A mile from Bryngwyn, they finally picked up the trail. A shepherd boy was sleeping under a hedge near his flock. The sound of their horses brought him awake and their torches made him blink and shield his eyes. Dressed in a sheepskin, he was no more than sixteen.
“Where are we, boy?” demanded Goronwy.
“Near Bryngwyn, my lord. On the road to Raglan.”
“You live nearby?”
“Our sheep graze these hills.”
“And you tend them?”
“Night and day, my lord.”
“Then you’ll have good eyes,” said Goronwy, “and a fine view of the road from on high. Help me, boy, or you’ll have a lot less sheep still standing on four legs.”
“I’ll help you all I can,” said the boy, terrified.
“We look for travellers who may have passed this way early this morning.”
“How many in number, my lord?”
“No more than ten or twelve. Two people with an armed escort, riding towards the Black Mountains.”
“I do not remember them, my lord.”
Goronwy bent down to lift him bodily into the air.
“Think carefully, boy,” he warned. “I do not want to be known as Goronwy the Sheep Killer, but I’ll slaughter all your flock if it is the only way to get the truth out of you. Ten or twelve travellers. One of them, an old man, tall and spare, with white hair blowing in the wind. If you saw him once, you would not forget Omri Dall.”
“I saw him not at all.”
“Will you lie to me?” He shook the boy and dropped him to the ground. “I ask you one more time. Did you see them?”
“Not riding north, my lord,” gibbered the boy. “I saw a troop of soldiers, but they were heading south at a gallop. And there were twenty or more of them in all.”
“When was this?”
“A few hours after dawn.”
“On this road?”
“No, my lord. They came on the road from Monmouth.”
“And where did you see them?”
“Just below Raglan,” said the boy, pointing. “Some of my sheep had strayed and I went to catch them. I was up there when I heard all the noise.”
“What noise?”
“Screams and shouts. It frightened me, my lord. I ran away and have not dared to go back since.”
“Show us the place.”
“It is dark.”
“Take us there now!”
The boy was hauled up from the ground once more and put astride the back of Goronwy’s horse. Clinging on for dear life, he was taken along the track at a brisk trot. He showed them where he had been that morning and indicated the clump of trees from which the disturbance had come.
Goronwy flung him aside and led his men at a canter towards the trees, their torches moving like a giant serpent through the night.
Dismounting at the edge of the trees, they formed a line to begin their search. It was soon over.
The first body lay against the trunk of an elm, impaled by a spear.
Another soldier was hanging lifelessly over a fallen log, like a rag doll. Two more had their throats cut and a third had been felled with an axe. The last three bodies were in a tight group, as if struck down while trying to defend someone.
With a torch in his hand, Goronwy kicked each body over to search his face with the darting light. Eight soldiers were accounted for, but there was no sign of the two people they had been guarding. Goronwy ordered his men to widen the search, but no more bodies could be found.
Standing amid the corpses, he let out a hiss of relief.
“Still alive!”
Chapter Seven
The manor house in Pencoed was a typical saxon dwelling. LONG, LOW, and built of stout oak, it consisted of a series of small bays which were used as rooms for family members and guests. Candles burned to illumine a house with ample space, but little practical comfort.
Though the thegn offered his hospitality freely, it did not meet the standards of his Norman guests. Canon Hubert complained about the smell of animals inside the building. It reminded him uncomfortably of Idwal’s cloak. There was another reason why some of them felt uneasy under its thatched roof. The house was very similar in shape and structure to the one in which Warnod had been burned to death.
Ralph Delchard was quite unable to sleep. He was too puzzled and disturbed by the disappearance of Gervase Bret. He chided himself for not being able to find his friend and vowed to resume the search in earnest the next morning. The confrontation with Richard Orbec had left him furious, but it had eliminated the obvious suspect. Gervase had not, in fact, been caught and punished by Orbec himself. Ralph was certain of that.
Recrimination made him restless. The house was far too stuffy for his lungs. Ralph let himself out quietly to get some fresh air and walked to the stables at the rear of the building. Leaning on a fence, he gazed upward and searched the heavens for the answers that he could not find elsewhere. Where was Gervase? Had he been ambushed?
Injured when thrown from his horse? Attacked by wild animals? Or did he just get hopelessly lost? Was he simply spending the night elsewhere?
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Gervase had met with trouble. Archenfield was no place for a lone rider. Warnod was a denizen of the area, yet he had come to grief. On the very day that Aelgar consented to be his wife, he was murdered in the most brutal and calculating way. His happiness had been snatched from him. Had Gervase fallen foul of the same band of killers?
What dreadful fate would they devise for him?
Ralph was still agonising when he heard the furtive tread of feet directly behind him. In a flash, his dagger was in his hand and he whirled round to defend himself.
Golde let out a small cry of alarm and stepped back.
“It is me, my lord!” she said.
“Golde?”
“I could not sleep. I heard someone leave the house.”
“It is so with me,” he said, sheathing his dagger. “My mind is in turmoil. Gervase is my dearest friend, almost a son to me. I will never forgive myself if anything untoward has befallen him.”
“I have prayed for his safe return.”
“Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were on their knees for an hour to the same end. They blame themselves for allowing him to go off alone to Richard Orbec’s demesne.” He gave a grim chuckle. “If prayers have any power, theirs will batter on the doors of heaven itself. Hubert can turn supplication into a most persuasive weapon.”
“What of you, my lord?” she said. “Have you not offered up a prayer of your own?”
“No, Golde. That is not my way.”
An owl hooted in the woods nearby. They were startled.
“I am too much on edge,” said Ralph with a smile. “A wise old bird in a tree can make me jump. Night belongs to him and his kind. We are interlopers.”
“There is nothing more you may do until morning.”
“That is true.”
“Be kind to yourself and try to get some rest.”
“I may say the same to you.”
Golde smiled quietly. “I am happy where I am.”
There was a long pause. Ralph stood close in the half-dark and inhaled her fragrance. Its sweetness enchanted him. Golde had removed her wimple and brushed out her hair. He could see the outline of her tresses as they rested on her shoulders.
“I wish that we met in happier circumstances,” he said.
“We have met, my lord. That is pleasure enough.”
“But I am vexed by the loss of a companion, you by the death of a close friend.”
“A shared anxiety gives us a bond,” she said, “though I must correct one thought. Warnod was no close friend of mine. He was my sister’s choice. I weep as much for her as for him. Aelgar has lost everything.”
“Except you.”