Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“Leave this to me, Angharad.”

“If you do not, then I will.” She smiled at Gervase and touched his arm in gratitude. “He risked his life for us. Why should he bother with two strangers when he could have escaped on his own much more easily? Gervase is kind. He can be trusted. Tell him, Omri.”

The old man sighed and nodded. He picked up his harp and plucked at the strings to draw out a plaintive melody. His words were heightened by the music.

“Angharad hails from a royal house,” he chanted. “She is the niece of Rhys ap Tewdr, prince of Deheubarth and lord of the whole of South Wales. Had he but known where we were kept, Rhys ap Tewdr would have stormed Monmouth Castle with a thousand men and left not a stone of it standing. And all the bards of Wales would have celebrated the event in song for another century.”

His fingers lay still, but the music hung on the wind for a few more moments before it died away. Gervase had heard enough to be able to guess the rest.

“A dynastic marriage?”

“Even so, my friend.”

“With someone from the house of Powys?”

“Goronwy, the nephew of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself.”

Angharad tensed at the name and said something so rapidly in Welsh that Gervase did not understand it. What he did observe, however, was her evident distress.

“This match does not please the lady, I think.”

“Angharad is … not overjoyed by the choice.”

“She is not the only one,” said Gervase. “An alliance between Deheubarth and Powys? They would make a powerful combination.

King William himself would not be delighted with this marriage.”

“It has other opponents,” admitted Omri.

“Who are they?”

“The men who ambushed us on the road. I do not know who they are, but they clearly had a strong reason to stop this marriage. Killing eight soldiers and abducting the bride are not very generous wedding presents.”

“I do not want him,” said Angharad. “I hate Goronwy.”

“You have never even met him,” said Omri, reasonably. “What you hate is what you have heard about him. And any man may suffer from false report.”

“Who is he?” asked Gervase.

“The captain of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn’s retinue.”

“A soldier then. Brave and strong.”

“He would not hold the position that he does without bravery and strength. They say that Goronwy is fearless-and I have heard that on a dozen tongues, so it cannot be denied.” He sagged slightly. “But they say other things, too.”

“I could never love this man,” wailed Angharad.

“Why not?”

“He must not be my husband. I would rather spend the rest of my life in that castle than be forced to marry this Goronwy. My uncle is cruel!”

“What has she heard about this man?” said Gervase.

“He has a reputation,” confessed Omri.

“Reputation?”

“It may be completely unfair to him.”

“And it may be true.”

“It is true!” Angharad insisted. “It is true.”

“What is this reputation for, Omri?”

“Ruthless slaughter. They say that he is consumed with blood-lust.

That is why Angharad is terrified of this man. When he has a weapon in his hand, he runs mad.”

Goronwy slit the man’s throat and left him dead in the bottom of the ditch. The Saxon guide had served his purpose. He had led them to their destination. Lying flat on his stomach in the undergrowth, Goronwy kept the house under surveillance. He was over a hundred yards away, but his position on the wooded slope allowed him to see over the fortifications. Dawn was rising and the birds were in full voice. The scene was tranquil.

When a figure came out of the chapel, Goronwy held out a hand to one of his men. Bow and arrow were passed over. This was no death to be delegated. Goronwy wanted the pleasure of execution himself.

Another man came to meet the first outside the chapel. They talked in earnest. Goronwy rose up and knelt, fitting the arrow to the bowstring.

Below in the half-light, the conversation continued. The newcomer was a big, shambling man with deferential gestures. He was patiently talking with his lord. Goronwy rose steadily to his feet. Strong fingers pulled back the bowstring. The assassin waited. This was him.

Goronwy was certain. This was the man who had ambushed his young bride. Revenge would be swift and sweet.

The arrow whistled through the air with the hatred of a young lifetime riding on its back. The aim was true, but its speed was frac-tionally too slow. Before it could strike its target, the bigger man stepped unwittingly in front of the other. The arrow hit him directly between the shoulder blades and killed him outright. He pitched ridiculously forward.

Richard Orbec caught his dead reeve in his hands.

Ralph Delchard was tormented by a double loss. The baffling disappearance of Gervase Bret was always at the forefront of his mind. It gave him another night of feverish rumination and put him back in the saddle at dawn. Warnod’s murder had been a public event with a flaming message left behind for all to see. Ralph was forced to consider that Gervase might have been killed in a more private way and buried somewhere by stealth. They might never find him. If Gervase had met a violent end, then his death would somehow be linked to that of Warnod. Finding one set of killers would solve both murders.

While all his energies were directed towards hunting for some trace of his friend, Ralph was troubled by another loss. The hurried departure of Golde had wounded him. She had left no message, suggested no further meeting between them. Had the shared feelings on their first night in Archenfield been an illusion? Was her return to Hereford a signal to him in itself? Ralph felt the sharp pain of rejection.

In the short time he had known Golde, he had been drawn ever close to her. Had she encouraged him in order to spite him? Was it Saxon cunning that had ensnared him in order to inflict punishment?

“I am ready for you, my lord.”

Idwal the Archdeacon was depressingly bright at that time of the morning. As he mounted his horse, his eyes were glistening and his face was a mask of shining religiosity. Ralph had contained his ho-micidal urges in order to make use of the Welshman during the search.

Mouths which had been closed to them on the previous day might open to the little archdeacon with the lambskin cloak.

“Which way shall we ride?” asked Idwal.

“To the place where Gervase was last seen.”

“Richard Orbec’s demesne? Will we be safe?”

“He’ll not stop me this time,” asserted Ralph. “Orbec promised me that he did not touch Gervase and I accept his word. But someone else may have struck on Orbec’s territory. I would like to search it afresh to satisfy myself.”

“Take me wherever you wish,” said Idwal. “I am yours.”

They set off from Llanwarne at a steady pace. Ralph’s men-at-arms were refreshed by a night’s sleep and as eager as their master to track the young commissioner. Having ridden with him on assignments in Wiltshire and in Essex, they had come to like and respect Gervase Bret very much. Their duty was mingled with affection, but the prospect of action kept them alert.

Ralph tried to keep ahead of Idwal, but the archdeacon was no mean horseman. He caught up to canter abreast.

“They say this Richard Orbec is a holy man.”

“It is a holiness mixed with hostility.”

“Towards whom, my lord?”

“Everyone. He treats his demesne as his refuge. Nobody is allowed to disturb him-on pain of death.”

“A curious blend,” observed Idwal. “The instincts of a monk and the impulse of a murderer. What made the man so?”

“Only he knows that.”