Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

The Madwoman of Usk by Edward Marston

The author of four historical series under his pseudonym Edward Marston, Welshborn Keith Miles also writes many books and stories using his real name. This new story, set in the Middle Ages, features Gerald of Wales, a sleuth with an uncanny ability to sense the presence of evil. The latest Marston novel out in paperback, Soldier of Fortune, follows 17th-century soldier Daniel Rawson. And don’t miss Marston’s new hardcover, Murder on the Brighton Express.

1188

Of all the gifts with which I’ve been blessed by the Almighty, none is perhaps as striking as my ability to sense the presence of evil. It’s uncanny. I can detect venom behind a benign smile, lust in the loins of a virgin, and blackness in the heart of the outwardly virtuous. The first time I was acquainted with this strange power was when I was still a youth, studying in Paris. One of the many churches I visited harboured such a wondrous collection of holy relics that it had become a place of pilgrimage. Local people and visitors to the city flocked to view the sacred bones, leaving coins beside them as a mark of respect. One old woman, to whom my attention was drawn, came to the church every day to pay homage.

“She’s an example to us all,” I was told in a respectful whisper. “Though she’s seen seventy summers or more, she never misses her daily visit to the shrine. Behold her, Gerald.”

I did as I was bidden and watched her with care. After trudging down the aisle with the help of a stick, she lowered herself painfully to her ancient knees, dropped a coin onto the pile before her, then bent her head in prayer. There she stayed until the discomfort grew too great. Hauling herself to her feet, she genuflected before the altar, then struggled back down the aisle. It was a touching sight and I was duly moved — until, that is, she passed within a foot of me.

“Isn’t she remarkable?” said my companion.

“In some ways, she is,” I conceded.

“Such dedication is inspiring. Truly, she is a species of saint.”

I was blunt. “I don’t feel that she’s ready for canonisation yet.”

My comment was felt to be unkind, but I held my ground with characteristic tenacity. I knew something was amiss. Witnessed from a distance, the old woman’s commitment was stimulating. She herself had become an object of veneration. When she brushed past me, however, I caught a scent that was less than saintly. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to my studies and lost myself in the beauty of the Scriptures.

On the following day, I made sure that I was in the same church at exactly the same time. The woman was punctual. Through the door she came as the bell of the nearby abbey was signalling tierce. I let her shuffle past me and make her way to the side chapel where the relics were housed. She was so preoccupied with the effort of lowering herself to her knees that she didn’t see me sink down a yard away from her. Like me, she deposited a small coin on the altar rail, then lowered her head in prayer. The difference between us was that I kept my eyes open so that I could watch her.

What I saw outraged me. Down went her head and up it came again in a movement so slight as to be invisible to anyone not right beside her. As it went down once more, her lips fastened upon a coin and lifted it up before dropping it into a fold in her gown. Instead of praying to her Maker, she was instead plundering the church. In place of the one coin she had deposited, I counted over a dozen that she took. She was nothing but a common thief. I reported what I’d seen and, though nobody believed me, it was agreed that the old woman would be kept under surveillance the next day. Almost twenty coins were filched by her greedy lips on that occasion. Arrest and retribution soon followed.

I was thanked and congratulated. “How on earth did you spy her out?” I was asked.

“It’s a gift from God,” I replied.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Gerald de Barri — though some call me Gerald of Wales.”

By the time I accompanied Archbishop Baldwin on his journey around my native country to find recruits for the Third Crusade, I was in my early forties and held, among other positions, that of archdeacon of Brecon in the diocese of St. David’s. Instances of my remarkable skill in unmasking wrongdoers wherever I went are far too numerous to recount, so I’ll merely offer one case that’s emblematic of them all. It occurred near Usk and tested my powers to the limit.

Thanks to a sermon by Archbishop Baldwin, an address by that good man William, Bishop of Llandaff, and some stirring words in both Latin and French from myself — my contribution was much admired — a large group of men was signed for the Cross. To the astonishment of all but me, many of those converted were notorious robbers, highwaymen, and horse thieves from the area, evil men who sought to cleanse themselves by taking part in a holy crusade. Their strong arms could now be put to a useful purpose. Before we could make our way to Caerleon, we were diverted by a commotion in Usk itself. I was sent to investigate.

