Idwal the Archdeacon was depressingly bright at that time of the morning. As he mounted his horse, his eyes were glistening and his face was a mask of shining religiosity. Ralph had contained his ho-micidal urges in order to make use of the Welshman during the search.
Mouths which had been closed to them on the previous day might open to the little archdeacon with the lambskin cloak.
“Which way shall we ride?” asked Idwal.
“To the place where Gervase was last seen.”
“Richard Orbec’s demesne? Will we be safe?”
“He’ll not stop me this time,” asserted Ralph. “Orbec promised me that he did not touch Gervase and I accept his word. But someone else may have struck on Orbec’s territory. I would like to search it afresh to satisfy myself.”
“Take me wherever you wish,” said Idwal. “I am yours.”
They set off from Llanwarne at a steady pace. Ralph’s men-at-arms were refreshed by a night’s sleep and as eager as their master to track the young commissioner. Having ridden with him on assignments in Wiltshire and in Essex, they had come to like and respect Gervase Bret very much. Their duty was mingled with affection, but the prospect of action kept them alert.
Ralph tried to keep ahead of Idwal, but the archdeacon was no mean horseman. He caught up to canter abreast.
“They say this Richard Orbec is a holy man.”
“It is a holiness mixed with hostility.”
“Towards whom, my lord?”
“Everyone. He treats his demesne as his refuge. Nobody is allowed to disturb him-on pain of death.”
“A curious blend,” observed Idwal. “The instincts of a monk and the impulse of a murderer. What made the man so?”
“Only he knows that.”
“I would like to probe his mystery.”
“He is more likely to probe your ribs with a dagger.”
“Violence towards the Church? Never!”
“Richard Orbec would not scruple to kill a pope who trespassed on his land,” said Ralph. “Besides, you will not be there to plumb the depths of his spirit. Orbec has Welsh subtenants on his land in Archenfield.”
“Ergyng.”
“Loosen their tongues for me.”
“I will open their hearts and make them sing Te Deum. ”
“We want information about Gervase. Nothing more.”
“I will want something else, my lord.”
“What is that?”
“An explanation of this outrage.”
“Outrage?”
“Ergyng is a part of Wales in the grasp of foreigners. But it was allowed to keep its old customs. Such things mean much to an ancient people like us.”
“How does this affect Richard Orbec?”
“He violates those Welsh customs,” said Idwal. “In every other part of Ergyng, my compatriots pay their dues in renders of honey, pigs, sheep, and so forth. It has always been so. This Richard Orbec, so they tell me, exacts rent from his Welsh subtenants in the form of money. They have no choice. Your commission should look into this abuse.”
“We are already aware of it,” said Ralph, “but it lies not within our jurisdiction. Landlord and tenant come to their own agreements. We only take notice when there is corruption and misappropriation at work.”
“You see exactly that here before your eyes!”
“All I see is a man who prefers money to a few sesters of honey and a couple of sows. Orbec commits no crime.”
“But he does, my lord. He desecrates our customs.”
“We talk about no more than a handful of people.”
“If it was one,” said Idwal with passion, “I would defend his rights.
Richard Orbec is heaping the greatest shame upon people of my nation.”
“How?”
“By dishonouring their Cymreictod.”
“Their what?”
“Their Welshness.”
Ralph nudged more speed from his horse and drew away. Idwal’s company was taxing. He began to regret his decision to bring the archdeacon with him. There was another price to pay for his interpreter. Every time Ralph looked across at the Welshman, he was reminded of the latter’s part in the return of Golde to her sister. But for Idwal’s undue interference, she might well have been waiting for him on the previous night. Ralph toyed once more with the image of a leaden cask being lowered into a deep pit. He would toss the lambskin cloak joyfully in after it.
“Another matter must be raised, my lord.”
Idwal was not yet ready for his removal from the face of the earth.
He brought his horse level with Ralph’s again.
“I could not touch upon it yesterday.”
“Upon what?”
“The question of the lady.”
“Golde?”
“Others were present,” said Idwal. “Canon Hubert and Brother Simon are worthy jousters for me to knock from their saddles in debate, but they were raised in monastic celibacy. Their flesh does not behave as that of other men.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Discretion, my lord. Biding my time. Telling you alone what could not be said before your two companions for fear it might bring blushes to their virgin cheeks.” He cackled merrily. “Though I share their love of God, it does not make me turn aside from all women. I am a married man.”
Ralph gaped. “You have a wife?”
“Wife and children, my lord. They pine for me even now.”
“Return to them as soon as you may,” he urged.
“Do you not want to hear of Golde?”
“Will you ever tell the news?”
“It was written on her face for all to see,” said Idwal. “Only eunuchs like Canon Hubert and Brother Simon could fail to know its import.
I saw it at once.”
“Saw what, man?”
“She loves you.”
Work began early at the brewhouse on Castle Street. Golde was there to supervise it. Sacks of fresh barley were cut open for the day’s usage. Fermentation was checked in the ale which had stood in the vats overnight. The carter arrived to return empty barrels and take away full ones. Golde tasted every consignment before she released it. Her husband had taught her well and she maintained the highest standards. Any ale which did not please her palate would be put aside. The distinctive flavour of her product had to be preserved at all costs.
After a few hours in the brewhouse, she found a moment to slip back into the house. Aelgar was sitting in front of the fire with the same sombre expression on her face.
“You must strive to get out of the house, Aelgar.”
“Do you not want me here?” asked her sister.
“Fresh air may restore you. The presence of others may give you interest. It is not good for you to lock yourself away with your memories.”
“They are all I have now.”
“Visit the market. Buy some fruit for us.”
“Later, perhaps.”
“Brooding over Warnod will not bring him back.”
“I know.” She looked up. “Will he forgive me, Golde?”
“For what?”
“Letting him go to his grave alone.”
“Aelgar!”
“I should have been there,” she said, wistfully. “He was my beloved. I should have watched them lower him into the ground and said a prayer for his soul.”
“You can pray as well for him here as there,” said Golde. “Archenfield was no place for you. It was not his body that they buried but his ashes. It must have been a hideous sight. You were spared that.
Warnod loved you truly. He would not have wanted you to witness such a scene.”
“And he will not blame me?”
“No, Aelgar. Nor let you blame yourself.”
The girl gestured helplessly. “I miss him.”
“Of course,” said Golde, squeezing her. “We both do.”
“I cannot believe that he is gone.”
“Time will slowly knit up your grief.”
“I loved him so dearly, Golde. Yet he left so little behind. All that was to have been mine-ours to share-was burned to the ground. I have nothing save a few keepsakes, and I have been too afraid even to look at them for fear that they would make my grief overflow.”
Golde’s curiosity was aroused. She turned the girl to face her and knelt down to hold her hands. Red-rimmed eyes looked across at her.