December (40 page)

      
'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.