From Across the Ancient Waters- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  Beautiful, perhaps, it would not be called by some, but wild certainly … big, high, even magnificent. If rugged starkness possessed an allure not found either in city street or tidy countryside, that appeal might explain why the ancient race of Brythonic Celts, now known as the Welsh, had made their home here. He supposed the area through which he now rode was like the highlands of his native Scotland. But in his two or three sojourns up Scotland’s western coast with his parents, he had never paid much attention to the scenery.

  At present grass grew under his mount’s four iron shoes. Upward ahead in the distance, however, stone seemed the chief characteristic of the landscape, here black, there containing reddish hues, but mostly gray. He continued to make his way through low-growing shrubbery and a few small woods. The highest ridges ahead, however, were so rocky as to appear mostly bare.

  Several peaks loomed rather than towered in the distance. They were not of particularly great height, though remnants of snow could yet be seen on one or two. The topography rose steadily eastward from the sea into the northern reaches of the Cambrian Mountains, of which Percy could now see the summits of Rhinog Fawr, Yllethr, and Diffwys stretched out as in a line some four or five miles inland. The lower slope of Moelfre was nearer at hand and partially obscured the latter. Blue billows of clouds drifted lazily in the blue expanse overhead.

  It was altogether a lovely summer’s day for a ride. Had Percy Drummond been more a friend of nature, he would have derived immense pleasure from it. If the truth were known, he was actually enjoying himself more than he was likely to admit. He was more than a little proud of himself for holding his seat for so long as well as he had. The spectacular grandeur about him could not help but prick certain hidden regions of soul to which it was designed to speak.

  Northward out of sight from here, the range of inland peaks rose amid craggy precipices and high-notched passes through the range to its highest point, Wyddfa, “nesting place of the eagles,” known in English as Mount Snowdon. The treeless granite gray peak from which the region took its name overlooked the whole of North Wales. It was the highest summit in Britain south of the Scottish highlands, second only to Ben Nevis, with which it shared an uncanny likeness.

  Percy found himself riding for some time along a trail that gradually and circuitously ascended upward and northeastward. Whether it was actually a trail or not, the horse followed it on her own. Cresting a small rise, he heard the tinkling of bells.

  A moment later, a rambunctious flock of sheep suddenly appeared nearly upon him, scrambling and bleeting their way along the ridge. Seconds later Percy found himself in the middle of a tumultuous sea of white. Neither horse nor sheep paid the other heed, though the mare paused while the little white balls of wool passed, scurrying and baaing around her feet.

  A stocky lad followed behind the flock, a black and white sheepdog at his side. “Prynhawn da,” he said as he came near. “Sut mae?”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Percy with a confused expression. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  “Then ‘tis I who should be apologizing,” said the boy with a smile. “I said good afternoon to you. Fine day for a ride, it is.”

  “Yes—thank you. I had no idea anyone else was nearby,” said Percy. “I must admit you startled me. I’m not too good on a horse.”

  “Looks to me you are doing right fine. I shall get my sheep out of your path as quickly as I can.”

  He cried out in the strangest voice Percy had ever heard, uttering some unintelligible mixture of command and singing chant. Whatever its meaning, the animals all understood the ancient Welsh tongue. The sheep burst into a frenzy of motion, scooting along at suddenly doubled speed. The dog leaped eagerly into action and scampered about at their heels with sudden frenetic urgency.

  Percy took the young shepherd for several years older than himself, though he was in truth seventeen. His stout frame was not as tall as Percy’s, yet broad and muscular. The brown, leathery skin of face and arms, from constant exposure to the harsh coastal elements, gave an appearance of age beyond his years.

  “The name’s Stevie Muir,” the boy said. “I live over the hill there.” He pointed behind him.

  “I am Percy Drummond,” said Percy.

  “New to Llanfryniog?”

  “Visiting,” answered Percy.

  “Da. Then let me say ‘Croeso i Cymru’ to you!”

  Confusion on Percy’s face was his only answer.

  “‘Welcome to Wales,’ in your tongue.”

  “Thank you,” nodded Percy.

  “I best be on my way.” The boy called Stevie laughed. “My little flock is already leaving me behind!” He broke into a jog to catch them, whistled once, then turned. “You’d be welcome for a visit anytime,” he called back. “We’re over the rise there, in the little crook of the next valley … a little stone cottage.”

  “Thank you,” said Percy.

  Stevie waved then turned and hurried after his sheep.

  Percy resumed his ride in the same direction. A short distance farther up the gently rising slope, he paused and turned around in the saddle to take stock of where he had come. Whatever might be the horse’s condition, his own hindquarters were sore. He would gladly have dismounted and walked awhile. He was not at all confident, however, that he would be able to get back up on the mare by himself.

  Spread out below him, at a distance now of perhaps two miles, stretched the coastline. Between the ocean and himself sat his uncle’s imposing stone mansion of Westbrooke Manor from which he had come. The eight-foot-tall stone-block wall of the boundary of the estate meandered across moor and through field, into woodland, and a good way up this same slope and out of sight, in a great circumference of four or five miles surrounding the great house. From this distance the estate did not appear so huge. In truth, however, the viscount’s property measured in the thousands of acres. Only a portion of it lay enclosed by the high stone wall in the immediate vicinity of the manor.

