Cadwgan ap Bleddyn rode to meet the newcomers and friendly greetings were exchanged. The prince of Powys recalled his men from around the castle so that they stood on a ridge with their backs to Wales. Maurice Damville was allowed to see the full power of the force that threatened him. Six hundred men with a battering ram of such size were a different proposition. The soldiers along his battlements grew uneasy and loud muttering began. Damville bullied them into silence with yells and threats then looked out at his enemy.
A stillness had fallen on the attackers as well. They were drawn up in a long line to await the signal to attack. Cadwgan conversed quietly with Angharad's father, then he pointed towards the castle. The messenger rode out again and stopped within hailing distance. “Is Angharad within your castle?” he called.
“No!” shouted Damville.
As his defiant bellow faded away, it was replaced by a more haunting and melodious sound, faint at first, but growing in volume and intensity as it wafted through a window in the tower. Behind the song was the plaintive note of the harp and every Welshmen on the ridge knew who was playing it.
“Omri Dall!” said Cadwgan. “They are inside!” Goronwy was manic. “He holds Angharad prisoner!” “We have heard enough.”
The prince of Powys gave the command and six hundred men came trotting down from the ridge towards the castle in a menacing line with the battering ram pulled along behind. It was a daunting sight and even Maurice Damville felt the icy touch of apprehension. It was ironic. They were attacking his castle to release someone who was not even in there. Ready to provoke their ire before, he now wished that he had calmed it.
Discomfort ran along the battlements, but he enforced discipline at once, marching along with a sword in his hand and ordering his archers to have their arrows ready. The oncoming surge rolled ever closer and the battering ram slowly gathered speed. Goronwy was at the head of the charge with his temples throbbing violently and a vision of his bride before his eyes. It seemed as if nothing could stop a savage battle that would bring hideous casualties on both sides.
Then she came. Dressed in white and escorted by four men, Angharad came riding around the angle of the castle. She was an arresting sight. She wore a white gown with elbow-length sleeves over a white chemise. Her mantle was edged with gold braid and a gold belt hung at her waist. Her head was uncovered so that her face could be seen by all. Angharad held herself like a true princess— proud, dignified, and unafraid.
She and her companions drew to a halt between the castle and the Welsh battle line. Archers on the battlements lowered their bows. The cavalry reined in their horses. The battering ram was slowed and stopped. An eerie stillness fell. All eyes were on Angharad. She did not look like a helpless prisoner now. Her father burst into tears with relief. Goronwy stared at her with his heart on fire.
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret waited on one flank. Richard Orbec and Idwal the Archdeacon on the other. She said nothing, but held the two sides at bay with the sheer magic of her presence. Angharad gestured her spokesman forward. His cadences rolled towards his countrymen.
“I am Idwal of Llandaff,” he chanted. “A man of your own nation with your own values and ambitions. I speak as an envoy of peace. Lay down your weapons. There is no longer any reason to fight. Angharad is safe, as you see. She is here with us of her own free will. She was ambushed and held in captivity, but she was rescued by this man.” He pointed to Gervase. “He risked his life to save hers. She was brought to the Golden Valley and taken in by this man.” He indicated Orbec. “He fed her and clothed her even though one of your number murdered his reeve. His name is Richard Orbec and he makes one demand through me.”
Idwal was not allowed to make it. As soon as Orbec was identified, Goronwy broke from the line and galloped towards him with his sword flailing. Too much hatred was boiling inside the Welshman to be dispersed by a few conciliatory words from the archdeacon. The name of Orbec was lodged in his mind like a spike. Killing the man was the only way to pluck it out. It was also the only way to claim his bride.
With a blood-curdling cry, Goronwy closed on his quarry. Concerned for her safety, Gervase took the reins of Angharad's horse and led her a little distance away. Idwal bombarded the oncoming rider with warnings of eternal damnation, but they bounced harmlessly off. Ralph Delchard held his ground, but drew his sword as a precaution.
