Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“What was that?”

“The red dragon.”

“But it was merely carved in the turf.”

“I know, Master Bret,” he said, “but many people came running when they saw the fire blazing and they all avowed the same. The creature moved . The red dragon came to life!”

“Arrant nonsense!” said Ralph, exploding with contempt “How can a hole in the ground take on flesh and blood? Those who came running to the scene must have been drunk or crazed or both. Show me a man who saw a real dragon and I will show you an idiot or a barefaced liar!”

Corbin was not deflected. “Their testimony was precise. We have the word of a dozen men or more, including the priest from the church at Llanwarne. In the crackling flames, the beast appeared to stir from its slumber.”

Ralph was sceptical. “When the sheriff and his men got to Archenfield, was the dragon still dancing around the field? Or did it simply appear so?”

“I speak but as I heard, my lord.”

“Did anybody see the assassins?”

“They saw, but did not recognise in the dark.”

“Those flames must have lit up the whole area,” argued Gervase. “If they saw the red dragon come to life, they must surely have noticed how many riders were fleeing and on what sort of horses. Also, in what direction they headed.”

“These things were, indeed, noted.”

“Well?” pressed Hubert.

“Ten men on Welsh ponies. Riding toward the border.”

“I’m surprised the dragon didn’t gallop after them,” said Ralph. “If I did not feel so appalled at the wretched fate of this man, Warnod, I would laugh at this confusion. Is there no firm evidence in this case?”

“Ilbert the Sheriff is collecting it.”

“From credulous fools who see phantom creatures?”

“From frightened people, my lord,” said Corbin, taking an indig-nant step toward him. “There have been consequences. Warnod had two servants, Elfig and Hywel.”

“I know,” said Gervase. “The old Saxon was beaten by that murderous crew and the young Welshman was spared.”

“He was not spared for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elfig died from his wounds yesterday,” explained Corbin. “His friends were so incensed at the injustice of it that they set upon Hywel. The Welshman now lies beaten. His kinsmen did not let it end there.”

“What have they done?” said Ralph.

“Assaulted those who attacked Hywel. Much blood has flowed and it has not all come from that slaughtered cow. The whole district is up in arms.” He flung back his mantle and put his hands on his hips.

“Now you will see why Ilbert the Sheriff is not able to come before you today. He is not just trying to solve one murder. He has to prevent several others from taking place in Archenfield.”

Ilbert Malvoisin was a big, solid man who sat foursquare in the saddle of his horse. When he saw yet another fight break out, he called to his men in a voice like a clap of thunder.

“Stop them!” he ordered. “Pull them apart.”

Watched by a knot of peasants, two youths were wrestling on the ground with ferocious vigour. They were not armed, but their hands had become deadly weapons. If the fight was allowed to continue, only one of them would get up alive.

“Knock their heads together!” boomed Ilbert.

Four soldiers descended on the combatants, dragging them apart before dashing their heads together. The two youths were dazed.

Already covered in blood, they were panting from their exertions and glaring wildly at each other. The Saxon youth was fair-haired and brawny, the Welsh, dark and wiry. When the two of them lunged at each other once more, the soldiers held them in iron grips.

“Who started this brawl?” demanded Ilbert.

Half-a-dozen voices piped up, but he silenced them with a wave of his hand and pointed at the two antagonists.

“ You tell me.”

“He insulted our nation,” said the Welsh youth.

“They killed Warnod,” argued the young Saxon.

“They attacked Hywel.”

“And who beat old Elfig to death?”

“He said that all Welshmen were murdering barbarians.”

There were loud complaints from the onlookers, all of them Welsh and proud of their heritage. Ilbert quelled the noise at once.

“Silence!” he roared. “Let there be an end to this! We do not yet know who burned Warnod alive in his house. When we do, we will arrest them and bring them to account.”

“Not if they are safe across the border,” shouted the Saxon youth.

“They strike and flee-like all the Welsh.”

The accusation produced a fresh outbreak of protest, but it quickly faded as the sheriff pulled his sword from its scabbard and held it aloft. Since there was no longer an earl in the county, Ilbert Malvoisin was the most powerful man in Herefordshire. He could bring down all manner of ills upon them, if he chose, and they would have no court of appeal. Welsh eyes smouldered, but tongues were stilled for the moment.

“What would you have me do?” he said. “Take these two hot-blooded fools back to Hereford with me and throw them into the castle dungeons? Three months in the dark among the rats would cool their tempers, I fancy. Is that what you wish?” His swordpoint swung to the Saxon. “Is it?”

“No, my lord,” said the youth.

“Will you swear to keep the peace?”

There was a reluctant nod of acceptance. Ilbert turned his attention to the other combatant, who was bleeding more profusely, but seething with a deeper rage.

“What of this wild young Welshman?”

“I have a score to settle with him, my lord.”

“I have already settled it.”

“You will not stay in Archenfield forever.”

“Do you dare to defy die sheriff?” hissed Ilbert “It is the castle dungeon for you, then. Pinion the rogue.”

“Stay, my lord,” said an elderly man, breaking clear of the group to run across. “This is unjust. Why should my grandson be punished when the other youth goes free?”

“Because that is my decision.”

“This is Archenfield, my lord,” pleaded the other. “We are allowed to live by Welsh customs here.”

“Some of your customs are not to my taste,” said Ilbert with a glance at the dragon carved in the turf nearby. “Your grandson will learn some manners in Hereford. If you wish to join him there, obstruct me further.” The old man stepped back. “Away with the whole pack of you!”

The onlookers dispersed with mutinous mutterings. The Saxon youth glowered at the prisoner before trotting off towards the wood.

Ilbert Malvoisin took another look at the mythical beast which had sparked off all the unrest.

“Cover it up!” he ordered. “Bury that red dragon under the earth again. It has caused enough trouble already.”

Richard Orbec was punctual. He arrived at the shire hall at the appointed time. Four of Ralph Delchard’s men-at-arms were on sentry duty outside the building to keep curiosity at bay and ensure privacy for the day’s deliberations. They recognised Orbec by common report and stood aside. As the newcomer swept into the hall with Redwald lumbering beside him, they found four more soldiers on duty.

Corbin the Reeve grasped another opportunity to insinuate himself into the action.

“Welcome back, Richard,” he said. “Prompt as usual.”

Orbec flicked him a neutral glance. He clearly had far less respect for the reeve than the latter had for him. Corbin introduced the commissioners one by one and polite greetings were exchanged. The visitor presented Redwald to the tribunal. He and his reeve were then offered seats. The four commissioners sat behind the table. Brother Simon had a quill poised in his hand to act as scribe.

Corbin was still a large and intrusive presence.