Birdsong filled the air and insects buzzed over standing pools. Gervase manoeuvred his way towards a grove of sycamores on a gentle slope.
From their shelter, he could enjoy the view at his leisure. Dismounting among the trees, he tethered his horse and crept forward to find himself a vantage point. The greater part of the disputed land unfolded before him like a green carpet. Gervase could even catch a faint glimpse of Richard Orbec’s house.
His survey was short-lived. He heard the crack of a twig beneath a foot, but his reactions were far too slow. Before he could even move, a wooden club struck him on the back of the head to send him tumbling forward into oblivion.
Chapter Six
As soon as they came within sight of the village, Canon Hubert regretted his decision to go there. Llanwarne was no more than a scatter of mean cottages around a tiny church, but it was not the buildings that arrested his eye. Standing on a hillock at the edge of the village, and speaking to a dozen or more Welsh peasants, was Idwal the Archdeacon. His voice enthralled them, his eminence impressed them, and his blend of learning and hwyl kindled their spirits. Idwal held his impromptu congregation in the palm of his hand.
“Lord save us!” said Hubert. “The Sermon on the Mount.”
“Blessed are the deaf,” murmured Brother Simon, “for they cannot hear him.”
Simon’s own discomfort was compounded by the sight of Golde talking with Ralph Delchard and Ilbert the Sheriff. Women had no place in the life and thoughts of a Benedictine monk as unsullied as Brother Simon. When the commissioner’s work took them to Essex, he had even been thrown into a turmoil by the presence of two innocuous nuns. Golde’s impact on his delicate sensibilities was far greater. The woman had not even spoken to him and she had done nothing specifically to earn his disapproval. She simply was.
Hubert watched Idwal toss his cloak back for effect.
“The lambskin has returned to its flock!” he observed.
The six newcomers dismounted their horses and tethered them.
Hubert led his donkey across to a water trough and let it slurp absent-mindedly. The soldiers went off to join their four colleagues and trade gossip. Ralph was too embroiled in his conversation to break away. It was the Welshman who became their self-appointed host.
“Welcome to Ergyng!” he said, ending his homily and scuttling over to them. “You are now in the diocese of Llandaff.”
“I thought I felt a distinct chill,” said Hubert.
“You came upon me preaching the Word to my people.”
“A common street is hardly consecrated ground.”
“I carry my cathedral with me on my back.”
“What is it called? The Church of St. Lambskin?”
“Mock not, Canon Hubert,” said Idwal. “Like Christ himself, I speak to my congregation on hill, on mountain, and in field. While I teach the Gospels there, it becomes hallowed ground. That is the great difference between us.”
“Yes,” said Hubert, “but I do not confuse idle gossip in the street with the revealed Word.”
“You and Brother Simon are Christians of the closed world. You retreated into the cloister to find God and hide him away under your habits.” Idwal waved a hand at the departing peasants. “I share Him with the common people. I go out-as Christ and his Disciples went out-to bring everyone closer to the wonder of God.”
“Such work is admirable in itself,” said Brother Simon with a half-smile, “but only a man with your gifts could undertake it. We serve God by a life of denial.”
“Then you deny His greater glory.”
Hubert was waspish. “Llandaff must miss you mightily. How will the edifice stand without you to support it with these pillars of theological wisdom?”
“Sarcasm is the mark of a lowly mind,” said Idwal.
Further exchange between them was cut short by the arrival of Ralph Delchard, who strolled across with Golde at his elbow. Brother Simon shrunk back a few paces and put both skeletal hands over his scrip in a forlorn gesture of defence.
“So early a return?” said Ralph with surprise.
“Richard Orbec barred us from his land,” said Hubert.
“Then he bars the way for the king. Did you not tell him that in round terms and brush aside any argument?”
“Twenty men-at-arms enforced his purpose.”
Ralph ignited. “Richard Orbec dared to offer violence to royal commissioners!”
“I’d have excommunicated him on the spot,” said Idwal.
“He was left in no doubt about our displeasure,” said Hubert. “But we were so few against so many.”
“One fewer now,” noted Ralph. “Where is Gervase?”
“He refused to be evicted so rudely. When we were out of sight of Richard Orbec’s knights, he went back to examine the holdings privily. I advised against the danger, but Gervase was headstrong.”
“He did no more than I would have done,” said Ralph with gathering fury. “Bar our way! I’d have barbered his beard with my sword! When the sheriff is done here, I’ll add a troop of his men to mine and cut a path to the very heart of his demesne!”
“Take me with you to care for the dead,” offered Idwal with a wicked gleam. “I will enjoy reading the burial service over Norman soldiers.”
“Look to your own, Archdeacon,” said Hubert.
“This is beyond bearing!” said Ralph, warming to his theme. “Marcher lords have been allowed too much license. Because we let them build their little empires here on these godforsaken frontiers, they think they are above the law of the land. King William has already torn down one Earl of Hereford. He will just as easily tear down these other self-styled earls like Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville!”
Idwal beamed. “There is no sweeter music in a Welshman’s ear than the sound of invaders quarreling among themselves over land they stole from us.”
“Silence this dead sheep of an archdeacon!” howled Ralph.
“If only we knew how!” hissed Brother Simon.
Ralph fulminated, Idwal chuckled, Canon Hubert had an attack of pomposity, and Golde watched it all with interest. When the clamour abated, it was she who introduced a note of mild alarm.
“I fear for your companion, my lord.”
“Gervase?” said Ralph. “He can look after himself.”
“Richard Orbec is a strange man.”
“We have seen his strangeness at close quarters.”
“Your colleague is in grave danger,” she continued. “If he is caught by Richard Orbec, there is no telling what might happen to him.”
“He will not be caught,” said Ralph, confidently. “Gervase Bret is a lawyer. And there is no more slippery breed of men on this earth.
They will not catch him. Gervase will see exactly what he wishes to see.”
When his eyes finally opened, Gervase Bret thought at first that he had gone blind. He could see nothing. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of vomit, and he felt as if his body was being kicked simultaneously by a dozen feet. He opened his eyes wider, but still found himself staring into an impenetrable darkness. It was only when he became fully conscious that he realised where he was.
Bound hand and foot, Gervase was tied securely across the back of a horse like the carcass of a dead animal. Over his head was a sack, which, from its smell, had once contained barley. He was being dragged along at speed behind a group of riders. His stomach had revolted against the rough and indiscriminate bouncing to which it was subjected and spewed up the remains of his last meal. He was in agony.
Gervase tried to marshal his jangled thoughts. Where was he and in whose hands? The last thing that he could remember was the sight of Richard Orbec’s lands rolling northeastward from the hundred of Archenfield into the Golden Valley. Was he Orbec’s prisoner? Would a Norman lord dare to violate the privilege of a royal commissioner?
Buffeted unmercifully by one horse, he tried to count how many others cantered beside him. Four, at most. Voice were occasionally raised above the chaos of the hoofbeats, but the sacking muffled the sound. Gervase was trapped in a deep, black hole of pain and confusion. He could do nothing but wait, suffer more intensely, and pray.