“The best defence against the Welsh is a degree of amity with them.
That is what we sought. We came to terms with them and peace was guaranteed. Until now.”
“Do not fly to the worst conclusions, Corbin.”
“Then offer me reassurance.”
“One Welsh arrow has been fired,” said Ilbert. “That is not even a skirmish.”
“It may be the prelude to one,” argued the reeve. “Add that one arrow to the burning of Warnod’s house and the scale of the danger is enlarged.” Corbin gestured with both hands. “What are we to say?”
“As little as possible.”
“Should we not ring the alarm bell in the city?”
“No,” said Ilbert. “The problem will be contained before it grows any larger. I will double the guard at the castle and on the city walls, but do so in no spirit of anxiety. These are merely sensible precautions.”
“What of you, my lord sheriff?”
“I will take men and join Ralph Delchard.” A grudging note sounded in his voice. “Though I do not relish the idea of meeting the man across a table in the shire hall, I would rather be with him in the event of trouble than with anybody. He is a true soldier.”
“Which way are they coming?”
“Calm down, Corbin. We do not know that they will come.”
“But if they do?”
“Ewyas is the most likely point of entry.”
“Maurice Damville.”
“He stands between them and us,” said Ilbert. “They will not get past the castle of Ewyas Harold, I assure you. Damville will see to that.”
The castle had been in a state of readiness for several hours. No further sightings of Welsh soldiers had been made from the battlements, but that induced no false sense of security. The enemy might still be there, unseen. Guards patrolled with extra vigilance. Down in the courtyard, other men-at-arms practised their swordplay. The armourer’s hammer had not paused all day.
Maurice Damville was in a state of high excitement. For him, the prospect of a battle was like the anticipated conquest of a new woman.
All would be resolved in one ecstatic embrace. As he tested his skill with a spear, the weapon felt alive in his hands. Damville feinted, moved in quickly, and swung the blade of his spear. It caught his opponent a glancing blow on the side of his helm and knocked him flying. The victor laughed and pulled the man back to his feet.
A cry from the gatehouse alerted them, but it was no danger signal.
The search party was returning. Damville ran to the end of the bailey as the gates swung open to admit the returning soldiers. They drew up in a penitential line before their lord. On the back of their captain’s horse was a white-haired old man, clutching a harp.
“Where are they?” bellowed Damville.
“They slipped through our fingers, my lord.”
“Again!”
“We lost them in a wood. They went to ground.”
“Did you not stay to find them?”
“For an hour or more, my lord. Without success.”
“Idiots!” roared Damville. He jabbed a finger at Omri. “And who, in the name of the devil, is this?”
“A bard, my lord. They call him Omri the Blind.”
“Then he is in good company with you sightless dolts!”
“He was Angharad’s companion.”
“I want the girl herself, not this old fool. Can you not perform a simple task? I asked for Angharad and that young commissioner, Gervase Bret. And who do I get in their stead?” He pulled Omri from the horse. “This! A blind old man with a harp. What use is he? Lock him up!”
Omri was taken away by two guards. Damville glowered.
“Get back out and find them!” he ordered.
“Yes, my lord.”
“They are out there somewhere. Get them both.”
Gervase Bret and Angharad struggled on up the hillside. They had no means of knowing how far they had walked or in what direction.
After their narrow escape in the wood, they had continued on their way at a brisk, but not reckless, pace. Gervase estimated that they had covered several miles, but the overcast sky blocked out the compass of the sun. He had the dreadful feeling that they might be traveling in the very direction from which they had first fled.
Angharad was a brave companion. Brought up in the sheltered domesticity of her father’s house, she was used to being waited on and cared for at every hour of the day. To be chased across rough countryside by hostile soldiers was nerve-racking. Coming as it did on top of the ambush, the experience was devastating. As she strode along gallantly at Gervase’s side, she hardly said a word. She was far too dazed.
Gervase kept hold of her hand, more for reassurance than guidance. His eyes scanned the landscape for signs of danger or hopes of assistance. None appeared. Whenever they did pass an isolated cottage or a remote mill, the occupants closed their doors to them. Gervase could understand their fear. After the soaking in the river and the additional drenching in the ditch, he was a disturbing sight. Their flight through the wood had not improved Angharad’s beauty. Her face was spattered with mud, her cloak torn and blotched, and her hair tugged loose from its braiding.
Angharad came out of her reverie and turned to him.
“What will become of me?”
“I do not know.”
“They must not send me to Powys.”
“I will do what I can.”
“Omri was a friend, but he would not save me.”
“He had his duty.”
“We had to leave him,” she said, trying to justify their actions.
“There was no other way. I hope they did not hurt him when they found him down by the river.”
“They had no cause.”
“That would not stop them.”
Gervase had tried not to think about Omri. He was still troubled by pangs of guilt about the old man. In assisting their escape, Omri had put himself at the mercy of the pursuing soldiers. They might well have tormented him.
“Who are they, Gervase?”
“I do not know.”
“Why do they want to catch me?”
“To keep you from going to Powys.”
“But why?”
“They have their reasons, Angharad.”
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance and they crouched down at once.
The hillside offered little cover. Movement would only attract attention. It was better to lie flat in the hope of not being seen. Gervase pressed her to the ground and kept a hand in the small of her back as they lay side by side. Horses reached the crest of the adjoining hill and the riders paused. Gervase counted a dozen of them.
He lay quite still, but they did not evade notice. One of the riders pointed in their direction and the others looked towards the hill.
The soldiers set off again at a canter. Gervase and Angharad had been seen.
“Quick!” he said, jumping to his feet and helping her up. “Run, Angharad!”
“The horses will catch us!”
“Run!”
The nearest cover was a clump of bushes at the top of the hill, but they had to race up a steep incline to reach it. Gervase was hampered by her fatigue. Though he tried to pull her along by her hand, Angharad kept stumbling and slowing him down. The thunderous hooves climbed up towards them and the soldiers yelled for them to stop. Gervase would not give in, forcing himself on and making one last effort to reach some sort of cover.
But their luck finally ran out. The good fortune which had attended them at the castle and in the wood now deserted them. Angharad twisted her ankle and fell. Gervase tried to pick her up, but was kicked to the ground by the first soldier to arrive. He rolled over and reached for his dagger, but he was too late. A spear was already at his throat to pin him where he lay.
He looked into stern eyes separated by an iron nasal.
“Who are you?” said the man.
Goronwy kept the castle of Ewyas Harold under observation, but remained out of view himself. He had had time to rest and take refreshment now, but the food had not satisfied the hunger for revenge that still clawed at him. He wanted more action. Having tasted blood on Richard Orbec’s land, he was ready to wade triumphantly into it.