To Bras’ surprise, the young man stopped and began to examine the steed. Then he turned. “That is the horse for me!” he exclaimed.
Bras nearly choked himself with indignation. “Are you insulting me?” he demanded. “You have turned down the finest horses in all Armorica and you now ask me to buy this horse, which seems in the last days of its life.”
N’oun Doaré shook his head. “No my father. This is no insult to you, and one day I shall prove it. Please buy it for me. I will have no other than this gentle beast.”
He could not explain to his father that he felt a curious compulsion to be the owner of this ancient horse.
Bras stared at his adopted son and saw the determination in the young man’s eyes and sighed. Bras turned to the man who was leading the horse and then frowned. “Do you also sell scrap metal?” he demanded suspiciously.
The man kept his head lowered, but a low laugh came from his cowl. “No, sir. I sell no scrap.”
Bras sniffed in disapproval. “How much do you want for this animal? Whatever it is, it will be too much.”
“Too much, sir? Why, all I ask is your hand in token of the goodwill of a generous chieftain.”
Bras was so surprised that he handed the man a silver coin as well. “You cannot live on a handshake,” he said, “so this will provide you with a meal.”
As he turned away, the man with the cowl caught hold of N’oun Doaré’s sleeve and whispered: “See the knots on the mare’s halter, young sir?”
N’oun Doaré nodded. “I do,” he replied.
“Each time you untie one of those knots, the mare will transport you wherever you wish to go. It is a magic steed.”
Now N’oun Doaré felt he could not impart that news to Bras, who was now heading along the road to his castle, muttering under his breath about the bad day at the market. N’oun Doaré returned to the castle of Bras with a smile and full of excitement.
On arriving back at the fortress of Bras, N’oun Doaré took the mare into the stable and rubbed her down and fed her. Then he took his sword into the smithy and, with the smith’s permission, set to work polishing and sharpening his sword. But as hard as he tried to get the rust off by polishing hard, the more the rust clung to its iron blade. By the end of several hours, it was no cleaner than before. Yet N’oun Doaré still felt his desire to keep the weapon.
That evening, N’oun Doaré decided to try out his new horse, saddled the mare and rode off. The horse, in spite of its thinness and ancient look, was nimble and he enjoyed a swift canter along the lanes surrounding the fortress. As chance would have it, he came along the very road where he had been found as a child. Because of his enjoyment of his ride, he had forgotten the time and the hour had grown late. The moon had already risen in a cloudless sky. The pale white rays were glinting on something at the foot of an old standing stone. Had he known it, it was near the very spot where Bras and his servant had found him.
The young man dismounted and approached the stone. At the foot of the stone, the object that was causing the winking reflection was a small golden crown, which was studded with precious stones. He realized, to his surprise, that it was not just the moonlight which caused it to give out a radiance, but the very precious stones themselves shone and gave out such a light that he could see by it.
“Finders keepers,” N’oun Doaré muttered, bending down to pick up the crown. He was certainly not going to leave the crown just lying there.
“Have a care, or you will regret it,” came a soft feminine voice.
He wheeled round. He could see no one else in the moonlight, apart from his mare. He examined the bushes and behind the standing stone, but to no avail. With a sigh of bewilderment, he stood for a moment, wondering if he had imagined it. Having decided that he had, he bent down and picked up the golden crown. He saw that there was some writing on the golden band of the crown, but it was in a language which he could not read. He tried vainly to make a sense of the jumbled words.
“Have a care, or you will regret it,” came the soft feminine voice again.
Once again, he tried to find the owner of the voice and once more he saw no one near the standing stone.
This time he hid the gold crown beneath his cloak. “The decision is now yours,” came the whispering voice, for the third time. “Tomorrow you must proceed to Vannes.”
Having searched thoroughly again and found no one, N’oun Doaré sat and thought a while. Now Vannes was far to the south-east from Coat-Squiriou and was a journey of many days. But he suddenly remembered what the vendor of the mare had told him.
The following morning, he told Bras and Anvab that he was going away for a few days. They questioned him about this sudden decision but he said that he would not be gone long.
He put on his best clothes, strapped on his sword and saddled his mare.
As soon as he was out of sight of the fortress, he bent forward and undid one of the knots on the halter. Nothing happened. He frowned. The mare stood waiting patiently. Then an idea occurred to him. He leant forward and whispered: “Vannes.”
There was a sudden gust of wind and he blinked. He opened his eyes a moment later and found himself in the centre of a city. He did not have to be told that he was in the square of the city of Vannes.
He rode to the great palace which dominated the town, where the King of the Veneti dwelt, and peered up at its magnificent walls and the silken banners which fluttered from its turrets.
“Hey! you there!”
A harsh voice hailed him and he turned to see a couple of warriors staring at him. With them was a handsome man, some years older than he was. This man was well dressed and carried a splendid sword.
“Do you address me, sir?” asked N’oun Doaré, courteously enough.
“Yes. Why are you staring up at my palace walls? Are you planning to rob me?”
N’oun Doaré’s eyes widened. “Your palace? Are you the king?”
“I am Gwion, king of the Veneti,” acknowledged the handsome man.
