The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3)

by Edward Marston

  “Golde has not returned yet,” she said in dismay. “Do not lock my sister out.”

  “She will not come back tonight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It is too dark. The city gates are closed.”

  Aelgar was pitched into an even greater state of anxiety. Golde was her only support. Her sister had warned her that there was a possibility that she might have to spend the night away, but Aelgar had not taken that threat seriously. It now confronted her with quiet menace.

  She would have to spend a whole night alone with her grief and apprehension. Golde had nursed her until now. Her absence was devastating. Aelgar would have to lie by herself in the darkness, mourning a man she loved and fearing a man she hated. Warnod was dead, but Maurice Damville was still hideously alive. She could not hold him off forever.

  Aelgar snatched up a knife from the table and hurried off to bed. The weapon was not only for her protection. As she lay brooding in the darkness, she turned its point towards her beleaguered heart.

  Hours had passed. He could wait in Llanwarne no longer. When Gervase Bret did not make his way to the village, Ralph Delchard knew that some mishap had befallen him. Against the advice of the sheriff, he decided to lead a search party. He and his four knights were soon galloping hard in the direction of Richard Orbec's demesne.

  They did not have to ride far across his land. It was a fine night and their torches made them visible for miles. Word of their arrival was quickly taken to Orbec himself. As Ralph led his men into a hollow by a stream, he was suddenly met by a wide semicircle of flame.

  Twenty armed men held a torch apiece. In the flickering light they were ghostly. Ralph and his men reined in their horses. Richard Orbec had a sword in his hand as he eased his horse forward. His voice was steely.

  “Who is it that dares to trespass on my land?”

  “Ralph Delchard.”

  “Turn round and ride straight back,” said Orbec.

  “Not until I find Gervase Bret.”

  “He is not here, my lord.”

  “I believe that he is.”

  “No,” said Orbec. “We stopped him as we will stop you and anyone else reckless enough to tread on my land. He left hours ago with his companions.”

  “They came back,” explained Ralph, “but he did not. Gervase is like me, my lord. He is not easily frightened. Since he could not come here by right, he came by stealth. When your back was turned, he made his way onto Orbec territory—as you well know. Hand him over!”

  “He is not in my custody.”

  “God help you if he has come to any harm!”

  “It has not been at my hands.”

  “Gervase is here!” yelled Ralph. “Surrender him!”

  “I cannot and I would not.”

  Richard Orbec came close to look him full in the face.

  “I speak in all honesty,” he said. “Your friend is not here. If he had been taken by my men—let me be honest about this as well—he would have been punished in a manner that he would not forget. He was warned, my lord, and I do not make idle warnings.”

  “Neither do I!” retorted Ralph.

  “Leave my land while you still may.”

  Ralph reached for his sword, but thought better of it.

  “Do you swear that Gervase is not held by you?”

  “On my honour!” vowed Orbec.

  Ralph Delchard was totally bewildered.

  “Then where, in God's name, is he?”

  Gervase Bret forced himself up into a sitting position and turned his back so that his bound wrists were facing his companion. The man was old, but his fingers were nimble. Feeling his way to the ropes, he undid them in a minute. Gervase massaged his wrists then shook his hands vigorously in the air to restore some movement to them. When his fingers began to obey him again, he used them to loosen the bonds around his ankles. Aching in every joint, he stood up and stretched himself properly.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I am glad to be of service. Who are you?”

  “My name is Gervase Bret.”

  “I am Omri.”

  The old man spoke no English, but Gervase knew more than a smattering of Welsh. It had served him well during their visit to the Savernake Forest in Wiltshire, but it would be even more crucial here. The son of a Breton father, Gervase had learned his father's native tongue, a language that had a close affinity with Welsh. Conversation, though halting at times, was therefore possible.

  “Where are we?” asked Gervase.

  “I do not know.”

  “How were you brought here?”

  “By horsemen. We were ambushed.”

  “We?”

  “There were ten of us,” said Omri. “Travelling north from Caerleon on an important errand. They attacked us near Raglan. We stood no chance.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Only two of us survived.”

  Omri was a tall, cadaverous, white-haired man with huge eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. Gervase could only make out a vague shape in the gloom, but the eyes told him where the long, narrow face was. Omri was a benign presence. His voice was deep and mellifluous.

  “How long have you been here?” said Gervase.

  “A day that seems like a year.”

  “And you did not see where they brought you?”

  The old man laughed softly. “No, I did not.”

  “What is the joke?”

  “It is only comical to those who know me, Gervase. In Wales I have another name. Omri Dall.”

  “Omri the Blind.”

  Gervase was covered in embarrassment and started to apologise, but the old man cut him short. He was in no way offended by the mistake.

  “Besides,” he said, “we meet on equal terms.”

  “Equal terms?”

  “Both locked in a world of darkness.”

  “But where?” said Gervase. “Where?”

  “It should not be too difficult to work out,” said Omri. “Captured at Raglan then taken at a canter for no more than a couple of hours or so. That could put us in Chepstow.”

  “Chepstow Castle?”

  “Though my guess would be Monmouth.”

