Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

When they had changed out of their wet clothing, they went down to the hall to find Corbin the Reeve waiting for them. Food and drink had been set out at the end of the long oak table and a fire was crackling nearby. Their host waved them to the bench and hovered in the background as they slaked their thirst, Ralph choosing wine, but Gervase preferring the local ale. Corbin had already helped himself to a cup of wine and he drained it before taking up the conversation again. His tone was now noticeably more conciliatory.

“I would be friends with the king’s officers,” he said.

“Then master the laws of friendship,” suggested Ralph through a mouthful of chicken. “Or avoid my sight.”

“How may I be of service?”

“Do you really wish to know?”

“Let me tell you,” said Gervase quickly, heading off the obscenity that he knew was about to tumble from Ralph’s lips. “We will be in session at the shire hall early in the morning. Four witnesses must be summoned before us.”

“Do you think you could manage that?” mocked Ralph.

“Tell me their names and they will be there.”

“The first is well known to you, I think,” said Gervase.

“Who is he?”

“Ilbert the Sheriff.”

“Why do you need to question him?”

“That is a matter between us and the sheriff himself,” said Ralph, pouring more wine from the jug. “Your job is simply to bring him to the shire hall at the appointed time.”

“Then it will not be tomorrow.”

“It must be tomorrow,” insisted Ralph.

“The sheriff is indisposed. Who is your next witness?”

“A man called Warnod,” said Gervase. “He holds land in Archenfield and is at the heart of our enquiries.”

“Then your journey has been wasted.”

Ralph stiffened. “Is this Warnod indisposed as well?”

“Completely.”

“Then I will have to send some of my men to bring him before us by force. Nobody has the right to ignore our summons. Neither earl, nor bishop, nor reeve.” He turned to glare at Corbin. “We will start with this indisposed sheriff of yours. Ask-nay, tell in round terms-this Ilbert to present himself at the shire hall at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“That will not be possible, my lord.”

“ Make it possible!”

“The sheriff is too busy hunting.”

“Hunting!” Ralph’s face turned puce. “Ilbert dares to chase game when he is called by royal commissioners? Give us no more of this nonsense! The king’s business will brook no delay.” He banged the table with an angry fist “We will see the sheriff at nine o’clock and this Warnod at noon. Arrange it. Do you hear me? About it now, man!

Arrange it!”

“Only God could do that.”

Ralph was on his feet. “Do you still obstruct us?”

“Let him speak,” said Gervase, easing his friend back down onto the bench. “There has to be a good reason why the first two men we seek are not available.”

“An excellent reason,” said Corbin.

“Yes!” sneered Ralph. “Ilbert must go hunting!”

“It is his duty, my lord. But his quarry is not deer.”

“Then what is he after?”

“Murderers,” said Corbin. “The men who killed Warnod.”

There was a long silence as Ralph and Gervase absorbed this startling piece of information. The reeve gave a brief hearsay account of what had happened in Archenfield on the previous evening. It altered matters considerably. The Saxon thegn who was such a pivotal character in their inquiry had been summarily removed from the scene on the very eve of their arrival. The timing of his death could surely not be a coincidence. He was being silenced before he could speak to the commissioners.

The reeve was enjoying their discomfort. Two of the four people they sought would not be able to present themselves at the shire court on the morrow. Corbin relished his role as the bearer of bad news, believing that he had already drastically shortened their stay in Hereford. Suppressing a smirk, he leaned forward with his palms spread wide.

“Whom else do you wish to examine?”

“Richard Orbec,” said Gervase.

“And do not dare to tell us that he is indisposed,” growled Ralph.

“Do not find an excuse for him.”

“No, no,” said Corbin. “Richard Orbec will be there.”

“Call him for nine o’clock,” decided Ralph.

“Call them both at the same time,” said Gervase.

The reeve raised an eyebrow. “Both?”

“Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville.”

“ Together ?”

“That is what we require.”

“Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville … together ?” Corbin spluttered with amusement. “That is not practical. It is not wise. It is not safe.”

“Why not?” yelled Ralph.

“The sheriff will have another murder on his hands.”

“Indeed, he will!” he said, leaping to his feet again. “And you will be the victim if you do not stop sniggering in our faces and obstruct-ing the course of law. God’s tits, man! We call four witnesses and you cannot produce one of them.”

“You may have Richard Orbec alone,” said the reeve.

“What about Maurice Damville?”

“He, too, may be questioned on his own.”

Gervase was puzzled. “Why not both men together?”

“Because they are sworn enemies,” explained Corbin. “I would not put them in the same town, let alone in the same room. They despise each other with a deep and lasting hatred. Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville never meet, but they are at each other’s throats. And it will take more than your eight men-at-arms to break them asunder.” A smirk played around his thick lips. “Do you still wish me to invite them to the shire hall at the same time?”

The castle at Ewyas Harold had been built by Osbern Pentecost over fifteen years before the Normans had invaded Britain. It stood at the confluence of the Dore and Monnow rivers, staring out at the looming grandeur of the Black Mountains and guarding the road from Abergavenny. Like all the castles on the Welsh Marches, it was both a springboard for attack and a safe retreat in the face of retaliation by superior forces. Heavily refortified in the wake of the Conquest, it was now being further strengthened. Like its counterpart in Hereford, it was a typical motte and bailey structure, in this case making use of a huge natural mound that faced the higher ground to the north.

Maurice Damville hauled himself up into the saddle of his destrier and adjusted his helm. When he felt ready, he held out a hand and snarled an order. The waiting squire gave him the lance and stepped smartly out of the way. Everyone else in the bailey watched from a safe distance. Damville was a dangerous and unpredictable man at the best of times. When he was mounted on his warhorse with a weapon in his grasp, he could be lethal. The slaves who had been carting the ashlar remembered only too well what had happened to one of their number who had dared to question a decision made by his Norman lord. Maurice Damville had run him through with a sword out of sheer malice.

The castellan of Ewyas Harold was a tall, rangy man in his forties with a sinewy strength that he enjoyed showing off. Naked force had conquered the land on which the castle was built and he exemplified it. His keen spurs made the animal rear before breaking into a canter across the bailey. Standing directly in his path, his adversary was strong and unafraid. The rider gritted his teeth and dipped his spear.

When his horse ran straight at the mark, he pulled back his arm, then thrust home the weapon with awesome power-straight through the heart of his enemy. An involuntary groan of fear came from the slaves by the wall, but the soldiers acclaimed their master with shouts and laughs of approval.