The Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi is a complex tale and I have divided it into three stories to make the most of each of the parts. This is a retelling of the first part, adding richer characterisation and contextual details, and so straying a little from the written stories as we were left them. I have named it after the girl who is the cause of the tale rather than a major character in her own right.
The Tale
Math, son of Mathonwy, was a powerful man. With a thick head of chestnut hair that lay over his broad shoulders, with his full beard and strong jaw, it was not only his physical presence but his clear voice of justice that had brought him respect throughout the land. Furthermore, his abilities as a magician were well known, adding to his reputation as a nobleman whom it was wholly unwise to dishonour. Lord of the northern cantrefs of Wales known as Gwynedd, Math had established his court in the western reaches at Arfon, and there he had found peace.
Yet, peace brought with it a complication for Math, though one that had its benefits, for only if his feet lay in the lap of a virgin could Math thrive during times of peace. When the turmoil of war disallowed this need, he was released of it, but this was a time of peace, and the benefit was, at this time, the constant presence of the beautiful young woman at his feet. Her name was Goewin, and she was daughter of Pebin. With long blonde hair and such a delicate face, she shone with the exquisite innocence of a girl as yet untouched, still vibrant with her soul’s freedom, albeit in service to her lord Math.
This unnatural constraint meant that Math could not travel as most men of his rank were required to do, moving from court to court throughout the lands in his domain, assuring allegiances and loyalties, giving blessings and affirming justice. It was Math’s two nephews sons of his sister Dôn, who were given this task. Old enough and yet young enough to believe they knew what the world was made of, these two lads shared some of their mother’s beauty, but little of her grace.
Gilfaethwy was a slim and nervous fellow, compensating for his sensitivity with a quick temper that made it hard to like him, and even harder to trust him. His hair was dark and fine, like his brother’s, his features royally cast, and with such qualities he should have been much loved by women, but he was ignored, for a sourness in his belly soured that beauty.
Gwydion was a stronger soul and, acutely aware of his underlying weakness, he concealed it well with an artful charm. As slim as his brother, he was lithe and sharp-eyed. Unlike Gilfaethwy, however, he had also inherited the magical potential that his uncle had so well honed, and most days he spent as much time whetting those skills as he did his abilities with a blade and bow.
It so happened that fate was to dance cruelly over these brothers, and the first notes of that fateful song were given to Gilfaethwy, for he fell in love with his uncle’s foot maiden, Goewin. The first time he saw her his heart was flooded with fascination, but those feelings quickly developed into an excruciating longing. He hungered for every glimpse of her, ached when he thought of her, alternately pushing her from his mind in need of relief and then chasing the images that so painfully filled his soul. He was desperate when he and his brother were away from his uncle’s court, yet when they returned he was afraid of seeing her. She had barely glanced at him, never showing any sign that she may like him, and every moment she ignored him his soul grew weaker.
At last Gwydion noticed, asking, “Brother, are you unwell?” He shook his head, shaking off the suggestion, “No. Why do you ask?” They were strolling through the stables and Gwydion stopped him, turning to face him, “Because you are pale and have eaten little for a long while. Something sickens you, don’t deny it.”
Gilfaethwy, leaning back against the stable wall, dropped his head into his hands. “There’s no point in telling you. If I speak it aloud, our uncle will hear it, like he hears every little whisper in the wind, and if he comes to know – ” But Gwydion was grinning, shaking his head, dismissing his brother’s anguish in his own amusement, “You’re not?! You’re in love with Goewin! You fool!” “Don’t mock me, brother, the pain is unbearable, the longing like a great gnawing in my belly, slowly killing me!”
Gwydion slapped him on the back, and they carried on walking, past the stables and out towards the ditch that encircled the court. “There’s a solution,” he said, as they stopped again, the highlands of Arfon stretching out before them and down to the seas beyond. “Cheer up, brother. We simply need to provoke a war! A small one will do … ”
When next they sat in the feasting hall with Math at the great table, his feet serene in the lap of young Goewin, Gwydion raised a subject with apparent ease, saying, “Lord, have you heard that in the south there is talk of new creatures? Some call them hobeu, others moch – they are a breed of swine that is more delicious than beef.” Math, listening to the music played by the bard, was barely interested. Gwydion added, “and surely more valuable”.
