This is a fairly conventional retelling of the second part of this tale, given more colour than a simple translation or recital of the myth as we have it written down.
The Tale
Prince of Dyfed, was still a young man when this part of his story began. Though he was respected for his skill and courage in battle, for his beautiful face and decisive wit, though he was often now called Head of Annwn and was known to be a sure friend of the king of that ancient realm, his leadership within the seven catrefs was still just beginning. There was much work to do establishing himself at his castle at Narberth, close to the sea on the western most edge of these islands, for those lands were rich but had not been fully tended for many years. In his youthfulness, lifted by his confidence in all he believed he could achieve, he gathered around him those of the realm who were vibrant, filled with strength and laughter, yet were eager to hear his command.
One warm late summer afternoon that year, after the feasting and when the bard’s songs had all been heard before, he rose to his feet, slamming his ale cup down onto the table, and declared, “Let’s go out to the ancient mound of our ancestors, Gorsedd Arberth”. In the clatter of chairs pushed back, he couldn’t make out what was being said, but he knew there was uncertainty amongst his men, and he smiled, invigorated, eager to see what would occur.
There was hearty conversation as they rode out, walking the last stretch over the meadows and up towards the old mound, with Pwyll ensuring none were able to question his decision. When at last one of his knights found himself alone beside the prince, the lad turned and said, “My lord, you are aware of what is said of this place of the dead? A noble sat here will either receive a dreadful wound or – “
“Or a wonderful vision,” Pwyll cut in. He slapped the younger man on the back, “Come, with all these warriors about me, how might there be any real danger? And,” he grinned, “by the gods, I am keen to see something wonderful.”
The day was perfect, the sunshine softly drenching the sheep-mown grass of the meadow, and soon the gathering of men found themselves relaxing in the confidence of their prince, lying back and closing their eyes. One took out his flute and began to play a meandering old tune, as horses quietly murmured, cropping the grass.
Though wholly at ease, Pwyll was not so languid and sat up, surveying the lands about him that were his realm. The Druids had been telling him of changes that were needed to increase the harvests and feed the growing population, and he was aware of having swept aside such thoughts all too often. Beneath the hill, and in many directions all around, was the lush green of the old wildwood. Meadows and fields were small, many encroached by saplings, thorn and brambles grown thick through another warm summer. For a moment he wondered how he might tame this wild land.
“A horse!” A youngster was suddenly beside him, crying out, ‘There, lord, d’you see it?” The others laughed, dismissing the lad’s comment as childish expectation of a magical event, as his longing to see unicorns. But Pwyll followed his direction, and watched the horse as it came closer along the track beneath the hill. Before long his perceptive eye could tell it was a horse of good breeding, and he sat up to take more notice. Pale white in colour, its gait was strong and well trained, and as the image became clearer, he saw astride the exquisite animal a woman, dressed in a long robe of green and gold, and veiled in silk that danced in the gentle breeze.
Curious, Pwyll called to one of his knaves. “Go on down to her, lad, ask the lady her business in my lands, go on.” And the boy set to his heels, running down the slope towards the horse now moving past the base of the hill. Pwyll could see the woman’s hair, shining in the autumn sunlight, a rich dark chestnut shimmering with gold, and his curiosity gave way to an eagerness he could not hide. He stood, watching the boy, urging him on the task. But the faster the lad ran towards her, the further she seemed to ride from him, though clearly her gentle pace had not changed at all.
Confused, the lad looked back up the hill. Pwyll turned to a knight and cried, “Take your horse, see if you can reach her!”
With the knight setting off at a gallop down the hill, the lad clambered back to the gathering, panting hard. “I’m sorry, my lord, but nothing in Dyfed could catch that horse on foot.” But all were gazing on the scene and barely heard him, for the knight’s sturdy mount should easily have caught up with the woman on her pale white horse, but though he raced to catch her, he had no luck. Still she seemed to amble gracefully along the track and still she quietly moved away from the horse that galloped in pursuit.