Murder was afoot. Idwal the Harpist, a man renowned for his glorious voice and nimble musicianship, had been a guest at the home of Owain ap Meurig, where he’d entertained the family for three nights. The harpist was due to visit Monmouth Castle, but he never arrived and nobody who lived along the road that would have taken him there had seen him pass by. Idwal had vanished into thin air. Foul play was suspected. It fell to Roger de Brionne to accuse Owain of the crime to his face. Tempers flared up into a veritable inferno.

Nobody is better placed than I to understand the deep hatred and mutual fear that exists between the Welsh and the Norman aristocracy. Born at Manorbier Castle in Dyfed, I’m a man of mixed blood, having kinsfolk from both nations. I share in the privileges of conquest while sympathising, to a lesser extent, with the conquered. When it came to mediating in a dispute between two sworn enemies, Owain and Roger, who could doubt my credentials or match my wide experience? I felt obliged to offer my services.

After prising accused and accuser apart, I first talked to Owain ap Meurig at his house. A local chieftain whose family had held estates in the region for generations, he was a proud, fierce, white-haired man in his sixties with the build and attitudes of a warrior. It took me some time to calm him down and to assure him that — unlike Roger de Brionne — I had no prejudice against the Welsh. He was impressed by the fact that I’d heard Idwal the Harpist and was able to talk knowledgeably about him. The Welsh consider the playing of the harp to be the greatest of all accomplishments. Idwal was without peer.

“I hear that he stayed with you for three nights,” I said.

“That’s true,” answered Owain. “He bewitched us all with the magic of his art. My late wife and my niece learned to master the instrument but they could not compare with Idwal.”

“Did you see him off at your door?”

“I waved until he was out of sight. He’d delighted us so much that I rewarded him handsomely and pressed him to come again.”

“Who else saw him leave?” I asked.

Owain bristled. “Is my word not good enough for you?”

“Of course, my friend — but corroboration is always useful.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe me.”

“I accept your word without question, Owain.”

That seemed to reassure him. “Well, then,” he said. “There was someone else who bade him farewell — my niece, Gwenllian. She had cause to be grateful to Idwal. He found time to listen to her playing the harp and favoured her with advice. Gwenllian was thrilled.”

“May I speak with her?”

“Is that necessary?”

“I would like to hear what she thought of Idwal’s playing.”

A defensive look had come into his eye. It was clear that he didn’t want me to talk to his niece, yet, at the same time, he calculated that his refusal might count against him, leading to the suspicion that he was trying to hide something. Owain eventually capitulated. He despatched a servant to fetch his niece. Gwenllian soon appeared.

Entering the room out of obedience to her uncle rather than enthusiasm to meet me, she was both wary and slightly fearful, as if fearing a rebuke. She glanced at Owain, at me, then back again at him. When she spoke, her voice was sweet and melodic.

“You wanted me, Uncle?” she enquired politely.

While he explained who I was and why I was there, I took the opportunity to subject the girl to scrutiny. Gwenllian was beautiful. Natural modesty and my vow of celibacy prevents me from going into anatomical detail about a member of the fairer sex. Suffice it to say that I had seen few fairer and none so graceful. Gwenllian could have been no more than seventeen, combining the bloom of youth with a rare maturity. After telling her that she’d nothing to fear, Owain eased her gently towards me.

“I understand that you’re a harpist,” I began.

Her laugh was deprecating. “After hearing Idwal play,” she said, “I realise that I’m a mere beginner on the harp. He makes it produce the most enchanting music.”

“Which of his songs did you enjoy most?”

It was a clever question, allowing her to lose some of her anxiety as she talked about Idwal’s visit. The longer she went on, the more she relaxed and — I duly noted — the more relaxed Owain became. I wasn’t there to subject the girl to a rigorous interrogation and he was relieved by that. What I was simply trying to do was to assess her character and disposition. The information I sought was volunteered before I even asked for it.

“Uncle and I waved him off until our arms ached,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Our loss is Monmouth’s gain.”

I had the feeling that she was repeating a phrase that Owain had first used but I didn’t hold it against her. Gwenllian had been honest and unguarded. There’d been no dissemblance. I turned back to her uncle with my searching gaze.