“Who owns such creatures?” the Lord of Gwynedd asked, turning to his nephew. “Pryderi,” Gwydion replied, “son of Pwyll, and it is said that he was given them by Arawn, the ageless king of Annwn who was friend to his father.”
Math pondered this. Pryderi had extended his father’s realm and was now lord over twenty one cantrefs reaching across the southern lands of Wales, from Dyfed, up through Ystrad Tywi to Ceredigion, and east into Morgannwg. “How do you propose we acquire some?” he asked his nephew, his curiosity provoked. Gwydion had an easy answer: “I shall go myself, with eleven good men, and disguised as poets we can enter his court. Then I shall talk with him.” Math knew how charming the young man could be and he laughed, raising his cup of ale, saying, “I can’t imagine he could refuse you!”
It wasn’t long before the brothers, together with ten other men, were making the long journey through the high mountains and deep valleys, and on towards the softer green hills and meadows of Ceredigion. The last day of the journey, along the banks of the River Teifi, was warm and pleasant, and much laughter was shared, so that when they arrived at Rhuddlan Teifi and stood before Pryderi’s court each one of them was at ease, confident in their task. Disguised, according to their plan, as bards carrying tales in music and verse across the land, they were welcomed and invited to the evening’s feasting. Understood to be a bard of distinction, Gwydion was given the seat beside the lord of that land, and he showed the usual mix of wit and deference expected of his role.
When Pryderi asked that some of the young bards entertain the gathering, Gwydion stood, saying, “It is customary in our land that the chief amongst the poets performs on the first night”. When Pryderi bowed to this custom, Gwydion gave of his best, and he was known to be an extraordinary teller of tales. He regaled the company with stories, long and short, in poetry and prose, accompanied or without the guiding music of his harp, and all at the feast were full of laughter and warmed by the passions that he provoked. Even Pryderi, who had travelled much in his life, was impressed by this young travelling bard.
When at last he sat back down, Gwydion turned to his host and said, “I have a request of you, my lord.” Pryderi nodded, in good humour, saying, “Speak, what is it you are wanting?” And Gwydion breathed in the confidence that shimmered around him. “My lord, I have heard that you are in possession of some unusual swine, gifts from the dark worlds of Annwn.”
Pryderi smiled, but shook his head, “I am sorry, but I can’t part with any of them, at least not yet. For such gifts are important to all within my lands, and I have agreed with the people that I shall part with none until they have bred twice the number that were originally given to us.”
Gwydion’s pause was barely discernible. “I don’t ask you to make a decision tonight, my lord. Tomorrow though, tomorrow I shall make you an offer which I ask you to consider. I am sure it will be worth your while.” In politeness to the bard, Pryderi smiled and agreed.
That night Gwydion shared his plan with his companions, and in the first light of dawn all became clear as the twelve men from the north led into the court twelve beautiful stallions, each wearing a saddle and bridle with fittings of gold, and at their feet scampered twelve beautiful black hounds, each with a breast of pure white, each with a collar and leash of leather that also seemed to be of gold. Added to the hoard, the men carried twelve broad and shimmering shields, these too made of gold.
That the shields had not much earlier been softly growing toadstools, and all the rest similarly crafted out of Gwydion’s magic, was hidden by the glorious confidence of that young magician who strode forward in the guise of the travelling bard. He greeted Pryderi with respect and the other responded with curiosity as he surveyed the hoard of beasts and gold. As Gwydion had expected, Pryderi needed to withdraw to talk with his council, and his heart pounded a little as he wondered how long their talks would continue.
As the day wore past its peak, Pryderi returned with his men, and the deal was agreed. A handful of the precious swine were given in exchange.
Instead of accepting the invitation to join the court in their feasting, however, Gwydion bowed, assuring the men of Ceredigion that they had to move on. And they did, herding the pigs before them, into the evening, heading north as the sun began to set. Though Gilfaethwy complained that they should rest, Gwydion reminded them all that the illusion would work only until dawn the following day: they didn’t have much time to get away.
