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Star of Mercia
Historical Tales of Wales and the
Marches _by_ Blanche Devereux
_With an Introduction by_ Ernest Rhys
Jonathan Cape
Eleven Gower Street, London
_First published 1922
All rights reserved_
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_
INTRODUCTION
There are three reading-publics to which a tale-writer who attempts the
uncertain business of writing about Wales may appeal. One is the
homebred Welsh public that asks for a tale in the old tongue, _yr hen
iaith_, and has never been quite satisfied, I believe, by any novel or
short story about its life, or its real or romantic concerns, written
in English. The second is the quasi-Celtic public, which may or may
not know the _Mabinogion_ or Borrow's _Wild Wales_, and is glad of
anything that gets the romance atmosphere. The third is the ordinary
fiction-loving English public, which asks for a good story, rather
likes a Welsh background as in Blackmore's _Maid of Sker_ (a much
better book than _Lorna Doone_ to my mind), and does not trouble about
the fidelity of the local colour in the reality of the setting. It is
from the second and third of these audiences that Miss Devereux can
look to gain her "creel-full of listeners," as the story of _The Yellow
Hag_ has it.
She has, to begin with, the genuine tale-teller's power of using a
motive, a bit of legend, or a proverbial and stated episode, and giving
it fresh life and something original out of her own fantasy. In her way
of narrative, she does not adopt any rigorous ancientry. She has a
sporting sense in dealing with an archaic character like _Mogneid_,
and is satisfied to see him hammer at a door with the butt of his
riding-whip. She will make _Gildas_ and _St. David_ or _Dewi Sant_,
collogue as they never did in the old time before us; and devise a
comedy and a drunkard's tragedy of her own for a wicked old sinner like
King _Gwrthyrn_, just as she mixes chalk and charcoal freely in the
Saxon cartoons that follow the Welsh. The important thing is, she makes
her people live, and by the bold infusion of the same old human nature
with prehistoric Welsh and old chronicler's English, she succeeds in
creating a region of her own. It is not literally Cymric or Saxon; but
it is instinct with the fears, loves, hopes and appetites that never
decay, and realizes alike the drunkard's glut and the saint's mixed
piety and shrewd sense.
In her story of _Saint David_ she has gone to the old "Lives" and the
documents for some of her colour. There are passages that may terrify
the modern reader, who has no Welsh and does not know how to pronounce
_Amherawdwr_ (the Welsh form of imperator or emperor), _Dyfnwal_,
_Llywel_ or _Cynyr_. The average English reader who is brought up on
soft and sibilant C's and i-sounding Y's will probably end by turning
the last name into "sinner" in vain compromise. And possibly Miss
Devereux is too hard on the average un-Celtic reader; for though she
turns _Gwy_ into Wye, she retains _Dyfi_ for Dovey. But these are the
pleasant little inconsistencies that exist in every English writer,
from Shakespeare and Ben Jonson to Sir Walter Scott and George
Meredith, who has attacked the impregnable old fortress of the British
tongue.
It is interesting to compare the two tales of wilder Wales with those
of Mercia and Saxondom that succeed them in this mixed story-book. The
first are realized almost entirely, you will discover, from the man's
point of view. The Saxon tales are more intimately felt, and realized
from the woman's dramatic angle. It is avowedly so in the chronicle of
Winifred, Ebba's daughter, telling the grim love-story of Earl Sweyn
the Nithing and Algive. This is in texture, and reality of presentment,
maintaining the pseudo-archaic mode with just the faintest reminder of
the modern tale-teller pulling the puppet-strings, on the whole the
completest of all these new-old tales. In the portrait of Algive,
tenderly and joyously painted, there is a faint reminiscence of a
Celtic romance-heroine like Olwen (in the _Mabinogion_), which adds to
the charm. And in other ways it will be found by the story-loving and
unprejudiced reader, who reads for the pleasure of the thing, and not
for criticism or edification, that these _Tales of Two Regions_ gain by
carrying over at times the atmosphere of the one--never so lightly
indicated--into the actual presentment of the other.
ERNEST RHYS.
1922.
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 5
GWRTHEYRN THE DRUNKARD 11
DEWI SANT 35
STAR OF MERCIA 65
EARL SWEYN THE NITHING 86
EDITH'S WELL 109
RICHARD THE SCROB 120
Gwrtheyrn the Drunkard
"_Vortigern of repulsive lips, who, drunken, gave up the Isle of Thanet
to Hengist._"
--WELSH TRIADS.
