Gervase was on him at once, hammering him on the back of the head with the other tray and knocking him unconscious.
The older guard took a moment to realise what was happening.
Pulling out his club, he came rushing at Gervase, but the latter was ready for him, using the tray like a shield and parrying the blows from the club. It was his second weapon that was critical. Twisted around Gervase’s hand was the other length of rope. He swung it in a circle several times to build up momentum before striking with vicious force.
One blow was enough. It caught the guard on the side of the temple and sent him crashing into the wall. He slumped to the floor immediately. The human skull at the end of the rope had split on impact, but it had proved its worth. The older man would not revive for an hour.
Grabbing a dagger from the first guard, Gervase took Omri by the arm and hustled him out. He slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock. Other keys on the same ring would take them through the doors above. They climbed slowly up the spiral staircase in the darkness. Gervase held his dagger at the ready and Omri clutched his harp.
The first stage was over. They were out.
Chapter Eight
Creeping shadows brought the fruitless search to an end. It had been a long day in the saddle and Ralph Delchard and his men were dispirited as they headed back to Llanwarne. The whole of Archenfield had now been thoroughly explored, but it yielded no clue as to the whereabouts of Gervase Bret. The Golden Valley had been traversed and they had gone deep into Maurice Damville’s estates in Ewyas.
Ralph had even taken his men across the Welsh border in the direction of the Black Mountains, but there was still no trace of his friend.
Canon Hubert and Brother Simon welcomed them back.
“What news?” asked Hubert, eagerly.
“Nothing good,” said Ralph, dismounting from his horse. “We have not paused for one minute, but it was all to no avail. Gervase has vanished into thin air.”
“Most disquieting,” said Simon. “Canon Hubert and I must bear some of the blame here. We should not have left him alone to ride back to Richard Orbec’s demesne.”
“Gervase would not be stopped,” argued Hubert.
“It was our duty to make him stop.”
“Then why did you remain silent at the time?”
“I was praying for the intercession of common sense.”
“There is no point in bickering,” said Ralph. “I feel as guilty as either of you, but the fact of the matter is that Gervase made the decision himself. And it was the right decision. He doubtless learned much of value from his secret inspection of the Orbec holdings.
Unfortunately, the right decision produced an unforeseen result.”
“Where did you search?” asked Hubert.
“Anywhere and everywhere. There is not a bush in Archenfield that we have not looked under. Nobody could help us and most of them could not even understand our language. I never thought I would miss so sorely the company of Idwal the Archdeacon.”
Hubert flinched. “That mad Welshman?”
“We could have endured his madness for the benefit of his Welsh.
Idwal would have been a quick interpreter.”
“We could certainly have spared him here.”
“Where else did you ride, my lord?” asked Simon.
Ralph recounted the story of the visit to Maurice Damville’s demesne.
They were disturbed to hear of the appearance of a second blood-red dragon and speculated endlessly on its significance.
“How did Maurice Damville receive you?” said Hubert.
“With ill grace,” explained Ralph. “He demanded to know why we were trespassing on his land and urged us to leave as quickly as we had come.”
“You were not invited to Ewyas Harold Castle?”
“We were not, Hubert. This Damville is a surly host. He swore that Gervase was nowhere on his estates, then sent men to escort us out of Ewyas.” Ralph was simmering. “The laws of hospitality have left this benighted county untouched. Richard Orbec threatens us and Maurice Damville chases us away like boys stealing apples from his orchards. These indignities will not be borne!”
“Unleash the Celtic imbecile upon them,” said Hubert. “Idwal is a red dragon in himself.”
The archdeacon materialised at once out of the gloom.
“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” he said with an amiable cackle. “That is usually an invitation to debate.”
“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Simon.
“No sign of Gervase, then?”
“No, Archdeacon,” said Ralph, sadly. “None, I fear.”
“Tell me all.”
“When we have had refreshment. Riding through this wilderness all day is tiring business. We need food and drink to revive us. And I must first speak with someone else.” He looked around for the one face that might give him solace. “Where is Golde?”
“She is gone, my lord,” said Idwal.
“Gone?”
“Back home.”
“To Hereford?” Ralph’s heart sank. “When?”
“This afternoon. I counselled her to do so.”
“Why?”
“She was needed there. Duty bade her go and I was able to strengthen its call with a homily of my own.”
Ralph glowered. “You read her a homily?”
“This was no place for a lady, my lord. She should not have seen the way in which Warnod died.”
“Golde came here of her own volition.”
“She left at my persuasion.”
“What right had you to bully her away?”
“The right that all servants of the Lord are given at ordination,”
said Idwal, blithely. “To help those in distress and to ease the troubled mind. Golde was greatly comforted by me. She went home to offer comfort on her own account.” He glowed with self-satisfaction. “Did I not do well, my lord?”
Ralph Delchard seethed with anger and disappointment. The prospect of seeing Golde again was the one bright star in an otherwise black day. Idwal the Archdeacon had robbed him of that pleasure in the name of Christian duty. Ralph became an instant apostate. He joined the long queue of people who could cheerfully throttle the little Welshman with their bare hands, seal him in a leaden casket with his homilies, and bury him in the deepest pit that could be found.
Monmouth Castle was built in a loop of the River Monnow, a narrow but fast-flowing strip of water that joined the Wye itself less than half a mile below the town. A vital stronghold that commanded the approach to South Wales, the castle was stone-built and well fortified. The gatehouse had a daunting solidity and cobbles had been set into the ground beneath it. The bailey was compact and high-walled with a mixture of timber and stone buildings.
From his hiding place in the shadows, Gervase Bret took stock of their surroundings. He could make out a chapel, a hall, workshops, stables, and a small run of farmyard buildings. What he took to be the granary also rose up at him out of the gloom. He and Omri were in luck. The bailey was largely deserted. Guards were patrolling the battlements, but they were looking outward. Crude banter came from those in the gatehouse.
The dungeons were at the lower end of the bailey. Deep and dark, hidden behind a series of heavy doors, they would smother the sound of gaolers locked in their own cells. Gervase and Omri had created time for themselves to escape.
“Where is your companion?” whispered Gervase.
“Describe what you see.”
“Motte and bailey-like any other castle.”
“Paint a picture,” said Omri. “Give me detail.”
Gervase went through an inventory, seeing more clearly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Omri soon responded.
“There is nowhere in the bailey to hold my friend,” he decided.
‘Take me to the tower.”
“We will never gain entry to that.”
“We may not need to, Gervase.”
“How, then, will you reach your companion?”