They travelled slowly, the swine being indignant creatures that appeared to have a loathing for being directed, and days passed as they made it out of Ceredigion, into the hills of Powys and on towards the mountains of Gwynedd, Gwydion clear that they needed to make for the best defended lands that they could find. In Gwynedd they stopped in the highlands of Arllechwedd, and there made a pen to securely hold the swine. From there, the brothers headed on, hurrying to the west now, to their uncle’s court in Arfon. What they came upon was both exhilarating and worrying, for the court was already mustering for war.
“What’s happening?” Gwydion asked one of his uncle’s men. “Have you not heard?,” was the reply, “Pryderi has gathered an army from his twenty one cantrefs and is already moving north to fight.” “Why have you returned so slowly?” another asked them, but they hurried on to find Math. His first words were, “Where are the swine?” Gwydion explained where they’d left them, but the trumpets were blasting, men hurrying, dogs barking, as preparations were made all around them for war. Without further delay, they too armed themselves and joined the march that was heading to the southern borders of Arfon.
Gilfaethwy was increasingly a bag of nerves. He clung to the reasons that justified what they had done: Goewin remained in his soul, like a fire deep within him, burning its empty dark hole of yearning. Yet he was entirely dependent upon his brother, unable to retain the intricate schemes in his mind, and when Gwydion came to him at dusk it was instinct that allowed him to follow his brother’s lead. All he could think about was the possibility that, at last, the aching need might be sated.
Leaving Math and his army, taking the trackways back north, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy crept through the darkness returning to their uncle’s court. The excitement that was seething in both lads was a visceral storm, and as they strode through the court, dogs wildly barking, those who came out to explore the commotion quickly withdraw again: nobody stopped them. Bursting into the hall where the women slept, Gwydion found Goewin. She screamed but he passed her into his brother’s arms, and threw off the other women who rallied to protect her. Gilfaethwy picked up the girl and stumbled out of the hall and into Math’s own chamber, there throwing her down onto his uncle’s bed. Yelling, she scrambled off and slipped past him, only to be held fast by Gwydion. And though she screamed and wriggled, Gwydion smiled calling her a feisty little vixen. When she didn’t stop, and the door flung open with the elder of the women burst in, Gwydion slapped her hard enough to stun her, once more passing her over to his brother. As he grabbed the women and pushed them out, himself standing at the door to stop further disturbance, Gilfaethwy laid the girl on the bed once more. She was beautiful, he thought, like a apricot almost ripe, glowing with vibrancy, tender and sharp to the taste, and the gods of the mountains and the seas rose inside him, overcoming his uncertainty. He laid his hand over her mouth, lifting and tearing her simple night clothes, and he took her maidenhood as she bit into his flesh.
By dawn the brothers were back at Math’s side where his men were debating where and when to face the armies moving towards them from the south. Gwydion was in his element, enthused by the ideas, excited about the battles to come, but Gilfaethwy watched him, feeling empty inside. He wandered away from the gathering, finding a place where he might sit alone and gaze out over sea that spanned the horizon. He felt more alone than ever.
When the armies met, it was terrible, bloody and brutal. The massacre took the lives of as many men from the north as men from the south. Pryderi retreated in order to find strength once more, but Math’s men followed and at Nant Call the slaughter continued, the blood soaking the earth and flowing into the river. Knowing they were defeated there, Pryderi’s men fled further south to Dol Benmaen, and there, seeing what dreadful losses they had sustained, Pryderi sent a messenger to Math asking for peace, offering the sons of noblemen as hostages in his bid to stop the fighting.
Exhausted, devastated, weighing honour against reality as every warrior must, Pryderi had withdrawn to find a few moments alone when word came to him that men of both sides were still killing each other; with the two armies so close, bitter rage was now fuelling the conflict despite the plea for peace. At that, his resolve broke. “Send a message to Math,” he told one of his companions. “I shall fight Gwydion alone. I cannot allow the loss of any more lives.”
