“Will it be long enough to reach the bottom?”
“You’ll soon find out.”
Angharad was moved at the sight of the blind man daring to risk such a descent. As she handed him his harp, she gave him an affec-tionate kiss on the cheek. Gervase braced himself and slowly paid out the rope. Omri was not heavy. They could hear his feet grating gently on the outside wall. Angharad watched until he vanished into the darkness at the base of the castle. Gervase suddenly felt all the strain taken off him. The rope had been just long enough.
“He made it.”
“Is he safe?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Gervase, feeling two tugs on the rope. “Safe and sound.
Your turn now.”
She hesitated for a moment, but the sound of commotion near the gatehouse soon swept away her reservations. The escape from the dungeon had been detected. A search would soon be under way.
Gervase helped her to tie the rope around her slender waist, then lowered her as gently as he could. She was lighter than Omri and her feet bounced softly off the wall.
Two more pulls on the rope told him that she had joined Omri.
Gervase moved at speed. Jamming the iron bar between the battlements, he cocked a leg over the wall and grabbed the rope. It took his weight. Leaning out so that he could use his legs to brace himself, he walked and slid his way down through the darkness. Growing noises from within the castle made him rush even more. As soon as he saw the ground, he abandoned the rope and jumped, landing in the muddy ditch and falling over.
He was on his feet again at once, collecting his two companions and towing them as fast as he could along the river bank. Omri was gasping for breath within a minute.
“We need horses, Gervase.”
“I’ve changed my mind about that.”
“Why?”
“We could never outrun them on the road.”
“Then how else do we get away? On foot?”
Gervase at last found what he had been hoping he would.
“No, Omri,” he said. “In a boat.”
Anxiety over Gervase Bret and annoyance over the unexpected departure of Golde had left Ralph Delchard in a state of dejection. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon lifted his spirits slightly. Over a frugal meal at the house in Pencoed, they explained how they had discom-fited Ilbert the Sheriff.
“I wish I had been there,” said Ralph. “I was looking forward to locking horns with Ilbert Malvoisin.”
“His case will need to be addressed more fully at a later date,” said Hubert. “But I feel that we have let him know what sort of men he is up against.”
“Canon Hubert was magnificent,” said Simon.
“Thank you.”
“He played the sheriff like a fish.”
“Since when have you been an angler, Brother Simon?”
“We are both fishers of man, Canon Hubert,” said the wraith beside him, laughing tinnily at his own wit.
“Why did the sheriff leave Llanwarne?” said Ralph.
“There is nothing left for him to do,” said Hubert.
“Nothing left! What of Warnod’s murder? He will not solve that by sitting in Hereford with that excrescence of a reeve. Ilbert should be here.”
“He has left men to continue the enquiry.”
“A sheriff should lead it,” insisted Ralph. “This is no random killing. It was a calculated act of savagery that was committed in part to frustrate our work. Find the murderers and we unravel all the mysteries that brought us here.”
“Perhaps that is why he left,” said Hubert.
“The sheriff?”
“He is reluctant to aid us in our work.”
“That is not surprising, Hubert. If we nail our charges to the Malvoisin tail, he will forfeit a substantial amount of land and pay a fine in the bargain.” He drained his cup of wine. “No wonder he has fled back to Hereford.”
“Might there not be another reason?” said Simon, meekly.
“And what is that?”
“Speak up, Brother Simon,” urged Hubert. “You are fully entitled to an opinion. Though you travel as our scribe, you can also write ideas into the ledgers of our minds.”
“That was beautifully phrased, Canon Hubert.”
“Enough fawning, man,” said Ralph. “This reason?”
“Personal interest.”
“We have just disposed of that.”
“Personal interest in Warnod’s death,” said Simon as he enlarged his argument with diffident steps. “Cui bono? Who gains by the poor man’s demise?”
“Not the sheriff,” said Canon Hubert. “He had to ride down here to quell a feud between Saxons and Welsh.”
“And when that is done, he leaves.”
Ralph tapped the table with a finger. “Simon has a point. The good sheriff was far more interested in the consequences of Warnod’s death than in the actual murder. Law and order had to be restored. That done, he leaves the search for the killer to lesser men.”
“Your conclusion?” pressed Hubert.
“I leave you to draw that,” said Simon. “I merely point out that Ilbert Malvoisin stood to profit by the death of Warnod and the destruction of his possessions. Including-or so the sheriff supposed-his charter and his will.”
“The same may be said of Richard Orbec and Maurice Damville,”
added Ralph. “They, too, gained by the sudden disappearance of the man with a claim to their land.”
“To Orbec’s land,” reminded Hubert.
“Yes. Damville waived his right.” Ralph frowned and tapped the table again. “Now, why did he do that?”
“Not in the true spirit of altruism, to be sure.”
“What does that leave us with, Hubert? Three men, all fundamental to our enquiry, all with sound reasons to kill the fourth witness.” He spread his arms wide. “Who is the villain behind the murder? Orbec, Damville, or the sheriff?”
“We must first solve another riddle.”
“And what is that?”
“The red dragon.”
Gervase Bret rowed for the best part of an hour before he felt it was safe to rest. The boat they had stolen was one of a number of small fishing craft that had been moored upstream from the castle. Most of them were coracles, round vessels that required great skill to manoeuvre with any speed. Gervase opted for the battered rowing boat, first helping his passengers in, then wading chest-high in the river to push them along so that the plash of oars did not attract any interest. Once clear of the town, the sodden Gervase had climbed aboard and shifted the craft by more conventional and less irksome means.
They travelled with painful slowness. Gervase’s back was soon aching and his hands were a mass of blisters. His passengers offered sympathy, but neither could realistically take a turn at the oars. Fearful that their voices would carry, they hardly spoke at all. Omri sat in the stern with an arm around the shivering Angharad, who eventually drifted off to sleep on his shoulder. Gervase struggled on until the pain became too great, then guided the boat into the bank. He tied it to the trunk of an overhanging willow.
“We have put some distance between us and Monmouth,” he said.
“So we should be safe for a while.”
“You deserve the rest,” said Omri. “How do you feel?”
“Wet.”
“Angharad and I are eternally grateful.”
“Angharad should be grateful to you,” said Gervase. “For lying so convincingly. If I had known that we were rescuing a young lady, I would have thought twice about the whole enterprise.”
“That is why I kept the truth from you.”
“Who is she?”
“A friend,” said Omri. “A friend and companion.”
Angharad awoke with a start and looked around. Enough moonlight found its way through the willow fronds for Gervase to be able to see her face properly for the first time. It was arresting in its beauty. She was no more than eighteen. The long hair framed a heart-shaped face with the most luminous skin he had ever seen. Large brown eyes, a small upturned nose, and full lips enriched the portrait.
Something else could be seen in the faltering light. There was an air of nobility about her. Even in her confused and muddied condition, Angharad had natural poise.