The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3)

by Edward Marston

Hubert flinched. “That mad Welshman?”

  “We could have endured his madness for the benefit of his Welsh. Idwal would have been a quick interpreter.”

  “We could certainly have spared him here.”

  “Where else did you ride, my lord?” asked Simon.

  Ralph recounted the story of the visit to Maurice Damville's demesne. They were disturbed to hear of the appearance of a second blood-red dragon and speculated endlessly on its significance.

  “How did Maurice Damville receive you?” said Hubert.

  “With ill grace,” explained Ralph. “He demanded to know why we were trespassing on his land and urged us to leave as quickly as we had come.”

  “You were not invited to Ewyas Harold Castle?”

  “We were not, Hubert. This Damville is a surly host. He swore that Gervase was nowhere on his estates, then sent men to escort us out of Ewyas.” Ralph was simmering. “The laws of hospitality have left this benighted county untouched. Richard Orbec threatens us and Maurice Damville chases us away like boys stealing apples from his orchards. These indignities will not be borne!”

  “Unleash the Celtic imbecile upon them,” said Hubert. “Idwal is a red dragon in himself.”

  The archdeacon materialised at once out of the gloom.

  “Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” he said with an amiable cackle. “That is usually an invitation to debate.”

  “Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Simon.

  “No sign of Gervase, then?”

  “No, Archdeacon,” said Ralph, sadly. “None, I fear.”

  “Tell me all.”

  “When we have had refreshment. Riding through this wilderness all day is tiring business. We need food and drink to revive us. And I must first speak with someone else.” He looked around for the one face that might give him solace. “Where is Golde?”

  “She is gone, my lord,” said Idwal.

  “Gone?”

  “Back home.”

  “To Hereford?” Ralph's heart sank. “When?”

  “This afternoon. I counselled her to do so.”

  “Why?”

  “She was needed there. Duty bade her go and I was able to strengthen its call with a homily of my own.”

  Ralph glowered. “You read her a homily?”

  “This was no place for a lady, my lord. She should not have seen the way in which Warnod died.”

  “Golde came here of her own volition.”

  “She left at my persuasion.”

  “What right had you to bully her away?”

  “The right that all servants of the Lord are given at ordination,” said Idwal, blithely. “To help those in distress and to ease the troubled mind. Golde was greatly comforted by me. She went home to offer comfort on her own account.” He glowed with self-satisfaction. “Did I not do well, my lord?”

  Ralph Delchard seethed with anger and disappointment. The prospect of seeing Golde again was the one bright star in an otherwise black day. Idwal the Archdeacon had robbed him of that pleasure in the name of Christian duty. Ralph became an instant apostate. He joined the long queue of people who could cheerfully throttle the little Welshman with their bare hands, seal him in a leaden casket with his homilies, and bury him in the deepest pit that could be found.

  Monmouth Castle was built in a loop of the River Monnow, a narrow but fast-flowing strip of water that joined the Wye itself less than half a mile below the town. A vital stronghold that commanded the approach to South Wales, the castle was stone-built and well fortified. The gatehouse had a daunting solidity and cobbles had been set into the ground beneath it. The bailey was compact and high-walled with a mixture of timber and stone buildings.

  From his hiding place in the shadows, Gervase Bret took stock of their surroundings. He could make out a chapel, a hall, workshops, stables, and a small run of farmyard buildings. What he took to be the granary also rose up at him out of the gloom. He and Omri were in luck. The bailey was largely deserted. Guards were patrolling the battlements, but they were looking outward. Crude banter came from those in the gatehouse.

  The dungeons were at the lower end of the bailey. Deep and dark, hidden behind a series of heavy doors, they would smother the sound of gaolers locked in their own cells. Gervase and Omri had created time for themselves to escape.

  “Where is your companion?” whispered Gervase.

  “Describe what you see.”

  “Motte and bailey—like any other castle.”

  “Paint a picture,” said Omri. “Give me detail.”

  Gervase went through an inventory, seeing more clearly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Omri soon responded.

  “There is nowhere in the bailey to hold my friend,” he decided. 'Take me to the tower.”

  “We will never gain entry to that.”

  “We may not need to, Gervase.”

  “How, then, will you reach your companion?”

  “In the way that I know best.”

  Gervase took his arm and guided him slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard, hugging the darkest corners and using all the cover that the various buildings offered. The motte itself was guarded by a thick stone wall, but its gates were left open to allow free access between the two parts of the castle. Gervase and Omri slipped through and flattened themselves against the cold stone.

  A mound of earth now climbed dramatically in front of them. It was topped by the high stone tower in which the castellan and his family resided. No door would be left obligingly open here. Guards and guests would be inside the tower. Gervase Bret was almost ready to concede defeat.

  “Take me closer,” said Omri. “Up the mound.”

  They scrambled up the incline with great difficulty. Omri's age had taken its toll and his harp was an additional handicap. When they reached the base of the tower, the old man was panting. He needed a few minutes to get his breath back, then he tucked himself in against the stone. With deft fingers, he played a few chords on his harp.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Gervase.