  Lord Snowdon owned most of the village of Llanfryniog as well, and nearly all its cottages and the poor homes Percy saw scattered about the moorland and into the hills. His tenants paid him, through his factor, semiannual rents. Though they could at times prove difficult to bear, they were not so crippling as they might have been. His people considered the viscount a reasonable man, though generally stern and aloof. Most harbored no reason either to love or hate him. That they did not tremble when they saw his factor approach on horseback was a good sign. Though neither did they smile.

  The sea today offered the beholder intriguing shades of blue and green. From the high vantage point of his ride, the white stretch of sandy beach below the bluff straight ahead of him was obscured from Percy’s view by the cliff edge. Farther to the right, however, the sand surrounding Llanfryniog inlet, at the southern extremity of which the body had been found, and the slate roofs of the village beside it, glistened in the westerly afternoon sun. Sails of a few fishing boats from the harbor dotted the surface of Tremadog Bay, as the waters were known between Point Mochras and the peninsula of Lleyn, faintly visible at a distance of some fourteen to sixteen miles to the west. Northward from Percy’s outlook, the spires from another great country house, constructed of more reddish-looking stones and appearing like a castle from this height, rose above the coastal moorland.

  As he gazed about him, Percy realized that he had come a good distance. He had better return down the slopes. If he wanted to know more about these hills, he would find out another time. He had already ridden farther than he intended.

  He urged his mount on. Perhaps the mare now sensed the direction he wished to go, for she veered to the left and they began a descent, where they would circle around and return to the estate by the front gate. He decided that Grey Tide was the horse of choice for him. She seemed to know that he trusted in her.

  14

  Nosegay from a Tiny Friend

  Another hour passed as the lone rider from Glasgow made his way out of the hill
s on a course roughly southwest. His route brought him below the estate on the wide moorland plateau overlooking Mochras Point as it sloped down to the inlet and village. Feeling relatively at ease in the saddle by now, though tired, he even urged Grey Tide into an occasional light trot for a few moments.

  Mostly occupied with the ground in front of him, he glanced up to see a small girl a hundred yards ahead walking casually toward him. With seemingly aimless step, she was apparently on her way to nowhere. She stooped to the ground every now and then. As he drew close, she glanced up, stopped, beheld him steadily as he came toward her, then shielded her eyes from the sun and smiled.

  “H–h–hello,” she said sweetly, stuttering as she spoke. She did not seem embarrassed by the fact.

  Percy reined in and looked down from his high perch. “Good afternoon to you,” he said, returning her smile. He did not realize it, but it was the first intentional smile he had sent in the direction of another human being in a long while. That of the girl, along with the wide trusting gaze of her deep azure eyes, was so infectious there was nothing to do but return it.

  “W–w–what are you doing riding G–G–Grey Tide?” the girl asked, patting the horse’s wide stomach without hint of fear.

  “You know this horse, do you?”

  “I know all the horses at the m–manor.”

  “Do you indeed! Why is that?”

  “Because I love horses. I love all animals.”

  “Do you live at the manor?”

  “No,” replied the girl. “I live over there.” She pointed behind her, but Percy could see nothing. “That is where I have my animals,” she added, turning back toward him.

  “Do you have horses?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I did. M–m–most of my friends are smaller. But why are you riding one of Lady Florilyn’s favorite horses?” she asked.

  “I am her cousin.”

  “Oh!”

  “I am here to visit for the summer.”

  “From where?”

  “From Glasgow.”

  “That is a b–b–big city, isn’t it? I think I have heard of it.”

  “A very big city,” laughed Percy.

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Have you been to London?” she said. “I want to see London someday.”

  “I am sure you shall,” rejoined Percy. “And Glasgow, too. Perhaps you shall visit me there one day.”

  Her face brightened yet more. “Visit you?” she said.

  “And why not? I am here. Why should you not go there when you are older?”

  “My father is poor. How would I get there?”

  It was a turn in the conversation Percy had not anticipated. He had merely been making conversation. “Those things have a way of working out,” he said breezily, glancing about.

  The girl’s silence brought his gaze once more down to her face. Her wide round blue eyes still stared straight up into his. “Grannie says always greet a stranger with flowers,” she said simply.

  “So—” Percy smiled, in the absence of suitable reply, a streak of wit seizing him—”you consider me a stranger, do you?”

  “I’ve never seen your face before.”

  “Then what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Give you the flowers I picked for you, of course,” replied the girl with an innocent smile. She brought her hand from her side. “Here,” she said, reaching up and handing him a small handful of tiny wildflowers.

  Percy hesitated as he took them. The heart of the sixteen-year-old rebel was suddenly touched by the kindness of the child-stranger. He hardly knew what to say. He hadn’t expected such a response to his attempted humor. The droll smile faded from his mouth as he spoke again.

  “Surely you meant these for someone else?”

