“Was he a kind master, Hywel?”
“Yes.”
“How did he treat you and Elfig?”
“Well.”
“Did he have many enemies in Ergyng?”
“None that I know of.”
Idwal bent in close. “Who do you think killed him?”
The boy's one visible eye filmed over with tears. He was still deeply distressed about the fate of his master and shaken by the savage beating he had been given. Desperate to help, the youth had no more information to offer. After going through some of the details a second time, Idwal thanked him and promised to call on him again to tend his wounds and to offer succour.
Ralph Delchard stepped quickly outside the hovel and gulped in fresh air. Golde was some distance away, locked in conversation with the sheriff. His manner seemed much less hostile towards her. Idwal came out of the house and gave Ralph an account of everything else that the youth had said.
“I still do not spy a Welsh hand in this,” argued Idwal.
“Nor do I,” said Ralph.
“Why?”
“Because this attack was planned. They knew that Warnod was away from his house and they knew when he was likely to return and by what route. No random band of killers from over the border would have had that intelligence.”
“Why burn him alive when they could have cut him down?”
“They wanted to send a signal.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone.”
“All that is signalled was an outbreak of violence.”
“Exactly,” said Ralph. “Then there was the red dragon.”
“A false trail.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Hywel was feverish. He did not see that dragon alive.”
“In his mind's eye, he did.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“He is Welsh.”
The remark sent Idwal into a burst of invective against Saxons and Normans alike. Ralph did not hear him. He was too busy looking in the direction of the border.
“Who are the most dangerous men in Wales?”
“Look elsewhere for your murderers, my lord.”
“I ask but in the spirit of enquiry,” said Ralph. “I know little of the Welsh beyond the fact that they are fierce soldiers. I fought against them near Chester many years ago. They were bloody encounters with no quarter given.”
“Praise the Lord! We have always had brave warriors.”
“Brave warriors need great leaders.”
“We have had our share of those,” observed Idwal with pride. “I could recite a long list of immortal heroes. In recent memory, Gruffydd ap Llewelyn was the most famous. Prince of Gwynedd and Powys, and lord of all Wales. A mighty man on the battlefield. You may yoke the name of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn with that of Richard Orbec.”
“Orbec?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Idwal with a dry cackle. “Richard Orbec is helping to rebuild the cathedral that Gruffydd destroyed when he sacked the whole city.” He became solemn. “Not that I condone the attack on a cathedral or on any place of worship, mind you. Ecclesiastical buildings of all kinds should be sacrosanct. Gruffydd was too impulsive.”
“That was over twenty years ago,” said Ralph. “Where are your fearsome princes now?”
“Rhys ap Tewdr is lord of Deheubarth and rules the whole of South Wales without challenge.”
“King William brought him to heel in St. David's.”
“Your king was on a pilgrimage to the shrine!”
“A cloak to hide his real purpose,” said Ralph. “He went with an army to remind this Rhys ap Tewdr of the power of Norman soldiers. The lord of Deheubarth had the sense to become reconciled with the King. Who else can you cite?”
“Rhys holds the south, Gruffydd ap Cynan, the north.” Idwal shook his head sadly. “In name only, alas. The prince of Gwynedd was imprisoned by deceitful Normans. He rules his land through the bars of a dungeon.”
“It may be the safest throne on which to set him.”
“His time will come again, my lord.”
“But it is not at hand yet,” said Ralph. “You tell me of your two most powerful men. Rhys ap Tewdr in the south and Gruffydd ap Cynan in the north. Neither is a threat to us. What of the prince of Powys?”
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn?”
“Would he be a leader to unite your people?”
“Hardly!” said Idwal with asperity.
“Why not?”
“Because he has come to composition with the enemy and diluted the blood of his royal house.”
“In what way?”
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn is married to one of your own. The daughter of a Marcher lord, Picot de Say. His wife has taken all the fight out of him.”
“Our ladies keep warm beds.”
“The prince of Powys is as crafty as a fox, but he has been caged by marriage. Look for no trouble from him.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“I have met the man myself.”
“Does he not have a strong army around him?”
“Yes,” said Idwal. “Brave warriors, bred for battle, but they stand idle in Powys. You will not hear a peep out of Cadwgan and his soldiers.”
