hundred yards away so that they could not warn their master on his return.”

  “Wherein lies the difference between the servants?”

  “Elfig was beaten senseless. Hywel was unharmed. Was it a case of Welshmen relenting with one of their own?”

  “Not necessarily,” argued Gervase. “The Saxon may have resisted the attackers and been punished for his boldness.”

  “Hardly. Elfig is a frail old man. They are not at all sure that he will survive the attack.”

  “And the other servant? Hywel?”

  “Still young and virile.”

  Gervase was baffled, but he had no opportunity to ask any further questions. They were close to the refectory now and their conversation was rudely interrupted by the sounds of a violent quarrel from within. Dean Theobald blenched. The college of regular canons maintained the most strict decorum. Voices were never raised within the cathedral precincts and disputes were never allowed to become acrimonious. Theobald moved to quell the disturbance. Pushing open the door of the refectory, he sailed in with Gervase Bret at his heels.

  “Dyfryg!” shouted Idwal.

  “Ethelbert!” roared Canon Hubert.

  “Dyfryg was a holy man.”

  “So was Ethelbert.”

  “He was King of the East Angles. Offa had him killed when Ethelbert came here to marry his daughter.”

  “Miracles resulted. That is why Ethelbert was made a saint and why this cathedral is dedicated to him.”

  “It should honour St. Dyfryg instead!”

  Both men became aware of the presence of Theobald at the same time, but they reacted in opposite ways. Hubert was immediately contrite, abandoning the argument with the testy Welshman and mouthing his apologies for his loss of control. Idwal was completely unabashed. Two new faces simply meant two more people with whom to debate the merits of St. Dyfryg.

  “Let us have your opinion, Dean Theobald,” he said.

  “My opinion is that you are both guests here and should not seek to violate the peace of our community.”

  Idwal chuckled. “It was a friendly discussion. Canon Hubert and I were just exchanging views on the nature of sainthood. Bishop Dyfryg was born in Ergyng—Archenfield, as you insist on calling it. His ministry touched much of this county. Why is this not the cathedral church of St. Dyfryg?”

  The two combatants were sitting either side of the long oak table that ran down the length of the refectory. Half-eaten meals and halfdrunk mugs of ale showed that everyone else had fled from the scene. Brother Simon had gone with them, unable to stop the fierce argument and unwilling to be drawn into it. Idwal the Archdeacon was a small man with a powerful presence. His truculent scholarship had cleared the room.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What is your view, Theobald?”

  “I have given it,” said the dean crisply. “Excuse me while I have private conference with Canon Hubert.”

  “They're running away. I won the debate!”

  “I will speak with you in due course, Archdeacon.”

  On that icy note, Theobald took Hubert out of the refectory, convinced that the only way to end the dispute was to separate the two men, and wondered how soon he could assist their Welsh visitor back across the border. Gervase Bret was left alone with Idwal, who, now divested of his filthy cloak, was still wearing his mean travelling apparel. His hat had been removed to reveal straggly hair.

  The mad eyes switched their beam to Gervase.

  “And who might you be, young sir?”

  “Gervase Bret. Travelling with Canon Hubert.”

  “That shameless bigot?”

  “He has his redeeming features.”

  “So do we all.” Idwal swallowed the dregs of his ale and appraised the newcomer. “Gervase, eh? And what do you know about St. Dyfryg?”

  “More than you would imagine.”

  “You have actually heard of him?”

  “Of course. He was a monk who helped to spread Christianity in this area. His first foundation was indeed in Archenfield.”

  “The Welsh call it Ergyng.”

  “Dyfryg may have known it as Ariconium, its Roman name.”

  “That is where he did much of his apostolic work,” said Idwal wistfully. “I traced his holy footsteps through the area only yesterday.”

  Gervase pricked up his ears. “In Archenfield?”

  “I visited all the churches there.”

  “Including the one at Llanwarne?”

  “I spent an hour with the priest in the afternoon.”

  “A man was murdered less than a mile from there.”

  “Unhappily, it is so,” said the Welshman, “and I have already included Warnod's name in my prayers. Elfig, too, for the old servant lies grievous sick from his beating.”

  “What did you see?” asked Gervase.

  “Nothing. I left the village by four.”

  “You may have noticed something of significance without even realising it. The men who burned Warnod's house were in the area well before he returned to his home.” He came to sit opposite Idwal. “Rack your brains, Archdeacon. Piece it together again in your mind.”

  “I will try.”

  “Tell me exactly what you did in Archenfield.”

  “First of all, I called it Ergyng….”