Mogneid son of Votecori tapped upon the lintel of the open doorway and
called "Ho, there! Is there refreshment for wayfarers?" From within
came a luxurious sound of snoring. Mogneid muttered a curse, and began
to hammer impatiently with the butt of his riding-whip. The father of
the household coughed, rolled heavily from his bed of rushes, and
appeared at the door--an old man, blinking with sleep, but collected
and courteous.
"What, lord?" said he. "There is tired you are now! How may I serve
you? Please you share the shelter of my roof till evening!"
"Nay, not so," Mogneid replied, "I am in haste to reach my journey's
end. Give us to drink, sir, I pray you--beer, milk, or water--what you
will--anything! We are dried up with this dust! And tell me, if you
can, how far hence dwells Gwrtheyrn the King?"
Without waiting to answer, the old man hobbled away, and returned a few
minutes later with a big stone pitcher and two little cups of horn.
"Alack, my friend," he grumbled, "they have taken all the beer. They
are all gone to mow the hay, look you, my son and the women! and I am
left to milk the cows and tend the livestock. Sore thing it is that old
age comes so soon! Well, lord, if ye will not stay to cleanse your feet
and enter my dwelling, let us at least converse in the shade. Here is
new milk, that quenches thirst." He led Mogneid and his four
serving-men beneath the boughs of a great hawthorn-tree, the only
ornament of his straw-littered, pig-frequented entrance-yard.
"Seek ye King Gwrtheyrn?"
He dropped thankfully on to a low seat surrounding the tree trunk, and
Mogneid sat down beside him, quaffed at the creamy liquor, and wiped
the dust and sweat from his countenance. The traveller was a
middle-aged man, thin and muscular, with a dark grizzled beard, and
vague-looking light blue eyes that missed sight of nothing that went on
around him. Upon the backs of his hands was tattooed a mystic design of
circles interlaced.
"I am from the land of Dyfed, reverend sir," he answered, "and I travel
to the court of Gwrtheyrn son of Guitaul, lord of Ewyas, of Erging, and
of Caer Glouwy. My folk were somewhat akin to his, many a generation
ago, and there is talk of a marriage between my niece and a lord of
Gwent who follows King Gwrtheyrn. If I mistake not greatly, I am now
not very far from my kinsman's palace."
"Noble lord," his host rejoined, "if ye be akin to Gwrtheyrn our King,
doubtless ye lament, as we do, his fall from greatness. Our Gwrtheyrn,
heaven protect him! was lord of all the armies of Britain--like the
commanders of the Romans, see you now; and in truth a very great prince
is he; none braver, or taller, or more just and more generous. But the
pirates came by sea on every side; and those Britons of the East--they
cannot fight like us men of the west; so King Gwrtheyrn sought to
procure peace, that the land might have time to rest and gather her
strength. When the chieftains of the Saxons, or Jutes, as they call
that tribe of them, came to confer with him, they feasted well
together, and Gwrtheyrn looked with eyes of love upon the daughter of
Hengist the Jute; and he wedded her, and gave to her kinsmen a parcel
of land in Kent, to hold under him, that they might aid him to beat off
all other robbers. But after this there was no peace at all. God's
curse on the Saxon ruffians! Would they keep within their boundaries,
think you? Nay, they disquieted the Britons upon every side. Then the
lords of Britain, with old Emrys at their head, grew angry, and refused
to follow Gwrtheyrn longer: even Gwrthefyr, his son by the Roman woman,
declared for another Amherawdwr[1] and other ways. So what was left to
Gwrtheyrn, when they had taken from him the government of Britain, but
to dwell here in the land of his fathers, amongst his own natural born
people, and rule over us?--and there is well he does rule over us--yes,
yes! I and my sons were with him in his army, in the grand old
days--not so very long ago, truly. And behold me now--a life fit for a
cart-horse! And I a free tribesman of Gwrtheyrnion!"
[1] Imperator.
"Why, from thy saying," said Mogneid, "thou bearest great love to
Gwrtheyrn."
"Indeed yes!" cried the old man. "These are ill times we live in!
Emrys commands in Britain now, or would command--but when all is said
and done, he is only lord of Morganwg. And he is a stark Roman, who
will have all things cut and dried about him. I tell you, I have a
very little opinion of these Romans, and of them who follow in their
steps. I have often heard my father tell of them. They came to our
land, and cut down our fair sheltering forests, and carried away our
fighting men to their own wars, so that Britain was left naked to the
Saxons. As for their priests--sir, I perceive you to be from the west,
where, I hear, priests are few.... Well, well! father Pewlin says,
when the ague torments me, 'Pray that thou mayest be given strength to
bear the trial.' Not such for me! I have fastened a scrap of my
clothing above the old healing--well out yonder."
