This interpretation of the story of Pwyll and Arawn is drawn from various sources. Purists may wonder and doubt the validity of elements that appear added, not present in the medieval texts, but it is offered here as an expression of the modern oral tradition, where stories are told in ways that change, altering for each gathering, each new day. Each time I tell the tale, something changes .. Here is today’s version.
The Tale
It has ever been said that the complications of men are entertainment for the gods. When those complications are further entangled by the play of the gods, miscolouring the unimportant with tones of significance, diluting the consequential with the gloss of trivia, it is said that their laughter is all the greater. Yet, I offer here a tale that many say has nothing to do with the old ones’ amusement – though in it a god strides right into our world, even going so far as to pull on the boots of a mortal. But as you hear it, I would bid you wonder who gained for the events, for there are mysteries here that have never been explained.
The tale is set in the rich green lands of Dyfed, where the blessings of blood and fate had given to a young man authority over his tribe. Pwyll, as a prince of a strong and congenial people, was confident despite his lack of years; his bond with the land had proved potent, the fields and livestock yielding plenty, providing wealth and security. Though in glimmers of uncertainty he felt unsure as to how much his own wit and work was bringing prosperity, how much it was his devotions in ritual thanks to the gods, and how much it was simply the hand of luck, he held himself with dignity, breathing deep the gods’ blessings, aware that each day he learned more upon the way.
The story begins one afternoon late in the autumn, when, beneath a clear wide sky, this young prince found himself filled with a shock of energy, like the biting of the frost the air promised would come that night. Leaping to his feet, with the spontaneity of his youthful authority, he determined to take a hunting party to the ancient wildwood of Glen Cuch, in the eastern reaches of his land. The court was drawn into a rush of activity as all was prepared for an immediate departure, Pwyll brushing down the rich red coat of his favourite horse, keen with his need to get on the road.
Some time after dusk the party arrived at the head of the valley, and camp was set up, fires lit for warmth and cooking, servant lads bustling with pots of broth and jugs of ale. Pwyll wandered from the noise to the edge of the woodland, the first trees being those of an old oak grove, said to have been important in Druidic magic. He made a prayer, touching his fingers to the old stone, but found no peace. His soul still felt sharp with the energy and, gazing down from that place into the dark wooded valley, he knew it would not be a night of much sleeping.
Indeed, it was but the first whispers of dawn that drew him from his covers, and without care he nudged his companions with the push of his boot, urging them to get up and moving. With misty-cold breath, the last were grabbing chunks of bread and meat held out by the boys as the first were running over the frosty ground to follow their prince. In his impatience, Pwyll was soon down at the wood’s edge, the hunting dogs barking at his heels. The sound of his hunting horn echoed through the valley, rousing the crows from their roosting perches to circle cawing over the canopy above.
Still driven by the urge that had brought him to the glen, it wasn’t long before Pwyll had lost his companions. By the time he paused to listen for them in the dense wildwood undergrowth, there was no sound of them at all. He didn’t pause for long; his ears were alert to the sound of the dogs. Yelping, breaking through the bracken, hazel and thorn, it was clear that they had found something and, filled with excitement, he headed towards them to join in the pursuit.
Yet then, from another direction, came the sound of more dogs, and these he recognised immediately to be his own pack. Barely hesitating through the moment’s confusion, he carried on running, his dogs overtaking him, the undergrowth tearing at his skin, until first the dogs, then he too, burst through into the open space of a small clearing.
Panting a cloud of breath in the cold air, he brought himself up. There before him was the pack he’d heard from afar, all teeth and muscle pulling down a great stag that, tongue extended in exhaustion, was finding the calm of its release from the terror of dying. Immediately he commanded his dogs to take the stag from the others, acting with the certainty of his rank within his lands, yet at the same time his soul was chilled, for he had never seen hounds like these before him now. In the flickering light beneath the thick canopy of oak and ash, their coats shone as white as moonlight on spring’s blackthorn. Their ears were as red as the blood on their jaws. And as he strode towards them they backed away, without a moment’s hesitation, despite being clearly the stronger. His own dogs, at first uncertain, leapt forward to take the kill, tearing into the flesh to sate their hunger.
