The jeers of his men finally made their master burst into laughter.
Here was no nubile milkmaid who could be taken on a whim. Aelgar had quality and spirit. She needed to be stalked by a more cunning hunter. He knew that the prize would be more than worth the effort.
“Good-bye, my darling!” he called. “I must go.”
“Thank God!” she sighed.
“But I’ll be back for you soon.”
The hooves clacked off down Castle Street and were soon swallowed up in the general hubbub of market day. Aelgar had survived the visit this time, but there would be another.
Maurice Damville would not endure refusal for long.
“No, no, no!” protested Canon Hubert with crimson jowls shaking. “I refuse to countenance this act of madness.”
“Your disapproval is noted,” said Ralph, cheerfully.
“You visit two of the plagues of Egypt upon us.”
“A woman and a Welshman?”
“Yes,” moaned Hubert. “The woman will lead you astray and the Welshman will talk the ears off my donkey.”
He was not happy with the travel arrangements. It was bad enough to be wrested away from the relative comfort of the shire hall and from his accommodation at the cathedral. Canon Hubert was now being forced to share the journey with an urgent widow and an eager archdeacon. It was Purgatory.
Brother Simon was at least prepared to compromise.
“The archdeacon is fit company,” he said, exhausting every last drop of Christian charity at his disposal, “but the woman is not. Let us take one without the other. I would sooner bear the pain of endless theological argument than the discomfort of a female presence.
Women terrify me!”
“Has lust never found its sly way into that celibate body of yours?”
mocked Ralph. “Embrace sin gladly, Brother Simon. Give yourself some pleasure to repent.”
“Heaven forbid!”
Gervase Bret did not even bother to offer an opinion on the subject.
When Ralph made a decision, he held firm to it regardless of opposi-tion. Golde would ride with them to Archenfield in the company of Idwal the Archdeacon. Gervase was the only man in Hereford willing to befriend the roving ambassador from Llandaff, who, hearing of their journey to Archenfield, was quick to attach himself to them.
Gervase alone foresaw Idwal’s value. In an area that was predomi-nantly Welsh, they would need a skilful interpreter.
When they finally set off, they were fourteen in number. Ralph led the way with Golde at his side on a palfrey. At the rear of the column were Gervase and Idwal, the latter riding a Welsh pony and still wearing his malodorous cloak. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon rode in the very middle of the cavalcade, thus occupying an intermediate station between sinful thought and sacerdotal torture. While Simon watched the woman up ahead through apprehensive eyes, Hubert cocked an ear to catch the latest ramblings of the man he privately referred to as the Celtic imbecile.
Gervase was intrigued by the garrulous Welshman.
“Do you always travel alone, Archdeacon?”
“No, Gervase. God is always at my side.”
“But you take no companions? No priests or deacons?”
“I prefer to seek friends along the way.”
“You are more likely to encounter foes.”
Idwal chuckled. “Not in Wales. I am too well-known and too well-respected. I can ride from Caerleon in the south to Caernavon in the north with not a hand raised against me. I need no protection from my own countrymen.”
“But you are not in Wales now, Archdeacon.”
“I am, Gervase. Spiritually.”
A snort from up ahead told them that Canon Hubert had caught the last remark. His donkey chose that moment to relieve itself without breaking its stride. It seemed to Hubert an apt comment on the lilting lunacy behind him.
Untroubled by harsh criticism from man and beast, Idwal was in full flow on the subject of the red dragon. His face was turned in the direction of his native country and his voice took on a declamatory note.
“Long centuries ago,” he chanted, “Merlin prophesied the future struggles of the Welsh people. He revealed to our great chieftain a stone chest hidden at the bottom of a lake.”
“Would that chieftain’s name be Vortigern?”
“Indeed, it would. Vortigern himself. Lord of the Britons, as the Welsh were once called. Vortigern commanded that the stone chest be opened and out of it came a white dragon and a red dragon. Immediately, they began a fierce battle. At first, the white dragon drove the red one to the middle of the pool, then the red one, provoked into fury, drove the white one hither and thither.”
“What did it signify?” asked Gervase.
“Merlin explained that. The red dragon signified the Britons, the white, the Saeson, as we call them.”
“The Saxons.”
“Red for Wales, white for England. ‘Woe to the red dragon,’ exclaimed Merlin, ‘for her calamity draws nigh, and the white dragon shall seize on her cells. Then shall the mountains be made plains, and the glens and rivers overflow with blood. The Saeson shall possess almost all the island from sea to sea, but afterward our nation shall arise and bravely drive the Saeson out of their country.’ Thus spoke Merlin and thus it came to pass.”
“There is no mention of the Normans in that prophesy.”
“They are just a more monstrous white dragon.”
“And will the red dragon arise and drive them out?”
“In time, my friend. In time.”
“What of the emblem left by Warnod’s killers?”
“They were not true Welshmen,” insisted Idwal.
“A red dragon was carved in the turf.”
“It was an insult to us and not a portent.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because my heart tells me so,” said Idwal, punching his chest.
“We are a proud people, Gervase, and we cherish our warrior history.
Our nation will arise one day to reclaim the land that the white dragon has taken from us. But we will not send ten callous assassins to burn one man to death in his home. With banners held high, we will come in all our glory under a new and courageous Welsh prince.”
“And who will that prince be?” wondered Gervase.
Idwal fell silent, but his face was shining with joy.
In the shelter of some trees, two horsemen watched from a hill almost half a mile away. They could see the column wending its way along the track in the afternoon sunshine. Even at that distance, they could recognise Ralph Delchard, sitting upright in his saddle and talking with a female companion. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could also be picked out, black-clad figures among the glinting helms and hauberks. One of the men at the rear had to be Gervase Bret.
The bearded rider turned to his companion.
“What do they want?” he said.
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Follow them.”
“I will.”
“Take three men and trail them every inch of the way.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Send me reports of everything they do and everywhere they go. If they so much as set foot on my land, I wish to be informed instantly.
Is that understood?’
“Clearly, my lord.”
“I’ll permit no trespass. By anyone!”
Richard Orbec threw a last, hostile glance at the procession below before swinging round to canter off in the opposite direction. His peace was being invaded.
Ilbert the Sheriff had imposed a form of a truce on Archenfield, but he had neither the men nor the time to maintain it indefinitely. The district was sparsely populated with its inhabitants scattered over a wide area. There was no way that he could subdue every corner of it.
The situation was profoundly aggravating.
“I’ve a mind to ride back to Hereford and let them get on with it!” he said. “If they want to kill each other, they might as well go ahead. In a week or so, when it’s all over, we’ll simply come back and bury the dead.”