"The old gods are indeed very wise! And Gwrtheyrn son of Guitaul? How
does he pass his time?"
"Alack that I must tell it! Is the caged beast as princely and as
mighty as he that roams abroad where he will?... Sometimes he hunteth
the stag or the boar--and there is metheglin, or wine, perchance--and
good beer. What else is left to our lord Gwrtheyrn? he who was a hero
in good King Arthur's time! That fat-faced Queen--I trow she is no
stay to him! 'The sweet Verge of Drunkenness!' That was a song my
father used to sing."
"Most honoured sir," Mogneid broke in, "I thank you very heartily for
your kind entertainment. But I must press on upon my road. I shall
praise your hospitality to my noble cousin, believe you me. Tell me, I
pray you, how soon I may be with him?"
"Fifteen miles and more is Caer Gwrtheyrn from here. Cross you
Clywedog and Ithon both. From the ford of Ithon there is a bridle-track
the whole way. May the Saints and Mary keep you! and all the powers
that be! May you suffer no violence, and may no goblin or hound of
hell affright you!"
"May all the powers bless you, my father! May the She-Greyhound of the
Heavens,[2] who maketh fat both land and cattle, favour you! Fare ye
well!"
[2] Ceridwen.
Mogneid and his little train set forth once more. They reached the
glen of Trawscoed in the cool of the evening when the sky was aglow
with amber lights and calm turquoise depths.
Caer Gwrtheyrn, the residence of the King of this country, which took
the name of Gwrtheyrion from its then lord, rose a mile or so before
them, upon the heights of Mynydd Denarch. As the Demetian cast his eye
over the surrounding country, in the east, upon the track that
descended from the hills of Gref-o-dig and Bron-y-Garn-llwyd, he
caught sight of what looked to him like the glint of the sun on steel
helmet and corslet.
Mogneid lost no time. He quickened his pace, and reached the gateway
of Caer Gwrtheyrn in about fifteen minutes. Soon the customary ritual
was fulfilled: his feet were bathed by the porter, to signify his
acceptance of hospitality for the night, and the King's door-keeper
ushered him into the castle hall.
It was dark already there. The torches smoked foully. There was a
manifold smell of beer, roast meat, barley-broth, rosemary and
woodruff, dogs and humanity. Mogneid felt that he could never find his
way except perhaps by the sense of touch. Presently a loud, harsh
voice rang out:
"Who is it? Who? What say you? Thou didst not inquire? What have I
told thee? I will have the name and ancestry of every considerable
visitor to my house--announced to me"--the voice spoke thickly--"as
has always been my wont! Curse thee for a numskull! Whom have we
here?"
Mogneid, who had reached the head of the board, looked up, and saw,
scowling down upon him, a gigantic, loosely-built personage, of
dignified bearing for all his violence--the wreck of a fine man, with
a flushed face and swollen, bloodshot eyes--Gwrtheyrn, King of
Gwrtheyrnion, Erging and Ewyas, whom the Britons had deposed from the
sovereignty of them all for all his ill-judged policy and for what
they deemed extravagant, un-British notions--Gwrtheyrn the Goidel, of
the foreign "repulsive" lips.[3]
[3] Supposedly so called from his Goidelic accent in speaking
British.
"Gracious lord," said Mogneid, "it is your humble kinsman, Mogneid,
son of Votecori, son of Maelumi, from the land of Dyfed, praying that
he may sojourn awhile under the King's protection. There is a family
matter in question, O Gwrtheyrn, in which I seek the aid of the
chieftain of my tribe."
"Son of Votecori!" cried Gwrtheyrn, with outstretched hand. "My
father's cousin's son! Now welcome, kinsman. Ho! bring meat and wine
for the Lord Mogneid! Thou must eat ere we further confer."
Seated by the side of his host, the new-comer feasted upon broiled
mutton-chops, which were carried in from without, for during the
summer weather Gwrtheyrn's food was cooked in a kitchen in an
outhouse. The King's hall was crowded, but the company presented few
elements of interest to the man of Dyfed. The Jutish Queen sat upon
Gwrtheyrn's other hand, counting the stitches in her needlework; she
had a broad face, a square full chin, and heavy auburn plaits. There
were a few old women, her attendants; the huntsmen, servants, and
men-at-arms; some rustic noblemen, talkative and disputatious; and
some half-dozen of the King's pages or foster-sons, who squabbled in
whispers over noughts and crosses chalked upon the empty hearth-stone.
