Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“Unless you have a reason to linger in Hereford.”

“What?” Damville saw the twinkle in the old man’s eye and grinned.

“I had almost forgotten that.”

“Would you rather I had not reminded you?”

Maurice Damville’s laughter echoed through the hall.

Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail and offered up his prayers. Work on the cathedral had stopped for the day. Alone in the building, he was able to commune with his Maker in silence. Gervase was a devout but sometimes erratic Christian. Educated in a monastery, he had been imbued with a love of study and prayer, and was on the point of taking the cowl himself when more worldly concerns pressed in upon him. Something of those concerns threaded their way into the words that he was now sending up to heaven.

Gentle footsteps moved over the paved stones behind him. Dean Theobald was surprised to find a stranger on his knees in an attitude of such deep prayer. Genuflecting before the altar, he moved to the shadow of a pillar and waited patiently until the visitor was about to leave.

When Gervase rose and turned, he was met by a smile of welcome.

Theobald had had time to guess at whom he might be.

“Gervase Bret, I believe?” he said.

“You know my name?”

“Canon Hubert spoke of you. He also spoke of one Ralph Delchard but, from his description, I did not look to find your colleague so accustomed to taking his place at an altar rail.” They shared a polite laugh. “I am Dean Theobald and it is a privilege to have Canon Hubert and Brother Simon in our community for a short while.”

“They will be grateful guests.”

“Yes,” agreed Theobald. “I am not sure that the same may be said of another whom we have under our roof at the moment, but it is our duty to extend Christian fellowship to all. Even those with more eccentric modes of belief.” He took Gervase out through the door before stopping to look at him properly. “Why did you come to the cathedral?”

“To pray.”

“But why here? The castle has its own chapel.”

“I would be mocked if I was seen going into it.”

“By this Ralph Delchard?”

“Yes,” said Gervase tolerantly. “He pretends to deride the Church, but I know that he worships God in his own way.”

“That is what I tell myself about Archdeacon Idwal.”

“Archdeacon Idwal?”

“An unworthy remark,” said Theobald, repenting at once. “Please ignore it. But what do you think of our cathedral?”

“It will be quite beautiful when it is finished.”

“That will not be in our lifetime, alas! Bishop Robert initiated the rebuilding six years ago and you see what little progress has been made since then. The work is painstakingly slow and fearfully expensive.”

“It will be worth it.”

“We believe so. It will never compare with Winchester or with Canterbury, of course, but we feel that God will not be displeased by our humbler creation.” He gestured with his hand. “Would you care to take a proper look around?”

Gervase accepted the invitation without hesitation. Not only was he genuinely interested in the cathedral and its operation, he warmed to its friendly dean. There was an unforced dignity about the man which was very appealing. But Gervase had another reason for tour-ing the precincts with his amenable host. No important event in the county escaped the attention of the church. It was the common storehouse in which every scrap of information, rumour, or scandal was routinely placed. Theobald could be extremely useful.

“We were alarmed to hear of this murder,” said Gervase.

“It has shocked us all profoundly. Warnod did not deserve such a grisly fate.”

“Who was he?”

“A thegn from Archenfield,” said Theobald. “His father was a wealthy man in the reign of King Edward. Warnod was set to inherit nineteen manors. But most of the land was taken from him after the Conquest. Warnod was left with only the vestiges of his estate.”

“That much I knew. The man was the one of the subjects of our enquiry. Some of the land which legitimately remained in his keeping was also expropriated. The name of Maurice Damville came into the reckoning on that account.”

“It would, I fear!”

“Richard Orbec, too, is implicated.”

Theobald smiled ruefully. “Never one without the other. Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec dispute everything out of force of habit, as you will very soon discover.”

“What manner of man was this Warnod?”

“An honest, God-fearing fellow who never complained at the blows that rained down upon him. And there were plenty of those, I can tell you.”

“Apart from the loss of his inheritance?”

“That was but the start of it,” said the dean with a sigh. “Warnod was ill-starred. His first child died of a terrible sickness, the second was drowned in the Wye. He and his poor wife were distraught. Just as they were getting over those tragedies-if any human being can ever fully do that-the wife herself was killed when she was thrown from a horse. It was a most unhappy household.”

“And yet he bore these tribulations?”

“With great courage.”

“Did he have many enemies?”

“None that I can name. But then I did not know him very well myself. What I tell you is merely what I have heard in the last twenty-four hours.” Theobald shrugged. “I cannot fathom the reason for the murder. Warnod was well respected. With every reason to hate all Normans, he came to terms with our arrival far better than most.

Then there are the Welsh.”

“Corbin the Reeve told us of the red dragon.”

“A hideous epitaph to leave behind.”

“It seems like a clear message.”

“I am not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“Because, by all accounts, Warnod rubbed along extremely well with his Welsh neighbours.” He glanced involuntarily towards the refectory. “I could use some of his talent in that direction myself.”

“Perhaps he offended them in some way.”

“Far from it. Archenfield is still largely inhabited by people of Welsh descent. Warnod even went so far as to learn the rudiments of their language.”

“And yet they burned him to death.”

“That has not yet been proved.”

“Corbin seemed to feel that it had.”

“Our reeve is rather prone to summary judgments.”

“How else do you explain the red dragon?” said Gervase.

Theobald shook his head. “I cannot, Master Bret. Nor can I explain the strange treatment of the two servants.”

“Servants?”

“In Warnod’s house. Elfig and Hywel.”

“A Saxon and a Welshman.”

“Living under his roof without undue discomfort.”

“Were they trapped in the bonfire with him?”

“They were both spared,” said Theobald, “but they have rather different tales to tell.”

“In what way?”

“They were seized at the house by a gang of men. Bound and gagged, they were dragged a hundred yards away so that they could not warn their master on his return.”

“Wherein lies the difference between the servants?”

“Elfig was beaten senseless. Hywel was unharmed. Was it a case of Welshmen relenting with one of their own?”

“Not necessarily,” argued Gervase. “The Saxon may have resisted the attackers and been punished for his boldness.”

“Hardly. Elfig is a frail old man. They are not at all sure that he will survive the attack.”

“And the other servant? Hywel?”

“Still young and virile.”

Gervase was baffled, but he had no opportunity to ask any further questions. They were close to the refectory now and their conversation was rudely interrupted by the sounds of a violent quarrel from within. Dean Theobald blenched. The college of regular canons maintained the most strict decorum. Voices were never raised within the cathedral precincts and disputes were never allowed to become acrimonious. Theobald moved to quell the disturbance. Pushing open the door of the refectory, he sailed in with Gervase Bret at his heels.