A moment later, Pwyll turned to meet the sound of a horse, sedately moving through the wildwood and into the glade. In the half light it was hard to see its rider: upon his grey horse, he was dressed in grey, yet so too was his long hair and his pallor. Though he felt his presence acutely, Pwyll had to blink to perceive him more clearly. As he rode forward, the stranger’s voice touched the stillness of the air: ‘Sir,’ he said softly, ‘though I know who you are, I will not address you.’ Pwyll wondered if this were said in dignity or disrespect, and leaned towards the former as he murmured, ‘Perhaps your position does not require that you do’. But the stranger made the slightest movement of his head in negation, ‘No, it is not my rank that prevents me’. ‘Then what is it?’ asked Pwyll, unsure still whether to be honoured or enraged by this presence. The other’s voice remained soft but with no doubt of authority: ‘You have done me wrong’. ‘How have I done you wrong?” Pwyll asked. ‘I have never seen such discourtesy,’ he replied, his dark eyes looking straight into the soul of the young prince. ‘You drove my hounds from their kill and let your own feast.’
Pwyll knew then with certainty that this man’s rank was above his own and he bowed his head, in part in recognition of that fact, but also that he might obscure his shame and confusion. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘if I knew your position, I would know how to repay you.’ The grey stranger replied: ‘I am a king in the lands from which I have come.’ At these words, Pwyll bowed more deeply, addressing him properly, ‘Lord, which land do you rule?’ ‘I am Arawn, a king of Annwn.’
Hearing this tale you may not understand quite what an effect those words would have had on Pwyll. Indeed, many tellers of the tale will glance over the likelihood that the proud young prince blanched at all. It is possible that what he did feel he held within himself, showing not a glimmer of fear, but it is unlikely that he would have felt nothing. For the man had just declared himself to be of that place where the dead go to dwell: before him was a ruler of the land of shadow.
With great dignity, Arawn dismounted the grey mare, showing Pwyll his full height. The young man, who had fought many a brutal and bloody battle, knew at once that he was no match for this ethereal king. ‘What can I do to secure friendship between us,’ he asked. The old man answered without hesitation: ‘There is a king whose land borders my own in Annwn. His name is Hafgan; he wages war against me, and on my behalf you must defeat him.’
Pwyll’s soul turned over, for he knew that if he were to go into battle with a king of Annwn, not only was there little chance of triumph, but seen to have sided with an enemy of this king of the dead, the forces of his shadowlands may no doubt besiege the lands of the living. This was the nightmare of ancient legends.
The grey king, however, saw into his soul. ‘You can do this deed, and with ease. You shall have my face, my form, and’ he reached behind him to touch the soft grey nose, ‘my loyal mare. You shall ride through Annwn and enter my court, and no one should know that you are not I. You shall have feasting and luxury, and the most beautiful woman in all the worlds to warm your bed and give you pleasure through each night. This you shall have for a year and a day.’
Pwyll felt excitement stir deep inside him, the anticipation of adventure, of a quest and a battle. ‘But how will I know where to find this king who wages war against you? And how are you so confident that I will defeat him?’ Arawn smiled, his grey face ageless, watching the keen edge of the young man’s soul. ‘This night, a year hence, you will meet him at the ford that boundaries our lands. Strike him but with just one killing blow; for if you add a second, that blow will give him life not take it. I have made that mistake, and the next day had to meet him again.’ The smile had left him, and his expression showed Pwyll the seriousness of the threat. For the first time, the prince wondered if this meeting was not by chance.
‘My honour longs to do your bidding, but I fear for my own people in my absence.’ His words were not meant as an excuse to refuse the old king, nor were they taken as such. He lifted an ethereal arm, touching Pwyll’s shoulder, an act that sent an instinctive shudder through young man’s blood. ‘As you shall take mine, so shall I take your form, and I will rule in Dyfed until you return.’ Pwyll nodded and spoke in youthful earnest, ‘Then I will take the task.’ The king’s dark eyes bore into his own, and a bond of brotherhood was made between them.