“Is there any truth in Roger de Brionne’s accusation?” I said.

“None at all!” was the defiant reply.

I believed him and thanked them both for their help. As I took my leave of them, I warned them that I’d probably call on them again before the matter was cleared up. Spreading his arms wide, Owain told me that I was always welcome. As he led me to the front door, I passed close to Gwenllian and had a curious sensation. It was similar to the unease I’d felt in that Parisian church all those years ago. Though I concealed my feelings, I was quite upset. Could this innocent girl have been involved in an evil act?

Roger de Brionne owned extensive land to the south of Owain’s estates and they’d been arguing about the border between them for years. Each claimed to have had territory stolen by the other. Each swore that his neighbour had rustled livestock from him. It was not my business to sit in judgement on their respective claims. All that concerned me was to decide whether or not a murder had been committed and, if it had, to solve the crime.

Roger was confident he already knew the name of the culprit.

“Owain is a killer!” he yelled at me. “Place him under arrest.”

“I’ve neither the right nor the inclination to do so,” I replied stoutly. “All I’ve heard so far is wild accusation. I need evidence.”

“Then you must search for it.”

“Where?”

“Where else but on Owain’s land?” he said. “That’s where the harpist is buried and where his instrument remains.”

“You seem very certain of that.”

“I can even tell you where the harp has been hidden.”

“Oh?”

“It is somewhere in the stables.”

“How do you know that, my Lord?”

“I was told by an informant.”

“And did this informant give any motive for the murder?” I wondered. “Because I’m at a loss to find one. I’ve questioned both Owain and his niece. The two of them worshipped Idwal. Why should Owain want to kill a man who gave him so much pleasure?”

“I can see that you don’t know the villain.”

“I know enough about him. I took him for a testy old Welshman with all the faults of his nation — that’s to say, he’s quarrelsome, inconstant, and wedded to memories of a heroic past that no longer exists. I’ve lived among the Welsh, my Lord.”

“Then you’ll appreciate their legendary skill at lying. Never a true word passes their lips. They break promises, say anything that suits their purpose, and let you down as if it’s their duty to do so.”

“It’s their way of resisting the invader,” I observed.

“We’ve been here for over a hundred years,” he affirmed, waving a fist. “We’re no longer invaders.”

“You are in Welsh eyes and will be so for another thousand years. However,” I went on, stifling his impatience, “let’s return to the question of motive. According to Owain, the harpist stayed with them for three days and was well paid before he left.”

Roger snorted. “Well paid!” he exclaimed. “He’s certainly pulled the wool over your eyes, Archdeacon. Owain is a born miser. Ask anyone in the county and they will say as much. It was exactly what Idwal told me when he played for Owain last year. On his way south, the harpist spent the night here and earned generous recompense for the entertainment he provided. Idwal said that, as usual, he’d been given a pittance by Owain.”

I weighed this information in the balance, trying to decide if it was the truth or arose out of Roger’s malice. He was a tall, slim man in his fifties with a gaunt face and a glinting eye. There was an air of nobility about him that impressed me, albeit tempered by a combative nature. He and Owain would never be happy bedfellows. They were so accustomed to trade insults that they would sooner die than agree. Something about Roger’s argument nevertheless did ring true. Though he was a wealthy man, Owain’s house showed all the signs of deliberate parsimony. In Roger de Brionne’s manor, by contrast, riches were openly on display. It was likely that Idwal the Harpist would earn more from one night with Roger than from three with Owain.

“As to the question of motive,” said Roger, pursuing his argument, “you’ve already met the young lady.”

“Are you referring to Owain’s niece?”

“Gwenllian would tempt a pope.”

“She didn’t tempt me,” I was at pains to assure him, “but I did observe how well-favoured the girl was. And now I think about it, Idwal was always a man with an interest in feminine company.”

“It wasn’t interest, Archdeacon,” said Roger, bitterly, “it was an obsession. When you listed the faults of the Welsh, you forgot to mention their rampant carnality. Anyone with Welsh blood in him is as lecherous as a goat.”

“I deny that!” I retorted. “I have the honour to have Welsh blood in my veins and it hasn’t inclined me to anything that can remotely be considered goatish.”

“Did you ever hear Idwal play?”

