Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“ Croeso! ” said Omri.

The Welsh beauty was an old man with a harp. There was no sign of the others. The leader dismounted and tried to question Omri, but no common language existed between them. The soldiers split up and looked all around them.

Half a mile away, Gervase and Angharad were running for their lives.

The visit to Richard Orbec’s fortified manor house changed their plans.

Not even Idwal’s glib tongue could explain away the presence of a Welsh arrow between the shoulder blades of Orbec’s reeve. Ralph Delchard dismissed the archdeacon’s earlier assurances that there would be no incursions from across the border. Redwald’s death was indisputably the result of an attack by a Welsh raiding party. Warnod’s murder and the red dragon carved in Maurice Damville’s cornfield were further evidence of a hostile Welsh presence.

“You are safe as long as you are with me,” said Idwal.

“I would rather not put that to the test,” said Ralph.

“No Welshman would attack you when I am here.”

“One is already doing so. With words.”

“I offer you wise counsel.”

“Save it for the Bishop of Llandaff.”

“But I am your talisman, my lord.”

“You would not stop me getting an arrow in the back.”

“I still have doubts about the archer.”

“Redwald doesn’t.”

Ralph took his men back in the direction of Llanwarne. If a more serious onslaught was to come from across the border, he was singu-larly ill-prepared to cope with it. Eight men-at-arms and a loquacious churchman were an inadequate defence against light-armoured Welsh horsemen who could move at speed and shoot their arrows with deadly accuracy. Ralph needed additional soldiers. Only then could he resume the search for Gervase Bret.

The sheriff had left a handful of men in Llanwarne to continue the investigation into Warnod’s death. Ralph would despatch one of them to Hereford at full gallop to spread word of the danger and to collect reinforcements. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could also be sent back to Hereford for their own safety. There was little more they could achieve by staying. If, as Orbec predicted, the Welsh did come in greater numbers, there would be far too many dragons in Archenfield for anyone’s comfort.

“Let me go to them, my lord,” offered Idwal.

“It is too late for that.”

“I can act as an envoy. To calm them down.”

“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.”

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.