“You are more likely to inflame them to greater wrath.”
“Blessed are the peacemakers …”
“Unless the Welsh are actually winning the battle.”
Ralph spurred his horse into a gallop that left Idwal well behind. He was vexed that the search for Gervase had been temporarily abandoned, but there was no virtue in making themselves easy targets in open country.
When they reached Llanwarne, they were met by Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. They came running out to see if the premature return of the search party meant that Gervase had been found, hoping that he would still be alive, but fearing that his dead body might be strapped across a horse. Their faces crumpled when they realised that their companions were empty-handed.
“What happened?” said Canon Hubert. “Why come back?”
But Ralph Delchard did not even hear him. He had seen another figure nearby and she blotted out every other sight and sound in the vicinity. Golde was standing there with a fond smile that washed away all his recriminations. Ralph was almost tongue-tied in his excitement.
“I am delighted to see you again, Golde.”
“The pleasure is mutual, my lord.”
“Why have you come?”
“To bring you a gift.”
“I have it when I gaze upon your face.”
“It may make you smile even more,” she said, handing him a thick scroll that was secured with a ribbon. “Take it.”
“What is it?”
“Something that Warnod gave to my sister.”
“Warnod?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said. “His will.”
Chapter Ten
THEY RAN UNTIL THEIR LUNGS WERE BURSTING AND THEIR LEGS WERE THREATENING to give way beneath them. Gervase Bret and Angharad staggered to a halt and fell against the trunk of a gnarled tree for support. Omri had been a valuable decoy. The old man and his harp bought them crucial minutes to make their escape into the woods. By the time the soldiers gave chase, the couple were the best part of a mile away.
The headlong race through the trees had been costly. Neither of them was dressed for sprinting over uneven ground. Catching on bushes, their clothing had been torn to ribbons. Unfriendly brambles had lashed at their arms and ground ivy had snatched at their feet. They were more dishevelled than ever. Gervase was deeply concerned for Angharad. Shuddering with fatigue, she was bent almost double as she took in huge wheezing breaths. He reached down to pluck a twig from her hair and to brush some strands of bracken from her cloak.
Voices in the distance intensified their panic.
“They're coming!” she gasped.
“We'll have to hide.”
“They'll find us.”
“Not if we're careful.”
“I can't run any farther, Gervase.”
“Lean on me.”
“My legs …”
“Shhhh!”
He touched her lips with gentle fingertips to still her voice. Silence was vital if they were to elude the pursuit. Slipping an arm around her waist, he half-carried her deeper into the woods. Gervase hoped they would not see the strips of material that had been ripped away from their attire.
The soldiers would have split up again to continue their search. No help could be beaten out of Omri. He was plainly unable to tell them in which direction the couple had fled. That limited the number of men who would be combing the woods.
The voices were coming nearer. Twigs were snapping under hooves, and branches were being broken off by armoured shoulders. Sound was magnified in the stillness of the woods and played tricks on their ears. Voices seemed to be all around them. Gervase dragged Angharad towards the thickest undergrowth and forced his way through the shrubs. The soldiers could now be heard quite clearly, reporting to each other as they crashed their way forward. There were three of them and they sounded angry.
Gervase reached a shallow ditch half-hidden by an outcrop of holly. The ditch was filled with stagnant water and the holly leaves scratched at their hands and faces, but the choice of refuge was forced upon them. Gervase crawled in under the bushes and lay on his back so that he was partly submerged. He pulled Angharad on top of him using her cloak as a blanket to hide the two of them.
Their hearts were pounding. They felt the helpless fear of hunted animals. Angharad's cheek was against his. He could hear the anxious short breaths and smell her terror. The horses came ever closer. Long, prancing legs stopped within touching distance of them. Angharad saw them from the corner of her eye and stifled a scream. Gervase held her more tightly. He could feel her hot tears coursing down his cheek.
“They won't have come this far,” said one voice.
“It depends how much of a start they had.”
“They're on foot. The girl would slow him down.”
“I'll slow her down when we catch her.”
Ribald laughter bounced off the trees and sent animals scurrying and birds flapping. A third man joined the others and ordered them to press on. The search moved slowly away from the fugitives. As they lay entwined in the ditch, they could hear swords hacking a path through the undergrowth. With an excuse to relax slightly, they stayed exactly where they were.
Gervase was at once moved and guilt-stricken. Stirred by the presence of a beautiful young woman in his arms, he was yet distressed that she was not his beloved Alys. Even in their desperate situation, he could take a momentary pleasure from being Angharad's protector. It felt like a form of betrayal. At the same time, however, it seemed so gentle and natural. Angharad was not nestling into him with the eagerness of a lover. She was a girl in torment, taken from her family to marry a man she loathed, ambushed on her way to Powys to meet her unsought bridegroom, imprisoned in Monmouth Castle, and now chased like a wounded doe through the woodland. Comfort in the arms of someone she trusted was all she desired.
Voices, hooves, and slashing swords faded to the margins of their hearing. They dared to embrace hope. Angharad lifted her head and peered around with care.
“Have they gone?”