“Yes, my lord — many times.”

“Then you’ll know the seductive power of his music. It can enthrall adults and work upon their emotions. Think how much greater its effect might be on an impressionable young woman.”

It was an apt comment. Idwal had been a handsome man in his late thirties with magic in his fingers and persuasion in his smile. I remembered that he’d given Gwenllian instruction in how to play the harp, sitting behind her, no doubt, guiding her hands, making the most of his licensed touch. Though such intimacies between man and woman are outside my ken, I can well imagine what might have taken place. Owain ap Meurig had been affectionate and protective towards his niece. If he’d seen something untoward occurring between the girl and the harpist — something that Gwenllian herself was too young to recognise as improper — it might well have aroused his jealousy.

Yet he and the girl had waved off Idwal together. Was it possible that Owain had later overtaken the harpist and murdered him? Was I investigating revenge? Roger was so convinced about the chain of events that I had to take him seriously.

“This informant of yours was a witness, was he?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” he explained. “Except that it was not a man but a woman.” He took a deep breath before blurting out the truth. “She saw it all in a dream.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “A dream, my lord?” I said with utter disbelief. “You expect me to denounce Owain as a murderer because a woman has a troubled night? This is absurd.”

“That’s what I thought at first, Archdeacon.”

“Who is this creature?”

“Angharad FitzMartin.”

I was astounded. It was the Madwoman of Usk.

While I’d never set eyes on her, I knew her well by repute. Angharad FitzMartin was the offspring of a Welsh mother and a Norman father, both of whom had been killed in a tragic accident. The event had had a profound effect on her, changing her from a young woman with the normal expectations of her class into a wild, haunted, hortatory being who preached her own eccentric version of the gospel of Christ and who, it was rumoured, could quote the Bible in three languages. Some feared her, others reviled her, others again simply mocked her, but most people showed Christian compassion towards a woman who had clearly lost her mind at the cruel death of her parents.

It was market day in the village and I soon found her. The Madwoman of Usk was living up to her name, standing on a cask as she proclaimed her message to a small crowd. Peppered with snatches of Holy Writ, it was a rambling homily but delivered with such fervour that it held some onlookers spellbound. When she’d finished her blistering attack on the wickedness of human existence, I helped her down from her pulpit and took her aside. As soon as I introduced myself, Angharad became truculent.

“You’ll not stop me, Archdeacon,” she warned. “The Lord has called me and I answer only to Him.”

“Then we’ve something in common,” I said tolerantly. “Having heard you speak, I’d argue with your theology but I don’t call your sincerity into question. You are brave, Angharad.”

“It’s not bravery — it’s a blessed duty.”

I could’ve taken issue over that remark but I chose to ignore it. I also pretended not to notice the unpleasant odour that came from the woman. Her hair was straggly and unwashed, her apparel mean. She wore sandals on her bare feet. Still in her twenties, her once appealing face was now blotched and haggard. I might have been looking at a beggar, but one with an intelligence that shone out of her like a flaming beacon. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was in the presence of madness or of divine inspiration.

“I want to ask you about Idwal the Harpist,” I said.

“He was killed by Owain ap Meurig,” she responded.

“Do you have any proof of that?”

“I saw it happen in a dream.”

“We need more positive evidence than that, Angharad.”

“My dreams never deceive,” she insisted. “On the night that my parents died, I woke up screaming because I’d foreseen it in a nightmare. Every detail of my dream turned out to be correct. I was able to take people to the very spot where the rocks had tumbled down the mountain and buried them. I can give you other examples, if you wish.”

“No, no,” I said, staving off a long litany of her disturbed sleep. “I want to know what you saw — or thought you saw — with regard to Idwal the Harpist.”

“Then first, you must know that I live on Owain’s land. My cottage lies due south of here near the road that leads to Monmouth.”

“Go on.”

“The dream was short but vivid. I saw Owain and his niece bidding the harpist farewell. Idwal set off on his horse. It picked up a stone along the way and he dismounted to remove it from the animal’s hoof. He walked beside it for a while, his harp in a bag that hung from the saddle. When he came to a stand of trees, he was set upon and stabbed to death. His body was buried nearby.”

“What about the harp?”

“It was taken back to Owain’s house and hidden in the stables. That’s how I know Owain was the murderer.”

