“No,” said Orbec, simply. “I prefer it here.”
Ralph was appalled. “You prefer England to Normandy?”
“I prefer peace to discord.”
They knew what he meant. Twenty long years of Norman occupation had imposed a measure of harmony that was lacking in the duchy from which the invaders came. Baronial feuds were rife in Normandy, and much violence went unchecked and unpunished. To a man wearied of the endless strife, life in the Golden Valley could indeed seem like a glorious escape.
“I hope that we do not destroy your peace,” said Ralph.
Orbec was blunt. “I will not permit it.”
“It is we who dispense any permission,” said Canon Hubert, pedan-tically. “You are under scrutiny, my lord.”
“On what account?”
“Several matters need to be raised,” noted Ralph as he glanced down at the document in front of him, “but one in particular dominates all others. Archenfield.”
“What is the problem?” asked Orbec. “I hold land in the hundred of Archenfield, it is true, but Redwald here will show you the charters which support my claim.”
“Maurice Damville also has claims upon that land.”
“False claims.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“It was seen, my lord. By your predecessors.”
“Yes, my lord,” added Redwald, responding to a nudge from his master. “The first commissioners rejected the testimony of Maurice Damville and found in our favour.”
“That was before a third claimant appeared.”
“A third? ” Corbin was surprised. “This is news to me.”
“Why did he not come forward before?” said Orbec.
“Because he was prevented from doing so.”
“By whom?”
“By someone who stood to gain by his absence.”
Orbec raised an eyebrow. “Is that an accusation against me?”
“Only you will know that, my lord,” said Ralph.
“Who is this third claimant?” pressed Corbin.
“You took a vow of silence,” chided Hubert.
The reeve held up his palms in apology, then put three fingers to his lips by way of a promise not to interrupt again. He watched intently from his bench.
“May I know the name of this man?” said Orbec, calmly.
“You already do.”
Ralph’s gaze was searching. He was finding the witness extremely difficult to fathom. Richard Orbec gave nothing away. His manner was relaxed and his face expressionless. Ralph could see the soldier in his bearing, but there was much more to the man than that. Deep secrets lurked behind those green eyes.
Orbec made his first mistake. Assuming that he was in the presence of men who spoke exclusively in Norman-French, he addressed his reeve in Anglo-Saxon.
“We must both tell the same story, Redwald.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll not yield a square yard of Archenfield.”
“Nor shall you.”
“I have not built up my estates to see them cut down as they were in Normandy.” Orbec was adamant. “That will never happen again. Take note.”
“I do take note, my lord,” said Gervase Bret in the same tongue. “I note that you are as proficient in this language as I am, yet without my advantage of a Saxon mother.”
Orbec was duly startled. Ralph was exasperated.
“We will not conduct this examination in gibberish.”
“Saxon is a fine language,” said Gervase, slipping easily back into Ralph’s own tongue, “but I believe you will hear no more of it in this hall.” He looked at Orbec and got an answering nod. “I felt it only fair to warn you, my lord,” he said. “Be fair with us in return.”
“I will be.”
“To return to the subject of dispute,” said Ralph. “The land concerned runs along the border between Archenfield and the hundreds of Ewyas and Golden Valley. It amounts in all to a total of …” Exasperation showed again as he consulted the document in front of him.
“Why must they confuse me with all these carucates and numbers of ploughs? The hide is the simplest measurement of land.”
Gervase came to his aid. “The total area is just under a thousand acres. Use mat as a round figure.”
“We can account for every acre,” asserted Redwald.
“So can Maurice Damville,” countered Hubert.
“Not to mention our third claimant,” said Ralph with a grin. “Is the name of Warnod familiar to your ear?”
“It is,” admitted Orbec with a noncommittal shrug. “I believe that the land under discussion once belonged to his father. But Warnod is hardly a claimant. The poor man was murdered at his home in Llanwarne.”
“His kinsmen will inherit his land,” said Gervase, “and they will contest this claim on Warnod’s behalf.”
“He has no kinsmen in this county,” said Orbec, firmly.
“Can you be sure?”
“Certain of it.”
“Then he may have willed his holdings to another.”
“That, too, would produce no third claimant.”
“Why not?”
“Because we cannot know who the beneficiary is unless we have sight of a will,” argued Orbec, “and that went up in smoke when the house was burned. Along with this supposed charter that legitimates his claim to my land. The name of Warnod does not belong in this dispute at all. No will, no charter, no claim.”
“The charter survived, my lord.”
“How do you know?”
Gervase picked up a scroll of parchment from the table.
“Because I have it here in my hand.”
Orbec was visibly shaken. “How did you come by it?”
“The document was sent to Winchester.”
“By whom? Not Warnod, I’ll wager. He would never trust a Norman tribunal to find against a Norman. Another hand is at work here.
Who sent that document to the Exchequer?”
“We have no idea,” said Ralph, blithely. “It is one of the things we came to Hereford to find out.”
The brewhouse was at the rear of the premises, attached to the house by a short and aromatic passageway. There was no way to keep all the fumes out of the house itself, but Golde had done her best. A thick curtain hung in front of the door and absorbed some of the pungent odours of her profession. Rushes and herbs inside the dwelling acted as a further barrier against the pervasive smell of ale.
When Golde came in, the girl was in exactly the same spot with exactly the same distraught look on her face. Golde put a consoling arm around her sister’s shoulders and lowered her onto the wooden stool in front of the fire. The house on Castle Street was not large, but it was always warm and impeccably clean.
Golde knelt on the flagstone to hold her sister’s hands between her own. She squeezed them gently.
“Spare yourself, Aelgar,” she said, softly.
“How can I?”
“You were not to blame.”
“But I was, Golde. I was.”
“You punish yourself for sins you did not commit.”
“I will never forgive myself.”
“Aelgar!”
“I helped to kill the one thing I held dear.”
“That is not true.”
“What life is left to me now?”
“A good life. An honest life.”
“Bereft of all joy. My hopes are shattered.”
“Rebuild them, sweet sister.”
“Nobody could rebuild after such a loss.”
Golde became wistful. “I did.”
It was Aelgar’s turn to offer condolence. She bent forward to kiss her sister’s forehead. Both of them let tears run freely for a few moments. Golde then controlled her pain and stood up. As the elder sister, she had to be strong enough for both of them.
She looked down at Aelgar and let out a long sigh.
“What a cruel blow too much beauty can be!”
“I feel as if I want to scratch it away out of spite.”
“That is not the way, Aelgar.”
“Then what is? What is? Teach me, please.”
The entreaty brought Aelgar to her feet. She was a few inches shorter than Golde and years younger. Barely nineteen, she still had the bloom of youth on her cheeks. She wore a plain gunna of green linen and a white wimple. The heart-shaped face was distorted by grief and striped with concern, but its essential loveliness shone through. Golde had the more mature charms, but few men noticed her when Aelgar was present. The latter’s innocent beauty was almost overwhelming.