“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.”