“Yet you saw him and Gwenllian wave off the harpist.”

“Idwal rode slowly. It would have been easy to catch him up and overtake him. He was in no hurry. He was on foot when he was attacked. Owain took him by surprise.”

“And are you certain that it was Owain?”

“It looked vaguely like him, Archdeacon.”

Angharad went on to add more detail. My first impulse was to dismiss the whole thing as nonsense but I came to feel that her story was at least worth investigation.

“To whom have you told this tale?” I asked.

“It’s not a tale, Archdeacon — it’s the truth.”

“Did you confront Owain with it?”

“I tried,” she said, “but he sent me away with harsh words and threatened to throw me off his land if I repeated what I’d seen in my dream.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Nobody can threaten me, Archdeacon. When my way of life was chosen for me, I put on the whole armour of God and it’s protected me well. If I lose my little home, I’ll sleep in barns or byres or wherever my feet are directed. Owain ap Meurig doesn’t frighten me.”

“You also spoke to Roger de Brionne.”

“He, at least, had the courtesy to listen to me.”

“So I was told.”

“He believes me.” She fixed me with a shrewd look. “What about you, Archdeacon?”

“The only thing that will convince me is ocular proof,” I told her. “If your dream was a true reflection of what happened — and we know from the Bible that dreams can act as warnings — then there’s an easy way to establish it. I’ll institute a search of the stables at Owain ap Meurig’s house.”

“Shall I come with you, Archdeacon?”

“That might not be wise.”

“But you’ll tell me what you find, I hope.”

“It’s the least I can do, Angharad. Thank you for your help.”

“It’s I who must thank you,” she said with a wan smile. “Most of those in holy orders think I’m a madwoman who perverts the word of God. You heard me preach yet raised no objection. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that. You are a good man, Archdeacon.”

“I’ve striven hard to achieve goodness,” I admitted.

“Then let good triumph over evil. Bring a killer to justice.”

Anticipating resistance, I took the precaution of detaching two men-at-arms from our retinue and travelled with them to the house of Owain ap Meurig. The sight of Norman soldiers in helm and hauberk enraged the old Welshman and he rid himself of a few choice curses. He was even more vociferous when I explained the purpose of my second visit, his anger spilling over into uncontrollable rage.

“You’d listen to the word of that madwoman?” he demanded.

“I have a duty to test its veracity,” I said calmly.

“Her brain is addled, man! You only have to look at her to see that she’s descended into babbling idiocy. Angharad is always making stupid accusations about people. Her dreams are like a plague on the rest of us. Out of misguided kindness, I gave her the use of a hovel on my land, but she really belongs in a madhouse.”

I let him rant on until his fury was spent, then I pointed out it was in his interests to let us search the stables. If no harp were found there, he’d be exonerated. Under protest, he accepted my advice and we walked away from the house. As we did so, I caught sight of Gwenllian, peering from a window in consternation. Was she indirectly the cause of a heinous crime? Only time would tell.

It took longer than I expected. When we got to the stables, my two companions searched it thoroughly, using their swords to poke about in the straw. In an effort to show that he was innocent of the charge, Owain joined in the search, going into stall after stall in pursuit of the harp. We were on the point of abandoning the exercise when I received what I can only describe as guidance from above. I heard a noise that didn’t reach the ears of the others, the soft, coaxing, resonant sound of harp strings being plucked.

“What’s up there?” I asked, pointing to the rafters.

“That’s where I store the hay,” replied Owain, “as these two Norman ruffians have already discovered.”

“Let me take a second look.”

Moving the ladder into position, I clambered up it to the rafters. Boarding had been laid across part of the timbers so that sheaves of hay could be kept there. I wasn’t worried about the fodder. My eye went upwards to a piece of dark cloth that hung from the apex of the roof. It had been so artfully arranged that it blended with the rafters and was difficult to pick out in the gloom. Going to the very top of the ladder, I reached up and felt something solid beneath the cloth. When I drew the object out, there was a gasp of horror from Owain ap Meurig. It was a harp.

Roger de Brionne was overjoyed to hear the news. He clapped me on the back in congratulation then offered me wine. As we drank together in his solar, I supplied him with full details.

