“What else did you hear?”
Hywel shuddered. “Their shouts and jeers as the house burned down. But they were too far away for me to pick out their voices.”
“How were you released?”
“By my kinsman. He was roused by the noise.”
“And what did you see when you were untied?”
“The house in flames and ten men riding off.”
“Nothing else?”
“The red dragon. Alive! ”
Idwal attended to the wounds for a few minutes and translated what he had so far heard for Ralph’s benefit. The latter suggested the next question and the archdeacon rendered it back into his own language.
“Where had Warnod been when he returned home?”
“To Hereford.”
“Why?”
“He did not say.”
“What sort of mood was he in when he left Llanwarne?”
“Happy.”
“Was he a kind master, Hywel?”
“Yes.”
“How did he treat you and Elfig?”
“Well.”
“Did he have many enemies in Ergyng?”
“None that I know of.”
Idwal bent in close. “Who do you think killed him?”
The boy’s one visible eye filmed over with tears. He was still deeply distressed about the fate of his master and shaken by the savage beating he had been given. Desperate to help, the youth had no more information to offer. After going through some of the details a second time, Idwal thanked him and promised to call on him again to tend his wounds and to offer succour.
Ralph Delchard stepped quickly outside the hovel and gulped in fresh air. Golde was some distance away, locked in conversation with the sheriff. His manner seemed much less hostile towards her.
Idwal came out of the house and gave Ralph an account of everything else that the youth had said.
“I still do not spy a Welsh hand in this,” argued Idwal.
“Nor do I,” said Ralph.
“Why?”
“Because this attack was planned. They knew that Warnod was away from his house and they knew when he was likely to return and by what route. No random band of killers from over the border would have had that intelligence.”
“Why burn him alive when they could have cut him down?”
“They wanted to send a signal.”
“To whom?”
“Everyone.”
“All that is signalled was an outbreak of violence.”
“Exactly,” said Ralph. “Then there was the red dragon.”
“A false trail.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Hywel was feverish. He did not see that dragon alive.”
“In his mind’s eye, he did.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“He is Welsh.”
The remark sent Idwal into a burst of invective against Saxons and Normans alike. Ralph did not hear him. He was too busy looking in the direction of the border.
“Who are the most dangerous men in Wales?”
“Look elsewhere for your murderers, my lord.”
“I ask but in the spirit of enquiry,” said Ralph. “I know little of the Welsh beyond the fact that they are fierce soldiers. I fought against them near Chester many years ago. They were bloody encounters with no quarter given.”
“Praise the Lord! We have always had brave warriors.”
“Brave warriors need great leaders.”
“We have had our share of those,” observed Idwal with pride. “I could recite a long list of immortal heroes. In recent memory, Gruffydd ap Llewelyn was the most famous. Prince of Gwynedd and Powys, and lord of all Wales. A mighty man on the battlefield. You may yoke the name of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn with that of Richard Orbec.”
“Orbec?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Idwal with a dry cackle. “Richard Orbec is helping to rebuild the cathedral that Gruffydd destroyed when he sacked the whole city.” He became solemn. “Not that I condone the attack on a cathedral or on any place of worship, mind you. Ecclesiastical buildings of all kinds should be sacrosanct. Gruffydd was too impulsive.”
“That was over twenty years ago,” said Ralph. “Where are your fear-some princes now?”
“Rhys ap Tewdr is lord of Deheubarth and rules the whole of South Wales without challenge.”
“King William brought him to heel in St. David’s.”
“Your king was on a pilgrimage to the shrine!”
“A cloak to hide his real purpose,” said Ralph. “He went with an army to remind this Rhys ap Tewdr of the power of Norman soldiers.
The lord of Deheubarth had the sense to become reconciled with the King. Who else can you cite?”
“Rhys holds the south, Gruffydd ap Cynan, the north.” Idwal shook his head sadly. “In name only, alas. The prince of Gwynedd was imprisoned by deceitful Normans. He rules his land through the bars of a dungeon.”
“It may be the safest throne on which to set him.”
“His time will come again, my lord.”
“But it is not at hand yet,” said Ralph. “You tell me of your two most powerful men. Rhys ap Tewdr in the south and Gruffydd ap Cynan in the north. Neither is a threat to us. What of the prince of Powys?”
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn?”
“Would he be a leader to unite your people?”
“Hardly!” said Idwal with asperity.
“Why not?”
“Because he has come to composition with the enemy and diluted the blood of his royal house.”
“In what way?”
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn is married to one of your own. The daughter of a Marcher lord, Picot de Say. His wife has taken all the fight out of him.”
“Our ladies keep warm beds.”
“The prince of Powys is as crafty as a fox, but he has been caged by marriage. Look for no trouble from him.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“I have met the man myself.”
“Does he not have a strong army around him?”
“Yes,” said Idwal. “Brave warriors, bred for battle, but they stand idle in Powys. You will not hear a peep out of Cadwgan and his soldiers.”
Goronwy led a troop of forty men down through the Black Mountains.
Light armour allowed them to move fast. As captain of his uncle’s teulu, Goronwy was a highly trained soldier who honed his military skills with unvarying regularity. Like their leader, the soldiers were expert horsemen who could use sword and spear with dexterity in the saddle. Several of them also had bows and quivers of arrows slung across their backs. As they clattered along the narrow mountain roads, nobody dared to question their purpose or obstruct their path.
They were on an important mission that brooked no delay. Goronwy had not spoken a word since they had left his uncle’s court. Suffused with anger, his face squeezed in upon itself. The forehead narrowed, the eyes half-closed, the cheeks were sucked in, and the mouth became a thin strip of red amid the black hair of his beard. An invisible hammer continued to pound the anvil inside his head until his temples threatened to burst apart.
When they reached the foothills, they saw a small group of travellers coming towards them. Goronwy gave a signal with his hand and his men cantered on to surround the little cortege. Terrified by the ring of hostility around them, the travellers pleaded for mercy. Their spokesman was an ancient figure in a tattered cloak.
“Do not harm us, friends,” he implored in quaking Welsh. “We are poor people with nothing worth stealing. Spare us.”
“We are not robbers!” snarled Goronwy with disgust. “We are soldiers of the prince of Powys, Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”
“We did not look to find you this far south.”
“North, south, east, west! We ride where we choose.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, apologetically.
“Where have you come from?”
“Caerleon.”
“What did you see along the road?”
“Nothing of any note.”
“Whom did you meet?”
“Nobody, my lord.”
“You are lying.”
“It is the truth,” said the old man. “Ask any of my companions. We have ridden all the way from Caerleon and seen not a soul on the road.” He stretched out an arm to point. “We came by the quieter paths through-”