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.
After a month’s nursing his wound was completely healed. The hair over the scar between his ears and withers had grown back in a broad white stripe like a badger’s blaze. He was docile but far from tame, and now uneasily wore a collar and lead of plaited rushes, which Hywelis held as she palely watched the gate and then the door. She was watching for Owen.
There had been no more revelling since that night a month ago when she had seen into her own desires and, so she fancied, into his. She had fashioned a part for him to play and words for him to say, and was amazed to find a bare and silent stage. He knew, and he cared, she told herself as the first day wore on. She knew that he had gone hunting with other young men of the manor, he was waiting till nightfall to seek her out. But she deluded herself, then and during the following month. She saw him at mealtimes, she put herself in his way. He examined Madog and admired her nursing skill. But she could never hinder him for more than a moment.
She had never troubled before over what he did. Now he was precious to her and his every absence was a target for jealous longing or anxiety. She feared for him; there could be the eagle’s mate, waiting to strike out his eyes. She wandered the valley as before, her wild spirit diminished. She no longer wore her careless gowns, but sought conformity in the wardrobe of Cathryn, the Lord’s dead daughter, as if looking for a clue to bring Owen near. The summer was in full, the grasses bleached, and at night tides of moonlight drenched the valley. Everywhere were meadow-scents and the shout of birds, and she felt that such a summer would never come again. She set to feeble ploys to gain Owen’s notice, polishing the yet unused half-armour which the Lord had given him. She spent hours alone in the clearing where they had met the eagle. He seemed more distant daily, riding out armed with springald and dagger, returning late with a bounty of game.
She sought the help of powerful deities, particularly the love-goddess, Drwynwen of Anglesey, Owen’s birthplace. Come to her he must, for she had not imagined that swordlike look of light, the night of his singing. Yesterday she had gone to the banks of the Dee in a vague hope of invoking Aerfen, although she was primarily a martial spirit, demanding three yearly human sacrifices so that Wales should conquer England. Hywelis was not confident, for the Lord had been heard to remark that sacrifices or no sacrifices, the goddess was dead. She stepped through the reeds and saw the bard standing among the kingcups. He had been washing his beard in the river, a practice he believed gave him inspiration. He looked severely at Hywelis as she came.
‘In my young day,’ he said, ‘women kept within hall and served the hearthstone. They did not moon for things not for them.’
‘Things?’ said Hywelis.
‘Persons, then. My sisters walked with eyes down. If they sighed, they were beaten. They had discipline.’ He blinked at Hywelis, watching her colour deepen.
‘But what have I done?’ she cried, half in fury.
‘Sighed. Mooned. Looked. Wished. I know you, lady. You pursue that youth, without shame.’
‘You know nothing,’ said Hywelis tartly. ‘I have said nothing to … to Owen.’ The bard laughed unprettily, combing his beard with his fingers.
‘His name heats your blood! You’ll have none of him. Maybe he’s the last to know. His mind’s on other things. He has a pretty voice,’ he said with rancour, ‘and soon it will be singing a French air, or I’ll cut off my whiskers.’ He w
ent on combing.
There was that talk of France again with which Owen had himself mystified her. It was hopeless to probe the bard, he was in a maddening, obstructive mood, and full of jealousy both of Owen’s prowess as a bard and of herself, so high in the Lord’s favour. She sat down. The river foamed and steadied into a broad lake before sliding over a ridge and whitening to a torrent. The water shone like the ray of light from Owen’s eyes to hers, and she caught at the only comforting memory: the press of his thigh against hers at the table, his murmuring of her name. I was not mistaken. Our lives are linked. It is as clear and vital as the corpse-candles around lolo Goch. He is mine, and the eagle was a sacrifice to whatever shall be between us.
‘Do not displease the Lord,’ said Gruffydd Llwyd. ‘Remember the legend; it was plain enough.’
‘The giant must die? Then am I never to marry?’
‘There are marriages and marriages,’ he said. ‘You will have no marriage from Owen ap Meredyth. Your purpose is designed, and you know it as well as I.’