“Stay here until we are sure.”
“And then?”
“We press on.”
“This is a nightmare, Gervase. Where are we?”
He wanted to reassure her somehow, but honesty won through.
“Lost.”
Ralph Delchard was too caught up in the welter of activity to attend to Golde immediately. He first sent a messenger to Hereford to inform the sheriff of the killing of Orbec's steward and to alert him to the prospect of danger on the Welsh border. Urgent reinforcements were needed. Ralph then took command of the remainder of Ilbert's men, arguing that they were more likely to find Warnod's killers among the raiders than from the indigenous population. The murder would not be solved by staying in Llanwarne, but by returning to that part of the Golden Valley where Goronwy and his men had penetrated with such effect.
Canon Hubert and Brother Simon agreed to go back to Hereford with two men-at-arms by way of an escort. Idwal's role next came up for discussion. Opinions varied.
“I think I should ride with you, my lord,” he said.
“No!” refused Ralph. “Return to Hereford.”
“The archdeacon might be more use here,” said Canon Hubert, hor- rified at the prospect of travelling once more with the contentious Idwal. “He speaks Welsh.”
“He also speaks Latin,” said Ralph. “You, he, and Brother Simon will be able to quote the scriptures at each other.”
“My place is here,” avowed Idwal. “Among my people.”
“Then remain,” urged Hubert.
“I will.”
“No!” protested Ralph.
“Yes!” said Hubert.
“Perhaps there is a middle way,” suggested Simon. “A via media, as you might say. We will return to Hereford. You, my lord, will ride back to Richard Orbec's demesne. And the good archdeacon will stay here in Archenfield.”
“Ergyng!” corrected Idwal.
“Among your flock,” added Hu
bert. “Thank you, Brother Simon. An admirable compromise. We will then each be allowed to pursue our imperatives in our own way.”
“My imperative is to defend my country,” said Idwal.
“Do it from Llanwarne,” decided Ralph.
“Take me to the heart of the action, my lord.”
“It will be no place for long-winded homilies.”
“What if there is armed conflict?”
“There will be if you insist on following me.”
“Before the two opposing sides clash,” said Idwal with a grand gesture, “I could interpose myself between them.”
Hubert was scathing. “They would take you for a stray sheep and ride over you.”
“At least I would be mistaken for a ram!” retorted the other. “And not for a pair of sanctimonious geldings like you two!”
The argument waxed on and Ralph left them to it. He took Golde aside for a quiet word. The chosen place could not have been more apposite. They were standing beside the tiny churchyard in which the last remains of Warnod lay buried.
“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Golde.”
“I would wait any length of time for you, my lord.”
“That thought excites me.” He looked at the document in his hand. “Tell me in more detail how this will came into your possession.”
“It was given to Aelgar by her bethrothed.”
“Why?”
“She thought it a keepsake,” said Golde, “but I feel he had another purpose. Warnod knew that she would guard it like a secret treasure. He wanted it kept safe.”
“A secret treasure is what it may turn out to be,” said Ralph, fingering the scroll. “Did you sister not read it and understand its import?”
“She is illiterate, my lord. It was from Warnod. That was enough for her. She held it to her at night like a letter of love.” Golde smiled. “She was not misled.”
“You have studied the document?”
“Aelgar is the sole beneficiary. Warnod could not write himself, but his character comes through in every line. No man could pen a more loving tribute to a woman. Warnod leaves everything to her.” She heaved a sigh. “Except that there is nothing now to leave.”
“There may be,” he said. “Warnod has claim to a thousand acres of land here in Archenfield. We have the charter that enforces that claim. So there is hope yet.”
“When will your business be concluded, my lord?”
“It will take some little time yet.”
“Will I, then, see you in Hereford again?”
“Nothing would keep me away.”
“I would be honoured if you called upon me.”
“That is the least that I will do, Golde.”
Their eyes met and their hands touched. It was too public a place for any more intimate exchange of vows. Enough had already happened. A commitment had been made on both sides. Ralph glanced across at the grave nearby.
“Your sister may yet have something of Warnod's to cherish,” he said. “All will depend on the charter.”
“You must judge its legality.”
“I am more interested in its origin, Golde.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone sent it to the Exchequer at Winchester,” he said. “Not Warnod himself, to be sure, but someone with his interests at heart.” He leaned in close to watch her reaction. “Can you suggest who that might be?”
Golde was uneasy beneath his scrutiny. She seemed to be torn between confiding completely in him and denying all knowledge of the document's existence. Her answer was brief.
“Ask the sheriff, my lord.”
Ilbert Malvoisin was alarmed by me news. He hoped that the slaying of Richard Orbec's steward was an isolated example of Welsh aggression, but he doubted it. Two red dragons had now appeared in Herefordshire and the arrow in Redwald's back was further proof of stirrings across the border. If the sheriff was alarmed, the reeve was almost driven to hysteria. His bulky frame shook with trepidation.
“They will not reach the city, will they?”
“No, Corbin. Hereford is safe.”
“It has fallen to the Welsh before.”
“That was a long time ago, Corbin.”