No telling of this tale recalls just where the two left this world and entered the other. As most assume the recounting is derived from Pwyll’s own words, it is possible that either he was not aware of the boundary, or perhaps he was bound never to reveal its truth. What we do know is that before long, without haste or concern, they were walking through the lands of Annwn, only now it was Pwyll leading the calm grey mare, the rein in his ageless grey hand, extended from the hunting robes, themselves a wholly unremarkable grey. He felt light and strong, as if life held no urgency. And as he perused the world around him he felt strangely its familiarity, as if through the body of this shadow king he knew where he was, his feet comfortable in the dark damp grass, his long grey hair at ease in the cool wind. Yet nor was the land so different from Dyfed at twilight. And beside him, Arawn wore his own young form, his dark locks about his face, his muscular body moving with strength; Pwyll’s vanity would have urged him to study his good looks and vigour, but that in this other world he seemed somehow insubstantial; it was not comfortable to behold his ghostly self and wondered if now he would or could ever return to Dyfed.
When before them, through the half light, rose the stone walls of an old castle, dwellings, barns and other buildings stretching around their base, Arawn paused and turned to Pwyll, then looked over the landscape in all directions. ‘There is your court,’ he murmured, ‘and the land that is in your care. You will know what to do.’ Pwyll nodded and no more words were spoken, each knowing the task ahead, and between them was shared the smile that comes with a solemn decision made. Having fulfilled his promise to bring him this far, the shadow king turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist.
Mustering his courage, Pwyll strode on to the castle. As he neared, he was relieved to find himself easily recognised. Working men bowed with natural deference, a stable lad stepping forward to take the gentle grey mare, knights bowed their greeting, ladies of the court curtseying with genuine regard, servant boys approached quietly, offering to help him with his boots, and each one seemed filled with the same easy calm.
Almost immediately he found himself growing used to the different quality of darkness and light, and to the unearthly feeling that all around him lacked true solidity. His hand felt the stone to be tangible, cool and very real. The scents of mud and horses in the yard, of baking bread and roasting meat as he walked into the hall, the laughter of children, felt substantial and real. But all seemed somehow quiet, as if muffled by the softening touch of thick fog and snow.
And when she appeared – he knew her immediately to be the queen of that court – coming down the broad winding stairs towards him, her silk robes sweeping over the stone as if she moved on air, he was not sure how any woman could truly be so beautiful. She did not fall into his arms like a child, nor stand aloof with a determined reserve, but danced straight up to him, bowing deeply, and raising her face with the most shimmering smile. Pwyll, amazed, had never been shown such love. Murmuring her welcome, she stood before him, and he knew, she knew, she was his equal.
His soul on fire with wonder and desire, he was glad to be drawn from her company, guided to his chamber by servants that he might remove the dusty hunting clothes, wash and be dressed for the evening’s feast. And he was amazed and grateful that each action was slowly done, thoughtfully with perfect care, as if every drop from the bowl were sacred, every touch of the cloth a song of sweet intention. Held within the old king’s form, Pwyll could but experience each moment with no ability to hurry.
Refreshed, and dressed in fine silks, robes decorated with gold thread that hung over his body as softly as water, he made his way back to the feasting hall, drawn by the most exquisite music that seemed to seek out his soul: languorous and enchanting, it was as if each melody sung of dreams.
Sat the great table, with courtiers and good folk of the land who had joined him for the feasting, his queen at his side, musicians and bards continued to entertain, and such food as he had never tasted was laid before him. Yet perhaps most wonderfully, never before had Pwyll met a woman who so inspired him, with whom he could converse with such ease, his head and heart and loins so deliciously stimulated, each word and movement an expression of her extraordinary grace. He was sure that there was no place as full of beauty and wonders as this in all the many worlds.
As that first evening came to an end, the youthful hunger of his body begging to be satisfied, Pwyll and his queen withdrew from the great hall to their chamber, where the fire was blazing and the bed was soft and warm. And here, we who tell this ancient tale must once again pause with incredulous wonder. For Pwyll, his blood burning with passion, turned from the beautiful woman who so willingly lay by his side. So brutally rejected, she sobbed and pleaded for confirmation of his love, for explanation, but with his back towards her he faced the wall and longed for sleep. And so it was every night, through each of the twelve moons of that year he spent in the shadowlands of Annwn.