Richard Orbec also had his weapon out of its scabbard. He nudged his mount forward and kept it prancing on its toes. Orbec and Goronwy were starkly contrasted, the one a dignified figure in full armour on a huge destrier, the other a reckless warrior in light armour on a much smaller horse.
Power confronted passion. Ambition faced revenge. As the two men clashed, it seemed as if the conquest of Wales was about to be played out in miniature. Goronwy's wild assault was easily rebuffed. Orbec simply deflected the blows from the Welshman's scything sword and swung his horse in a quick loop to confuse his assailant. Goronwy roared with fury and came in again, but every slash of his sword was parried with expert ease.
The Welsh horde was strangely silent, admiring Goronwy's courage in launching the attack, but disapproving of his folly in riding within range of the archers on the battlements. Those in the castle or in front of it also watched without a murmur. As the swords met time and again, only the clang of metal echoed across the grass.
Goronwy's frenzy robbed him of all control. He simply hacked away repeatedly with his weapon. Richard Orbec was a more complete soldier. He had greater strength and vastly better technique. It was clear to all that he could knock his man from the saddle at will, yet he chose not to do this. Orbec contented himself with a defensive role, letting Goronwy expend his energy in a series of futile attacks. The Welshman's frustration became too great to bear. When he next closed on Orbec, he flung himself at the Norman and tried to buffet him to the ground, but his adversary was ready for him. Moving his horse sharply away and smashing a forearm against Goronwy's chest, Orbec sent him sprawling to the ground. Once again, he had held back. When he might have finished his man, he allowed him to get to his feet again.
Goronwy was fired by a sense of indignation. He had been humiliated in combat in front of his own men. He vowed to cut out Orbec's heart and hold it up on the point of his sword. He let out the most ear-splitting war cry yet. Before he could strike again, however, the plaintive voice of Angharad was heard.
“Goronwy!”
He froze and turned to look up at her. That moment of immobility was his downfall. Up on the battlements, Maurice Damville took a small axe from his belt and hurled it down with vicious power. It came spinning through the air with gathering speed to strike Goronwy full in the face and to split his head in two like a cleft apple. Blood spurted everywhere. The Welshman fell backward with a thud.
Angharad screamed and was immediately shielded by Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret. Orbec glowered up at Damville in disgust. The archers drew their bows on the battlements. Incsensed by what they had seen, the Welsh host was ready to charge again.
Idwal the Archdeacon bravely interposed himself between the two forces and raised his voice to full volume.
“Do not be roused to battle!” he shouted in Welsh. “This death will be paid for in full. The man who ambushed a beautiful young bride has just murdered her bridegroom. You all saw him—Maurice Damville, castellan of Ewyas Harold.”
Hearing his name, Damville acknowledged it with a cheerful wave. His old defiance had returned. He pointed down at Goronwy's body and laughed derisively.
“He is the true enemy here,” continued Idwal in his own tongue, “and has many crimes to answer for. It is not your task to bring him to account. He will pay for this cowardly murder. The sheriff will arrest him and he will stand trial.”
“He will stand trial now!” ordered Cadwgan. “He slew my nephew. That crime cannot be settled in an English court of law. Move aside that we may raze his castle to the ground.”
Idwal extended both arms. “Why kill so many men
on both sides to get at one?”
“Move aside, I say!”
The prince of Powys began to marshal his men again and the battering ram was retrieved. Angharad would not be able to halt them this time. Seeing the sudden change of mood, Ralph Delchard took control. He rode up to the castle walls alone to address Damville directly.
“This slaughter will serve nobody's purpose,” he said. “Your plans have gone awry, my lord. You killed Warnod and set an ambush for Angharad in order to sow the seeds of enmity along the border. But she escaped and we divined your purpose. You will be arraigned by the sheriff and held for trial in due course.”
“The sheriff will have to take me first.”
