Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

“Dyfryg!” shouted Idwal.

“Ethelbert!” roared Canon Hubert.

“Dyfryg was a holy man.”

“So was Ethelbert.”

“He was King of the East Angles. Offa had him killed when Ethelbert came here to marry his daughter.”

“Miracles resulted. That is why Ethelbert was made a saint and why this cathedral is dedicated to him.”

“It should honour St. Dyfryg instead!”

Both men became aware of the presence of Theobald at the same time, but they reacted in opposite ways. Hubert was immediately contrite, abandoning the argument with the testy Welshman and mouthing his apologies for his loss of control. Idwal was completely unabashed. Two new faces simply meant two more people with whom to debate the merits of St. Dyfryg.

“Let us have your opinion, Dean Theobald,” he said.

“My opinion is that you are both guests here and should not seek to violate the peace of our community.”

Idwal chuckled. “It was a friendly discussion. Canon Hubert and I were just exchanging views on the nature of sainthood. Bishop Dyfryg was born in Ergyng-Archenfield, as you insist on calling it. His ministry touched much of this county. Why is this not the cathedral church of St. Dyfryg?”

The two combatants were sitting either side of the long oak table that ran down the length of the refectory. Half-eaten meals and half-drunk mugs of ale showed that everyone else had fled from the scene.

Brother Simon had gone with them, unable to stop the fierce argument and unwilling to be drawn into it. Idwal me Archdeacon was a small man with a powerful presence. His truculent scholarship had cleared the room.

“Well?” he demanded. “What is your view, Theobald?”

“I have given it,” said the dean crisply. “Excuse me while I have private conference with Canon Hubert.”

“They’re running away. I won the debate!”

“I will speak with you in due course, Archdeacon.”

On that icy note, Theobald took Hubert out of the refectory, convinced that the only way to end the dispute was to separate the two men, and wondered how soon he could assist their Welsh visitor back across the border. Gervase Bret was left alone with Idwal, who, now divested of his filthy cloak, was still wearing his mean travelling apparel. His hat had been removed to reveal straggly hair.

The mad eyes switched their beam to Gervase.

“And who might you be, young sir?”

“Gervase Bret. Travelling with Canon Hubert.”

“That shameless bigot?”

“He has his redeeming features.”

“So do we all.” Idwal swallowed the dregs of his ale and appraised the newcomer. “Gervase, eh? And what do you know about St. Dyfryg?”

“More than you would imagine.”

“You have actually heard of him?”

“Of course. He was a monk who helped to spread Christianity in this area. His first foundation was indeed in Archenfield.”

“The Welsh call it Ergyng.”

“Dyfryg may have known it as Ariconium, its Roman name.”

“That is where he did much of his apostolic work,” said Idwal wistfully. “I traced his holy footsteps through the area only yesterday.”

Gervase pricked up his ears. “In Archenfield?”

“I visited all the churches there.”

“Including the one at Llanwarne?”

“I spent an hour with the priest in the afternoon.”

“A man was murdered less than a mile from there.”

“Unhappily, it is so,” said the Welshman, “and I have already included Warnod’s name in my prayers. Elfig, too, for the old servant lies grievous sick from his beating.”

“What did you see ?” asked Gervase.

“Nothing. I left the village by four.”

“You may have noticed something of significance without even realising it. The men who burned Warnod’s house were in the area well before he returned to his home.” He came to sit opposite Idwal.

“Rack your brains, Archdeacon. Piece it together again in your mind.”

“I will try.”

“Tell me exactly what you did in Archenfield.”

“First of all, I called it Ergyng….”

Gervase suppressed a smile.

Ralph Delchard had much to keep him occupied at the castle. Having inspected the lodging assigned to his men, he gave them their orders for the morrow and warned them not to carouse too long or too wildly in the city that night. He then explored the whole building to familiarise himself with its layout and appreciate the finer points of its construc-tion. It was good to have high stone walls around him. A soldier by training and instinct, Ralph knew from personal experience that Norman success in subduing the English-and keeping the Welsh and Scots at bay-depended largely on their skill at building castles.

His stroll eventually brought him to the main gate. Two guards were talking idly but, at his approach, separated to take up sentry positions. Ralph saw the opportunity to gather some intelligence. He chatted casually with them to win their confidence, then tossed a name into the conversation.

“What can you tell me of Richard Orbec?”

The two soldiers exchanged a glance. The bigger of them, a broad-shouldered man with a gruff voice, answered for both.

“He is a power in this county.”

“I know that from the size of his holdings,” said Ralph. “What of his character, his likes and dislikes, his reputation? Describe the man to me.”

“Richard Orbec likes to keep himself to himself,” said the guard.

“He rarely stirs from his estates unless someone is unwise enough to trespass on his land or his patience. Slow to rouse, he is a ruthless man when his temper is up. I have known him to ride the length of the county to punish some insult or affront to his dignity.”

“A proud man, then. Strong, aggressive.”

“And lonely.”

“Does he have no wife and family?”

“None, my lord. Some say he has a religious streak, and he has certainly been generous towards the cathedral. Parts of the choir were rebuilt with Richard Orbec’s money.” He traded another look with his partner. “Others take a darker view of his dislike of women.”

Ralph saw the cold snigger in the eyes of both men.

“Maurice Damville also interests me,” he said.

“Treat him with caution, my lord.”

Ralph was peremptory. “I will treat him as I think fit. If he proves quarrelsome, he will find that the King’s writ runs in Herefordshire as in every other county.” He relaxed a litttle. “The two men are not the best of friends, I hear.”

“True, my lord,” said the soldier, with a grim chuckle. “The sheriff spends much of his time keeping them apart. Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville have too many old scores to settle.”

“Damville sounds to be hot-tempered and violent.”

“None more so. He is also a famous lecher in these parts. He keeps his wife and family in Normandy so that they may not interfere with his sport. They say he has bastards all over the county. In fact…”

The man’s voice trailed away as he looked through the open postern gate. Two figures were walking quickly towards the castle. When Ralph saw the first of them, he immediately lost interest in the men’s gossip. A tall, graceful woman was bearing down on them in an el-egant gunna of white linen and a blue mantle. Her wimple enclosed an oval face whose soft beauty was enhanced by a sense of anxiety.

The small, thin girl beside her, in meaner attire, was evidently a servant and claimed no more than a cursory glance from Ralph.

He crossed to the gate to offer a polite welcome.

“May I be of service to you?” he said.

“Has the sheriff returned?” asked the woman.

“I fear not.”

“When is he expected?”

“Nobody seems to know,” he said. “Perhaps I may be able to help you in his stead. My name is Ralph Delchard, sent here by royal warrant that makes the sheriff answerable to me as long as I am in Hereford. Step inside and we will find somewhere with a measure of privacy. I can see that you have come on a matter of some urgency.”