“The praise should go to Angharad,” I pointed out. “The harp was exactly where she said it would be and we found the body of Idwal the Harpist in a shallow grave among some trees. That dream of hers was providential. The Madwoman of Usk deserves our thanks.”

“Where is Owain being held?”

“In a dungeon at the castle — he protests his innocence and calls me such foul names that I blushed to hear them. His niece could not believe he was guilty, yet she provided some of the evidence that helped to secure his arrest.”

Roger’s interest sharpened. “Indeed?”

“Yes, my lord. Gwenllian confessed that, as soon as she and her uncle had waved off the harpist, Owain mounted his horse and rode off in the same direction. He was wearing his dagger.”

“Did the girl say anything about Idwal’s behaviour to her?”

“It was as you suggested,” I said. “In the presence of her uncle, Idwal was polite and restrained. When she and the harpist were alone together, however, he did take certain liberties. One night, he even tapped upon her chamber door, but she kept it firmly locked.”

“Was this reported to her uncle?”

“Of course — she keeps nothing from him.”

Roger drained his cup. “This is not the first crime that Owain has committed,” he said, licking his lips, “but it’s the one that will finally bring him down. You’ve done well, Archdeacon. Without your intercession, the case would never have been resolved and Idwal would have lain undiscovered in his grave.”

“I was glad to be of assistance, my Lord.”

“As for Angharad, she’ll be rewarded.”

“In what way?”

“That hovel she inhabits is on land that’s rightly mine. Now that Owain is no longer here to contest ownership, it will revert to me and I’ll grant her free use of the dwelling in perpetuity.”

“Your generosity does you credit, my Lord,” I said, taking another sip of wine, “but we mustn’t forget that Owain allowed her to live on his estate without any payment. He even gave her food from time to time. An evil man was capable of some goodness.”

Roger de Brionne smiled grimly. “That thought may comfort him at his execution.”

On my ride back, I took the trouble to seek out the hovel where the so-called Madwoman of Usk spent her nights when she was not roaming the county in search of random congregations. Having left her with severe reservations about the significance of her dream, I could now return with all my doubts answered. Angharad had a gift that was almost as extraordinary as some that I possess. I needed to bestow my gratitude and to acquaint her with the consequences of what she’d told me.

The dwelling was no more than a ramshackle hut and I couldn’t understand how a woman who’d once lived in a fine house and slept on a soft bed now chose to endure such privations. It was a self-imposed martyrdom. Angharad was not at home but, since the door was unlocked, I ventured inside the building. The single room was hardly fit for human habitation. There were gaps in the roof, holes in the wall, and inches of space around the door to let in wind and rain. Apart from a few sticks of furniture and a mattress, the place was bare. It was as cheerless as a monastic cell.

The only items of value were the crucifix on the table and the books wrapped up in sealskin to save them from being soaked. When I glanced through the little collection, I was diverted by the sight of a religious pamphlet that I’d once written in the elegant Latin for which I’m justifiably famous. The Madwoman of Usk had sanity in her library. I was about to leave when my eye fell on something I didn’t expect to find there, something concealed behind the mattress with a sense of shame. Its protruding top caught the sunlight that slanted in through the only window.

When I stopped to pick it up, I was shocked to find myself holding a flagon of wine. It was half empty. Instinct urged me to taste the wine and I did so. It was a revelation.

Gwenllian was in despair. Calling at the house, I found her still weeping over the dramatic turn of events. Once again, she swore to me that her uncle was not capable of murder and that some grotesque mistake had been made. I silenced her with a raised palm.

“If you wish to help your uncle,” I advised, “answer a question. Did you see the horse on which Idwal the Harpist rode?”

“Yes, I did, Archdeacon.”

“And would you recognise the animal again?”

“I’m certain of it,” she said.

“Why is that, Gwenllian?”

“It was so distinctive — and so was the saddle. I’d know it anywhere.” She drew back from me. “It’s not in our stables, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been there to look.”

“I’d like you to look again — in another place altogether.”

As a sign of the importance of my embassy, I took four armed men with me this time. On the journey there, none of them could take his eyes off Gwenllian, who rode beside me with the breeze plucking at her hair. Roger de Brionne came out of his house to greet us with a frown. Hands on hips, he was smouldering with anger.

