by Phil Rickman
Which was more than you could say for the vicar.
Had he always been such a loner? On the way here, Mr Edwards had asked him if he'd ever been married, thinking maybe the wife had died, leaving him bereft. The vicar had smiled, shaken his head, declined to elaborate.
Couldn't be a Nancy-boy, surely, now? Didn't behave like a Nancy-boy. Still, though, the languid way he moved, the slightly effete mannerisms, the way he'd toss back that lock of feathery, fair hair …
Well, hell. Mr Edwards blew out his lips. What on earth did it matter if he was? Not like there was a surfeit of mild-mannered, sensitive fellows around these parts.
He separated his hands, as if measuring. 'Now, what we have to imagine here, see. Vicar, is the scene in the mid-twelfth century.'
The sun, making a speculative foray from behind a clump of clouds, had lit the vicar's pale hair, giving him a halo. And why not, indeed?
'There would've been a keep, like that new tower, same sort of shape and in fact on that very same mound. But all the rest of the buildings inside the walls would've been little more than wooden sheds, with maybe thatched roofs. Protection, it was about, see, not grandiose architectural statements.'
He opened out a white leaflet to a simple plan of the castle ruins 'Now.' Pointing to a one-time three-storey section with a tree grown up in the middle. 'That's the south-west tower, OK? So therefore ...' marching along the inside of the perimeter '… the great hall would have been just about …'
Mr Edwards stopped, beamed.
'Here.'
There was grass and a workman's hut, and a lower area where a kind of cellar had been. The vicar seemed relieved somehow that there was not more to see.
The last time Eddie Edwards had been here he'd still been an education adviser, planning another of those inter-school projects designed to take history out of the classroom.
How time did go by.
'So, Vicar, we'll imagine that we are in 1175.'
'Eddie.' The vicar was leaning against one of the castle walls. 'As I'm off duty today …'
He was wearing an old sheepskin jacket and patched jeans. Mr Edwards had to admit he did not look much like a vicar this morning.
'... Why don't you just call me Simon?'
'Well ...' Simon? Simon? He was a married man! Mr Edwards took a couple of swift paces to the right. 'Well, as you like, Vicar. Now, this castle was built by the Norman invaders for the purpose of controlling the Welsh hereabouts, who had never quite adjusted to the idea of being conquered. And in 1175, the castle was still pretty new, and so was the owner. The Norman baron William de Braose.'
'Ah, yes.'
'Who, not to put too fine a point on it, Vic ... Simon ... was a bastard of the first order.'
'Quite.'
'Cruel, greedy, arrogant. If there'd been jackboots in 1175, rest assured he'd have had a pair or two made to size.'
'Bet he went from strength to strength in Norman Britain,' said Simon, flicking back his fair hair.
'Indeed. Now, before this, the castle was owned - and when I say owned, in those days, owning it was matter of getting up an army and evicting the current tenant - it was owned by a local Welsh chieftain, chap name of Seisyll, brother-in-law of the Prince of South Wales, so well connected, in his way. Now, this man Seisyll had taken it by force from the Norman in charge at the time whose name I forget, but he doesn't matter.'
Simon St John, Mr Edwards thought suddenly. Was St John perhaps a Norman name? Better be careful how he angled this story.
'Anyway, on agreeing to give back the castle, Seisyll was granted a royal pardon by the English king, Henry II.' Mr Edwards sniffed. 'Bloody good of him, give a man a royal pardon after you've pinched his lands, subjugated his ... anyway, Seisyll moves out, William de Braose moves in, and they agree there will be a banquet at the castle, Normans and Welsh together, to celebrate their new-found friendship. All this old ground for you, Simon?'
'No, we were told very little. The idea was that we ... The vicar stopped; a hunted look flitted across his smooth features. 'I'm sorry, I ... It's very interesting, Eddie. Go on.'
What was all this about? Duw, there was more to this fellow than met the eye, all right. Mr Edwards walked to the centre of a grassy area, the high perimeter wall to his right.
'So a strong wooden building stood just about here - the great hall, enclosed by the high walls, looked down on by the keep. The banquet is prepared, the wild boar, the venison, whatever. And when Seisyll's party arrive, they have with them an entertainer, a harpist - Aelwyn.'