Pwyll sat down on the grass, now bathed in the golden sunlight of the autumn evening. He was fascinated by what had happened, and though his companions chattered all around him he found it hard to know what to say. His soul was filled with wonder, and all he could do was gaze out over the lands of his realm.
The next day, striding through the stables he asked who had the fastest horse and, being directed to the fellow, he walked up to him. Aware that he was presenting the situation as a game, he laughed, as did those who had gathered round, and slapped him on the back, grinning, “Good man!” Yet up on Gorsedd Arberth, waiting to see if the woman on her horse were to ride by again, it didn’t feel like such a game. His chest was tight with anticipation and at first sight of her he was one of the first upon his feet, yelling, “Get to it, follow her!” The knight leapt onto his mount and within a breath was charging down the hill towards the pale white horse. But again, though she rode at a gentle pace, the distance between them was never closed. Keen to satisfy his prince, the knight kept spurring on his horse, but the faster he rode the most impossible seemed the task, and the gathering on the hill looked on with a growing awe and hopelessness.
The following day, Pwyll took his own horse to Gorsedd Arberth. Though others doubted his certainty, he had no doubt she would come again. He waited astride his horse, and when her silhouette rose over the hill, coming towards them through the meadow, he stirred the mare to catch her. Galloping down to the path, as they grew close he felt sure he would make it, but always she seemed just out of reach. When he rode at speed, she seemed further from him, and when he slowed to a steady walk, she seemed to feel nearer, but neither way could he catch her up. In his frustration he spurred his horse to a gallop, his soul filled with the image of the woman before him; she seemed to glow like sunshine on a meadow of barleycorn.
Unable to close the gap between them, in exhaustion and frustration, Pwyll cried out, “Noble maiden, for the sake of the man whom you love the most, lady, wait for me!”
She turned, slowing her horse to a stop, and she smiled at Pwyll. The glimpse of her face below the veil, vibrant as the dawn on the petals of a wild rose, took his breath away.
“Of course,” she murmured. As he drew close she smiled, adding, “It would have been better for your horse if you’d asked sooner.”
Confused by her words, his own fell over themselves as I tried to find his ease, his heart pounding as she lifted her veil. “Where are you from? What is your business here?”
“My name is Rhiannon, daughter of Hyfaidd the Old. And I am here to see you.” Pwyll was wide-eyed. “I have been promised to a man I do not love, but it is you whom I desire. I have come to lay my heart before you and know your response.”
Amazed not only by her words, but by the gentle strength she expressed as she spoke, it was he who felt vulnerable, and his words came out in a tumble of eagerness. “My lady, I am yours. Simply tell me what I must do.”
In the same soft yet even tone, she said, “In a year and a day, come to my father’s court. There will be a wedding feast prepared. Remember your promise, Prince of Dyfed.” And with that, she nudged the beautiful pale white horse, and rode on.
Pwyll returned slowly to the gathering upon the hill, feeling as if he’d been hit by dream. Some were already walking down towards him, eager to hear what he had to say, and many threw out questions, but within him there was a fullness that seemed empty of words. He half smiled, eyes wide, and a murmur began amongst his companions, vibrant with expectation, that their prince had fallen quite helplessly in love. Indeed, over the course of the year that followed, whenever he was asked about the encounter, he turned the conversation to other matters.
That year was important for the young Pwyll; he had achieved his position by honour but he still had to prove his worth as a leader through times of peace. He listened to the Druids and other elders of his realm, seeking guidance, but in practice he did little. The winter was hard, the hunting scarce, and when the harvest came in the summer while it was not bad there was no sense of his people being blessed by the gods with abundance. He knew he had much to learn, but some part of him held the promise deep within his soul – to meet Rhiannon, daughter of Hyfaidd the Old, at her father’s court – and somehow that gave him a confidence he managed to express. With his beautiful face, his keen blue eyes and shock of dark hair, his broad smile that came at the slightest provocation, his people trusted him.