“I may leave that to this army here, if you wish. They are but the first wave you will have to repulse. More will surely follow. Is that what your men seek?” he said, raising his voice so that the whole castle could hear. “Will you throw away your own lives for this murderer you serve?”
Damville's soldiers looked out at the battle line and the battering ram. If the Welsh were held at bay, there would be the sheriff and his men to follow them. If they were beaten off, the king himself would send a larger army to know the reason why. The castle of Ewyas Harold was doomed. That realisation showed in every face but one.
“We will fight to the last man!” yelled Damville.
“You are he,” said Ralph.
“I will never give myself up to the sheriff.”
“There is no need. A simpler procedure may be followed here. It will resolve the matter forthwith.”
Damville glowered at him. “What simpler procedure?”
“Trial by combat,” said Ralph. “Against me.”
To subdue the tumult in her mind, Golde threw herself into her work. When she was busy in the brewhouse with her assistants or taking further orders from her customers, she had no time to fret about her future. It was only when she watched some casks being loaded onto a cart that he slipped back into her thoughts. The casks were destined for the castle and it was there that she had first met Ralph Delchard. Seeking a sheriff whom she resented, she had instead been shown kindness by a man she had come to love. She smiled as she recalled his opinion of ale. Of all the men she might have chosen, she picked one who despised the brew with which she made such a comfortable living.
“Are we finished for the day, Golde?”
“I think so.”
“Shall we eat together?”
“I am not hungry.”
“He will not thank you for starving yourself.”
“Leave me, Aelgar. I would not be teased.”
But her sister had come to renew her earlier advice. The death of her own beloved had awakened her to the readiness with which she had planned to walk out of the house in Castle Street. Golde had not been consulted at any stage, but she did not complain about that. She had shared in Aelgar's happiness and that was enough for her.
The roles were now reversed. In her despair, the younger sister could pluck comfort from Golde's happiness. The problem was that the latter was still reluctant to bask in the pleasure herself. Doubts continued to assail her.
“You love him, Golde. He loves you. What else matters?”
“The truth, Aelgar.”
“What truth?”
“There should be trust and honesty between us.”
“Is there not?”
“Up to a point.” Golde looked across at her. “How much did you confide in Warnod?”
“Everything.”
“You held nothing back? No little secrets?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you tell him all your faults?”
“I have none.”
“That is one of them,” said Golde with a smile. “To think you are perfect. Was there complete trust between you and Warnod? On both sides?”
“On both sides,” said Aelgar. “To share a man's life properly, you have to commit yourself to him. I trusted Warnod utterly. If he had not trusted me, he would never have given me that will to keep.”
“It is not the will that worries me.”
“Then what is it?”
“His charter.”
Aelgar was surprised. “Have you not told him yet?”
“I am not sure that I should.”
“He may find out by other means.”
Golde sighed. “That's my fear. All would be lost.”
“Tell him, sister. He will understand.”
“It may make him think ill of me.”
“Not if he loves you, Golde. Put him to the test.”
“I am afraid to do so.”
“Then let me do it for you,” volunteered the other. “I can praise you in ways that you would not. I am involved here. It was I who first told you of the charter. I should be the one to explain to him in full.”
“No,” said Golde, reaching a firm decision at last. “You are right. He must be told. But not by you. It is my duty and I must not shirk it. Since I have been blessed with the chance to meet this man, I must have the courage to speak openly with him. I will tell all. It is the only way.”
Maurice Damville bowed to necessity. He had no alternative. His carefully laid plot had been sundered by the escape of Gervase Bret and Angharad. With them safely in custody in Monmouth Castle, he could have controlled events with ease and directed all the hostility at Richard Orbec. That was no longer possible. He had been overtaken by events and his own men had now revolted against him. Lured by the promise of lavish gains, their ambition waned in the face of six hundred men with a battering ram. Their lord must fight on alone.