  “Sending a message.”

  “You'll rouse the whole tower.”

  A man's head poked out of a window higher up, but soon withdrew. Evidently they were invisible from above. It gave them more confidence. With Gervase's help, Omri made his way around to the opposite side of the tower, flattening himself against its slabs before he plucked at the strings again.

  This time there was more response. Two figures leaned out of one window, saw nothing, exchanged a joke, and took their laughter inside. A third figure appeared at a lower window and waved a hand. Gervase described what he could see. Omri was thrilled.

  “We've found him!”

  “But how do we get him down?”

  “My old harp can only call him,” admitted Omri. “You must do the rest, Gervase. How high is the window?”

  “Twenty feet or more.”

  “Too high for you to climb, too long for him to jump.”

  “We need a rope.”

  Omri chuckled. “I'll wait while you fetch one.”

  “From where?”

  Even as he asked the question, Gervase answered it. Outside the stables he had noticed a small cart, obviously used to bring provisions into the castle. When it was loaded up, it might well need ropes to secure its cargo. Gervase lay on his side and rolled swiftly down the mound until the ground finally levelled out. Running to the gate, he peered through into the bailey then stayed low as he scurried towards the stables.

  Raucous laughter was still coming from the gatehouse. Nobody had yet missed or heard the two gaolers. Gervase trotted on. There were no ropes on the cart itself, but he found a coil hanging on a nail inside the stables. It was stout hemp and more than long enough for their purpose. He was about to carry it away when his eye caught something else. It was an iron bar almost three feet in length. He snatched it up and bore his booty off to the tower.

  Omri was still there and the figure was still at the tower window. Gervase gestured with the rope and go
t a wave of acknowledgment from above. Omri was now in the way. Gervase took him gently back to the base of the mound and left him there with his harp. Ascending the incline once more, Gervase chose a point halfway up it to give himself an angle. He tied the end of the rope to the middle of the iron bar and had a few practice swings.

  The figure above watched with fascination. Gervase signaled for him to withdraw into the chamber. When his target was ready, Gervase uncoiled the rope, took a firm grip on the bar, and tossed it upwards. It reached the window, but bounced off the stone. The clang brought no enquiring eyes. A second attempt also failed and made more noise. Figures appeared at two separate windows higher up the tower and looked down into the darkness for a few minutes before they finally vanished.

  Gervase lay facedown on the mound until he felt it safe to look up again. The figure was back at the lower window. Something fluttered. Gervase guessed what it must be. Bedding was being placed across the stone base of the window to deaden the sound of the iron bar. It encouraged the marksman below. He waited until the space was again unoccupied before returning to his task. Holding the bar like a javelin, he hurled it straight and true. It went in through the window and landed with a muffled clink.

  He was now perspiring freely with the effort and the excitement. Gervase would still have to smuggle a blind man and a youth out of the castle yard, but he would meet that problem when he came to it. Rescuing Omri's companion from the tower was his immediate concern. He lay on the mound and waited, but the window remained empty. What was causing the delay? Had the noise aroused guards in the tower? Had they rushed into the chamber where the iron bar and rope now lay?

  It was several minutes before relief came. The figure returned to the window and waved. The rope dropped slightly as the iron bar was fitted across the window to act as a brace for the descent. It was not a long climb, but the figure at the window hesitated. Gervase stood up and gestured his encouragement. Every second was vital if they were to get completely away. As the body finally emerged through the window, Gervase had some idea of the age and size of their companion.

  The figure was hooded and clad in a cloak. He was of medium height and lithe movement. Holding the rope in firm young fingers, he began a slow and careful descent. The iron bar was a reliable accomplice. It held the weight easily. As the youth got lower, his confidence grew. Gervase reached up to help him, his outstretched hand brushing the heels above him. There was a sudden gasp as the climber lost his nerve and let go of the rope.

  Gervase broke the fall, but he was knocked over in the process. Lying across him was the sobbing figure of the youth they had come to rescue. Gervase sat up quickly to offer comfort and to still the noise, but the shock deprived him of all speech. The hood had fallen back to reveal long braided hair that fell down over one shoulder. Omri's companion was not a youth at all.

  Gervase was looking into the face of a young woman.

  Golde's return to Hereford brought her sister consolation and alarm. Delighted to see her, Aelgar was deeply upset by what she heard. When the death of her betrothed was a distant event in Archenfield, it had somehow not seemed quite real. Golde's visit brought it terrifyingly close. She had seen what little remained of the house in which Aelgar would have lived with her husband. Though she suppressed some facts out of kindness, Golde could not hide them all. Her sister shed many tears at the thought that the man she loved could provoke such hatred and brutality.

  “Who were they, Golde?” she said.

  “We will know in time.”

  “Warnod was the kindest man on earth.”

  “I thought him so.”

  “Why did they have to kill him in that way?”

  “It was revolting.”

  “They destroyed everything that he owned.”

  “Not quite.”

  “And they destroyed me.”