"Lord," said Mogneid, "there come others to claim hospitality of thee
ere nightfall, I do think. As I looked back upon the eastern valley, I
beheld a party of horsemen, clad in steel armour, such as the Romans
wear."
"Art clever, kinsman," Gwrtheyrn replied. "It is Emrys, to a
certainty! or emissaries of his! Well that we are warned. They shall
be warmly received, I promise!"
"Whence comes Ambrosius?" Mogneid asked. "As I travelled hither, I
heard of him at Caerdydd."
"Look you, cousin," said Gwrtheyrn, "Ambrosius and I have some
contention toward, concerning my lordship of Buallt, of which this
overweening person claims the right to dispose, forsooth!--One cup
more, kinsman Mogneid; it is of the Kentish vintage. Now when these
Romanizers----"
"They are here," said Mogneid.
In truth, the clatter of horses' hooves resounded outside the
building, and the voices of men. Twenty mail-clad soldiers entered the
hall, with a keen-faced leader at their head.
"Greeting, King Gwrtheyrn," the officer cried, "from Ambrosius the
Imperator!"
"Greeting!" returned Gwrtheyrn shortly. "What would the Lord Emrys say
to us by your lips?"
"Thus says Aurelius Ambrosius to you, O Gwrtheyrn King of Erging: The
renowned and mighty lord Ambrosius himself is now at Buallt, whither
he is come to bestow the lordship of those lands--which are his as
much as thine by hereditary right, be it said--upon the valiant prince
Pascent thy son, for fitting appanage and livelihood. And he charges
thee, O Gwrtheyrn, to attend him straightway, upon the morrow, to
witness the installation of thy said son in all due form and order."
"Fore God!" Gwrtheyrn roared, "this is passing insolence! Hence to thy
master, sir, and tell him that Gwrtheyrn permits not that another
force from him what is his own! Or if it be too late now to make the
return journey, why, there are my villeins' cow-houses at your service
for the night. Ye shall have a guard set over you while ye are
sleeping. Out of our presence, instantly, by blessed Paul!"
"So be it," said the soldier. "We will back to the lord of Britain."
While they were departing, the Queen and her women rose and withdrew.
The foster-children went out into the twilit courtyard to play; the
servants, after removing the dishes and the victuals, one by one left
the room. Mogneid drew his seat closer to that of Gwrtheyrn.
"Ticklish fellows, these mongrel Romans," he observed.
The King was drinking deeply; the veins of his forehead still throbbed
with rage and shame. By and by he put down his cup, and began to talk,
with much gesticulation.
"Romans! Romans! Romans! Curse them all, high and low, up and down!...
Ambrosius their tyrant, to the lousiest beggar's brat--and----What
good are they to the clans of Britain?--with their fine habits and
their sickly vices? What good to me was my wife Severa, Maxen's
daughter? Ye see what sons she brought me--Gwrthefyr, and Cyndeyrn,
and Pascent--cleave to Ambrosius, and forsake their own father! Here,
in the west, are men mightier and taller and braver than all their
enfeebled town-dwellers. Good fighting Goidels...."
"All men do know as much," said the other. "For my part, I would that
my kinsmen were the chief men of the land."
"God!" panted Gwrtheyrn. "What is gone is gone--for ever." He looked
upon his companion with a watery eye. "Thou art verily welcome, good
Mogneid. A man is always glad to gossip with one of his own blood,
especially after long time of dreariness. Few guests knock at my
castle-gate--we are out of the run of life nowadays, alas! alas!"
The monotony and the squalor were all too evident.
"It were surely unjust," said Mogneid, in soothing tones, "that Buallt
should be taken from thee."
"And shall I suffer it? I have my favourite hunting-lodge in that
lordship. They are my lands--my lands! It pleases me to dwell there!"
Gwrtheyrn shouted with maudlin vehemence.
"What is your purpose, O King?"
"Well, that--I know not. But he shall not have my lands! Look you,
kinsman, it is near the harvest-time: I think my men will not come
willingly to arms."
"Then speak Ambrosius fair, biding thy time. Go not to Buallt, if thou
like not the indignity; and when the harvest is over, levy thy forces
and win back thine own. Is there difficulty in this?"
"All the priests are ever on the old fox's side. A man cannot well
struggle if he have holy Church against him. These are evil days
indeed. They meddle in everything, these rascally adze-heads.[4] Now
in the days of old, we could worship whom we would, aye, and how we
would. Prosperous days!... There were the sacred fires at the spring
and at the fall--those were things of power; they made the earth yield
bravely and plenteously. I remember I have run through the bonfires,
myself, many a time, when I was a child. And the magic of the wise
ones--I swear each spell was worth ten blessings of a priest!"