When Math and Pryderi met, surrounded by their men, bruised and tired, the sweat and stench of the conflict all around them, Math formally agreed to Pryderi’s request. Gwydion, aching from the battering and wounds he’d already received, lifted his chin and declared that no more shall die but Pryderi or himself. Pryderi nodded, and affirmed, “None shall seek compensation on my behalf”. Math nodded. He saw honour in this man, his equal from the south, but when he looked at his nephew he saw a man too young to know his own truth. He stepped away, as did all others.
The fight between Gwydion and Pryderi was not quick. They were well matched. Though Pryderi was a good deal older and more skilled, Gwydion was stronger and reckless in his youthfulness. What tipped the balance was when Gwydion, in a moment when he feared he would lose, threw an illusion, distracting his opponent, allowing him to cast the fatal blow. Few saw the magic cast but Math, who once again perceived the dying lord to be more honourable than his own nephew. His heart sinking a little further, he said what needed to be said as Pryderi’s men carried him from the field, and he himself backed away.
As the men of the south buried that great man at Maentwrog near Y Felenrhyd, in bitterness and sorrow, the men of the north made their way upon the tracks through Powys to Gwynedd, rejoicing in their victory. But not all was well. Math was quiet and made little effort to speak with his nephews on the journey, and when they were close the lads decided not to come to the court at Arfon, instead continuing on the road, travelling the circuit of forts and courts around their uncle’s domain. There were noble families to thank who had lost sons in the war, there were allegiances to reaffirm after the fighting.
Arriving at his court in Arfon, tired but relieved that once again there was peace, he made his way to his own chamber, sitting down heavily, and called to Goewin who had been his loyal foot maiden. As the girl approached, he could see something was wrong. They had not been away that long, but she was changed. Before he could speak, she bowed and said, “Please, my lord, I am no longer able to serve you. I am now a woman.” Math felt both anger and suspicion rise in his soul. “What do you mean?” he said under his breath. “My lord,” and with tears now falling down her cheeks, she spoke to him from her knees where she sobbed before him, “I was assaulted, quite openly. It is no secret, for many knew what happened, just after you had left to face the men of the south. It was Gwydion and Gilfaethwy, sons of Dôn. I was taken in your chamber, my lord, in your own bed. See how they have shamed you.”
If the girl had been looking into Math’s face as she spoke, she may not have managed so many words, for a violent rage rose in him as it became clear to him all that had happened. Seething with the anger, he rose from his chair and lifted the girl. She was tall and shone with the vulnerability of her battered pride, but she strived to meet Math’s eyes as he spoke. “I shall recompense you for what has been done to you.” No doubt what he said next surprised him as much as any other, but with her tearstained cheeks and the fire in her eyes he had no doubt. “I shall make you my wife, and give you authority over this kingdom.” She stood motionless, taking it in, but he moved right past her heading for the door, his voice lifting in rage as he cried out, “And I shall recompense myself for they have indeed shamed me. Where are my nephews?” Those last words shook the fabric of the entire court.
The lads were not hard to find, but they continued to avoid the court. Math sent out a prohibition upon them so that nobody was lawfully able to give them hospitality. Without food, drink or shelter, it wasn’t long before they knew they had to face their uncle, and so they returned, trudging into the great hall, unwashed, hungry, weary, making their way towards him, accepting defeat.
Gwydion, then Gilfaethwy, bowed and greeted the Lord of Gwynedd, but he had no such greeting for them. Instead he spoke in a low growl, “Have you come to make amends?”
“We are at your will,” they both mumbled.
“If you were truly at my will, I would not have lost so many men, so many weapons, and a man of honour would not have died. Now, according to my will, you shall be punished.”
Taking his wand, he struck Gilfaethwy who was instantly transformed into a hind. Math’s companions had grabbed Gwydion to stop him from escaping, and Math struck him too, turning the young man into a stag. The two animals looked wide-eyed, terrified, there in the great hall, their hoofed toes clicking anxiously on the stone floor as Math’s words fell upon them: “You have done great harm, and now you shall live together, taking on the wild nature of the animals that you have become, and you shall mate together, and have offspring, and return to his place in a year from today”.