Each day, where company allowed him to feel safe from his own desires, he showed his admiration and affection for her with warmth and sincerity. And what days they were! Somewhere within his soul he knew the people of Dyfed were toiling through winter’s cold, through the scarcity and hope of spring, through summer’s warmth and, he prayed, the abundance of another good harvest. But in Annwn the days slipped one into another more easily, each filled with long walks in the beauty of the soft-lit lands, with long afternoons of learned discussion, the hearing of old tales and sharing of laughter. Each evening stretched languidly into the night with feasting and poetry, music and dancing in the rich light of the fire in the old great hall, yet always with that ease he came to value in Annwn.
But the day he had been waiting for came before him soon enough. It was a day for which every soul in Annwn had also been waiting, and when suddenly it seemed upon him, he found that all around him everything had been prepared. Riding out on the gentle mare, now a dearly loved companion, he was far from alone. Before him, beside him and following as a long trail upon the way were soon more people than could be counted, and as they travelled through the lands over which he had been ruling, that number only continued to grow.
It was dusk when Pwyll reached the ford were Arawn’s land touched that of Hafgan. Moonlight touched the land and the facs of his people. During his time in these shadowlands, he had grown accustomed to the quiet calm that was the quality of the people of Annwn, and at that moment, his nobles on either side of him, perhaps more than ever he valued their tenor.
Splashing across the ford, a knight rode up before them, his face lit with the golden flame of his torch. He spoke loudly, breaking the silence like the clattering of falling blades: ‘This battle is between the kings of this land, for claim over all this land. None other is to step forward. Even to the end.’ Behind Pwyll his men did not move in the moonlight. Behind the knight, across the ford, stood Hafgan’s men, their faces flickering in torchlight. And from amidst the darkness cast by the golden light stepped Hafgan.
They met, each one walking towards the mid point of the ford, the water but a few inches about their boots yet stinging with cold, and Pwyll was thrown off guard: though he knew this king of the south east had made war against Arawn year after year for he knew not how long, he had never asked more. Before him stood a youth whose face shone like a field of ripe barley in the sunshine, his hair as pale as polished gold, his eyes as bright as a summer’s day in the hills of Dyfed. And in that half moment, he knew those clear blue eyes took in what they too were seeing, and for the first time in very many moons he was sharply aware of his grey and shadowy form.
Some tell of their combat lasting all night, ending in the strange half light of Annwn’s dawn. But I have heard the contest was in truth dreadful yet swift. The lad smiled, and though Pwyll faltered, he raised his sword to bring it down upon Hafgan’s shield, splitting it in two. And with his next, Pwyll had plunged his blade deep, dealing what was without doubt a fatal blow.
Sinking to his knees in the icy water, the young king searched Pwyll’s face. ‘I do not know you,’ he cried, ‘I am aware of not dispute between us, nor why you have come here to fight me. But be merciful, do not let me die slowly in this terrible pan. Finish what you have begun!’ The words chilled Pwyll’s soul, for it was clear that his magical opponent knew he was not Arawn. What hideous vengeance upon his people might his actions have provoked? As blood flowed into the ford, Pwyll murmured, ‘I do not know what the consequences will be of my actions. I do not know what I shall come to regret of this day. But I ask your nobles to come to you, that they may ease your passing. I cannot .. ” Again he faltered, looking up towards the other’s men, stood on the banks of the ford, their torches blazing. And he turned to his own grey host, the vast numbers he knew were there mostly hidden by the darkness. And in his soul he wondered what he had done.
Arawn’s trusted nobles moved to his side, as he staggered from the ford under the weight of a sudden and overwhelming exhaustion. ‘Do what must be done,’ he said to one, ‘that this victory be complete.’ The grey knight bowed, ‘Lord, you are king now of all these lands. All we need do now is ride to Hafgan’s court and secure it.’
