Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“Who is she?” he snapped.

“Angharad, my lord. Niece of Rhys ap Tewdr.”

“The prince of Deheubarth?” His interest kindled. “What were you doing with the lady?”

“It is a long story.”

“Tell it in full without prevarication.”

Gervase related all that had happened to him since he had been ambushed on Orbec’s demesne. Not understanding a word, Angharad waited quietly with her eyes downcast and her hands folded. She was wearing a man’s tunic and mantle. They were much too large and hung in folds about her, but they did not diminish the regal quality that she bore. Listening attentively to Gervase’s account, Orbec never let his gaze leave Angharad.

“Who is this man she rides to Powys to marry?”

“Goronwy, nephew of the prince.”

“A murderer!”

Orbec’s explosive denunciation made Angharad jump and she looked to Gervase for comfort. He put a hand on her arm. In a clean tunic and mantle himself, Gervase felt restored and renewed. He was not going to be browbeaten by their host.

“There is no need to frighten your guest,” he chided. “We did not ask to come here, my lord. If we offend you in some way, lend us horses and we will happily quit your land.”

“You have been far too happy to trespass on it,” said Orbec. “This is the second time that you were caught here without licence for your visit.”

“We strayed onto your land by mistake.”

“And the first time?” He rode over Gervase’s gabbled apology. “Yes, my friend. Another mistake.” He turned to Angharad once more. “Does she know she is to wed a killer?”

“Only too well, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“That is why she resists the match. All the time we have been together, she has implored me to save her from this Goronwy. The man’s reputation puts the fear of God into her.”

“His reputation does not deceive,” said Orbec.

“You know of the man?”

“He paid me a visit-and killed my reeve.”

“This same Goronwy?”

“It had to be him,” insisted Orbec. “He put an arrow in Redwald’s unprotected back. And now I know his reason for coming here. There she stands. He thought that I held his bride in captivity. Now I do.”

Angharad begged for a translation of the words that had darkened Orbec’s face even more. Gervase gave her an edited version in Welsh of what was said. She began to tremble.

“Tell her that I will not harm her,” said Orbec.

Gervase relayed the message. She replied to it.

“She begs you not to hand her over,” said Gervase. “She knows that Goronwy is a bad man and will have none of him.”

“In that, at least, she shows some taste.”

Orbec looked at her strangely for a long while. Dismissing the two soldiers, he summoned food and wine. When he waved his guests to seats, they sank down with the utmost gratitude. Gervase had never been so pleased to see a tray of meat brought in. The wine tasted like nectar. Angharad ate more sparingly, but emptied her cup within minutes. It seemed to enliven her. Colour returned to her face and animation to her manner.

“It was not her fault, my lord,” argued Gervase.

“Fault?”

“The murder of your reeve. She is hardly more than a child, caught up in the politics of an alliance. If Goronwy did come here in search of her, you should forget Angharad herself and ask another question.”

“Which is?”

“ Why did this assassin come? What gave him the idea that his betrothed was in custody here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then let me put one into your head, my lord,” said Gervase. “Someone told him. Whoever ambushed her escort on the road left your name as the culprit. The same men wanted me out of the way as well, so I was captured on your land. That, too, threw suspicion on you and no doubt brought Ralph Delchard hammering noisily on your door.”

“Twice,” said Orbec with a faint smile.

“Does any name suggest itself?”

“It does.”

“We both agree on that at least,” said Gervase. “It has been a long day for me, but it has given me ample time to reflect on events. In different ways, Angharad and I were weapons to be used against you.

Blame the man who forged us.”

Angharad leaned across to whisper in Gervase’s ear.

“What does she say?” said Orbec.

“She asked if you were married, my lord.”

He recoiled slightly and shook his head. She spoke again.

“In the chamber where she changed, Angharad saw the gown of a lady. They would not let her put it on.”

“It is not to be worn,” said Orbec, softly.

“She took it for your wife’s attire.”

“And so it would have been.”

Richard Orbec fell silent. The green eyes were fixed on a spot in the air. Neither of them dared to intrude on him. Gervase was touched to see a vulnerable side to an otherwise hard and unyielding man.

Angharad needed no translation. The man’s grief was all too visible and it was bathed in a deep guilt. His mind was years in the past.

A tap on the door brought his introspection to an end. In response to his call, a servant entered with deference.

“Visitors at the gate, my lord.”

“Who are they?”

“Ilbert the Sheriff and others besides.”

“I’ll see what they want.”

Orbec left the hall and Angharad immediately aimed a flurry of questions at Gervase. He made her speak slowly so that he could understand her.

“What will he do with me?” she asked.

“I do not know.”

“Will he hand me over to Goronwy?”

“No, Angharad,” said Gervase, wanting to put her mind at rest without telling her about the deadly visit of her intended. “That is the last thing he will do. He has a personal score to settle with Goronwy.”

“Then he will hold me as a hostage?”

“I think not.”

“He is a strange man,” she said. “I cannot tell if he likes me or hates me. His eyes say both things at once.”

“He will not harm you, Angharad.”

“When you asked him about a wife …?”

“Yes?”

“Why was he so sad?”

“Memories.”

Angharad plied him with more questions and he did his best to answer her. Having been with her only in the most trying circumstances before, it was a joy to sit in comfort and enjoy her company.

Footsteps interrupted them. They came running into the house and approached the hall. The door was flung open and Ralph Delchard stood framed in it.

“Gervase!” he exclaimed. “You’re alive and well.”

“Half-alive.” The two men embraced warmly. “But what are you doing here?”

“My tale can wait,” said Ralph, dismissively. “How came you here?

And who is your charming companion?” He bowed to Angharad then gave Gervase a knowing wink. “Is this lady the reason that you went astray?”

“In a manner of speaking, she is.”

“I long to hear this story, but first embrace me again. I thought we’d lost you forever, Gervase.”

They embraced a second time, then sat down opposite Angharad.

Gervase recounted the salient points of his adventures at speed. When the narrative reached Orbec’s demesne once more, Ralph became serious.

“One hand is at work behind all this,” he said. “Our villain is the castellan of Ewyas Harold.”

“Maurice Damville.”

“He had Warnod murdered to stir up hatred against the Welsh. He had Angharad here waylaid in order to heat up the blood of her bridegroom.” Ralph stood up and paced the hall. “Damville is clever, I have to hand him that. The red dragon in Archenfield pointed the finger towards the border. The same dragon in his own cornfield pointed the finger away from him.”

“We arrived in this shire at the wrong time,” said Gervase, “just as his plans were coming to fruition. No wonder he was so quick to drop his claim to Orbec’s land. He did not want us prowling around the margins of his own land in case we jeopardised his scheming.”