Goronwy led a troop of forty men down through the Black Mountains. Light armour allowed them to move fast. As captain of his uncle's teulu, Goronwy was a highly trained soldier who honed his military skills with unvarying regularity. Like their leader, the soldiers were expert horsemen who could use sword and spear with dexterity in the saddle. Several of them also had bows and quivers of arrows slung across their backs. As they clattered along the narrow mountain roads, nobody dared to question their purpose or obstruct their path.
They were on an important mission that brooked no delay. Goronwy had not spoken a word since they had left his uncle's court. Suffused with anger, his face squeezed in upon itself. The forehead narrowed, the eyes half-closed, the cheeks were sucked in, and the mouth became a thin strip of red amid the black hair of his beard. An invisible hammer continued to pound the anvil inside his head until his temples threatened to burst apart.
When they reached the foothills, they saw a small group of travellers coming towards them. Goronwy gave a signal with his hand and his men cantered on to surround the little cortege. Terrified by the ring of hostility around them, the travellers pleaded for mercy. Their spokesman was an ancient figure in a tattered cloak.
“Do not harm us, friends,” he implored in quaking Welsh. “We are poor people with nothing worth stealing. Spare us.”
“We are not robbers!” snarled Goronwy with disgust. “We are soldiers of the prince of Powys, Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”
“We did not look to find you this far south.”
“North, south, east, west! We ride where we choose.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, apologetically.
“Where have you come from?”
“Caerleon.”
“What did you see along the road?”
“Nothing of any note.”
“Whom did you meet?”
“Nobody, my lord.”
“You are lying.”
“It is the truth,” said the old man. “Ask any of my companions. We have ridden all the way from Caerleon and seen not a soul on the road.” He stretched out an arm to point. “We came by the quieter paths through—”
“Stop lying!” interrupted Goronwy.
He enforced his command with a swish of his sword. The outstretched arm was severed in two below the elbow and the old traveller reeled in the saddle. Goronwy kicked his horse into a canter and continued on his way. For half a mile, they could still hear the piteous howls of their victim.
Goronwy was unrepentant. “Nobody lies to me,” he said with a grim smile. “I should've cut his tongue out as well.”
Ilbert the Sheriff swiftly revised his opinion of the Archdeacon of Llandaff. Though everything about the man made his hackles rise, he soon came to see how useful he could be. Idwal was a
calming influence on the Welsh community, moving among them to listen to their tales of woe, offer comfort, and counsel moderate action. Bellicose in theological debate, the archdeacon was also an ambassador for peace. Ilbert decided to make the best use of him that he could.
It left Ralph Delchard alone with Golde for the first time since they had quit Hereford. She was numbed by the implications of what she saw at Warnod's house and she wondered how she could soften the hard tale when she told it to her sister.
Ralph related what he had learned from Warnod's servant, but it took them no closer to understanding the motive that lay behind the attack. He turned to more personal affairs.
“You talked intently with my lord sheriff just now.”
“I had many questions to put to him.”
“He seemed more ready to answer them than earlier.”
“Ilbert Malvoisin is a sullen man at times, but he can be brought around to a more pleasant state of mind.”
“Your charms would bring anyone around, Golde.”
She acknowledged the compliment with a brief smile.
“You know him well, I think?” he continued.
“The sheriff?”
“When you first met, he was peppery. When I saw you even now, he was very attentive towards you. If a man shifts so quickly between anger and reconciliation, it usually means that his heart is engaged.”
“Not by me, my lord,” she said, sharply.
“He was all but fawning upon you.”
“Ilbert Malvoisin is married.”
“You are not.”
“Nor do I look to be,” she insisted. “One time was enough. I have had to tell that to many who came calling.”
“Including the sheriff?” he fished.
Golde was terse. “The sheriff and I meet in the way of business. I supply ale to the castle, he buys it. That is the extent of our relationship. Now and in the future.”
“I see.” He cast another line into the water. “Is there someone else already in your life?”
“There is, my lord.”
“Oh.”
“My sister. Aelgar.”
“What I meant was that—”
“I know what you meant,” she said, “and my answer still holds. Aelgar is my prime concern at the moment. Two days ago, she consented to marry Warnod.” She rode over his surprise. “Yes, I know that he was much older and already bereft of one wife. But he was a good man. Kind and considerate. He understood our ways. Warnod would have been a loving husband.”
“Did you approve of the match?”
“Aelgar is a strange girl,” she explained. “Young and still very much a child. She is at the mercy of her beauty. You have no idea what a curse it can sometimes be. For every man who looked at me, five would stare at Aelgar.” She met his gaze. “Warnod is not the man I would have chosen for her, but I came to see his virtues. He wooed her for over a year. She loved him truly. I believe that he would have made my sister happy and rescued her from all that attention.”