The contest took place outside the castle on the land facing the Welsh border. Cadwgan ap Bleddyn and his men formed a wide circle around the combatants. The body of Goronwy had been discreetly moved from the scene and lay under sacking in the back of one of the carts. Reunited with her father, Angharad did not dare to watch the duel. She had at least been rescued from the ordeal of marriage to Goronwy and that was a big consolation. Omri had been released from the castle to join his compatriots. Though he could not view the contest, he would later celebrate it in song.
Idwal did all he could to stop the bloodshed, shuttling between the Norman and the Welsh onlookers with bilingual excitement, but finding no support. Richard Orbec wanted to take Ralph's place against Damville, but the challenge had already been thrown down. Ilbert Malvoisin and his men had also arrived to witness the event.
Gervase Bret made a final attempt to dissuade his friend.
“This is not your fight, Ralph,” he argued.
“I have made it so.”
“If anyone should meet him, it should be me. I was the victim of Damville's machination. Let me confront him.”
“He is too fierce an opponent for you, Gervase.”
“I can use a sword.”
“Damville has chosen a lance first,” said Ralph. “It needs a trained soldier to go up against him. Leave this to me. I'll meet him on even terms.”
“Five years ago, perhaps.”
“What's that you say?”
“You are not quite as young as you once were,” said Gervase with tact. “Time slows a man down. That could be fatal.”
“I am as strong and lusty as ever I was,” said Ralph, hurt by any suggestion of weakness on his part. “I'll fight three Maurice Damvilles, one after the other.”
The sheriff called the men to order and Gervase moved reluctantly away. Maurice Damville deserved the ultimate punishment, but he was an expert soldier at the height of his powers. Sitting in commission with Gervase and the others was not the best preparation for Ralph Delchard. The latter would have to draw deep on his experience if he were to survive the duel
. Ilbert Malvoisin reminded the two men of the rules of combat, then withdrew to the edge of the circle. Ralph Delchard and Maurice Damville mounted their horses, put on their helms, and took the long, oval shields that were handed to them. Their left arms went through the two vertical straps on the back of the shield and grippe
d the reins. From shoulder to shin, they were now covered on the undefended side. The spears came next to be used as lances for thrusting. Ralph adjusted his grip as he searched for the right balance.
Maurice Damville had supreme confidence that he would rip his opponent apart at the first charge. There would be immense satisfaction in that. But for the arrival of the royal commissioners, Damville's plans would have succeeded. Single combat might frighten some, but he embraced it gladly. In killing Ralph Delchard, he would escape trial at the hands of the sheriff. Exile would follow, but at least he would live to rebuild his shattered dreams of power. All he had to do was disappoint his audience by destroying their champion.
The sheriff gave the signal and the contest began. After prancing on their toes, the high-spirited destriers were at last released into action. They cantered towards each other at a steady pace that allowed their riders to sit firm in the saddle. Dipped lances rose to strike and shields were held ready to parry. Ralph watched his man every inch of the way, banking down the exhilaration of combat with the cool judgment of experience. There was no margin for error. Damville would be an extremely difficult opponent.
Immediate proof was given of his expertise. There was a resounding clash as the two men closed and thrust hard with their weapons. Ralph's spear was easily deflected upward by his opponent's shield, but his own defence was not quite as sound. Damville's lance chose a sharper angle and a lower point of contact, striking the shield with such force that Ralph was knocked off balance and unseated. A gasp came from the watching throng as he was dragged along the ground with one foot still caught in the stirrup.
Kicking himself free, he rolled over to meet the attack that would certainly come. His spear had been knocked from his hand on impact, but the shield was still on his arm. He used it with more care this time, watching the lance that now came hurtling towards him, taking its point in the centre of his shield and parrying it away. Damville's speed took him past Ralph and gave him time to pull out his sword. As his adversary swung his horse around again, Ralph had a means of attack as well as defence.
The Dragons of Archenfield (Domesday Series Book 3) Page 22