  Gervase suppressed a smile.

  Ralph Delchard had much to keep him occupied at the castle. Having inspected the lodging assigned to his men, he gave them their orders for the morrow and warned them not to carouse too long or too wildly in the city that night. He then explored the whole building to familiarise himself with its layout and appreciate the finer points of its construction. It was good to have high stone walls around him. A soldier by training and instinct, Ralph knew from personal experience that Norman success in subduing the English—and keeping the Welsh and Scots at bay—depended largely on their skill at building castles.

  His stroll eventually brought him to the main gate. Two guards were talking idly but, at his approa
ch, separated to take up sentry positions. Ralph saw the opportunity to gather some intelligence. He chatted casually with them to win their confidence, then tossed a name into the conversation.

  “What can you tell me of Richard Orbec?”

  The two soldiers exchanged a glance. The bigger of them, a broadshouldered man with a gruff voice, answered for both.

  “He is a power in this county.”

  “I know that from the size of his holdings,” said Ralph. “What of his character, his likes and dislikes, his reputation? Describe the man to me.”

  “Richard Orbec likes to keep himself to himself,” said the guard. “He rarely stirs from his estates unless someone is unwise enough to trespass on his land or his patience. Slow to rouse, he is a ruthless man when his temper is up. I have known him to ride the length of the county to punish some insult or affront to his dignity.”

  “A proud man, then. Strong, aggressive.”

  “And lonely.”

  “Does he have no wife and family?”

  “None, my lord. Some say he has a religious streak, and he has certainly been generous towards the cathedral. Parts of the choir were rebuilt with Richard Orbec's money.” He traded another look with his partner. “Others take a darker view of his dislike of women.”

  Ralph saw the cold snigger in the eyes of both men.

  “Maurice Damville also interests me,” he said.

  “Treat him with caution, my lord.”

  Ralph was peremptory. “I will treat him as I think fit. If he proves quarrelsome, he will find that the King's writ runs in Herefordshire as in every other county.” He relaxed a litttle. “The two men are not the best of friends, I hear.”

  “True, my lord,” said the soldier, with a grim chuckle. “The sheriff spends much of his time keeping them apart. Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville have too many old scores to settle.”

  “Damville sounds to be hot-tempered and violent.”

  “None more so. He is also a famous lecher in these parts. He keeps his wife and family in Normandy so that they may not interfere with his sport. They say he has bastards all over the county. In fact…”

  The man's voice trailed away as he looked through the open postern gate. Two figures were walking quickly towards the castle. When Ralph saw the first of them, he immediately lost interest in the men's gossip. A tall, graceful woman was bearing down on them in an elegant gunna of white linen and a blue mantle. Her wimple enclosed an oval face whose soft beauty was enhanced by a sense of anxiety. The small, thin girl beside her, in meaner attire, was evidently a servant and claimed no more than a cursory glance from Ralph.

  He crossed to the gate to offer a polite welcome.

  “May I be of service to you?” he said.

  “Has the sheriff returned?” asked the woman.

  “I fear not.”

  “When is he expected?”

  “Nobody seems to know,” he said. “Perhaps I may be able to help you in his stead. My name is Ralph Delchard, sent here by royal warrant that makes the sheriff answerable to me as long as I am in Hereford. Step inside and we will find somewhere with a measure of privacy. I can see that you have come on a matter of some urgency.”

  The woman hesitated before responding with a fleeting smile. Ralph's blend of gallantry and easy authority was reassuring. She allowed him to take her hand as she stepped through the gate. Both of the guards gave the newcomers a nod of recognition. When Ralph led the two women across the bailey, the servant girl walked a few paces behind them. He spoke to her mistress with respectful curiosity.

  “May I know your name?”

  “Golde, my lord.”

  “You live in the city?”

  “At the west end of Castle Street,” she said. “It is the merest step away.”

  “I wondered why the guards seemed to know you.”

  “They have seen me here many times. I have business in the castle that makes me a frequent visitor, though I have come on a different errand this time.”

  Ralph did not press her for details. They would come when they were away from public gaze. Instead, he chatted amiably about his first impressions of the city. Only when they reached the tower did his manner change. He opened the door of the solar and gestured for her to go in.

  Golde met his eyes and saw the frank affection in them. He saw an answering flicker of interest that was replaced by a look of concern, but she signalled her trust by asking her companion to wait outside. Ralph followed her into the room and closed the door behind him. He waved her to a chair, but she preferred to stand.

  “May I call for some wine?” he said.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Can I offer you any other refreshment?”