“What will become of her, Golde?”
“I do not know.”
“You cannot shield her forever,” he said, gently. “She has lost one husband, but there are other good men in the world. If she is even half as lovely as her sister, she will have an extremely wide choice.”
Golde almost blushed. “She will, my lord.”
“What of you, then?”
“Me?”
“When your role is done. When Aelgar is settled.”
“That may not be for some time.”
“But then?”
The candour of his affection was touching. She felt her pulse quicken under his gaze. A bleak purpose had brought her to Archenfield, but Ralph Delchard had breathed some warmth into the journey for her. He was a Norman lord and she was a humble brewer, but she was not abashed in his presence. She let him know it.
“I am the daughter of a Saxon thegn,” she said.
He grinned. “I saw the nobility in your bearing.”
“Come no closer,” ordered Richard Orbec. “This is my land.”
“We have a right to view it,” said Canon Hubert.
“To view it, but not to trespass upon it.”
“These holdings are in dispute, my lord,” said Gervase Bret, reasonably. “We come to see why they have attracted such interest from three rival claimants.”
“One, Master Bret,” said Orbec.
“Did we lose two along the road?”
“Maurice Damville, as I hear, has resigned his interest.”
“That still leaves you and Warnod.”
“I will not be dispossessed by a handful of ashes in Llanwarne,” said Orbec. “Until you show me a legal and enforceable will that bestows on someone the right to contest part of my demesne, I will not let you step onto my property.”
“Then we may have to do so by force,” blustered Hubert. A line of twenty men-at-arms advanced a few paces towards him. “You will not intimidate me. We are here at the king's express behest. His soldiers are at our beck and call.”
“But they are in Winchester—mine are here.”
“King William will be told about this.”
“He is in Normandy on more important business.”
“Very well,” said Gervase, conceding defeat. “We will but ride along the periphery of your land. That will give us a fair idea of its worth and quality.” An astringent note intruded. “But you do yourself no favours, my lord. When you are so eager to keep us away from your holdings, we are bound to wonder if you are hiding something from us.”
“I am.”
“What is it?”
“Myself.”
Richard Orbec left half his men to form a barrier against the visi- tors and rode off towards his house with the others. Gervase Bret gestured to his own party to withdraw. In the shade of some trees, they dismounted to consider their next step. Canon Hubert was outraged at the turn of events. His position gave him the right to inspect any land in the county and he hated to be baulked. Brother Simon, on the other hand, was almost relieved that their passage had been blocked. He argued that it was still possible for them to ride back to Hereford before darkness completely overtook them. The prospect of a cathedral from which Idwal the Archdeacon had been exorcised was very enticing.
“Put that thought aside, Brother Simon,” said Hubert. “We would be better advised to join the others in Llanwarne and seek shelter for the night in that vicinity. This murder may well have some bearing on Richard Orbec's reluctance to admit us to his demesne.”
Gervase suggested a compromise. Having come this far, he did not wish to leave empty-handed. While the others rode on to Llanwarne, therefore, he would contrive some means to take a closer look at Richard Orbec's disputed land.
“Alone?” said Canon Hubert. “I admire your courage, Gervase, but I question your sanity. What can one man do that seven of us could not?” “Be less visible.”
For the benefit of the watching sentries, Gervase rode off with his companions on the road to Llanwarne. As soon as they were in thick cover, however, he bade farewell and doubled back in a wide circle. Orbec's land was fringed with woodland and dappled with orchards. It would not be impossible to gain access to at least some of the holdings with relative safety. Using what cover he could, Gervase picked his way along with care.
The countryside was entrancing. Rich, luscious, and rolling gently towards the horizon, it was land that any man would fight to keep. Birdsong filled the air and insects buzzed over standing pools. Gervase manoeuvred his way towards a grove of sycamores on a gentle slope. From their shelter, he could enjoy the view at his leisure. Dismounting among the trees, he tethered his horse and crept forward to find himself a vantage point. The greater part of the disputed land unfolded before him like a green carpet. Gervase could even catch a faint glimpse of Richard Orbec's house.
His survey was short-lived. He heard the crack of a twig beneath a foot, but his reactions were far too slow. Before he could even move, a wooden
club struck him on the back of the head to send him tumbling forward into oblivion.
Chapter 6
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 absentmindedly. 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.”
The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 10