‘I am Glyn Dwr’s prophet. So long as I am pure.’
‘You are his breath, his eyes, his hope.’
She pulled brutally at a clump of reeds. ‘Did you intend to meet me here?’
‘I see you. Full of envy, I am.’
‘Because the Lord loves me? I am his daughter.’
‘Because,’ he said, his voice suddenly tragic, ‘you have the power I lack. All these years I have pretended I was like lolo, or Taliesin, with the foresight of all the great ones who sleep. I am only a rhymer. But you! Had I been born with your might! I would have bored a window in my head to achieve it, as the old seers did. Now you would thrust that power from you, for a moonish whim. Anyone can love, Hywelis. Few can see.’
‘And my marriage?’
Gentle now, he came and sat and took her hand, his beard spread in hay-coloured wisps over his narrow chest. He looked older than his years, and sad.
‘Marriage to God, in your father’s name, and in the name of God the Father. Do you recall the words of the anchorite of Llanddewibrefi, who had the vision of Christ? That holy face so pure and radiant as no earthly or heavenly creature could be compared thereto …’
‘The Lord wants me to become an anchorite! Living lonely in a cave, visited for visions of death? How do conquest and mutilation keep tune with your lovely song? I love Glyn Dwr, and serve him. I am bound to him—’ she touched the golden torque about her neck—‘but I am likewise bound to Owen.’ And then: ‘I had hoped you might help me, Gruffydd Llwyd.’
‘I?’
‘I can’t speak to Owen myself But if—if a message, a poem for preference, could be given in my name, then he would know and could answer me with a fable, next time he sings in hall. Could you… ?’
The bard fell into a fury.
‘You wish me to be a llatai? Play Pandarus to your whim? Run like a slave to that ambitious whelp who would like to supersede me in my calling and isn’t even a member of the guild? Never! Insult!’ He wound his beard about his fingers, tangling it dreadfully.
‘I only wanted him to know,’ said Hywelis.
‘Then tell him yourself!’ The bard scrambled up the bank, splashing himself with mud.
‘Dafydd ap Gwilym would have done it!’ she screamed after him. ‘The Nightingale was kind and loved lovers. He had a heart!’ It was the most hurting thing she could think of and whether he heard her or not she was unsure, but he waved both hands in the air and ran dementedly towards the manor. They had not spoken since.
Now, a yap from Madog roused her abruptly. He had sprung up and was looking towards the opening door at the top of the stone stairs. Cafall was growling hoarsely. Three figures appeared; a dark man with a black eye-patch, and, making first for the steps, a taller one, wearing a mantle the folds of which swirled open to reveal the royal arms of England. The Lord and Cafall stood behind them. Glyn Dwr’s arms were folded on his chest. His voice was so cold, so exact, that every word carried across the courtyard. He was addressing the dark man but his eyes were set on the King’s courier and the fury in them made him stumble on the stair.
‘Kinsman, tell this knight,’ said the Lord, ‘in his own loathly tongue, that I reject every word!’
The man with the eye-patch turned and spoke in English to the courier, who answered briefly. Hywelis leaned to listen and Megan came from the bakehouse, saying with a smile:
‘He is very angry! Glyn Dwr can speak English, and French, as well as many. Didn’t he teach young Owen ap Meredyth …?’
Hywelis’s heart jumped, but she still listened; the interpreter was speaking again.
‘Kinsman, he is only relaying his sovereign’s desires. King Henry the Fifth promises pardon to all rebels if you will send young men to join battle in his name my view, Owain, it’s …’
‘Davydd ap Llewellyn ap Hywel; Davydd Gam!’ said the Lord formally. ‘You are my brother-in-law. We are bound. But your view combats my own. I desire no amnesty, I have no interest in battles, save they be between Wales and Y Sarff Cadwinog! Has this young king forgotten we are still rebels? Why does he ask for my fledgeling warriors? Are his own armies so punny? Tell him no, and no.’
Cafall still growled. Saliva dripped from his naked jaws. Davydd Gam said to the courier: ‘You are answered.’
