Richard Orbec came close to look him full in the face.
“I speak in all honesty,” he said. “Your friend is not here. If he had been taken by my men-let me be honest about this as well-he would have been punished in a manner that he would not forget. He was warned, my lord, and I do not make idle warnings.”
“Neither do I!” retorted Ralph.
“Leave my land while you still may.”
Ralph reached for his sword, but thought better of it.
“Do you swear that Gervase is not held by you?”
“On my honour!” vowed Orbec.
Ralph Delchard was totally bewildered.
“Then where, in God’s name, is he?”
Gervase Bret forced himself up into a sitting position and turned his back so that his bound wrists were facing his companion. The man was old, but his fingers were nimble. Feeling his way to the ropes, he undid them in a minute. Gervase massaged his wrists then shook his hands vigorously in the air to restore some movement to them.
When his fingers began to obey him again, he used them to loosen the bonds around his ankles. Aching in every joint, he stood up and stretched himself properly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I am glad to be of service. Who are you?”
“My name is Gervase Bret.”
“I am Omri.”
The old man spoke no English, but Gervase knew more than a smattering of Welsh. It had served him well during their visit to the Savernake Forest in Wiltshire, but it would be even more crucial here.
The son of a Breton father, Gervase had learned his father’s native tongue, a language that had a close affinity with Welsh. Conversation, though halting at times, was therefore possible.
“Where are we?” asked Gervase.
“I do not know.”
“How were you brought here?”
“By horsemen. We were ambushed.”
“We?”
“There were ten of us,” said Omri. “Travelling north from Caerleon on an important errand. They attacked us near Raglan. We stood no chance.”
“Where are the others?”
“Only two of us survived.”
Omri was a tall, cadaverous, white-haired man with huge eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. Gervase could only make out a vague shape in the gloom, but the eyes told him where the long, narrow face was. Omri was a benign presence. His voice was deep and mellifluous.
“How long have you been here?” said Gervase.
“A day that seems like a year.”
“And you did not see where they brought you?”
The old man laughed softly. “No, I did not.”
“What is the joke?”
“It is only comical to those who know me, Gervase. In Wales I have another name. Omri Dall.”
“Omri the Blind.”
Gervase was covered in embarrassment and started to apologise, but the old man cut him short. He was in no way offended by the mistake.
“Besides,” he said, “we meet on equal terms.”
“Equal terms?”
“Both locked in a world of darkness.”
“But where?” said Gervase. “Where?”
“It should not be too difficult to work out,” said Omri. “Captured at Raglan then taken at a canter for no more than a couple of hours or so. That could put us in Chepstow.”
“Chepstow Castle?”
“Though my guess would be Monmouth.”
“Would it?”
“Did you not hear that river?” said the old man. “A steady flow, but nothing like the torrent of the Wye as it races towards the estuary.
Our river is the Monnow. Smaller and more obedient. This castle must be Monmouth.”
Gervase was slightly relieved at the news. Monmouth put them much closer to his place of capture than Chepstow, but he was still being held against his will.
“Why were you brought here?” asked Omri.
“I do not know.”
“How were you taken?”
With great difficulty, Gervase pieced the story together, as much for his own benefit as for that of his companion. Omri listened intently throughout, intrigued by the reason that first took Gervase to Herefordshire.
“We have heard of this famous Domesday Book.”
“It is a description of all England.”
“Then I am glad that I live in Wales.”
“When it is completed, it will be an extraordinary document,” said Gervase. “It touches the lives of everyone in the nation.”
“Perhaps that is why you are here, my young friend.”
“Here?”
“Someone may not want his life touched.”
Gervase immediately thought of Richard Orbec. The latter would yield nothing to the commissioners in the shire hall and it was on his land that Gervase had been attacked. Puzzled by his own presence in the dungeon, he was yet able to show an interest in Omri’s plight.
“Where were you travelling?” he asked.
“To the court of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.”
“The prince of Powys?”
“I was to have sung at a banquet,” explained the old man. “And told fortunes to those brave enough to know them.”
“You are a minstrel?”
“Bard, jester, and seer. Send for Omri Dall and you get all three of me. I can beguile you with a song, amuse you with a jest, or terrify you with a look into the future.”
“I will settle for your friendship,” said Gervase.
“A day or two locked up in here,” said Omri, “and you will be begging me for entertainment. The guards were kinder to me than to you.” He played a chord on a harp. “They let me keep my instrument. I take that as a good omen.”
“You said earlier, I believe, that you travelled on an important errand.”
“That is so. I was carrying a message.”
“From whom?”
“Friend to friend.”
“From Caerleon to Powys.”
“My life is an endless journey around the courts of Welsh princes,”
said Omri. “I am known and trusted by all. Seek for me in Powys and you will find I have ridden on to Gwynedd. Ask for me there and they will tell you I am in Ceredigion. By the time you catch up with me, my songs are lifting the spirit in Brycheiniog.”
“What do you sing about?”
“What else, but Wales?”
Gervase was reminded of the Archdeacon of Llandaff. Both men had a deep and loving patriotism. While Idwal was relentlessly argu-mentative, however, Omri was gentle and unforced. The Welsh churchman used words to batter his adversaries into defeat; the Welsh bard was more likely to lull them into agreement with a sly melody.
Under other circumstances, Gervase would have found the old man’s company enchanting, but a higher priority occupied his mind. He had to escape. Someone needed him out of the way for a particular reason. His attackers could just as easily have killed him as knock him senseless. Instead, they chose to spirit him out of Archenfield.
Gervase was anxious to find out why and he could not do that while he was imprisoned in the dungeon of Monmouth Castle.
One thing was certain. Ralph Delchard would be looking for him.
His friend would already have initiated a search. Ralph would not rest until Gervase had been tracked down, but that might take an extremely long time. Castle dungeons were holes in the region of hell. Once thrown into them, prisoners did not often come out alive.
Escape for him meant escape for his companion as well.
“You did not tell me the nature of your message.”
“No,” said Omri. “I did not.”
“Do you take it from one prince to another?”
“I would be a poor messenger if I could not keep a secret. Who would put water in a bucket that leaks?”
“All I wish to know,” said Gervase, “is whether or not you were expected in Powys.”
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn himself awaits our arrival.”
“Will he not be vexed when you do not appear?”
“Not vexed, Gervase. Moved to anger.”
“And what will he do?”
The old Welshman played a few chords on his harp.
“Send someone to rescue us.”
Darkness slowed Goronwy and his men, but it did not stop their punitive ride south. Travellers who had helped them were brushed harshly aside. Those with no useful information to impart were either beaten or wounded for their lack of cooperation. As warriors of the prince of Powys, they were fierce and peremptory, but Goronwy was fired by a deeper commitment. He had a personal stake in this act of revenge.