As the sun hit them, those vivid patches moved and shimmered with such animation that the men stepped back in alarm.
“Dear God!” said Ralph. “A red dragon! Alive!”
Night had brought her much closer to Ralph Delchard, but it had driven her even further away from the others. Canon Hubert shunned her, Brother Simon fled from her, and Ilbert the Sheriff pointedly avoided her. Golde sought the company of the one man in Llanwarne who was pleased to talk to her.
“What have you found out, Archdeacon?” she said.
“No more than I expected,” said Idwal. “Warnod was not murdered by a Welshman. What would be his motive?”
“Hatred?”
“The man befriended his neighbours.”
“Envy?”
He was scornful. “We would never envy the Saeson! ”
“Malice?”
“Foreign to our nature,” he said. “No, dear lady, look elsewhere for your killers. Closer to home. And when you find them, deal with them after your own fashion.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is Ergyng. Welsh territory under the heel of the Normans.
King William annexed this land by force, but he let us keep our customs here. Do you know how we deal with murderers?”
“No,” she said. “How?”
“If a Welshman kills a Welshman, the relatives of the slain man gather and despoil the killer and his relatives, and burn their houses until the body of the dead man is buried the next day before midday.”
“An eye for an eye.”
“That is the custom here,” explained Idwal. “The king receives a third part of the plunder, but the relatives of the slain man have the rest free.”
“This is crude justice.”
“Crude, but effective. It makes a man think twice before striking a blow against another.”
“That custom does not apply to Warnod. He was a Saxon.”
“The law differs for him. If anyone kills one of the king’s men or breaks into a house, he gives the king twenty shillings as payment for the man, and a hundred shillings in forfeiture. If anyone has killed a thegn’s man, he gives ten shillings to the dead man’s lord.”
“Warnod’s death cannot be paid for with a fine.”
“Which justice would you choose now: ours or yours?”
“Let us first catch the murderers,” she suggested.
“Why is it so important to you?” he said, cocking his head to one side like a bird on a fence. “This is no place for a lady, especially one as gracious as you. Why are you so ready to give up the comfort of Hereford for this?”
“Warnod was a friend of my family.”
“Your family?”
“He knew my father … and my sister.”
“Ah,” said Idwal, sensing a blighted romance. “That is very sad. I grieve for you-and for you sister, too. Death parts all lovers in the end, but this was a cruel divorce. It was better that you came in your sister’s place. The sight of Warnod’s house should not be inflicted on her.”
“She will have to be told.”
“Use soothing words upon her.”
“I will.”
“And as for you,” he continued, “your duty is done. You have travelled to Ergyng and gazed upon the scene of his slaughter. Do not distress yourself by lingering further.”
“But I must, Archdeacon.”
“Why?”
“Until they find the killers.”
“That may take days, weeks.”
“I gave my solemn word to my sister.”
“You have honoured it,” he pointed out. “But there is nothing else that you may usefully do in Ergyng. Return to Hereford. Your sister’s distress cries out to you. She needs you there to offer comfort.”
“It is true,” said Golde. “I must send word.”
“Why send it when you can deliver it in person?” His head came upright and he scrutinised her face. “What other reason detains you here with us?”
Golde almost blushed.
They had spent the best part of a day in preparation for the event.
Fed in their cell that morning, they noted every detail of the procedure. Two guards came. One unlocked the door and stood aside, leaving the key in the lock. His partner carried a rough wooden tray. On it were two cups of water and two bowls of bread soaked in milk. The tray was placed in the middle of the floor and the man departed. His colleague closed the door and locked it again.
Sufficient light striped its way into the dungeon for Gervase to pick out something of the men’s appearance. The one with the tray was young and sturdy, the other was older and leaner. Their weaponry had also been noted. Both wore daggers. The older man also carried a club at his belt in case he had to subdue an unruly prisoner. They wore mailed shirts over their tunics, but both were bareheaded.
Neither of them spoke. Omri’s gentle banter and Gervase’s earnest pleas did not extract one word from them. They came, they fed, they went. They would come again.
“What time?” asked Gervase.
“It was mid-evening yesterday,” said Omri. “About an hour or so before you arrived. They gave me time to eat my meal then cleared the things away.”
They had left the tray this time and Gervase was grateful. The stout wood made a useful additional weapon. He offered it to Omri, but the old man shook his white locks.
“I am a man of peace, Gervase. I might sing a man to death, but that is the only assault I will offer his person.”
They finalised the details of their plan and rehearsed it in the gloom. It was bold enough to work, but hazardous enough to end in disaster. They would need more than a touch of good fortune in order to succeed. Surprise was their main weapon. A blind old man with a harp would be a useful decoy.
“Supposing we do get out of here?” said Omri.
“We shall-God willing!”
“What then?”
“We leave the castle itself.”
“How?”
“We’ll find a way somehow.”
“On foot?”
“How else?”
“I’ll only slow you down.”
“We’ll find two horses in the town.”
“Three, Gervase.”
“Three?”
Omri sounded hurt. “I could never leave without my companion.
We came together, we must leave together.”
“But we have no means of knowing where he is.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Omri,” said Gervase, alive to the dangers, “we cannot take anyone with us. It is out of the question.”
“Then you go alone.”
“Why take all that extra risk?”
“Because it is my duty,” said the Welshman. “There is no other way, believe me. If I arrive in Powys alone, they will not respect my age and my reputation. I will be sorely punished for abandoning the friend who lies here.”
“Would you rather stay in this fetid dungeon?”
“Yes, Gervase.”
The old man was adamant. It added a new and more troublesome element to the escape attempt, but Gervase had to agree to it in the end. He turned his mind to the initial stage of their plan. Everything that followed hinged on that.
“They’re not coming!” he said with concern.
“Give them time, Gervase.”
“You said that it was mid-evening yesterday.”
“They’ll come to suit themselves,” said Omri with philosophical calm. “We are not important guests. When they remember us, they’ll be here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Test the rope again. All depends on that.”
Twenty minutes later, they heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Descent would be long and slow. They took up their positions.
Omri stood beneath the window plucking his harp and singing in a deep and soulful voice. Gervase waited near the door armed with two weapons. The delay had favoured them. Light had faded badly inside the cell.
The key rasped in the lock and the door swung open. The older man who guarded it now held a lantern. The younger man entered with another tray of food, but he did not get far. As his foot caught in the taut rope that was hidden beneath the straw, he pitched forward and landed on his face, dropping tray and contents in the process.