‘My King will be disappointed. He is good and great, more beloved than his father. Tell the Lord a new era begins. King Hal will make England rich. Wales should share in the booty.’
‘Let him depart!’ said Glyn Dwr; bitter with frustration. The old dog groused at his side. The courier pulled his mantle about him and lunged away down the steps. He muttered: ‘Madman!’ By now others had come into the courtyard from the stable and armoury and stillroom and a little hiss of malediction arose. An urchin skimmed a stone towards the courier as he mounted his horse and rode through the outer gate.
The Lord withdrew, crashing the door shut behind him, and Megan chivvied her boys back into the bakehouse. Hywelis turned to speak to someone who had come to stand beside her. It was Owen. He had ridden in not a minute ago. By the gate his pony was at the water trough, and his friends, with their hounds, were unloading a dead deer from muleback. Owen’s clothes were damp with rain, his sleeves streaked with grass and foam where his mount had rubbed its head. His hair was tangled and he smelled of summer. His eyes were lit to raw honey flecked with darker gold, as he stood in a shaft of light. Then the sun was covered by a new rain-cloud and they were blue again. Hywelis felt, as if in her own body, the agitation of his heart, pounding so that she could hardly hear his voice, asking her a question.
‘Hywelis!’ Impatient, amused. ‘Are you asleep?’ Then: ‘Tell me quickly. You saw and heard. I must know …’
‘Tell you?’ she said faintly.
‘Duw!’ Exasperated now, he moved closer, looking down at her from the little difference in their height. ‘The courier—the King’s man. We met him riding away, but he didn’t stop. How did the Lord decide?’
Owen, you are here, she thought. This time you do not greet me with a pleasantry and go. Ah, Owen, Culhwch, my knight! And in her mind he replied: ‘Hywelis, Olwen, I have come to take you through the world on the shell-hooved horse, with the swords of silver and gold. We are one for ever …’
‘If you don’t tell me, Hywelis, I shall ask Megan,’ he said and the dream-conversation fragmented as she became conscious that his lips were white with annoyance and it was raining again. ‘I asked you what dealings the Lord had with the King’s man. It’s important to me.’
She said, hastily obedient: ‘My father declared that King Henry must have only puny armies if he wished to enlist untrained donzels of Glyn Dwr. He refused the offered amnesty, and swore that none of his house should go to France under the English banner. He all but threw the courier down the steps.’
He cried out with an oath. ‘Diawl! Then it’s hopeless. I rode back so fast, I thought to find the old days forgotten …’
Amazed, she said
softly: ‘How can they be forgotten?’ He did not hear her.
‘I am so disappointed,’ he said. She peered up at him where the tawny lashes almost met over the brightness, and saw the brightness spilling out in tears. Pain laced itself about her heart. She thought: he must hate me for my witness of this. She looked away to where Megan stood in the bakehouse doorway, then to where the boys were dismembering the slain deer. She said: ‘Why are you so mad to lose your life in battle?’ and instantly there came to her a true, unassailable vision. Owen, you will live to be a very old man. And always mine, now and at the day of your death. You will fight unvanquished, until one day … The sight and knowledge surged about her, terrifying. She clutched the solid wall behind her. There were times when the merging- of present and future was too much to bear. She felt his arm about her.
‘What is it, Hywelis?’ His breath was warm on her cheek.
‘Only that I love you.’
He showed no surprise. He held her, while the drenched courtyard gleamed again under sunshine, while the wicked past, the treacherous present, the giddy future spun in a whirl of elation, because she had spoken truth to him; and now it seemed they could talk together as she had willed it. He bent to her, listening, answering softly.
‘I never knew you were such a warrior,’ she said.
‘Yes, you did. You must remember how I cursed and cried—a whelp—because I was too young to fight at Bryn Glas, at Grosmont! Because I was too young to attend the Lord’s great Parliament at Machynlleth, which was spawned from his ambition … How far back do you remember, girl?’
Crown in Candlelight Page 10