At dawn that is what was done, and by noon that day Arawn was honoured across those lands as king, nobles and knights offering their loyalty according to the oldest traditions. With the dignity of the old king in his every movement and word, Pwyll did what he had to do, knowing only within the depths of his soul that the ways of the gods were a mystery.
They say the prince did not return to Arawn’s castle, instead separating from the party and, travelling alone but for the company of the gentle grey mare, he made his way back along the paths that had first brought him to Annwn. Now he longed to find home and, as the quality of the air began to change around him, he breathed it in deeply, dismounting to feel the rich cold mud beneath his boots, the scent of earth and late autumn green. And as he stepped into the wildwood, he felt his own body about him, and was filled with a deep gratitude for the gods of Dyfed.
Leading the way through the thick and frosty undergrowth of Glen Cuch, it was the mare who came into the clearing first; she walked straight over to the old grey king of Annwn, pushing her nose into his robes in her silent and gentle greeting. Arawn smiled. And Pwyll allowed them their reunion before moving forward.
When the two lords greeted each other it was with sincere friendship. ‘I have heard what you have done,’ said Arawn, ‘and am grateful for it. May the gods reward you.’ Pwyll nodded, ‘When you return to your lands, you’ll see that it is done.’ And although both had many tales they wished to share with each other, it was clear that they both more keenly wished to get home, so they parted in good faith, as brothers according to their bond.
Arawn journeyed to his court of Annwn as swiftly as the gentle mare could carry him, and there he was greeted with the joy and warmth given to one who has won a great victory, not one who has been absent for a year and a day. The preparations for the feasting promised a glorious celebration, and each soul was filled with the desire to express their appreciation for their king’s strength and courage.
Arawn’s greatest joy, however, was to return to his wife. He barely noticed the hint of reserve she showed in her welcoming, for he lifted her from her feet and took her to their chamber, where before the warmth of a great fire, in the furs and rugs of their bed, he made love to her with all the passion and pleasure of his dignified soul. Yet in the calm after their union, she was quiet and, now noticing her reserve, he asked her what was wrong. She would not answer at first, but he persisted, concerned, until she poured out the confusion that has filled her through that past year, and in her accusation of his coldness towards her she unwittingly revealed to her husband the extent of Pwyll’s honour. He gazed at her, wondering at her extraordinary beauty, wondering how the young prince had managed not to touch her. ‘Lady,’ he smiled and whispered, ‘let me tell you the tale of what has passed,’ and when he had done so she understood and was content.
Pwyll, though keen to find the hunting party, moved more slowly, for his soul was still filled with the mysteries he had encountered. Nor did he have a loving wife to return to. But hearing the sound of his own pack of hunting dogs, his heart was lifted and soon he came across men he had known so well, rugged and strong, with great smiles and broad laughter: men of Dyfed. And he was glad to be home.
There was no great feasting at Pwyll’s court, for there was neither victory nor homecoming to celebrate. But over the coming days, Pwyll sat with the nobles and dignitaries of his court, talking too with the good folk of villages and farms when he rode out, taking in the beauty of his lands. Always he asked the same question: ‘Tell me, how has my judgement been over this past year? Have I been fair? Did my decisions or actions appear altered?’ And always he received the same reply, that never before had he been so gentle, so fair in judgements, so generous in settlements, so wise in action.
Pwyll’s honour would not allow him to take such appreciation that was not rightly his, and in time he gathered together the nobles of his land, and he told them the tale. There was amazement at his words, which were magical and mysterious, but held within them the affirmation of a powerful friendship, an allegiance that would surely be of benefit to the people of Dyfed. And then was there feasting, in celebration of their lord’s return, and though it was not as fine in taste or grace as those he had attended in the shadows of Annwn, this feast was more nourishing to the young prince’s soul than anything he had enjoyed since leaving his lands.
The bond between Arawn and Pwyll did indeed continue. Though none other in Dyfed ever saw the grey king, they knew at times their prince met him in the wildwood, and much was shared in terms of gifts and teaching. And because the people of Dyfed knew their prince – and thus, they too – gained so much from this magical friendship, from that time on he became known as Pwyll, Lord of Annwn.
Emma Restall Orr
February 2007