When the last days of summer were once more with them, relief flooded his soul and eagerly he gathered together ninety nine men to go with him to the palace of Hyfaidd the Old.
Upon the instructions of the Druids, they made the journey, and each day was increasingly fuelled by the anticipation in Pwyll’s heart, his energy touching his companions so that both horses and men seemed vibrant with energy, with laughter and friendship. And as they crossed the sparkling river, splashing through its gentle sunblessed current, and rode through orchards of ripening apples towards the great stone court, every man felt the joy of the marriage to come.
They were welcomed well, their horses taken to the stables, and ushered into the vast hall where before them was already laid out a magnificent feast. Music filled the air with the smell of roasting meat, and they took to their chairs, laughing, talking, happy to chatter with nobles of the court. Yet when Rhiannon entered, on the arm of her old father, a silence came with her, moving softly and quickly throughout the hall. Pwyll bowed to her, once more struck with wonder, feeling so deeply blessed by the gods.
Sitting in his rightful place as guest of honour, between Hyfaidd and Rhiannon at the head table, more food was brought in and all was glorious to their eyes. Declarations and prayers were made to the gods, and with the bards once more playing, the company was invited to sate their thirst with good strong cider and to eat their fill of the feast before them. With so much to say, so much he wanted to share, Pwyll managed few words, politely talking with Hyfaidd now and then, but mostly simply smiling or gazing at the woman beside him.
Not much time had passed before a young man entered the feasting hall. Clearly a noble, his hair was dark as fallen leaves, his eyes black as winter, and he strode towards the high table with distinct purpose. Filled with the beauty of the moment, Pwyll welcomed the fellow and invited him to join them. But the invitation was declined. He bowed as he did so, adding, “I come to your feast as a supplicant, lord. I have come to ask of you a boon on this blessed day”.
Pwyll smiled his broad and open smile, and replied, “Why, of course, whatever you wish – as far as I am able, I shall give you what you ask for”.
Beside him, Rhiannon cried out in despair, and with her face in his hands she whispered, “Oh Pwyll, why did you say that?”
As far as Pwyll was aware, he had acted entirely according to what was expected by tradition on such occasions. He glanced at Rhiannon confused, then looked back to the stranger and asked, now with uncertainty, “What is it you ask for?”
The nobleman opened his arms and talked to the whole gathering there in the hall, every soul of which was now silent, listening, waiting. “Did you hear what the prince said? You are my witnesses, each one of you!” And turning back to Pwyll, he said, “Lord, on this day, I ask for the woman I love, who sits beside you, and the wedding feast before us all”.
Again Rhiannon cried out with sorrow, shaking her head, “Never did a man make less use of his wits!”
Pwyll objected, claiming his innocence, “But I didn’t know who he was!”
“This is Gwawl, son of Clud,” she said softly to the prince, the clatter of cups and stools and indignation rising in the hall around them, “the man I told you of, whom I was promised to before you.” Pwyll’s heart sank, like the collapsing of a high stone tower, and he held to her hands, as he closed his eyes. But she spoke to him, still softly, “My love, do not give in. You must do as I say. Give me to him now, and I shall make sure that I am never his”.
Slipping a small leather bag into Pwyll’s hands, she told him what he was must do. Then taking a deep breath, she looked up a Gwawl. Pwyll gathered his wits, and turned to the noble himself. He bowed with sharp dignity and rose, saying, “The first of your requests I am able to give. In accordance with tradition and to guard my honour, I offer this woman to you. But feast is not mine to give”. At that, he gestured to his men, and all ninety nine who were not already on their feet then stood, and noisily they followed their prince as he strode from the hall.
Rhiannon stood, and watched him go. When the hall was quiet, and so emptied of Pwyll’s companions, she too bowed to Gwawl. “This wedding feast my father and I have already given to Pwyll and his men. I will make you another, in a year from today.”
