Crown in Candlelight (12 page)

‘This is the torque my wife Margaret wore,’ he said softly. ‘Welsh gold, mined two centuries ago in Tanat Vale. Take it in memory of the power and the blood we share, Hywelis. With this gift I bind you. Lift up your hair.’

She lifted the red fall at the nape of her neck and the Lord fastened the torque about it. He kissed her, and she knew that in truth she was his last link with splendour. Through her eyes which had foreseen honourable death for Iolo Goch, he would live again to ride his horses of the wind. So he put his destiny upon her spirit’s sight, and she sighed, feeling the weight of his trust, Then Owen, brilliant of eye and dressed in a sky-blue doublet, fashionable and sleek as a St Valentine’s Day bird, was beside them, ready to sing, and now, if he had his way. She stood between the two of them both looking down at her, one burdening her with his intense love, the other curious, stirred by her new glamour and some secret mischief. An irrepressible light seemed to burn around Owen; he began to talk to the Lord, telling him about the eagle.

Glyn Dwr frowned. ‘Then the bird was flying low? That’s bad for Wales when the eagles stoop.’

‘It was after prey,’ Owen said. ‘Madog, Hywelis’s fox.’

The Lord was intrigued. ‘A fox? But Madog is a prince’s name. Madog ap Maredudd sired Gwenllian, who became the bride of the mighty Rhys, two hundred years ago …’ He stopped, saying abruptly: ‘Let us begin.’

A
menestr
approached with a tray of flagons, its rim hung with drinking-horns, and behind him two boys rolled a kilderkin of strong drink, setting it upright at the top table. With great ceremonial, the like of which had not been seen since Sycharth days, Owen served the Lord and his company. Hywelis drank: the liquid’s surface was luminous with honey, as if a long summer were distilled in it, and the sweetness had an aching bite, like the sting of an angry summer bee.

‘
Bragod
mead,’ said the bard. ‘The best I ever tasted.’

‘Megan brewed it,’ said Glyn Dwr, with a bow towards her where she sat at the far end of the table. He raised his horn. ‘
Iechyd da, Megan
! All cheer, my jewel!’ and her dark face flamed. They ate a vast rabbit pie, savoury roast fowl. Owen stood behind the Lord’s chair, replenishing the horns with a dipper from the barrel, so that Hywelis’s cheeks burned and she found beauty in the sight of her own long fingers clasped about her knife and in the dying sunset as it painted the window recesses with rose. The Lord charmed her with conversation. Not for months had she seen him so uplifted. Then Owen, leaning between them to serve, pressed her thigh lightly but deliberately with his and she jerked upright. His face, the heavy-lidded eyes seriously downcast as he poured the drink, came between her and the Lord’s stark profile. The honey of his touch ran through her. She smiled at the Lord, and longed to say: ‘Father, let Owen sing!’

Instead, Gruffydd Llwyd rose, and with his little harp wandered to the stool placed in the centre of the hall. Cafall, under the table, growled; he hated music in all forms and would have been pleased to bite the bard. But then, as he could no longer even bite the bone between his paws, he sighed deeply and went to sleep.

‘I shall sing extempore,’ announced Gruffydd Llwyd, looking severely in the direction of the growl. ‘About that animal’s wonderful ancestor, King Arthur’s own dog Cafall. There is a mountain in Llanfair-ym-Muallt in Brecon, where Cafall and the king went hunting … there was never such a dog before or since.’

Hywelis felt so sorry for the ancient descendant that she woke him and fed him a soppet of bread soaked in mead, and he laid his heavy head on her foot in gratitude.

‘The dog was so strong that when he touched the mountain top his paw left a deep hollow. King Arthur, in homage, built a cairn over the hollow and placed a stone on top. He named the mountain Cefn Carn Cafall, the ridge of Cafall’s stone. If the stone is moved away, it will always return, and of this I shall sing.’

And he did.

The Lord, tapping his old bright hands on the board, gave unaccustomed attention to the bard’s long-drawn phrases with the spills of melody in between. Encouraged, Gruffydd Llwyd prolonged the song-story for an hour, wrenching metaphors from the tale as a thrush drags a worm from the ground. Miraculously the lines scanned and held an undisciplined beauty. He sang of forest and valley, of a ring-dove half-awake on its bough, its hunched wings like the cowl of a monk; of the woodcock like a black Dominican friar; of blackbird and nightingale singing together like two priests. He was proper in his similes and orientated to God, though, carried away towards the end, he did tell of the trees and May bright payment to lovers, florins of green and silver leaves. There was much applause.