  “Would it?”

  “Did you not hear that river?” said the old man. “A steady flow, but nothing like the torrent of the Wye as it races towards the estuary. Our river is the Monnow. Smaller and more obedient. This castle must be Monmouth.”

  Gervase was slightly relieved at the news. Monmouth put them much closer to his place of capture than Chepstow, but he was still being held against his will.

  “Why were you brought here?” asked Omri.

  “I do not know.”

  “How were you taken?”

  With great difficulty, Gervase pieced the story together, as much for his own benefit as for that of his companion. Omri listened intently throughout, intrigued by the reason that first took Gervase to Herefordshire.

  “We have heard of this famous Domesday Book.”

  “It is a description of all England.”

  “Then I am glad that I live in Wales.”

  “When it is completed, it will be an extraordinary document,” said Gervase. “It touches the lives of everyone in the nation.”

  “Perhaps that is why you are here, my young friend.”

  “Here?”

  “Someone may not want his life touched.”

  Gervase immediately thought of Richard Orbec. The latter would yield nothing to the commissioners in the shire hall and it was on his land that Gervase had been attacked. Puzzled by his own presence in the dungeon, he was yet able to show an interest in Omri's plight.

  “Where were you travelling?” he asked.

  “To the court of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”

  “The prince of Powys?”

  “I was to have sung at a banquet,” explained the old man. “And told fortunes to those brave enough to know them.”

  “You are a minstrel?”

  “Bard
, jester, and seer. Send for Omri Dall and you get all three of me. I can beguile you with a song, amuse you with a jest, or terrify you with a look into the future.”

  “I will settle for your friendship,” said Gervase.

  “A day or two locked up in here,” said Omri, “and you will be begging me for entertainment. The guards were kinder to me than to you.” He played a chord on a harp. “They let me keep my instrument. I take that as a good omen.”

  “You said earlier, I believe, that you travelled on an important errand.”

  “That is so. I was carrying a message.”

  “From whom?”

  “Friend to friend.”

  “From Caerleon to Powys.”

  “My life is an endless journey around the courts of Welsh princes,” said Omri. “I am known and trusted by all. Seek for me in Powys and you will find I have ridden on to Gwynedd. Ask for me there and they will tell you I am in Ceredigion. By the time you catch up with me, my songs are lifting the spirit in Brycheiniog.”

  “What do you sing about?”

  “What else, but Wales?”

  Gervase was reminded of the Archdeacon of Llandaff. Both men had a deep and loving patriotism. While Idwal was relentlessly argumentative, however, Omri was gentle and unforced. The Welsh churchman used words to batter his adversaries into defeat; the Welsh bard was more likely to lull them into agreement with a sly melody.

  Under other circumstances, Gervase would have found the old man's company enchanting, but a higher priority occupied his mind. He had to escape. Someone needed him out of the way for a particular reason. His attackers could just as easily have killed him as knock him senseless. Instead, they chose to spirit him out of Archenfield. Gervase was anxious to find out why and he could not do that while he was imprisoned in the dungeon of Monmouth Castle.

  One thing was certain. Ralph Delchard would be looking for him. His friend would already have initiated a search. Ralph would not rest until Gervase had been tracked down, but that might take an extremely long time. Castle dungeons were holes in the region of hell. Once thrown into them, prisoners did not often come out alive.

  Escape for him meant escape for his companion as well.

  “You did not tell me the nature of your message.”

  “No,” said Omri. “I did not.”

  “Do you take it from one prince to another?”

  “I would be a poor messenger if I could not keep a secret. Who would put water in a bucket that leaks?”

  “All I wish to know,” said Gervase, “is whether or not you were expected in Powys.”

  “Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself awaits our arrival.”

  “Will he not be vexed when you do not appear?”

  “Not vexed, Gervase. Moved to anger.”

  “And what will he do?”

  The old Welshman played a few chords on his harp.

  “Send someone to rescue us.”

  * * *

  Darkness slowed Goronwy and his men, but it did not stop their punitive ride south. Travellers who had helped them were brushed harshly aside. Those with no useful information to impart were either beaten or wounded for their lack of cooperation. As warriors of the prince of Powys, they were fierce and peremptory, but Goronwy was fired by a deeper commitment. He had a personal stake in this act of revenge.

  A mile from Bryngwyn, they finally picked up the trail. A shepherd boy was sleeping under a hedge near his flock. The sound of their horses brought him awake and their torches made him blink and shield his eyes. Dressed in a sheepskin, he was no more than sixteen.

  “Where are we, boy?” demanded Goronwy.

  “Near Bryngwyn, my lord. On the road to Raglan.”

  “You live nearby?”

  “Our sheep graze these hills.”

  “And you tend them?”

  “Night and day, my lord.”

  “Then you'll have good eyes,” said Goronwy, “and a fine view of the road from on high. Help me, boy, or you'll have a lot less sheep still standing on four legs.”

  “I'll help you all I can,” said the boy, terrified.

  “We look for travellers who may have passed this way early this morning.”

  “How many in number, my lord?”

