Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

While his men lit a fire to roast the chickens they had stolen from a nearby farm, Goronwy took one of his men with him and rode towards Ewyas. It was another commote which had been cut ruthlessly away from Wales by the Normans. The castle of Ewyas Harold was a token of that ruthlessness. When they got within sight of it, they reined in their horses and assessed its strength. Its site had been chosen well. Approach from any direction would soon be seen.

The ditch was deep and the high walls looked impregnable. Even from that distance, they could see figures on the battlements.

Goronwy’s companion mixed valour with discretion.

“Richard Orbec’s house is an easier target.”

“This one would test our mettle more.”

“We do not have men enough.”

“We will,” said Goronwy.

“Why waste time here?” argued the man. “Our business lies in the Golden Valley.”

“Sack this castle and we ride straight through into Orbec’s territory. He will not look for us to come from this direction. Besides,”

said Goronwy, “my blood is up and I will kill any Norman I can find.

We will start here. Ewyas Harold Castle will whet my appetite.”

Maurice Damville was called up to the battlements by his guards.

Two figures had been sighted in the distance, but they were too far away to identify. Damville ran up the stone steps to look for himself.

He was just in time to watch Goronwy and his companion leave.

Their light armour denoted them as soldiers. Here was no casual observation of his stronghold. The castle had been studied with a view to attack.

“They are coming,” said Damville. “Double the guard!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Alert the whole garrison.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“They are coming,” he said, almost gleefully. “At last!”

Damville went back down the steps at speed and into the bailey. He summoned his captain and barked orders. The castle was soon alive with activity. Shouts came from the gatehouse. A messenger was approaching. The doors were heaved open so that the horseman’s gallop could take him on into the centre of the courtyard.

He brought his steaming horse to a halt in front of Damville and leaped from the saddle. The parchment was taken from his belt and handed over at once.

Maurice Damville broke the seal and read the missive. His grin soon turned to a sneer of contempt. He scrunched the letter up and hurled it back at the messenger. The captain’s orders were counter-manded.

“Saddle up. Take a dozen men.”

“Are they not needed here, my lord?”

“Do as I say!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ride hard and this may not take long,” said Damville. “You will return here well in time. Have the men waiting and I will give instruction.”

The messenger picked up the discarded letter from the ground.

“Is there any reply, my lord?”

“Yes,” snarled Damville. “Here it is.”

He knocked the man to the ground with his forearm.

Gervase Bret rowed intermittently for a few more hours before exhaustion obliged him to ship his oars and drift into the bank. He chose a place where the Monnow cut deep and the banks were high enough to conceal them. Gervase had torn strips of material from his tunic to bind around his hands, but the blisters still burned like hot coals. He was fit and strong, but no boatman. The effort of rowing three of them along the winding course of the river took him close to total fatigue. His whole body was now one continuous ache and perspiration was streaming down his face.

“Where are we?” asked Omri.

“I do not know,” said Gervase, “but we still have some way to go, I am sure. That fisherman we met a little way downstream said we had four or five miles yet before we reach Archenfield. Or Ergyng, as you all insist on calling it. We have come nowhere near that distance since then.”

“You would be quicker on foot,” said Omri.

“I might be, but what of you?”

“We could hide somewhere while you went for horses.”

“No,” said Angharad. “I will not leave Gervase.”

“Then the two of you must go,” suggested Omri. “I will only slow you down. My walking days are over. And I am hardly fit for catching horses.”

“I think that we should stay together,” said Gervase.

“And break your back at those oars?”

“I will be fine again after a little rest.”

“We are right out in the open here,” said Angharad. “It does not feel safe. I do not want to leave Omri, but it is only for a little while. We will come back for him.”

There was conviction in her voice, but none in her face. Gervase sensed that her predicament was far more important to her than the old man’s welfare. Once free of her companion, he felt certain, Angharad would want to press on without him. Fond as she was of Omri, she would rather abandon him in order to secure her own escape from the journey to Powys. Gervase was in a cleft stick. He liked the wry old bard and was enchanted by Angharad. One of them would have to be disappointed.

“We stay together,” he decided.

“No,” she protested, “that is foolish.”

“I will not be alone,” said Omri. “I have my harp.”

“We must go, Gervase,” she urged. “It is our only hope.”

He felt sad at her readiness to leave the old man to his own devices.

Omri would be quite defenceless. His instinct told him that he should somehow protect them both, but that would consign him to more misery at the oars. He was still agonising over the situation when the decision was taken for him. The faint drumming of hooves could be heard in the distance. Omri was a swift interpreter.

“They’re looking for us!”

“We will be caught!” cried Angharad. “They will see us.”

“Hold still,” said Gervase.

He jumped from the boat and scrambled up the bank to peer over the top. There were a dozen or more of them. They were still some way off, but their search was systematic. As some stayed on the road, others fanned out on each side. Three of them were picking their way along the river.

Gervase slid back to the boat. They seemed trapped.

The search party was thorough. They came at a steady trot and swept along a front of over a hundred yards. Their quarry would not be difficult to spot. A white-haired old bard, a girl, and a young man in the garb of a Chancery clerk were unfamiliar sights. Sooner or later, they would find a trace of them or meet someone who had seen the trio. It was only a question of being patient and methodical.

Their leader held to the road and directed the others.

“What do we do with them?” said his companion.

“Let us find them first.”

“They say the girl is very fair.”

“No hands must be laid upon her!” said the other.

“Not even in sport?”

“You can have the old man instead.”

“What pleasure lies in that?”

An answering voice came singing through the air.

“ Mehefin ddaeth, fugeiliaid mwyn …”

The harp was a small instrument that could be tucked under Omri’s arm, but its strings produced a sound that reverberated between the banks of the river. As the horses quickened their pace, the song increased in sweetness and volume. The leader signaled to his men and all converged on the source of the melodious sound.

Two men and a frightened girl were no match for thirteen armed soldiers. The men grinned as they made their way along the river.

Their search had borne fruit and they would be rewarded by their lord. Meanwhile, there would be the satisfaction of feasting their eyes on a Welsh beauty.

“ Mor wyn a’r oen, ni wnawn ei fam …”

The boat was around the bend in the river at a point where the bank was steepest. Picking their way through the trees, they arrived in a group directly above the vessel.