Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

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 Hubert. “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?”