Hooves splashed through water as they forded a stream. Gervase felt the spray on his hands. Wherever they were taking him, it was no leisurely ride. They were in a hurry.
Richard Orbec ate alone that evening. The meal was frugal and he permitted himself only one cup of wine with which to wash it down.
When a servant had cleared away the dishes, Orbec allowed the waiting reeve to enter. Redwald was flushed.
“I have been told what happened a few hours ago,” he said. “Was your behaviour wise, my lord?”
“It is not for you to question its wisdom, Redwald.”
“Indeed, not. But I am hired to administer your lands.”
“This was a case of trespass, not administration.”
“The commissioners act with royal warrant.”
“It carries no weight on my demesne.”
“My lord!”
“I’ve humoured them enough, Redwald,” said Orbec, quietly. “I answered their summons and replied to their questions. I even endured the unwarranted scrutiny of my private life by Canon Hubert. To what end?”
“They produced a counter-claim to some of your land.”
“It is worthless.”
“They had a charter.”
“It belongs to a corpse.”
“If someone else should inherit his claim …”
“What hope is there of that?” said Orbec with feeling. “I have right and title to those manors. Maurice Damville has renounced his claim and Warnod’s death repudiates his.”
“That is still no cause to offend the commissioners.”
“My will is cause enough!”
Orbec slapped the table with the flat of his hand for emphasis. His reeve backed away, trying to propitiate him with a nod and a smile.
Controlling himself again, his master rose from his seat and crossed over to Redwald. An air of melancholy now hung over him.
“Forgive my anger, Redwald.”
“I should beg your pardon for provoking it.”
“You touch on raw flesh.”
“It was not deliberate, my lord.”
“I know,” said Orbec. “I know. Only a Norman would understand my torment. It is the torment of loss, Redwald. The anguish of betrayal.
I once held some of the choicest land in the whole duchy of Normandy.
Verdant acres in the vicinity of Bayeux. Most of it was lost. Taken from me when my back was turned. That will never happen again, Redwald.”
“Then do not provoke authority.”
“I merely defended my legal rights.”
“There may be repercussions.”
“Let them come.” Orbec went over to the window and looked out at the valley below, “Look at it, Redwald. The hand of God has touched this land. It is a source of continual joy to me. That is why I chose Herefordshire. It is the closest imitation of Normandy that I could find. I lost my beautiful estates near Bayeux, so I am rebuilding them here in England.”
“I am honoured to be part of that work.”
“Then do not question my actions again.”
“I will not, my lord.”
“You have been a shrewd counsellor and a faithful servant to me, Redwald, but I do not like to be crossed.”
“That is a lesson I learned a long time ago.”
“Never forget it,” said Orbec, spinning around to face him. “A threat to my land is like an attack on my person. I lash out to defend myself.
Anyone who comes between me and my anger will be swept aside.
Even you.”
Evening shadows fell slowly across Archenfield. Ilbert the Sheriff and his men had commandeered a manor house nearby, but it was too small to accommodate more guests. Ralph Delchard and his party were therefore offered lodging a little further south in Pencoed.
Though still worried about her sister, Golde permitted herself to be included in the invitation. There was much more to be learned about Warnod’s death and she was, in any case, reluctant to be parted from her new friend. Golde had a Saxon wariness of all Normans, but Ralph had somehow overcome her natural suspicion.
Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were disappointed that there was no convenient religious house where they could lay their heads for the night. It was too late to return to the college of secular canons at Hereford cathedral, and the nearest Benedictine monastery was in Tewkesbury in the adjacent county of Gloucestershire. Brother Simon duly steeled himself to sleep under the same roof as a woman, while Hubert basked in the relief of escape from his theological adversary.
Idwal was to spend the night in Llanwarne at the cottage of the local priest.
Ralph sent his three companions on to Pencoed with an escort of four men-at-arms. The other half of his knights remained with their master. Ralph would not even consider his own departure until the safe return of Gervase Bret.
Ilbert the Sheriff lingered with him in Llanwarne.
“Where can he be?” wondered Ralph.
“It is easy to go astray in Archenfield,” said Ilbert.
“Gervase merely went to look at that land. We do not require him to measure each blade of grass on it. A sighting is all that is needed before he joins us here.”
“Let us hope that he himself was not sighted.”
“Gervase is too cunning for that,” said Ralph. “An alert mind and a fast horse will keep him clear of trouble.”
“I pray earnestly that it may.”
“Why do you say that, my lord sheriff?”
“Richard Orbec is a dangerous man.”
“Yes,” said Ralph as he recalled the satanic face. “We saw something of his character at the shire hall. A curious mixture, indeed.
Saint and soldier. Benevolent towards the cathedral yet hostile towards anyone who questions that benevolence.”
“Even more hostile to those who encroach on his land.”
“Why?”
“Ask directly of him. I do not know.”
“But you have had dealings with him over the years.”
“As few as I could,” said the sheriff, ruefully. “He can be as friendly as a brother one day, but turn into your mortal enemy on the next.”
“What of this private chapel of his?”
“They say it is his second home.”
“He is that devout?”
“Until something disturbs him. He moves straight from altar to sword then.”
“A belligerent Christian. The worst kind.”
“He will not show Christian tolerance towards trespass. That is why I fear for your colleague. If he does fall into Orbec’s clutches, there is no telling what might happen to him.”
“No man would dare to assault a royal commissioner.”
“Richard Orbec can change from man into devil.”
“If he so much as touches Gervase, he’ll answer to me.”
“You’ll first have to prove his guilt.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your friend would not be the first trespasser on that demesne to vanish completely. I have pursued three such cases and found no trace of the men in question.”
“Where did they go?”
“It would take you a lifetime to find out.”
“Why, my lord sheriff?”
“Richard Orbec has vast estates,” said Ilbert. “Only he knows where the bodies are buried. Let us hope that this Gervase Bret does not stumble into an anonymous grave.”
The ride seemed endless, the pace jarring. Gervase Bret was bruised and shaken by the time they finally reached their destination. When the horses slowed to a trot, he gathered his wits about him to listen for what sound came through the sacking. He could hear water; not the slow trickle of a stream, but the deep surge of a river. Hooves went over cobbles and voices talked indistinctly. A hollow clack then told him that they were walking across a timber bridge.
His head was still aching and his whole body felt as if it had been trampled, but he tried to put discomfort aside. A series of shouts penetrated the sacking, but they came so suddenly and so fast that he could not identify them. What he did hear very clearly was the opening of two huge wooden gates. As the hinges squealed there were more shouts, then the horses went forward and met more cobbles.