Satisfied, Gwawl too left the great hall.
That winter was even harsher, and much was lost of the previous year’s store. Pwyll fretted, reaching for the certainty that he had felt in that feasting hall, surrounded by abundance and the music of the bards. He spoke with the Druids, and plans were crafted to improve the fields and the health of the herds, but with so much rain and snow work was slow. The harvest was not improved and Pwyll spoke again and again, in his own great hall, of the day when he would return to claim his bride, determined that in doing so his luck would turn.
The year passed all too slowly, but as the sun began to spread its golden evening light upon the meadows once more, an optimism crept into the court and its surrounds. When the time came, in accordance with Rhiannon’s words, Pwyll gathered his ninety nine men once more, and the journey was made to Hyfaidd’s land. Across the river, the men hid in quiet anticipation amidst the old apple trees of Hyfaidd’s orchards, and Pwyll left his horse, making his way into the court and the great feasting hall he had left so painfully the previous year.
From the high table, Pwyll’s entrance was no more than that of another peasant fallen on hard times, a beggar who shuffled along in the line of villagers, each one asking their favour of the noble lord before them. His men had enjoyed the jest of it, smearing mud and horse muck into the old clothes he wore, and when Pwyll stood before the high table, he not only looked like any other destitute and dishevelled peasant of the realm, but he smelled worse than was necessary to play his part.
Gwawl nodded towards him, “What do you wish for?”
“I am a poor beggar,” Pwyll mumbled. “I ask only that you fill this little leather bag with meat from your feasting tables, that I might ease the pain of my hunger.”
Gwawl glanced at the little bag and nodded towards those who had been serving the feast. One cut a hunk of port and, stepping forward, slipped it into the bag, adding a chunk of bread, but the little bag seemed able to carry more. He cut more and put it in, then more. Another servant joined him, adding apples, cheese and more meat, but however much they dropped into the bag, it didn’t appear to fill.
“By the gods,” Gwawl said, with a nervous laugh, “will your bag never be full?”
“My lord,” mumbled the muddy bedraggled prince, “the only way it will be filled is if a nobleman of wealth and land were to step in with both feet and stamp it down, declaring ‘That is enough!’.”
Rhiannon encouraged Gwawl, feigning an appropriate blend of interest and impatience, and Gwawl agreed, with his attendants help, stepping into the bag. But immediately he had done so, Pwyll pulled it up over this head, tying it tight. Taking his hunting horn from beneath his ragged cloak, he blew it hard, and his men came rushing through the oak doors into the hall. Gwawl’s men rose, but were outnumbered, and as Pwyll’s men descended on to the bag, they kicked and thumped Gwawl who struggled within.
Gwawl cried out from within the bag, and Hyfaidd the Old stood, his daughter beside him, banging his staff upon the wooden floor. “This is no way to treat a nobleman of the islands!” he declared in a voice weak with age yet powerful enough to enforce silence. The assault upon the bag stopped, as did the scuffles and fighting around the hall. A handful of Gwawl’s men hurried forward, freeing their lord, who rose from the bag bruised and bleeding, humiliated by the defeat. He stared at Rhiannon, whose expression gave him the answer to his unspoken questions.
“I withdraw,” he murmured.
“Without vengeance.” Rhiannon’s voice was clearly heard throughout the hall.
“Without vengeance,” Gwawl conceded.
When he had left, with his men, the feasting, it is said continued for three long days, with every song of the land being sung by the Hyfaidd’s own bards, and each was rewarded well for their music and the telling of glorious tales.
When it was time to return to Narberth, Rhiannon chose to ride with Pwyll, instead of following on in the weeks to come, and their journey was filled with the love that shone between them.
And when at least they arrived at the court of the prince, his return in the company of his new bride was celebrated with feasting and music that filled the land with joy. Dyfed, all agreed, would no be blessed by the gods and abundance would follow.
Emma Restall Orr
May 2008 Pwyll,