These were the things Hywelis knew best, but in the meadhall they were only words, coloured by the bard’s reedy voice. Her attention wandered to where Megan sat, a look of unutterable sadness on her face. Megan wished for youth again, for beauty and bloodless innocence. Hywelis felt the vibrations of regret, of stifled shame. For to the conqueror, past deeds, however bloody, give glory; to the defeated they are added burdens. The spoiled corpses mount up, saying sadly: We were doubly wasted! You were unworthy, and it was all for nothing!

She shivered, and just then Owen came to fill her cup. He leaned close, so close that she could see the gold rings of his eyes, and he whispered, his cheeks cleft with a wicked smile: ‘Praise God that’s over! a heron makes a prettier noise, and knows when to stop!’ And he drew his fingers over the nape of her neck under her hair, and whispered again: ‘Hywelis … Hywelis …’ moving on to fill her neighbour’s vessel in the same breath. Only her name but enough to bring heat where there was shivering, and then a void as he went away. Graceful and. tall and young, he went behind the trestle, ministering with his pitcher of enchantment. Then she felt Glyn Dwr’s eyes upon her. She met them nervously. He smiled, and then began talking with his neighbour, a white-haired marcher lord, going over old terrain.

‘I thought when the tripartite indenture was signed, our troubles would be ended and I could stand in Wales as true king. My Cathryn brought over Mortimer to that end; a worthy enemy and a better son-in-law. Henry Percy too—all was set fair with his allegiance, but the spears of Shrewsbury field had him …’

‘All dead,’ said the old marcher lord. ‘It’s one gate that a man goes through with no returning. No bolts or bars; the gate has vanished, and he with it.’

‘Where did we go wrong?’

‘Blame the French, who betrayed you, who ran home eight years ago, for all the gold and honours you pledged them to fight against the Saeson. Every one a
milain
!’ He spat over the trestle.

‘What can one expect, with a madman at their head?’ Just then the bard came from refreshing himself, combing bits of meat from his beard.

‘Shall I give you more entertainment, Lord?’

In the same breath the neighbour said, leaning kindly: ‘Your girl is lovely tonight, Owain!’

The Lord’s deep eyes surveyed her again. Yes, he knew her mind.

‘And she would rather have Owen ap Meredyth sing, which he does well,’ he said. Instantly Owen came before him, standing beside the bard, who seemed much put out.

‘Did I not please?’ said Gruffydd Llwyd, and Owen answered instead of the Lord; so sweetly that the taunt was almost hidden. ‘It was like some wonderful bird, sir … like the Nightingale of Dyfed …’

The bard was enraged. ‘Dafydd ap Gwilym was carnal,’ he said. ‘Even I recall the disgrace of his in an English inn—wooing the tapwenches, falling over stools at midnight, leaping through windows in only his shirt …’

Owen chuckled, and the Lord held up his hand. ‘You did well, Sir Gruffydd Llwyd, and we love you. As for Dafydd, he sleeps easy at Strata Florida, under the yew tree. You live on. This youth can learn from you. Let him sing. Owen, a tale of the Mabinogion …’

The bard was appeased. ‘One of the Four Branches, Lord? He could tell of Bran and Branwen.’

‘No,’ said the Lord. ‘We will hear of Culhwch and Olwen.’

Owen took the harp and sat on the little stool directly below Hywelis. His eyes seemed to gather up all the light from the torches and candles, channelling it directly into hers. He struck the first phrase, and Hywelis felt her spirit drawn towards him on the shining ray that linked them and on the thread of his singing.

He had a peculiar sweet voice with a keen edge, lacking the formal cadences of the bards, and his hands on the harp were sure. There was drama in him, and he limned his characters with care so that they rose from word and note and moved through shadows into the sight of the silent audience.

‘Ysbaddaden Chief-Giant was as tall as a tower, as thick round the middle as the boles of twelve oak trees. When he stood upright he blotted out the sun from three counties. His outspread arms would reach to London on the one hand, while with the other he could stir the sea around Ireland. Where he kicked the ground, mountains arose. If he spat in the sea, the water boiled. His hair was like the mane of forty lions, and hung, ungovernable, to his waist; none could dress it. No armies could defeat him; steel crumpled, fire lost heart, kings went mad at sight of his eyes. Ysbaddaden! you were greater than God!

‘Then one day came Culhwch, cousin to Arthur. Culhwch was without sin, his armour bright as starlight; he was chaste and noble as a singing mountain. He was fleeter of foot than the magic deer of Powys Fadog, and handsome as the dawn.