“What’s the meaning of this, Archdeacon?” he demanded.

“We’d like to inspect your stables,” I said. “A horse has gone astray and I wondered if it might have ended up here.”

His eyes darted and I caught the slight tremble of his lip. Though he tried to deny us access, I deprived him of the power to resist us in one sentence. I thanked him for the wine he gave me. He was rocked. While two of the soldiers flanked Roger, the others took Gwenllian to the stables to begin their search. It was short-lived. They soon emerged with a bay mare in tow. One of the men carried a saddle. He held it up to show me.

“This horse belonged to Idwal the Harpist,” Gwenllian attested. “And so did that saddle. How did they end up here?”

“That’s something that the lord Roger will have to explain,” I said, glancing at his ashen countenance. “Meanwhile, he can replace your uncle in the castle dungeon. He’ll be charged with murder, theft, and the willful manipulation of a vulnerable woman.”

“It’s not I who manipulated a woman,” howled Roger, “but that devil of a harpist. When he stayed with us last year, he left more than the sound of his music in the air. As a result of his visit, my daughter was with child. I had to send her to Normandy to give birth in order to avoid disgrace. Idwal deserved to die!”

“And you sought to take full advantage of his death,” I noted. “In killing him, you not only wreaked your revenge — you saw the chance to ensnare Owain ap Meurig by hiding that harp in his stables.”

Gwenllian was mystified. As we rode back to Usk, I made sure that she and I stayed at the rear so that the soldiers couldn’t ogle her and so that I could give her an account of what had happened.

“I first began to suspect the lord Roger,” I said, solemnly, “when he told me how much he admired Idwal’s playing. Yet he didn’t invite the harpist back to his house, even though Idwal would pass his door on the way to Monmouth. That struck me as odd. There had to be a reason why he didn’t offer hospitality to Idwal. He’s now told us what it was. Knowing exactly when the man would depart from your house, the lord Roger lay in wait for Idwal and struck him down.”

“Then he blamed it on Uncle Owain.”

“I fear that he did, Gwenllian.”

She was dismayed. “Are you telling me that Angharad was his confederate?” she asked querulously. “I know that the poor woman has lost her wits, but I didn’t think she’d forgotten the difference between right and wrong.”

“Angharad is free from any blame. She had a dream and much of it foreshadowed the heinous crime. When she recalled it to me, however,” I went on, “she admitted that she only saw the figures in dim outline. Angharad knew that Idwal was the victim because she saw the harp. She assumed that your uncle was the killer because the man in her dream resembled him. When she took her story to Roger de Brionne, he couldn’t believe his good fortune. He plied her with wine and put flesh on the bare bones of her dream.”

“How did she know that the harp was hidden in our stables?”

“Because that’s where the lord Roger had it placed,” I explained, “and where he convinced Angharad that it would be. Her dream was real, but it was peopled by the lord Roger, whispering in the ear of a woman affected by strong drink. I can vouch for its strength,” I added, “for he offered some to me. When I found a flask of it at Angharad’s hovel, I knew who her benefactor was.”

“Poor woman!” she cried. “He practised upon her.”

“The full truth will emerge at the trial — the full truth about the murder, that is.” When I turned to look at her, she dropped her head guiltily to her chest. “There’s something you held back from me, isn’t there?” I probed. “It’s to do with the night when Idwal tapped on your chamber door in search of your favour.”

“I’d rather not speak about it.”

“It’s a shame that it must be acknowledged, Gwenllian. It may be habitual among the Welsh but it’s wrong and I’ve preached against it many times. Tell me the truth, child.”

“No, no,” she whispered. “I dare not.”

“Then let me put the words into your mouth,” I said, recalling that moment when I passed by her and felt that peculiar sensation. “You didn’t open the door to Idwal that night for one simple reason. Someone was already sharing your bed.”

Her face turned white and she brought her hand up to her mouth to smother a cry. Owain ap Meurig would be released from custody but, in truth, he was no innocent man. Roger de Brionne had exploited the weakness of the Madwoman of Usk and implicated her in a murder plot. Owain had seduced his niece and turned her into his mistress. Both men would answer for their sins before God. I was once again honoured to be chosen as the instrument of His divine purpose.