Aelgar wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
“Now that Warnod has gone, who will look after me?”
“I will.”
“But that it not fair to you, Golde.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I should not be such a terrible burden on you.”
“We are sisters.”
“You are entitled to a life of your own.”
“I have one.”
“Not while I am here,” said Aelgar, softly. “That was why I was so pleased when Warnod asked me to marry him. Pleased for myself, of course, but pleased for you as well.”
“Me?”
“You carried me for long enough. Warnod was taking the load off your shoulders. Because of you I found my way to some happiness.”
She took Golde by the shoulders. “I thought that when I went to live in Archenfield you would be free to seek some happiness for yourself.
You deserve it.” There were tears in Golde’s eyes now. “Do not let my misery drag you down. I hate the feeling that I hold you back.”
“I am content to share my life with you, Aelgar.”
“Think of yourself for once. I did.”
“You?”
“I was ready to leave you for Warnod.”
“You loved him.”
“Cannot you also love, sister?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Golde.
Aelgar stood up and walked around the little room. She felt reassured by her sister’s presence, but she had not forgotten the visitor who came calling. As she remembered the face of Maurice Damville at her window, she trembled all over.
“He came for me again, Golde.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. After you left with those men.”
“What did he do? What did he say?” asked Golde with sudden anger. “Did he get into the house? Did he touch you?”
“Not with his hands,” said Aelgar. “Only with words. But they were almost as bad. He said he would be back one day, and I am frightened. Warnod had shielded me from him, but Warnod is no longer here. Who will save me, Golde?”
“I will,” she said firmly. “Have no fear. I will save you from Maurice Damville.”
The two guards chatted quietly on the battlements. Their eyes flicked occasionally to the great black void beyond the castle. Wales seemed closer and more oppressive at night. They felt sometimes as if they could reach out and touch the mountains. The men shared a joke and laughed.
Their backs were turned to the figure who crept up the steps with a dagger in his hand. They did not hear his soft tread or see his darting movement. He chose his moment and struck. A foot in the small of the back propelled one of the guards hard against the stone wall. The other man was felled with a blow and lay flat on his back with a knife at his throat. A knee pressed hard into his chest.
“Get up!” snarled Maurice Damville, himself rising.
“Is it you, my lord?” asked the man on the ground.
“Yes, but it could just as easily have been an enemy. Some rebel Welshman or one of Orbec’s men. Or even some foolish Saxon who thinks his lord works him too hard for too little.” He kicked the man hard. “You were not ready!”
“No, my lord,” admitted the other guard, still dazed.
“One man could have killed the two of you.”
“We guarded the wall. You came behind us.”
“So might your foes!” said Damville, feinting with the dagger to give the man another scare. “Guards are here to guard everything- including their own backs.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Maurice Damville was in a dark tunic that blended with the night.
The time for feasting was over and his men had to be kept on the alert. He believed in testing his defences for himself. When they were next on guard duty, these two soldiers would not so easily lose their concentration. He had cured them of that. It was important that the castle of Ewyas Harold was securely defended twenty-four hours a day.
Both men had got up now and were dusting themselves off. One of them marched back to his post further along the wall. The other watched his master nervously. Damville put a foot up on the wall and stared out into the dark.
“We must be ready,” he said quietly. “At all times.”
“Will they come, my lord?” asked the man.
“Oh, yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“They will come.”
Goronwy overcame the barrier of language by sheer force. He could speak no English and the man could speak no Welsh, but the young captain soon made himself understood. Two of his soldiers stripped the man’s tunic off so that his back was exposed. They each pulled a wrist so that the victim was in an attitude of crucifixion. Goronwy’s whip took over the conversation. Six searing blows ripped the skin away and left rivulets of blood all over the man’s torso. His screams echoed through the rustling trees.
They had reached the English border and crossed over into Archenfield. Their victim was a hapless Saxon freeman who was returning home late to his cottage. Goronwy’s men had swooped on him and carried him away to a secluded wood. Their captain was merciless in his interrogation.
“Orbec!” he repeated. “Richard Orbec.”
The man now lay writhing in agony on the ground.
“Orbec!” shouted Goronwy.
“I hope he kills you,” said the man through his pain. “Every last one of you!”
Goronwy bent low to apply the whip again. The man howled and twitched even more violently. The two soldiers lifted him bodily and brought him face to face with their captain. Goronwy took a flaming torch from another of his soldiers and held it near the man’s eyes.
“Orbec!” he hissed. “Richard Orbec.”
He pointed at the man, then jabbed his finger in the air to indicate that they wanted directions. The heat of the fire made the man cringe.
Goronwy moved the torch ever closer.
“Richard Orbec!” said the man. “I’ll take you!”
Goronwy smiled. They spoke the same language at last.
Rope could be a friend as well as a foe. When Gervase Bret was tied to the back of a horse, he cursed the bonds that dug into his wrists and ankles. Those same lengths of rope had enabled him to escape from the dungeon and the coil from the stables had liberated the third prisoner from her tower. There had been no time for introductions and explanations. After taking the girl down to Omri at the base of the mound, Gervase went back to retrieve the rope.
Paying it out, he cracked it like a whip to dislodge the iron bar from its position. When he cracked even harder the next time, the end came out through the window with the bar at an angle. Gervase dived to evade the missile and it sunk into the earth a few feet away. Rope and bar were gathered up and he slithered back down the mound.
Even on his own, he knew that he would stand little chance of getting away through the main gate of the castle. Encumbered by an old man and a young woman, he would be mad even to attempt escape in that direction. Rope had been their salvation so far and it might be so again.
From the top of the mound, Gervase had been able to take his bear-ings. The tower was enclosed by a wall and below that was a ditch.
Beyond the ditch-used as a natural moat-was the River Monnow.
That had to be their way out of the town. Gathering his companions, he hustled them around the tower and up the steep bank to the wall.
When she looked over it, the young woman put a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry of horror.
“What is it, Angharad?” whispered Omri.
“We have to climb down the outside wall,” said Gervase. “There’s a ditch below. I’ll tie the rope around you and lower you one by one.”
Angharad understood his halting Welsh and shook her head.
Descent from that height was far more dangerous than her climb from the window. Omri sensed her distress.
“I’ll go first!” he said.
The old man felt for the rope and tied one end around his waist.
Gervase wound the end with the bar around his waist and shoulders.
“Pull hard on the rope twice when you untie it,” he said.