Warnod shuddered with horror. They were going to burn him alive!
He rushed to the door and flung the bar aside. Better to die fighting against overwhelming odds than to be eaten up in the flames. But he had no choice in the matter. When he wrenched at the door, it would not open. He realised in a flash what had happened. The men had not been trying to hammer a way into the house. They had been boarding up its one exit so that he would be trapped inside.
Hacking wildly at the door with his sword, he felt the first wave of heat hitting him like a body blow. It made him stagger back. He looked around for another means of escape and dived at a window, flinging back the shutter in the hope of being able to squeeze through the narrow gap. But the window frame had also been boarded up from outside. His home had been deliberately turned into his coffin.
The thatch was a raging inferno now and he had to dodge the sparks that showered down all over the floor. The walls of the house were also alight so that he was surrounded by a hissing rectangle of flame. Smoke attacked his eyes and lungs. Scorching heat buffeted him to and fro. The sword fell from his hand as he lumbered around in the brilliant light. Jeers of delight came from the watching men.
They had set a cunning trap and he had fallen into it.
Warnod saw that now. They had not meant to ambush him at all.
He had been allowed to escape so that they could drive him back to a house already prepared for him. To serve their malign pleasure, he would be burned to a cinder. The heat was now overpowering and the smoke all but blinded him. Lurching across to the window, he summoned up all his remaining energy to shout his defiance at them, but the words died in his throat. What he saw through the greedy flames robbed him of all power of speech.
Everything was lit up by the repulsive glow of the fire. The man who had dug at the turf stepped back to admire his handiwork. He had cut a shape in the ground, inches deep and some two yards in length. The profile was crude but instantly recognisable. The man with the pail poured its contents on to the bare earth and Warnod saw that it was not water at all. By the glare of the blaze, he watched the thick scarlet liquid that plopped from the bucket stain the ground, which had been exposed by the digging. It was the blood of the slaughtered cow.
All resistance now left him. His tunic, his shoes, even his hair caught fire. The pain was indescribable. Overcome by smoke and roasted by the surging heat, he collapsed in a heap on the floor, taking with him the memory of what he had seen carved in the ground and enriched with fresh blood.
It was the emblem of Wales.
Y Ddraig Goch.
The Red Dragon.
Chapter One
Herefordshire gave them a wet welcome. For the last few hours of their journey, a steady drizzle fell on the little cavalcade and severely dampened their spirits. A stiff breeze added to their discomfort, hurling the rain into their faces, plucking at their bodies, and unsettling the horses. Progress was slow and tedious over the muddy ground. Their chosen route offered no protection from the elements.
Ralph Delchard was glistening all over with moisture.
“A curse on this rain!”
“It will soon ease off,” said Gervase Bret.
“Not before it has soaked us to the skin.”
“Take heart, Ralph. Another mile and we are there,” Gervase raised a finger to point. “Look ahead of you. The castle is within sight. We shall have food, shelter, and a warm fire there.”
“If we are not drowned before we reach the place!” Ralph was in a petulant mood. “This is madness, Gervase. Why on earth did we bother to come to Hereford? It will take us the best part of a week to get there and back, yet our duties will be discharged in a couple of days at most. What, in God’s name, are we doing in this rain-sodden county?”
“Obeying orders.”
“Ha!”
Gervase smiled. “We are on the king’s business.”
“The business of a conqueror is conquest. I should be leading my knights in battle against the Welsh, not dragging them through this quagmire to wave a few mouldy documents under someone’s nose.”
“Those documents are important,” argued Gervase. “They help to bring silver into the royal coffers. War is costly. You cannot raise an army without money.”
Ralph was scornful. “Peace unnerves me. I am a soldier born and bred. Put a sword in my hand and I come alive.”
“Even in this weather?”
The drizzle seemed to thicken and the breeze blew it even harder into their faces. Ralph Delchard pulled his cloak more tightly around him. He was a big, boisterous, well-built man with a vigour that had not been sapped by middle years. His face was raw-boned but handsome, with an authority in the eyes and the upward tilt of the chin.
Having borne arms at the Battle of Hastings, he was a Norman lord with the pride of a victor still burning deep inside him.
At the same time, he was capable of laughing at himself.
“No, Gervase!” he said with a chuckle. “I am no rain warrior. Give me dry weather on the battlefield. Sunshine shows off my armour to the best advantage and puts me in the right frame of mind to kill. It is a wonderful feeling.”
“I will take your word for it, Ralph.”
“Have you never wanted to meet a man in armed combat? To test your strength and skill against a worthy adversary?”
“Never.”
“Come, Gervase. You dissemble.”
“Never, I swear it.”
“Even you must have a spark of aggression somewhere.”
“If I do, I seek to contain it.”
“Supposing you were pushed to the limit?”
“Words are the best weapons to resolve a quarrel.”
“And if Alys were in danger?” asked Ralph, teasing his young companion. “If some brutish Viking were molesting your beloved, would you stand calmly by and try to talk him out of it? Alys would not thank you for that.”
“It is not a fair question.”
“Every man can be roused to kill. Even you.”
“At least I would take no pleasure in it.”
Gervase Bret was uncharacteristically sharp with his friend. As a rule, he took Ralph’s good-natured mockery in his stride, but it had caught him on a raw spot this time. Betrothed to Alys, he was constantly being sent away from her, and the absences were increasingly difficult to bear. Gervase was a slender man of medium height with the studious air of a Chancery clerk. An astute lawyer, he had a boyish innocence that made him look much younger than his twenty-five years and a mature intellect that made him seem decades older.
He and Ralph made an effective team and he did all he could to avoid friction between them.
His apology came hard upon the irritable rejoinder.
“I take that back, Ralph. I spoke harshly and hastily.”
“There was a grain of truth in what you charged.”
“Mention of Alys provoked me.”
Ralph grinned. “Alys would provoke any man. She is very beautiful and you are very fortunate. I worship the lady. If the truth be told, I called up her fair name out of envy.”
“Envy? Of whom?”
“You and Alys. No matter how hard the rain or how cold the wind, thoughts of her will keep you dry and warm. And while you trudge through the mud of this godforsaken place, Alys waits in Winchester and dreams of nothing but her wonderful Gervase.” Ralph shrugged.
“Love is truly a blessing. Lose it and you feel excommunicated from life.”
Gervase was surprised to hear such serious comment from his friend. Ralph Delchard was normally such a jovial and extrovert character. It was true that he became soulful after too much wine, and had even been known to break into maudlin song, but he rarely talked about the problems in his private life. His wife had died years before trying to bring their only child into the world and the boy soon joined his mother in the grave. A contented man had been cut completely adrift. Interest had waned, purpose wilted. Ralph usually hid those painful memories behind a whirl of action.