“It is within living memory,” said the reeve. “May I remind you that both a sheriff and a bishop of Hereford were killed in one battle with the marauders.”
“We have improved our defences since then.”
“The best defence against the Welsh is a degree of amity with them. That is what we sought. We came to terms with them and peace was guaranteed. Until now.”
“Do not fly to the worst conclusions, Corbin.”
“Then offer me reassurance.”
“One Welsh arrow has been fired,” said Ilbert. “That is not even a skirmish.”
“It may be the prelude to one,” argued the reeve. “Add that one arrow to the burning of Warnod's house and the scale of the danger is enlarged.” Corbin gestured with both hands. “What are we to say?”
“As little as possible.”
“Should we not ring the alarm bell in the city?”
“No,” said Ilbert. “The problem will be contained before it grows any larger. I will double the guard at the castle and on the city walls, but do so in no spirit of anxiety. These are merely sensible precautions.”
“What of you, my lord sheriff?”
“I will take men and join Ralph Delchard.” A grudging note sounded in his voice. “Though I do not relish the idea of meeting the man across a table in the shire hall, I would rather be with him in the event of trouble than with anybody. He is a true soldier.”
“Which way are they coming?”
“Calm down, Corbin. We do not know that they will come.”
“But if they do?”
“Ewyas is the most likely point of entry.”
“Maurice Damville.”
“He stands between them and us,” said Ilbert. “They will not get past the castle of Ewyas Harold, I assure you. Damville will see to that.” * * *
The castle had been in a state of readiness for several hours. No further sightings of Welsh soldiers had been made from the battlements, but that induced no false sense of security. The enemy might still be there, unseen. Guards patrolled with extra vigilance. Down in the courtyard, other men-at-arms practised their swordplay. The armourer's hammer had not paused all day.
Maurice Damville was in a state of high excitement. For him, the prospect of a battle was like the anticipated conquest of a new woman. All would be resolved in one ecstatic embrace. As he tested his skill with a spear, the weapon felt alive in his hands. Damville feinted, moved in quickly, and swung the blade of his spear. It caught his opponent a glancing blow on the side of his helm and knocked him flying. The victor laughed and pulled the man back to his feet.
A cry from the gatehouse alerted them, but it was no danger signal. The search party was returning. Damville ran to the end of the bailey as the gates swung open to admit the returning soldiers. They drew up in a penitential line before their lord. On the back of their captain's horse was a white-haired old man, clutching a harp.
“Where are they?” bellowed Damville.
“They slipped through our fingers, my lord.”
“Again!”
“We lost them in a wood. They went to ground.”
“Did you not stay to find them?”
“For an hour or more, my lord. Without success.”
“Idiots!” roared Damville. He jabbed a finger at Omri. “And who, in the name of the devil, is this?”
“A bard, my lord. They call him Omri the Blind.”
“Then he is in good company with you sightless dolts!”
“He was Angharad's companion.”
“I want the girl herself, not this old fool. Can you not perform a simple task? I asked for Angharad and that young commissioner, Gervase Bret. And who do I get in their stead?” He pulled Omri from the horse. “This! A blind old man with a harp. What use is he? Lock h
im up!”
Omri was taken away by two guards. Damville glowered.
“Get back out and find them!” he ordered.
“Yes, my lord.”
“They are out there somewhere. Get them both.”
Gervase Bret and Angharad struggled on up the hillside. They had no means of knowing how far they had walked or in what direction. After their narrow escape in the wood, they had continued on their way at a brisk, but not reckless, pace. Gervase estimated that they had covered several miles, but the overcast sky blocked out the compass of the sun. He had the dreadful feeling that they might be traveling in the very direction from which they had first fled.
Angharad was a brave companion. Brought up in the sheltered domesticity of her father's house, she was used to being waited on and cared for at every hour of the day. To be chased across rough countryside by hostile soldiers was nerve-racking. Coming as it did on top of the ambush, the experience was devastating. As she strode along gallantly at Gervase's side, she hardly said a word. She was far too dazed.
Gervase kept hold of her hand, more for reassurance than guid- ance. His eyes scanned the landscape for signs of danger or hopes of assistance. None appeared. Whenever they did pass an isolated cottage or a remote mill, the occupants closed their doors to them. Gervase could understand their fear. After the soaking in the river and the additional drenching in the ditch, he was a disturbing sight. Their flight through the wood had not improved Angharad's beauty. Her face was spattered with mud, her cloak torn and blotched, and her hair tugged loose from its braiding.
Angharad came out of her reverie and turned to him.
“What will become of me?”
“I do not know.”
“They must not send me to Powys.”
“I will do what I can.”
“Omri was a friend, but he would not save me.”
“He had his duty.”
“We had to leave him,” she said, trying to justify their actions. “There was no other way. I hope they did not hurt him when they found him down by the river.”
“They had no cause.”
“That would not stop them.”
Gervase had tried not to think about Omri. He was still troubled by pangs of guilt about the old man. In assisting their escape, Omri had put himself at the mercy of the pursuing soldiers. They might well have tormented him.
The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 19