  “I have simply come in search of information.”

  “About what?”

  “There are rumours of a cruel murder.”

  “Why do they arouse your interest?”

  “Because the name I heard whispered was Warnod.”

  “You know the man?”

  “I know of him,” she said carefully. “And I would be glad to learn the truth of the matter. Marketplace gossip can often be misleading. I hope to hear that Warnod may not have been the victim of this crime.”

  Ralph heaved a gentle sigh. “Then your hope is likely to be dashed, I fear.”

  “Can you be certain?”

  “Warnod was killed last evening by unknown assassins.”

  “How?”

  “The details might distress you.”

  “How?” she insisted.

  “He was barricaded into his house and burned alive.”

  Golde winced but quickly regained her composure. Ralph was struck once again by the haunted beauty of her face. In his opinion, Saxon women did not usually compare with the ladies of Normandy, but here was a startling exception. Still in her twenties, she had the look of someone well acquainted with adversity yet able to meet it with a brave heart. Though apprehension had brought her to the castle, what Ralph now caught was a sense of her innate resilience. Expecting bad news, she had adjusted to it with remarkable control.

  “Are you sure you would not like something?” he asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  “The wine is tolerable.”

  “I do not drink wine.”

  “Neither do most people around here,” he complained in jocular tones. “They prefer the local ale. It is beyond belief. They could have the finest wine from Normandy yet they drink this disgusting English ale.” He saw a half-smile. “What is the joke? Have I said something comical?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Do you despise our taste for wine?”

  “It is not my place to do so.”

  “Then why did you smile even now?”

  “That comment about disgusting English ale.”

  “It is flat, evil-smelling, and revolting to look at. I loathe it. But why should that amuse you?”

  “Because I brew the ale for this castle.”

  Ralph goggled. “You!”

  “For castle and cathedral,” she said proudly. “It is a worthy occupation and I have yet to receive a complaint. My husband was the most successful brewer in Hereford and I inherited his business when he died. Do not be amazed, my lord. Many of the best brewers in the city are women.”

  “I do not doubt it,” he said, covering his embarrassment with a chuckle. “And I was not condemning your ale. It has a quality all of its own, I am sure, but I was raised amid the vineyards of Normandy. Wine is nectar to me.”

  Golde smiled to show that she was not offended by his remarks. In the brief moment when their eyes locked, he saw a vulnerability which had not been there before. It was as if their discussion of ale had thrown her off guard. He stepped in close to her to take advantage of the moment.

  “What really brought you here this evening?” he said.

  “I wished to make enquiry.”

  “Is this Warnod related to you in some way?”

  “No, my lord.”


  “A friend, perhaps? A customer for your ale?”

  “He is … known to me. That is all.”

  “It would take more than that to fetch you in search of the sheriff,” he suggested. “Warnod is known to many people, but they are not all queueing up at the castle gate to learn the details of his murder. I think you have a more serious reason. Confide in me and I will not betray you.”

  She turned away. “I will take my leave.”

  “Wait,” he said, touching her arm to stop her. “This is important to me. I am part of a commission sent to look into abuses that have come to light in this county. Warnod was to have been called before us. His evidence would have been crucial. His death is an inconvenience, to say the least. I wish to see if it is in any way linked to our arrival here, so anything—anything at all—that you may tell me about Warnod will be of value.” He took his hand from her arm. “Please, help me. If this man means something to you, help me to find his killers.”

  Golde bit her lip and looked up at him, wrestling with her con- science and wondering how far she could trust him. Ralph met her gaze and waited until the words eventually slipped quietly from her lips.

  “Warnod was a friend,” she confessed. “When he was riding back to Archenfield, he was on his way home from a visit to my house.”

  Chapter 3

  RICHARD ORBEC ROSE BEFORE DAWN AND WENT STRAIGHT TO THE TINY CHAPEL. ITS simplicity was striking. Four bare stone walls enclosed an area which could accommodate no more than a mere handful of worshippers. The gold crucifix that stood on the little altar was the only concession to luxury. Wax candles burned on either side of it. There were no windows. It was more like a monastic cell than a chapel of a Norman lord

  Orbec knelt on the cold paving slab in an attitude of submission. He remained alone in the dank chamber for the best part of an hour. Nobody dared to interrupt him. Morning prayer was a solitary vigil that he never neglected. Members of his household had learned to stay well clear of their ascetic master during his devotions.

  Breakfast was a hasty meal of bread and wine. Orbec then changed into his hauberk in readiness for the journey. He summoned Redwald, the manorial reeve.