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.”