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.