Edward Marston - The Dragons of Archenfield

He was coming down the hill when they struck. The ambush was so sudden and so unexpected that it threw him into a complete panic. Warnod had been riding along in the fading light of a warm evening with a reflective smile on his face and a feeling of deep satisfaction coursing through his whole body. The visit to Hereford had been a delight in every respect. As his horse picked its way along a track through the woodland, Warnod sat back in the saddle and savoured each detail of his outing. It had been worth all the effort. He would cheerfully have ridden ten times as far for a taste of such happiness.

The first arrow jerked him out of his reverie. It came whistling murderously from the gloom and shot across his path before thudding into the trunk of a sycamore. A second arrow was much closer, passing within a foot of his shoulder before spending its fury deep in the undergrowth. Warnod did not wait for a third missile. His heels kicked hard and the horse was soon plunging down the hill in a mad gallop.

Heart pounding and mind ablaze, Warnod ignored the bushes that lashed out at his legs and the branches that scratched angrily at his face. Hoofbeats drummed behind him in a terrifying rhythm. Fond thoughts of Hereford were wiped savagely away. Survival was paramount.

Warnod was less than a mile from home, but it seemed an impossible distance away. He might never even reach it. The thunder of pursuit was getting louder and louder. They were gaining on him.

Not daring to look over his shoulder, he strained his ears to work out how many horses were behind him. Six? Eight? A dozen? Far too many riders for him to fight off. Warnod had only a dagger at his waist and that was more for ornament than protection. He had no chance against a gang of armed robbers.

Riding hell for leather, he took his mount through a grove of alders with reckless unconcern and came out into open country. He was a more visible target now. The chasing pack fanned out across the field as they closed in on their quarry. Warnod swung his horse toward the deepest shadows in search of cover. He cursed his luck and berated himself for being caught so hopelessly off guard. His instinct for danger had been blunted by the visit to Hereford. On the journey home, he had felt supremely safe and with good reason.

Archenfield was no longer the turbulent frontier zone that it had once been. It was a more peaceable community. Lying in the south of the county, cradled by the Wye and its serpentine tributary, the River Monnow, it was an area with rich soil and lush pastures. By force of arms and strength of purpose, the Normans had imposed a stability on the district. Archenfield was a portion of Wales that now belonged irre-trievably to England. An air of resignation had descended on the indigenous Welsh population. They had come to terms with Saxon settlers and with Norman overlords. Violent attacks from across the border were things of the past-or so Warnod had believed until that moment.

Was he the victim of a Welsh raiding party? Or were these men fellow Saxons with a grudge against him? Warnod had no time to speculate. The riders had spread out in an arc behind him now, and seemed to be about to encircle him. Finally and miraculously, his house came into view. The low clump of buildings beside the trickling stream offered the only hope for him. His old mare was no match for the horsemen at his back. If he tried to ride on to the village beyond, he would be caught before he got close enough to raise the alarm. Warnod’s home was his promise of salvation.

He kicked a final spurt out of his animal and urged it on with harsh commands. Warnod was trembling with fear now. His head was aching, his mouth was dry, his hands were clammy, and his face was lathered with sweat. The last hundred yards were a protracted agony for him. The hounds of hell were on his tail. Somehow, he forced himself through the ordeal to reach the beckoning safety of his home. Reining in his horse, he leaped from the saddle and ran to the door of the house. He pushed it open, dived inside, slammed the door shut behind him, then dropped the stout wooden bar into place. They would need a small battering ram to get at him now.

Panting hard, Warnod yelled out in the darkness.

“Elfig! Hywel! Close the shutters!”

But his servants were nowhere to be found. His voice echoed through the empty house with rising desperation.

“Elfig! Hywel! Where are you!”

Warnod stumbled quickly through the murky interior of the building and saw that the narrow windows had already been shuttered. They could not fire their arrows at him through the apertures. The house was secure. He could take some comfort at last. Relief flooded through him, but it was cruelly short-lived. Loud banging on the door made him start with fright. He had not escaped their clutches after all.

They were going to smash their way in to get at him.

Groping his way through the gloom, he felt along a wall until his hands closed gratefully on the hilt of his sword. The weapon instilled some courage in him. They would not take him without a fight. Now in his thirties, Warnod was still strong and fit. He would defend himself with honour. Ridiculously outnumbered, he would at least make sure that he killed some of his adversaries before he was himself cut down. He would die with a bloody sword in his hand like a true Saxon thegn.

The house was a long, low structure divided into bays. Its walls were solid oak, its roof thatched, and its floor was sunk into the earth. The door was reinforced with extra timbers, but it could not indefinitely withstand such an unremitting assault Sooner or later, they would batter a way into his home. Taking a stance at the door, Warnod held his sword ready and waited for the first sound of splin-tering wood.

It never came. Instead, the hammering ceased altogether and an eerie silence followed. Had they given up and retired from the scene?

Were they looking for another mode of entry? He ran to a window and peered through the tiny crack. Nobody was in sight. He moved to a window on the other side of the house and applied his eye to a split in the wooden shutter. There was still no sign of life. Warnod’s spirits rose. Had he escaped his enemies? Was he being spared? Could he dare to relax?

The answer was immediate. A new and appalling sound broke through the silence and shattered any foolish hopes he may have had. It was the helpless cry of an animal in great pain and it grew in volume and intensity until it was quite deafening. Unable to get at their human prey, they were slaughtering the cow in the byre. Warnod was outraged. His first instinct was to rush to the aid of the creature, but that was clearly what they were tempting him to do. He would be casting aside his own chance of survival in a forlorn attempt to save an already doomed cow.

A last pitiable groan of protest was followed by a ragged cheer from the crude butchers. Hooves and feet approached the house. Warnod went back to a window and peered through the crack again. Five figures came into view, but it was too dark to identify them. Four were on horseback, the fifth on foot. It was this last man who attracted Warnod’s attention. Selecting a spot some thirty yards or so from the house, he knelt down and-using his sword like a spade-began to dig away the turf. Warnod was utterly mystified.

Another man joined the others from the direction of the byre, lugging a heavy wooden pail and spilling some of its contents along the way.

Warnod was even more confused. A hole in the ground and a bucket of water? What strange game were his tormentors playing? One of the horsemen looked up at the house and gave a signal to unseen accomplices. A hideous crackle soon went up as they set fire to the thatch.