Mr Edwards paused for effect. Sun flashed through the branches of leafless trees.
'Aelwyn, now, he already was a well-known figure in the land, if not to the Normans. A bard, a chronicler, in poetry, of the times ... and an individual, this is the important thing. Most bards, see, in those days were what you might call hacks. Earned their money glorifying the deeds of whichever land-grabbing scoundrel would become their patron. But nobody owned Aelwyn, it had been written ... except the land itself.'
'What's that mean?' the vicar asked.
'Means he was a patriot in the truest sense, boy. He wanted the best for his country. He wanted peace. A land where the poet was king. Always a dream, in Wales, and in fact …'
Simon said, 'How do we know all this?'
'The answer to that,' said Mr Edwards, 'is that we don't. When I say it has been written, I don't mean in any authoritative chronicle. You'll find no mention of the man in Giraldus Cambrensis or Geoffrey of Monmouth.'
'So he's a legend, rather than a fact.'
'There is,' said Mr Edwards, 'a poetic truth in it. He is an archetype, if you like. The man of peace in a world of violence and double-dealing … and no more violent, no more corrupt region than the Welsh border in medieval times. I like to stand here and imagine that banquet, the wooden hall lit by candles and torches, perhaps snow flurries outside, the horses whinnying in the stables, the hounds baying, sensing treachery. And Aelwyn with his harp in a corner of the hall, nobody really listening to him as he plays.'
'And nobody wants to hear Aelwyn, the dreamer ...'
Mr Edwards stopped, stared at Simon. 'What did you say?'
'I'm sorry, it was just a fragment of a song came into my head.'
'The words, man, say it again.'
'Nobody wants to hear Aelwyn the dreamer?'
Mr Edwards was astonished. 'A song, you say?'
The vicar looked very uncomfortable. As well he might. What deception was going on here?
'You knew then. You knew all along why they called him Aelwyn Breadwinner. Remember, when you asked me that? I do, Vicar, because I never got around to telling you. This song, now ... what song ?'
'I don't know, I …'
He was lying. A minister of God who swore and lied and showed little reverence and was quite possibly sexually deviant, and whose flippancy perhaps concealed some old sadness ...
Mr Edwards was really quite thrilled.
'Look, Eddie ...' Simon St John put a hand on his overcoated shoulder. He was still a clergyman, so Mr Edwards did not flinch. 'I'm sorry. I was a musician for many years before I went into the Church. I've an immense store of songs in my head, old and new, folk songs, all sorts. I wasn't bullshitting you, I really don't know much about Aelwyn, and I don't know why they called him Breadwinner.'
'Well.' Mr Edwards was mollified, but no less intrigued. 'I shall tell you. No big secret. Breadwinner was simply an English corruption of a Welsh word they could not easily pronounce. Breuddwydiwr. Dreamer. Aelwyn, the dreamer, see?'
'Yes. Jesus. You know, I don't somehow think the person who composed that song was remotely aware of this.'
Duw! Mr Edwards thought he'd better finish the story before he became as barmy as the vicar. There wasn't much more to tell anyway. His own theory was that Seisyll had brought Aelwyn along as a form of insurance, a witness, someone who would subsequently provide in poetry or song a record of this historic 'treaty' between the Welsh chieftain
and the invader - evidence for posterity, in case the Normans should ever attempt to rewrite history.
And when Aelwyn was the only one to escape from the massacre ... imagine how a report of that abomination would have sounded in verse!
Simon stood among the castle ruins and felt nothing.
It was a relief.
Mr Edwards's description of the massacre, over dinner, of Seisyll's party by de Braose's thugs was graphic and therefore, speculative, fuelled by a sense of patriotic outrage. Simon couldn't figure it out. How could this Seisyll be so stupid as to walk unarmed into the stronghold of a man whose reputation as a devious bastard must surely have preceded him to Abergavenny?
Was Seisyll really the kind of guy who'd risk anything for a free dinner?
'The only real description of the massacre,' Mr Edwards was saying, 'was in the first account by Giraldus Cambrensis, which, he was later impelled to revise for, ah, political reasons, exonerating de Braose from blame except for "allowing it to happen". Pah! And, of course, of the first, unexpurgated account there is now no trace.'