  “I picked them for you,” she replied simply, still gazing into his face with wide, innocent eyes. “Now that I have given you flowers, I must know who you are. What is your name, so I shall know whom to ask for when I go to Glasgow?”

  Percy could not help laughing with delight. He hardly even noticed that as she had grown more comfortable talking with him her stuttering had lessened. This girl was absolutely too charming! The fact that he was out in the middle of the countryside, so far from the city where he was accustomed to behaving like a surly youth, brought out of him responses very different even than he would have expected.

  That the girl herself—at one moment so young, at the next seemingly ageless in her innocence—had evoked his laughter and the unexpected feelings that had gone with it was not a fact he paused to consider. As they spoke, their respective ages of thirteen and sixteen—the girl such a child in the eyes of the boy, the boy such a man in the eyes of the girl—did not enter the matrix of either’s consideration. Both could have been fifty; both could have been five.

  “My name is Percival … Percival Drummond, at your service,” replied Percy at length. “My friends call me Percy.”

  “What would you like me to call you, Mr. Drummond?”

  “You must call me Percy. What is your name?”

  “Gwyneth Barrie.”

  “Then, Gwyneth Barrie, I am happy to make your acquaintance.” Clutching the floral gift in his left hand, he bent down from the mare’s back and extended his right as far toward her as he could.

  She reached up and placed her tiny palm inside his and shook it.

  Percy pulled away his hand, sat back upright, and looked for a moment at the humble bouquet. Again the thoughtful mood swept over him. “But … why did you pick these for me?” he said.

  “I saw you coming,” replied the girl.

  “You didn’t know me when you picked them. Surely you don’t give flowers to every stranger you pass.”

  “Only those who are going to become my friends.”

  “You knew that about me?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw on your face the look of a friend. So I picked them for you as you rode toward me.”

  Percy gently lifted the tiny nosegay to his nostrils. He breathed in of the earthy fragrance in which was hidden the faint perfume of something sweet. When he looked up, already the girl had left him and was making her way up the hillside.

  Percy stared after her then turned around in the saddle with a mysterious smile of question on his lips and slowly continued on his way.

  15

  Cardiff

  I tell you I’ve seen it with me own two eyes!” said a raspy voice.

  The candle in the center of the table between the two men danced on the hard-bitten, deep-chiseled miner’s face. The light revealed eyes nervously in motion lest unwanted ears venture too close.

  “Maybe you have, and maybe you haven’t,” said the other. His tone was calm and measured. “But I pay nothing without seeing it with my own two eyes.”

  The corner of the darkened pub fell silent. The man who had just spoken, his accent betraying that he was no native to this region, sat doing his best to swallow his annoyance. The other, whose accent was barely intelligible to his ears, took a long swallow from the tall mug in front of him. The Englishman had come here to make what he understood was a simple arrangement with a longtime Welsh coal miner of greater cunning than most of his fellows gave him credit for. The man was said to possess information his employer had been seeking. He had not been told the fellow was an opportunist and shyster as well.

  Most of the business conducted within the buildings, offices, and storefronts of Bute Street in the burgeoning Welsh city across the channel from Bristol at the mouth of the River Severn had to do with one of two things—coal or shipping. This port, which at the beginning of the nineteenth century had been little more than a township, had grown rapidly with the industrial nation’s hunger for coal. Cardiff was well on its way to becoming a great metropolis and seaport. It sent around the world that valuable black commodity from the nearby mines which lay in abundance beneath the mountains north of the city. English, Irish, and Scots fl
ooded daily into South Wales, brought here by industry. They were now as numerous in Cardiff as its native Welshmen.

  Neither coal nor shipping, however, was on the minds of the crusty miner or Englishman across from him. The two had been engaged in low conversation in a darkened corner of a cellar pub half a block off the busy Cardiff thoroughfare long enough that the Welshman had downed a pint of dark strong beer and was well begun on a second. With the other paying, he would consume as much as quickly as he was able. It was not the sort of establishment in which the Englishman felt altogether comfortable. He had heard stories about Cardiff that did not put him at ease. But he had been told he would find the man here. He hoped the information he possessed would make it worth his employer’s while.

  “And see it you shall,” the miner said, “but it’s far to the north, in that part of Wales called Snowdonia. I won’t take you there without five crown up front. Then it’ll be fifty quid more when your own eyes flash at the sight.”

  “They told me you were a thief, Bagge,” said the Englishman. “Now I believe them. But you’ll not get a brass farthing from me without some kind of proof.”

  The miner smiled, if such it could be called. Though he had scarcely enough teeth left to make much use of, his lips parted in devious delight. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. A Cardi was known for having short arms and deep pockets, and this old-timer took the Englishman’s comment as the highest form of praise. To outwit an Englishman in any financial transaction represented the ultimate triumph.

  The man called Foulis Bagge brought a dirty hand to his chest and patted the outside of a ragged grimy coat once or twice with significant expression.

  “Are you telling me you … have proof?” asked the other.

  “Right here,” replied Bagge, patting his coat again.

  “Let me see it.”