N’oun Doaré introduced himself.
Gwion smiled and came forward with open arms, for he knew Bras and Anvab and he had heard of their adopted son. He offered the hospitality of his great castle to N’oun Doaré and feasted him. After the feast, the king offered him the use of a guest chamber for the night. But then he told him not to light any candles there during the night, for he had forbidden any lights at all to be seen in Vannes during the night, for it was rumoured that fierce Saxon pirates were roaming the coast, looking for places to raid.
Now the fact was that, in the dark, the jewels of the crown that N’oun Doaré had with him shone with such intensity that whatever the young man did, he could not disguise the light.
King Gwion’s servants saw the light and raised an alarm. N’oun Doaré was seized and dragged before Gwion, who demanded to know whether he was a spy for the Saxons. He had been told not to show a light and he had been found doing so. Was he signalling the Saxon pirates?
The young man had to admit that he possessed a crown which shone with a bright light.
Now, when the king was given the crown it certainly sparkled but the light which had caused the trouble was extinguished. Gwion was suspicious. However, when he handed the crown to N’oun Doaré, it started to shine with a radiance which caused him to blink. Gwion now accused the young man of sorcery. But it was soon discovered that the crown shone in the hands of everyone except the king of Vannes.
So Gwion now called all the learned men and alchemists in his land to come and tell him the meaning of this strange phenomenon and also to decipher the words on the crown.
Meanwhile, in case there might be some trick in it, N’oun Doaré was kept in a dungeon in the palace.
No one could make head nor tail of the radiant crown nor of its writing.
N’oun Doaré was finally sent for.
Once more, he confessed he did not know. Gwion grew impatient and told his servants to take him to the stables and make him clean them out.
“You’ll work at every menial job in the palace until you tell me the meaning of the crown,” snapped the king.
Alone in the stables, N’oun Doaré sat on an upturned bucket in despair.
“I’ll tell you the meaning of the words,” a husky female voice whispered.
N’oun Doaré turned round sharply, but he was alone in the stable except for the horses, including his old mare. Puzzled the young man searched out every stall. Then, feeling like an idiot he called, “Tell me the meaning of the crown.”
At once came the husky reply. “The crown belongs to Aour, the beautiful Princess of the Golden-Ram who dwells on the southern islands.”
“I don’t know who you are, but thanks. You may have saved my life.” N’oun Doaré was a courteous young man. With this he called for the guards and demanded to see King Gwion.
However, when he explained the meaning to King Gwion, the king of Vannes told him: “This is a sign. You must go and bring me the Princess of the Golden-Ram, for if she is as beautiful as her crown, she must become my wife. If you fail in this, I shall have your life in forfeit. Do not try to hide, if you fail in this task. If you do, I shall march an army into Léon and devastate the lands of Coat-Squiriou and the lives of your adopted parents shall be forfeit instead.”
Aghast, N’oun Doaré packed his clothes, took his sword and went down to the stable. Gwion had given him oats for his horse and some money to help pay for his journey. But the price of failure was a grim one. He was fearful, for he did not know where the southern islands were, nor who the Princess of the Golden-Ram was. He had merely repeated what the mysterious voice had said.
He went to saddle his old mare and the anxiety was engraved in his features.
“Do not worry,” came the husky tones again. “If you do everything exactly as I tell you, then all will be well. Trust me. Didn’t I warn you that if you picked up that crown at the pillar stone, you would regret it? You had free choice then. Now, from the moment you picked it up, you have to follow your destiny.”
Peering round anxiously, N’oun Doaré said: “I will obey you. But who are you? I do not see you.”
“Who I am is irrelevant.”
Then it was that N’oun Doaré realized that it was the old mare who was speaking in a human voice, and he grew afraid.
The horse stamped a foreleg. “Do not be silly! If you want to travel through life, you will see more frightening things than an old mare being able to imitate human speech.”
N’oun Doaré felt rather ashamed at his fear, and realized that the old mare had helped him so far. She had done him no harm.
The mare instructed him to mount up and they set out from the city of Vannes riding along the seashore.
They had not gone far when N’oun Doaré suddenly saw a fish on the sand, flapping about. It had obviously been stranded by a sudden ebbing tide and now lay dying above the water line. It was a sea trout.
“Quickly!” whispered the mare. “Dismount and put the fish back into the water.”
N’oun Doaré was about to protest but thought better of it. He slid off the mare and picked up the fish carefully and placed it back into the water.
A moment later, the fish’s head appeared and a high-pitched voice said: “You have saved my life, N’oun Doaré. I am the King of the Fish and if you ever need my help, you have only to call me by the seaside and I will come at once.”
Then it dived back into the water and disappeared.
Amazed by the experience, N’oun Doaré remounted his mare and continued on.
Not long afterwards, he heard a frantic flapping of wings and saw a wooden crate which had been used as a snare, for in it was a large bird. It was a giant kestrel.
“Release that bird at once!” instructed the mare.
This time N’oun Doaré obeyed the horse immediately.
Released, the bird hopped forward and flapped its wings and then put its head to one side and spoke clearly: “You have saved me, N’oun Doaré. For that I thank you. I am the King of the Birds. If ever I or mine can return you this favour, then you have only to call into the air and I will come at once.”