'Giraldus didn't quite have Aelwyn's guts and integrity then,' Simon was moved to remark. 'How is he supposed to have escaped, Eddie?'
Mr Edwards shrugged. 'Accounts differ. Word of mouth, see. One story suggests he was blind and was able to feel his way out through the hidden passages while the other poor buggers were cut down running for the exit. Problem with that is, castles were simple structures in those days, there wouldn't have been hidden passages. No, my feeling is that sitting, as he would have been, in some corner, playing his harp, perhaps on a platform, he would've had an overview of the proceedings. Perhaps observing de Braose's men nudging each other, or a glint of steel from someone's sleeve …'
'And by the time the heads were in the gravy, he was well away. Hmmm.' Simon strolled across the grass, watched the fields rolling away into the hills, crossed now by fast roads and power lines. The Abbey was in the other direction, so Aelwyn could have fled across what was now the town, eight, ten miles in search of sanctuary. A hell of a journey on foot, on a winter's night, with a trained hit-team on your tail. But at least Aelwyn knew the terrain.
Simon remembered Moira and Dave composing the Aelwyn song together in the studio one morning, trying out ideas on each other.
'Aelwyn b ... bom ... bom ... came down from the mountains.'
'Aelwyn...the poet... came ...'
'Too obvious. What about Aelwyn, the dreamer?'
'OK ... Aelwyn the dreamer came down from the mountains ... his harp on his shoulder ... Would he carry his harp on his shoulder, Davey, or would he have a horse?'
'His harp on his horse?'
There'd been a good deal of giggling. Happy days.
And truly dreadful nights.
II
A Rebel and a Bastard
The man in the painting at the foot of the stairs had a hat with a plume, a white beard and a crafty smile.
'Now this one,' Martin Broadbank said, 'is my great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Ebenezer Broadbank.'
Vanessa looked at him solemnly.
'People say we look a lot like each other,' Martin said. 'Same nose. What do you think?'
Vanessa pouted, shook her head.
'You're quite right,' Martin said. 'Nothing like me. Anyway this Ebenezer, he was a terrible man. He had four wives, all at the same time, all in different counties. One here in Gloucestershire, one up in Worcester, one in Oxford and one in, er, Hereford ...'
Shelley watched him from the drawing-room and managed an almost-smile. A thin light drifted through the leaded windows.
It was not long after nine a.m. Shelley was wearing last night's backless cream dress and a cardigan borrowed from Meryl.
'Now this one ... He was a dreadful character ...'
Martin led Vanessa to the first landing, where they vanished from Shelley's sight. She thought she heard Vanessa giggle
'Who are they really?'
'Who knows?' Meryl had a phone book on her knees. 'He picks them up in antique shops all over the place. Cavaliers are his favourites, he fancies himself as a bit of a cavalier ' Meryl opened the phone book. 'There's no harm in him, even if he causes it sometimes.'
She ran a fingernail down a page of numbers. 'I think I'll try the Corinium Court at Cirencester.'
It seemed Meryl very kindly had been phoning hotels since eight, to see if Tom had checked in anywhere. 'He needs his sleep,' Shelley had kept saying, pacing the kitchen. 'He knows he has to have plenty of sleep.'
She asked now, 'Is it old, this place?'
'Old-ish.'
'Don't bother,' Shelley said. 'He wouldn't stay at anywhere old.'
Meryl looked at her, head on one side. Shelley thought she was very striking, commanding somehow, but not in a sharp way; there was a natural composure, apparently undamaged by whatever had happened to her last night and the horrible business of the Tulleys.
Shelley had to keep erasing that from her thoughts. The police were dealing with it. They would have no reason to talk to her, nor to Vanessa. The Weasel had told the police Vanessa had been in bed and he himself had only left the house when he heard the smash.
An accident. A terrible accident on a very bad bend. Two fatalities; no other vehicles involved.
No Tom involved, thank God. And she hoped the police did not feel obliged to check out the Weasel on their computer.
Shelley had spent what remained of the night in a twin-bedded guest room at the farm. With Vanessa, whom Weasel had finally ferried to Hall Farm. Vanessa had clung to her for a long time, but said nothing.
