A big, shapeless, ungainly man in his forties, Redwald’s distinguishing feature was a long drooping moustache falling from beneath a broken nose. As the manorial reeve, he was responsible for the administration of his master’s estates in the county and he had given good service.
In employing a Saxon reeve, Orbec followed many of his countrymen in choosing an official with a sound working knowledge of the area and its inhabitants. Where Orbec differed from his compatriots was in talking to Redwald in the latter’s native tongue. An intelligent and cultured man, Orbec spoke a number of languages and had mastered the complexities of Anglo-Saxon with comparative ease. It earned him respect in the Saxon community and open derision from fellow Normans.
Richard Orbec saw the practical advantages. Peasants on his estates could say nothing in his hearing that he did not fully understand. By the same token, he could converse with Redwald in a wholly Norman gathering in a language totally beyond the comprehension-and beneath the dignity-of all but his reeve. These were valuable political assets.
“Maurice Damville has been quiet of late,” Orbec noted.
“It may be the calm before the storm, my lord,” warned Redwald.
“He is not a man to be trusted.”
“Come what may, I am prepared for him.”
“If he rides to Hereford, he will have men at his back.”
“So will I, Redwald. They are saddled and waiting even as we speak.” He saw the anxious look on the reeve’s face. “Do not be alarmed.
They’ll behave themselves. They’ll not seek a brawl with Damville’s knights.” His manner hardened into cold resolution. “Unless they have cause.”
“That is what I fear.”
Orbec grabbed his helm. “Let us be on our way.”
They left the house and mounted the waiting horses. Six men-at-arms were also in attendance, complaining noisily about having to get up so early to travel to Hereford, but secretly looking forward to a few hours of pleasure in the city. Richard Orbec called them to order with a curt command and the eight of them set off at a canter.
The manor house itself was large and capacious. Built of stone and of Norman design, it was an impressive dwelling that offered far greater comfort than a draughty castle. At the same time, however, the house was well fortified. It was surrounded by a deep ditch and a substantial mound that was in turn topped with a palisade. Entry to the property was over a timber drawbridge across the ditch. Orbec made sure that the drawbridge was kept in good working order.
Standing on a hill, the house commanded a superb view of the Golden Valley. It looked down on a scene of tranquil beauty. From its source above Dorstone a few miles to the north, the River Dore gargled happily with pebbles in its throat and meandered down to the point where the valley opened out into meadows and cornfields.
Richard Orbec found it at once inspiring and restful.
“I love this part of the county,” he said. “It reminds me so much of Normandy. Orchards, mills, cattle, sheep. It is just like the land around Bayeux.”
“Not quite, my lord,” said Redwald. “You have no Saxons on your estates in Normandy.”
Orbec laughed. “A small price to pay for this beauty.” He became serious. “Nobody must take this away from me, do you hear? I am relying on you, Redwald. This is mine! ”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I would kill to keep it. Save me that trouble.”
“I will do my best.”
“Confound these royal commissioners yet again.”
“They are not the real enemy.”
“No,” said Orbec. “Damville is. Defeat him soundly.”
“He has strong weapons at his disposal,” warned the reeve. “He will not easily be routed. Maurice Damville has the fire of ambition inside him.”
“So do I, Redwald. And mine burns even brighter.”
Corbin the Reeve did not improve on acquaintance. He irritated Gervase Bret, he annoyed Canon Hubert, and he even bored the normally over-tolerant Brother Simon. But it was Ralph Delchard who was the chief victim of the reeve’s supercilious manner, and he was in no mood to put up with it.
“Tell a plain tale in plain terms, man!” he howled.
“That is what I am doing, my lord.”
“Then why am I being driven slowly mad?”
“Show a little self-restraint,” advised Corbin with a condescending smile. “We will get there the sooner.”
“Damnation! Can you not answer a simple question?”
“When I am not impeded.”
“I’ll impede you with the point of my dagger in a moment,” threatened Ralph. “Give us the tidings without any more ado, you blockhead.
They are germane to our enquiries.”
“I am fully aware of that, my lord.”
They were in the shire hall, about to begin their examination of the witnesses. A trestle table had been set up with four chairs behind it.
On the opposite side of the table, chairs and benches were arranged in jagged rows. The hall itself was long, low, and narrow. Its thatched roof housed a veritable colony of spiders and mice. Having fought their way in through the small windows, the shafts of daylight lost their nerve and met for safety in a central position, abandoning the rest of the room to shadow. The place had a musty smell.
Gervase Bret took over the questioning of the reeve.
“Has anything new transpired about the murder?”
“Indeed,” said Corbin, tapping his chest with a beringed finger.
“I made a point of speaking with the sheriffs men who returned from Archenfield last night.”
“What did they say?”
“They were in a foul mood. So, I hear, was the sheriff.”
“Why?”
“They made little headway. Ilbert was peeved. Our good sheriff can get extremely peeved when given provocation.”
“Do you give him anything else?”
Corbin was affronted. “Ilbert Malvoisin and I are close friends, my lord. We work so ably together because we are well-suited by tempera-ment.”
“Hell’s teeth!” yelled Ralph. “There are two of them!”
“Enough prevarication,” snapped Canon Hubert. “Tell us what the sheriff’s men said. Are the killers apprehended?”
“Not yet.”
“Are their identities known?”
“Vaguely.”
“Is there any likelihood of an early arrest?”
“Probably not.”
“This news is not news at all.”
“There’s more, Canon Hubert,” said the reeve with a smirk of self-congratulation. “I drew the information out of the men by skilful means.
I have the trick of it.”
“Teach it to us!” whispered Brother Simon. “Then we may at last draw the information out of you.”
Ralph guffawed, Gervase smiled, and even Canon Hubert let his lip tremble at this unexpected sign of a sense of humour under the black cowl. Brother Simon retreated at once into anonymity but his wry comment had hit its target. Corbin the Reeve was stung into disclosing his tidings.
“They reached Llanwarne to find the house destroyed and Warnod burned to a cinder. Nothing remained. The man and his abode were wiped out.”
“Even the outbuildings?” asked Gervase.
“Everything,” said Corbin. “Not a stick remained standing, not an animal was left alive. Except one.”
“What was that?”
“The red dragon.”
“But it was merely carved in the turf.”
“I know, Master Bret,” he said, “but many people came running when they saw the fire blazing and they all avowed the same. The creature moved. The red dragon came to life!”
“Arrant nonsense!” said Ralph, exploding with contempt “How can a hole in the ground take on flesh and blood? Those who came running to the scene must have been drunk or crazed or both. Show me a man who saw a real dragon and I will show you an idiot or a barefaced liar!”
Corbin was not deflected. “Their testimony was precise. We have the word of a dozen men or more, including the priest from the church at Llanwarne. In the crackling flames, the beast appeared to stir from its slumber.”