They reached the end of the seashore and the mare instructed him to untie another of the knots in her mane and wish that he were outside the Castle of the Golden-Ram.
There was a breath of wind and it seemed that seas, mountains, rivers and islands flashed away beneath them, but then they were in a forest clearing before a towering castle built of dark granite blocks and looking gloomy and forbidding. Outside the sinister gates there stood a great oak tree, from which there was a horrendous clamour emanating.
A man was chained to the tree, crying and struggling and causing the horrible noise.
When N’oun Doaré looked closely at the man, he grew very frightened. The man had a serpent-like body, speckled like the body of a snake. There were two horns standing out on his head and his red tongue was long and lashed from his mouth like the tongue of a serpent.
“Unchain him and set him free,” instructed the mare.
N’oun Doaré shook his head. “I am afraid to go near such a terrifying thing . . . why, it is not a man at all.”
The mare stamped her hoof again. “Don’t be afraid! He won’t harm you. Do as I say.”
Reluctantly, the young man moved cautiously forward towards the shrieking apparition.
The beast-thing growled and struggled, but made no move to harm him.
N’oun Doaré unchained the serpent-man and set him free. The thing sprang away and then wheeled round to face him. But there was no hostility in the action.
“Thank you, N’oun Doaré. I am Griffescornu, King of the Demons. I’ll return this favour. If ever you need help, shriek my name on the night wind and I’ll come straight away.”
Then he was gone in a flash of smoke and the smell of brimstone pervaded the air.
Shaken, N’oun Doaré turned back to his mare. “What now?” he demanded.
“Now, I shall go and refresh myself in that green field by those woods. You will go to the castle and demand to speak with its mistress, Aour, the Princess of the Golden-Ram. Do not take ‘no’ for an answer. She will welcome you and try to delay you by showing you all kinds of wondrous things. Ignore them and tell her that you have a mare at pasture in the field by the wood. Invite her to come to see it, for it knows all the dances of the five kingdoms of Armorica and it will perform them for her. Stress that only you can make the mare do this.”
N’oun Doaré was about to turn away to the castle door when the old mare stayed him. “One thing you should know. The keeper to the gate of the castle will open it for you. Do not go in at his invitation. He is a Druid and will, by magic, turn you into one of the fearsome beasts they keep locked within the castle rooms.”
N’oun Doaré was surprised and not a little fearful. “What must I do?”
“The old iron sword that you have – it says that it is invincible. And iron is pure and invincible over the forces of darkness. As soon as he opens the door, you must pierce him through the heart and he will vanish to the Otherworld.”
N’oun Doaré went to turn away again. “A moment more,” cried the old mare. “The Druid has a son, just as evil as he. You must also slay him, but do not look into his eyes or you will be finished.”
“Better that I never undertook this task,” muttered N’oun Doaré. “It seems that I shall not survive.”
The old mare stamped her foot impatiently. “Did I not warn you about the crown? It was your free choice.”
N’oun Doaré sighed in resignation. “You are right. I have brought this upon myself. I will see it through.”
“Then hear me again. Never, never ... set foot over the doorway of the castle until you are freely invited by Aour, the princess. Accept no invitation from any other person in the castle.”
N’oun Doaré made his way to the gates and hammered on them with his sword hilt.
“I wish to speak to Aour, the Princess of the Golden-Ram,” he sa
id, when an elderly silver-haired servant opened the gate.
“Welcome, young sir,” replied the servant. “Come in.” He looked so old and frail, and held a kindly disposition, that for a moment, N’oun Doaré hesitated, thinking the advice of the old mare must be at fault. At the moment he hesitated, he heard a grim chuckle from the old servant and some instinct made him thrust out his rusty iron sword, straight into the old man’s heart.
There was a shriek of terror and N’oun Doaré looked up. The old man had turned into some hideous creature, even more hideous than the King of Demons. An old, leprous man with such malignant eyes, with open sores across his features.
He stood for a moment and then – vanished. His wailing shriek remained a long time after him.
N’oun Doaré saw, to his surprise, that his rusty old sword was shining like bright silver, where he had thrust it into the old man’s torso.
He waited for a moment, but there was no sound at all within the castle.
He was about to enter through the open door when the old mare’s warning came to his mind. He knocked again with his sword hilt.
A young man suddenly appeared before him. He was youthful and as handsome as any he had seen.
“Forgive me, stranger. I was sure that my father had come to open the door. I am sorry for the delay. But do not stand there: come in and tell me what it is you want.”
“I want to see Aour, the Princess of the Golden-Ram,” said N’oun Doaré, without stepping over the threshold. He glanced at the young man and suddenly went cold with apprehension.
Dark malignant hypnotic eyes clawed at him. He felt himself being propelled across the threshold towards the interior of the castle.
He was helpless.
Then a sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair. The young man blinked as the wind caused a speck of dust to blow into his face. N’oun Doaré dropped his gaze immediately and thrust forward with his sword, with all his might behind that thrust.
There was a scream of anguish and, as abruptly as the elderly servant had vanished, this young man also vanished.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 54