Weasel had told Shelley he was pretty sure he'd seen Tom parked in the Volvo at the top of the hill while the police were sealing the road off. But when he'd run towards the car, Tom had driven away in a hurry.
Shelley had asked Weasel if Vanessa had seen ... you know.
'Nah, she was in sort of a daze. Just, like, wandered out when I was on the blower to you. Figured Tom was on his way. Dunno where she got that from. Didn't make no sense.'
What Shelley mainly wasn't thinking about was the unspeakable possibility that Vanessa had in some way lured the Tulleys to their deaths. Standing in the middle of the road, Weasel had said, with a lamp. It was inexplicable. She'd never behaved so strangely before. But, then, they'd never left her before, not both of them.
'Mrs Storey,' Meryl said, 'I'm not understanding this about old places.'
The faint Cotswold roll in Meryl's voice was rather more apparent this morning. She also looked less dramatic than last night, in a roll-neck Fair Isle sweater, dusky pink cord jeans, trainers. She looked relaxed. It was clear, in the light of morning, that this was the woman of the house. And of its owner? Oh yes, Shelley thought. To a point.
'It's a sort of allergy,' she said.
Meryl closed the phone book. She was sitting on a hard chair, which placed her above Shelley. 'Mrs Storey,' she said, 'your husband's a very ... receptive person, isn't he?'
'Shelley. Please call me Shelley.'
'And call him psychic, shall we?'
Shelley sighed in a kind of relief. 'Oh God, yes. Call him psychic if you must. He sees things. You know?'
'Oh yes. I know.' Meryl's eyes were bright. 'Must've been hard for you over the years, Shelley.'
'You can't imagine.' Shelley's eyes dosed momentarily.
'Him seeing things and you not. And you not sure whether he was really seeing anything at all or whether it was only in his mind.'
'And what do you think?'
'What I think,' said Meryl, 'is that it's partly in the mind and partly not. Mind and spirit. It's a very powerful combination.'
'I wouldn't know.'
'If you don't mind me saying so, Shelley, I think he needs help.'
'Really,' Shelley said coldly.
'The old houses. He's afraid of what he might see in old houses, that right? Because of the extra layers.'
'I suppose so.' What right did this woman have to pry? '
More or less.'
'This is what I find strange. What brought this on? I imagine he hasn't always been like that?'
'No, I ... There's a history.'
'Thought there might be,' Meryl said. 'You got time to tell me, while Martin's keeping the little girl occupied?'
'I don't...'
'I might be able to help.'
Everybody had been saying that. But how could they?
Round about nine, the phone awoke Dave Reilly from a murky sleep.
'Dave, it's Bart at Muthah's. You did collect the guitar, didn't you?'
'The Tak?' Dave's fogged eyes searched the room. 'No, I can't have.'
'Oh, you did.'
'I didn't, pal. It'd be here.' He did another thorough inventory of the contents of the bedsit - took maybe three seconds. 'I left it in your office, usual place, in the case, under the desk.'
'Oh, shit,' said Bart. "They didn't take much else.'
'You're kidding.'
'It's insured, though, isn't it? Fire, theft?'
'Do me a favour.' Dave fumbled for his lighter and the packet of Silk Cut Extra Mild.
'I'm sorry, mate. I'll call the police. See, it wasn't even a break-in. Some bastard must have stayed inside after we closed.'
'Don't bother,' said Dave. They were so bloody careless at Muthah Mirth, complete amateurs. 'When did anybody ever get a stolen guitar back?'
'Can you borrow one for tonight?'
Dave said, 'I don't think I can make it anyway tonight. Something's come up.'
'Hey. now, we had a deal.'
'Yeah, we also had a deal related to overnight storage of that guitar.'
'It should have been bloody well insured, Dave.'
Dave said wearily, 'There are some things you can't insure against.'
'You're gonna let me down again?'
'Again?'
'Yes, Dave. Again.'
Shelley stood up. 'I think I'd like to go home now.'
There was so much more Meryl wanted to ask.
'You've both been very kind,' Shelley said, 'but we can't stay here. What if... when Tom comes home.'