‘When he was born, a witch prophesied that he would never marry unless he could win the hand of the giant’s daughter. He rode to the court of his cousin the king. His horse was the colour of mother-of-pearl, its head was graceful as the serpent’s. It had hooves like pale-pink shells and wore a gold saddle and bridle. In one hand Culhwch bore two silver spears and in the other a battle-axe, whose blade was the length of a grown man from edge to edge. And he wore the gold sword with a jewelled blade, every jewel mined from a sacred mountain. His weapons could draw blood from the breeze. Not a hair stirred on him as he rode, so light was the horse’s step.’

Owen looked at Hywelis, a little smile on his mouth, his face and hair all brightness.

‘At Arthur’s gate was Glewlwyd Mighty-Grasp, whom no man had ever passed alive. But Culhwch evaded him and came to the throne of Arthur, who listened to his quest. The king appointed six of his mightiest warriors to accompany him. There was Cei, who could make fire from his own belly; Bedwyr the One-Handed, dangerous as three men in battle; Cynddylig the Waymaker, who knew every pass over every mountain on earth; Gwalchmei, the best horseman in the world; Gwrhyr the Translator who could speak every tongue known to man, and Menw, who could make them all invisible,’

The bard frowned. Much was being omitted. Even the careful rhythm of the music seemed hurried, as Culhwch and his company roamed, meeting monsters, seers, hermits, conquering, listening, learning. Now they were at the castle of Ysbaddaden. Worst of all, Owen had left out King Arthur, who should have accompanied them, whose feat brought victory .…

‘Ysbaddaden received them with taunts, and spoke the only conditions that could win his daughter in marriage: the thirteen treasures of the world. And the last and greatest, the head of the Twrch Trwyth.

‘This was the fiercest boar, standing as high as a castle. Between its ears it carried a magic comb and scissors, and only with these could the giant’s hair be dressed for his daughter’s wedding. Ysbaddaden cried:

No mortal man shall mount my daughter!

For when she marries I must die,

White she’ll remain, although you strain

Through earth and water, fire and sky,

Only the Twrch Trwyth’s mystic comb

Shall loose my nestling from her home.

… and after the penultimate task was completed, Culhwch set out to find the savage dogs needed to hunt down the Boar. He consulted the five wisest creatures—the ouzel-cock, the stag, the owl, the eagle, and the salmon …

‘… in the fight with the boar many of the knights were torn to pieces. Yet Culhwch pursued the Twrch Trwyth for forty days and nights, even to the land of the Chained Serpent and to Cornwall. There the Boar was driven over the cliffs into the sea. As it died, Culhwch tore the comb and scissors from its head.’

‘
Arthur
did,’ muttered the bard.

‘And then the giant’s power was as a little child, as soon as his hair was dressed. And they cut off his monstrous head and speared it high. Then they sought his daughter, the fairest woman ever born.

‘And she came, with a gown of fire-coloured silk about her and a heavy torque of ruddy gold about her neck, set with rubies and a precious pearl. Her head was yellower than the broom blossom and her skin whiter than the horses of the sea. Her hands were as the bog-cotton where it grows beside a river. And her eyes! Their look was lovelier than that of the thrice-mewed hawk, and her breast, uncovered for her lover’s eyes, softer than the sun. Wherever she trod, four white clover flowers grew behind her feet. Whoever beheld her was filled with longing. And therefore she was called …’

There was such a long pause that Gruffydd Llwyd clutched at his beard in rage. The youth had bastardized the entire
awdl
, and here he was at the climax, hanging on words while the meadhall waited and Hywelis, who should know better, looking at him like one moonstruck.

‘… therefore she was called Olwen.’ The name drifted away under the sweetest chord of all. The Lord struck the table with the tail of his drinking-horn, and the applause rose, little cries, the tapping of feet and hands.

Hywelis sat still, her thoughts pouring out across the ray of light between her and Owen, thoughts so tangibly defined that she could not believe they did not pierce him. He gave no sign, however, but beside her, the Lord, whose mind and blood were hers, stiffened and turned his eyes on her for one more questing, warning look, like that of the eagle the moment before it died.

Owen. The singing, fading ray carried it straight and true. You are Culhwch and I am Olwen. Yes. You are mine.

Summer rain was drying in the sun. The puddles in the courtyard where Hywelis stood reflected white clouds. The wet granite of the curtain wall shone like a jewel, and crystal drops rimmed the lintel of the bakehouse door whence came warm fragrance and Megan’s cross, calling voice. Hywelis remained standing, staring at the outer gate, then slowly turning to keep the inner door in view. Her forearms gleamed with wheat flour, she had already been helping Megan with the day’s bread and had escaped, driven by a melancholy need. Her excuse had been that she must fetch Madog down from her chamber before he soiled or chewed anything. She had already stretched the promised five minutes into half an hour. Bored, the fox slept on the cobbles at her feet.