“It might not end there, my lord sheriff.”
“I know. More’s the pity!”
“Welsh passions run deep. This argument may spread.”
“We must contain it,” emphasized the sheriff. “It must not cross the border at any cost or we are doomed.” He heaved a rueful sigh. “Which task is worse? Keeping the Welsh and the Saxons apart in Archenfield? Or preventing Maurice Damville and Richard Orbec from fighting a duel?”
“Both are equally onerous.”
Ilbert the Sheriff was standing near the little church in Llanwarne with the captain of his men-at-arms. They had been counting the cost of one night’s villainy in the area. In the wake of Warnod’s death, his old servant, Elfig, had expired from his beating, and his Welsh servant, Hywel, had been viciously attacked. Five more people from each community had been seriously wounded and several had suffered minor assaults. Three prisoners had been trussed up for the return journey to Hereford.
Warnod’s house was a pile of debris in the distance.
“Will we ever find his killers?” said the captain.
“We have to find them,” asserted the sheriff. “It is the only way to lay this whole business to rest. There must be a reason why Warnod was singled out for attack. If we dig deep enough, we will uncover it.”
“In the meantime, my lord sheriff?”
“Keep the patrols for a day or two more.”
“The worst of it seems to be over.”
“Thanks to our show of strength,” said Ilbert. “It is the only thing these people understand. Superior force. By acting swiftly, we stamped out the flames of civil strife. We may take due credit for our ruthless efficiency.”
Congratulations were premature. No sooner had the sheriff spoken than voices were raised nearby in a derisive cheer. Ilbert and the captain ran to their horses and leaped into the saddles. The shouts gave them direction, but it was the smoke which guided them to the exact spot. It curled up into the clear sky like a giant finger mat beckoned them on.
Everyone had fled from the scene when they arrived, but their purpose was vividly evident. A fire was crackling merrily. Sitting in the heart of it was a large red dragon, crudely fashioned from wood and daubed with dye. Several arrows had been shot into the beast to speed its symbolic death.
Ilbert the Sheriff and his captain watched with horror. The red dragon did not submit quiedy to its fate. As its wooden frame began to crack and blacken, a sudden burst of flame roared from its mouth and made the two men jump back in alarm. At the very moment of its demise, the red dragon came back to life with fiery defiance.
Wales had been awakened.
Chapter Five
Cadwgan ap Bleddyn ascended the dais at the end of the hall and sat on the throne with an imperious air. His subjects were ranged around him in strict order of rank and position. As prince of Powys, he held sway over a border region that stretched from mid-Wales all the way north to Gwynedd, and he was eager to extend the frontiers of his territory. His crown bestowed both power and prestige. The court enabled Cadwgan to put them ostentatiously on display.
Like all Welsh princes, he kept a mobile court, shifting the seat of power according to caprice or necessity. He had come as far south as Elfael for this occasion. The court itself comprised a group of timbered buildings within an enclosure. Occupying the central position, the hall was by far the largest structure, long and wide with its roof timbers supported by thick oaken pillars. It was filled with members of his household, minor princelings who had come to pay homage, and a few privileged guests. Cadwgan provided generous hospitality for them all.
He was a compact figure in a long gown that trailed to the floor. His mantle was held at the shoulder by a gold brooch in the shape of a dragon. The circlet of gold around his brow bore the same motif.
Dark, brooding, and bearded, he was of medium height, but exuded such a sense of innate strength that he seemed much bigger than bis physical dimensions. His eyes roamed the hall with sovereign arrogance to drink in the respect and fealty of the assembly.
Power was a precarious commodity in a country as unsettled as Wales. It was far easier to acquire than to hold onto for any length of time. Dynasties were built on shifting political sands. Cadwgan knew the unwritten laws of kingship by heart. His first duty was to protect his title at all times. To this end, those who stood closest to him were always elite members of the teulu, his military retinue. A bold warrior himself, he knew how to select the best men to protect him.
He summoned the captain of his royal bodyguard.
“Goronwy!”
“My lord?”
“Come close for private conference.”
Goronwy smiled with anticipatory delight. He was a tall, slender young man with dark hair and complexion. His face was too squashed to be handsome, but there was a vitality in his eyes and manner, which saved him from being thought of as ugly. Goronwy wore light armour. Sword and dagger were at his belt.
Expecting good news, his smile broadened into a grin.
“Can the day be named, my lord?”
“Not yet, Goronwy.”
“But all has been arranged.”
“Something has upset those arrangements badly.”
Goronwy’s face clouded. “An accident?”
“Of a kind. It must be looked into speedily.”
“Send me, my lord. It is my wish and my duty.”
“No man would be more appropriate,” said Cadwgan with an affec-tionate hand on his arm. “You are my brother’s son and royal blood flows in your veins. Let it boil until this matter has been settled.
Show no mercy. Hound them.”
“What has happened?”
The tidings were not for common usage. They were whispered to the young man in the soft consonants of the Welsh language. Goronwy was momentarily crushed. He recovered at once and his temples pounded with rage. He listened carefully to his orders, nodding throughout and rubbing his palm against the handle of his sword.
The news had roused him to a pitch of fury. Goronwy was eager to be on his way.
“What of the men responsible for this crime, my lord?”
“Bring them to me.”
“Alive or dead?”
Cadwgan’s words were like soft caresses on the ear.
“Bring me their heads. They will suffice.”
Ralph Delchard sent word ahead of their approach. Ilbert the Sheriff was highly displeased to hear that they were coming. He had more than enough on his hands without the burden of peripatetic royal commissioners. They could not have arrived at a worse time. At the very least, they would be a gross encumbrance.
Controlling his temper, he rode a few miles north to meet them in the hope of heading them off before they penetrated too deeply in Archenfield. He did not wish to have anyone looking over his shoulder while he was about his business. His methods were necessarily cruel at times. He wanted to apply them without criticism or hindrance.
His annoyance was markedly increased when he saw the cavalcade. The presence of Golde made him seethe. When Ralph introduced himself and his companions, the sheriffs gaze never left the woman for more than a split second. For her part, Golde maintained a dignified silence; head up, eyes downcast.
Idwal pushed forward shamelessly to claim attention.
“I will help you solve this murder, my lord sheriff.”
“Will you, indeed?” said Ilbert, wincing at the sound of yet another Welsh voice. “What makes you think that?”
“I am an advocate for my nation.”
“We have too many of those at work already.”
“Show me the place where the crime occurred.”
“I am too busy pursuing my own enquiries,” said the sheriff, testily.
“I have no time to waste on the burblings of a wandering scholar like yourself.”
Idwal blenched. “I am neither burbler nor wandering scholar,” he said in a querulous voice. “Herewald, Bishop of Llandaff sent me on a mission throughout Wales.”