At that, he turned away, and the stag and hind, freed by the men who had held them, ran slipping and trembling from the hall and out of the court, over the meadows and deep into the wildwood beyond. And though rumours were heard of a deer seen here, a stag there, with a strange look in its eyes, nobody saw the two until that year had passed, when there was a great commotion in the courtyard.
With the dogs wildly barking and shouts of surprise, Math got up to see what was happening. A stag, a hind and sturdy young fawn, were nervously making their way towards the great hall. A crowd gathered to see what Math would do, but as he looked into the eyes of these wild creatures before him, he knew that justice was not yet done. He lifted his wand and struck the hind, transforming it instantly into a great wild boar. Once more the stag tried to back away but was held by the men, and as Math struck it, it too transformed, into a stocky wild brown sow. Raising his voice, he once again called the spell down over them, saying, “You shall live together, taking on the wild nature of the animals you have become, and you shall mate together, and have offspring, and return to his place in a year from today. Go!”
Turning his attention to the fawn, he touched it gently with his wand, and there before him stood a beautiful young boy with chestnut hair and big brown eyes. “You I shall care for,” he said softly, “and I shall name you Hyddwen”.
When the men who had been holding the boar and the sow released them, the creatures dashed, trembling and snorting from the hall and out of the court, over the meadows and deep into the wildwood. And once more, through that year, there were rumours of a wild boar seen here, a wild sow there, with a strange look in its eyes, but nobody could be sure until that year had passed, and with a great commotion in the courtyard, the barking of the dogs and shouts of surprise, Math rose to see a wild boar and his sow tramping through the court towards the great hall. Beside them was a young one looking healthy and strong.
The same crowd gathered to see what Math would do this time, but as he looked into the eyes of these wild creatures, they saw that he still felt justice was not yet done. He lifted his wand and struck the boar, transforming it instantly into a sleek grey she-wolf. Held firmly by Math’s men, the sow, struck by Math’s wand, was also transformed, into a wolf.
Turning his attention to the young boar, he touched it gently with his wand, and there before him stood a handsome young boy with auburn hair and sea green eyes. “You I shall care for,” he said softly. “I name you Hychddwn”.
Releasing the wolves, the crowd watched as they slunk out of the hall, out of the court, over the meadows and deep into the wildwood. That year few spoke of having seen the two lads in their wolfish forms, perhaps because the two kept well away from human beings. When the allotted year was coming to its end, people started to wonder, looking forward to the day when the wolves might return, anxious that they may not. But when the dogs started barking wildly in the courtyard, Math rose and watched, along with many others, to see the wolf and the she-wolf, with a confident little wolf cub beside them, trotting through the court towards the great hall.
The hall was crowded as everyone gathered to see what Math would do this time, but as he looked into the eyes of these she-wolf, he nodded. He lifted his wand and struck it gently. Instantly before them crouched Gilfaethwy, naked, ragged and thin, but with a strength, a wildness and a humility that he hadn’t had in the days when they had known him.
There was no need to hold the wolf, who stood solemnly before Math. The Lord of Gwynedd paused for a moment, looking into the creature’s eyes, and he nodded again, striking it with the wand, and there before him was Gwydion, crouching, naked and subdued. Rugs were thrown over the two lads, who slowly stood up, a strange and quiet sadness all about them.
“Take them,” Math said. “Wash their heads, clothe and feed them.”
But before they moved away, the gathering watched as Matt turned his attention to the wolf cub who was carefully evading capture, padding about under the table, sniffing this new world. Waiting patiently until it approached him, Math touched the creature gently with his wand, and there before him stood a fine young boy with blond hair and sky blue eyes. “You I shall care for,” he said softly. “I name you Bleiddwn.”
When Gwydion and Gilfaethwy stood clothed, clean and quiet before their uncle, he offered them a bond of friendship, and they accepted. As to whether their behaviour changed after this, that is for another story. The most pressing need for Math, however, was now the finding of another beautiful virgin, in whose lap he might lay his weary noble feet.
Emma Restall Orr
June 2008