  Golde held her close and let her cry her fill. She had been right to come back home. Her heart told her to linger in Archenfield, but her head urged a return to Hereford. It was unfair to steal fleeting joy at the expense of her sister. Idwal's advice had been unwelcome at the time, but she now accepted its soundness.

  Regrets were inevitable, but her life had been strewn with them. Ralph Delchard was merely the latest. Golde forced herself to believe that he would not, in any case, have had any time for her. With a lost companion to find, a murder to solve, and official business to transact, he could not be bothered with the widow of a Hereford brewer. Golde had good reason to see him again, but it would be on a more formal basis. Those moments alone in the moonlight at Pencoed were the sum of their happiness together.

  Aelgar wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

  “Now that Warnod has gone, who will look after me?”

  “I will.”

  “But that it not fair to you, Golde.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “I should not be such a terrible burden on you.”

  “We are sisters.”

  “You are entitled to a life of your own.”

  “I have one.”

  “Not while I am here,” said Aelgar, softly. “That was why I was so pleased when Warnod asked me to marry him. Pleased for myself, of course, but pleased for you as well.”

  “Me?”

  “You carried me for long enough. Warnod was taking the load off your shoulders. Because of you I found my way to some happiness.” She took Golde by the shoulders. “I thought that when I went to live in Archenfield you would be free to seek some happiness for yourself. You deserve it.” There were tears in Golde's eyes now. “Do not let my misery drag you down. I hate the feeling that I hold you back.”

  “I am content to share my life with you, Aelgar.”

  “Think of yourself for once. I did.”

  “You?”

  “I was ready to leave you for Warnod.”

  “You loved him.”

  “Cannot you also love, sister?”

  “Oh, yes,” sighed Golde.

  Aelgar stood up and walked around the little room. She felt reassured by her sister's presence, but she had not forgotten the visitor who came calling. As she remembered the face of Maurice Damville at her window, she trembled all over.

  “He came for me again, Golde.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. After you left with those men.”

  “What did he do? What did he say?” asked Golde with sudden anger. “Did he get into the house? Did he touch you?”

  “Not with his hands,” said Aelgar. “Only with words. But they were almost as bad. He said he would be back one day, and I am frightened. Warnod had shielded me from him, but Warnod is no longer here. Who will save me, Golde?”

  “I will,” she said firmly. “Have no fear. I will save you from Maurice Damville.”

  The two guards chatted quietly on the battlements. Their eyes flicked occasionally to the great black void beyond the castle. Wales seemed closer and more oppressive at night. They felt sometimes as if they could reach out and touch the mountains. The men shared a joke and laughed.

  Their backs were turned to the figure who crept up the steps with a dagger in his hand. They did not hear his soft tread or see his darting movement. He chose his moment and struck. A foot in the small of the back propelled one of the guards hard against the stone wall. The other man was felled with a blow and lay flat on his back with a knife at his throat. A knee pressed hard into his chest.

  “Get up!” snarled Maurice Damville, himself rising.

  “Is it you, my lord?” asked the man on the ground.

  “Yes, but it could just as easily have been an enemy. Some rebel Welshman or one of Orbec's men. Or even some foolish Saxon who thinks his lord works him too hard for too little.” He kicked the man hard. “You were not ready!”

  “No, my lord,” admitted the other guard, still dazed.

  “One man could have killed the two of you.”

  “We guarded the wall. You came behind us.”

 
; “So might your foes!” said Damville, feinting with the dagger to give the man another scare. “Guards are here to guard everything— including their own backs.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Maurice Damville was in a dark tunic that blended with the night. The time for feasting was over and his men had to be kept on the alert. He believed in testing his defences for himself. When they were next on guard duty, these two soldiers would not so easily lose their concentration. He had cured them of that. It was important that the castle of Ewyas Harold was securely defended twenty-four hours a day.

  Both men had got up now and were dusting themselves off. One of them marched back to his post further along the wall. The other watched his master nervously. Damville put a foot up on the wall and stared out into the dark.

  “We must be ready,” he said quietly. “At all times.”

  “Will they come, my lord?” asked the man.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They will come.”

  Goronwy overcame the barrier of language by sheer force. He could speak no English and the man could speak no Welsh, but the young captain soon made himself understood. Two of his soldiers stripped the man's tunic off so that his back was exposed. They each pulled a wrist so that the victim was in an attitude of crucifixion. Goronwy's whip took over the conversation. Six searing blows ripped the skin away and left rivulets of blood all over the man's torso. His screams echoed through the rustling trees.

  They had reached the English border and crossed over into Archenfield. Their victim was a hapless Saxon freeman who was returning home late to his cottage. Goronwy's men had swooped on him and carried him away to a secluded wood. Their captain was merciless in his interrogation.

  “Orbec!” he repeated. “Richard Orbec.”

  The man now lay writhing in agony on the ground.

  “Orbec!” shouted Goronwy.

  “I hope he kills you,” said the man through his pain. “Every last one of you!”

  Goronwy bent low to apply the whip again. The man howled and twitched even more violently. The two soldiers lifted him bodily and brought him face to face with their captain. Goronwy took a flaming torch from another of his soldiers and held it near the man's eyes.