  “No more than ten or twelve. Two people with an armed escort, riding towards the Black Mountains.”

  “I do not remember them, my lord.”

  Goronwy bent down to lift him bodily into the air.

  “Think carefully, boy,” he warned. “I do not want to be known as Goronwy the Sheep Killer, but I'll slaughter all your flock if it is the only way to get the truth out of you. Ten or twelve travellers. One of them, an old man, tall and spare, with white hair blowing in the wind. If you saw him once, you would not forget Omri Dall.”

  “I saw him not at all.”

  “Will you lie to me?” He shook the boy and dropped him to the ground. “I ask you one more time. Did you see them?”

  “Not riding north, my lord,” gibbered the boy. “I saw a troop of soldiers, but they were heading south at a gallop. And there were twenty or more of them in all.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few hours after dawn.”

  “On this road?”

  “No, my lord. They came on the road from Monmouth.”

  “And where did you see them?”

  “Just below Raglan,” said the boy, pointing. “Some of my sheep had strayed and I went to catch them. I was up there when I heard all the noise.”

  “What noise?”

  “Screams and shouts. It frightened me, my lord. I ran away and have not dared to go back since.”

  “Show us the place.”

  “It is dark.”

  “Take us there now!”

  The boy was hauled up from the ground once more and put astride the back of Goronwy's horse. Clinging on for dear life, he was taken along the track at a brisk trot. He showed them where he had been that morning and indicated the clump of trees from which the disturbance had come.

  Goronwy flung him aside and led his men at a canter towards the trees, their torches moving like a giant serpent through the night. Dismounting at the edge of the trees, they formed a line to begin their search. It was soon over.

  The first body lay against the trunk of an elm, impaled by a spear. Another soldier was hanging lifelessly over a fallen log, like a rag doll. Two more had their throats cut and a third had been felled with an axe. The last three bodies were in a tight group, as if struck down while trying to defend someone.

  With a torch in his hand, Goronwy kicked each body over to search his face with the darting light. Eight soldiers were accounted for, but there was no sign of the two people they had been guarding. Goronwy ordered his men to widen the search, but no more bodies could be found.

  Standing amid the corpses, he let out a hiss of relief.

  “Still alive!”

  Chapter 7

  THE MANOR HOUSE IN PENCOED WAS A TYPICAL SAXON DWELLING. LONG, LOW, and built of stout oak, it consisted of a series of small bays which were used as rooms for family members and guests. Candles burned to illumine a house with ample space, but little practical comfort. Though the thegn offered his hospitality freely, it did not meet the standards of his Norman guests. Canon Hubert complained about the smell of animals inside the building. It reminded him uncomfortably of Idwal's cloak. There was another reason why some of them felt uneasy under its thatched roof. The house was very similar in shape and structure to the one in which Warnod had been burned to death.

  Ralph Delchard was quite unable to sleep. He was too puzzled and disturbed by the disappearance of Gervase Bret. He chided himself for not being able to find his friend and vowed to resume the search in earnest the next morning. The confrontation with Richard Orbec had left him furious, but it had eliminated the obvious suspect. Gervase had not, in fact, been caught and punished by Orbec himself. Ralph was certain of that.

  Recrimination made him restless. The house was far too stuffy for his
lungs. Ralph let himself out quietly to get some fresh air and walked to the stables at the rear of the building. Leaning on a fence, he gazed upward and searched the heavens for the answers that he could not find elsewhere. Where was Gervase? Had he been ambushed? Injured when thrown from his horse? Attacked by wild animals? Or did he just get hopelessly lost? Was he simply spending the night elsewhere?

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Gervase had met with trouble. Archenfield was no place for a lone rider. Warnod was a denizen of the area, yet he had come to grief. On the very day that Aelgar consented to be his wife, he was murdered in the most brutal and calculating way. His happiness had been snatched from him. Had Gervase fallen foul of the same band of killers? What dreadful fate would they devise for him?

  Ralph was still agonising when he heard the furtive tread of feet directly behind him. In a flash, his dagger was in his hand and he whirled round to defend himself.

  Golde let out a small cry of alarm and stepped back.

  “It is me, my lord!” she said.

  “Golde?”

  “I could not sleep. I heard someone leave the house.”

  “It is so with me,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “My mind is in turmoil. Gervase is my dearest friend, almost a son to me. I will never forgive myself if anything untoward has befallen him.”

  “I have prayed for his safe return.”

  “Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were on their knees for an hour to the same end. They blame themselves for allowing him to go off alone to Richard Orbec's demesne.” He gave a grim chuckle. “If prayers have any power, theirs will batter on the doors of heaven itself. Hubert can turn supplication into a most persuasive weapon.”

  “What of you, my lord?” she said. “Have you not offered up a prayer of your own?”

  “No, Golde. That is not my way.”

  An owl hooted in the woods nearby. They were startled.

  “I am too much on edge,” said Ralph with a smile. “A wise old bird in a tree can make me jump. Night belongs to him and his kind. We are interlopers.”

  “There is nothing more you may do until morning.”

  “That is true.”

  “Be kind to yourself and try to get some rest.”