[4] Celtic priests, from their form of tonsure.
"The King speaks soothly. In Dyfed there are many who do think as we,
and who will scarcely permit the new-fangled faith to show its head.
It is not too late, O King, to throw off the yoke of the Romanizers.
Ye are all the world yet to your own people; they hate to see you idle
and dispossessed. There are many men of my country eager to rise at
your bidding: I know their minds."
"Cousin, this is a cheerful saying! Thy coming has filled me with
hope."
"Know then that the ancient wisdom is mine, perfectly: from my
childhood was I trained up in it by the last survivors of the
venerable sacred order. Listen, then, my lord, that should be King of
all the kings of Britain, to the words of the high gods that they have
spoken unto Mogneid! Thus and thus, O Gwrtheyrn, foretold the entrails
of the slave-boy accepted of Ceridwen...."
* * * * *
"Lord King," said Eliseg the chief huntsman, "it is not meet, nor is
it wise, to talk of intimate matters with the scavenger of the
by-ways. In other words, master, there is an old crafty bird, called
cuckoo, who stealeth the nests of others that his own offspring may
grow and flourish. Few have seen the cuckoo, but there are some that
have had sight of him. The cuckoo is perfectly familiar to me."
"Aye, so," said Dyfnwal the King's chamberlain.
"By Hu the Mighty! speak plainly, Eliseg, or else hold thy tongue,
thou naughty rogue!" cried Gwrtheyrn; but he smiled upon his trusty
servant.
"Lord, I think ye cannot know what ye are about. The cuckoo of my
simile, look you, he is the new-come guest, the lord from Dyfed, from
whom the King has no secrets. This is not the first time this man has
crossed my way. In Dyfed I was born, and there my wife's parents do
still dwell. O King, this is Mogneid the Druid, of very evil fame!"
"The devil take thee for a lying slanderer! Mogneid is near of kin to
me, within the nine degrees. He is a worthy prince, and fit to company
me in all my undertakings. Well, and if he be learned in the ancient
wise things--what can we show to-day to compare with the might of our
forefathers?"
"By my dogs and my horns and my leashes! King Gwrtheyrn," said Eliseg,
"we seek not to meddle impertinently, Dyfnwal and I, look you. But I
have served you four and thirty years, and Dyfnwal thirty, day in and
day out, in storm and shine, and we would not, for the love we bear
you, that ye should now ride for a fall."
"We speak as your friends," Dyfnwal grunted.
"It is a dangerous reptile ye have sheltered," continued the other.
"Dreaded is he throughout the land of Dyfed for his unfathomable
deeds. He has all the art of the Druids; and he is the last of the
brood, God be praised! The days of darkness are over, my king: men
will no longer take succour from the wiles of devils, thanks be to the
Lord Christ and to Mary the dear Lady of mankind!"
"Will ye hold your peace?" stormed the King. "Get you gone, both of
you, or I will have your tongues slit for you! What next, what next, I
ask you?"
"The tantrums of him!" said Eliseg, when they two were outside the
door. "Dyfnwal, look you, I fear that this fellow will bring peril
upon the King. He was never up to good from the hour wherein he first
drew breath. He is up and down the country, about and about, each day,
questioning every gaffer and goodwife, every lad, lass, and babe that
will waste the precious hours talking with him. Already Lord Gwrtheyrn
is never from the metheglin. We must let nothing escape us, lest our
master be undone."
"I have eyes," said Dyfnwal. "I use them."
"Hist! I see him," exclaimed the huntsman. "Grows there gold in the
villeins' hay-meadow, think you?"
Within the hall, Gwrtheyrn raged and muttered. When his wrath began to
cool, he felt the want of the congenial society of Mogneid. This
King's life was a lonely one. The Queen spent hours at spinning and
carding, weaving and embroidery; and although she would listen,
nodding and smiling, at any time to her husband's remarks, she seldom
spoke, and her thoughts seemed always far away, at rest upon things
serene and pleasant. So it came about that he seldom sought her
company. Why must his kinsman tarry so long from him? wondered
Gwrtheyrn. He gulped down a cupful of metheglin, and then another, and
subsided into a chair, to wait.
Mogneid came up the hill, smiling to himself. He knew the lie of the
country of Gwrtheyrnion well by now, and the disposition of its
people. He entered the castle hall. To his surprise, early in the day
though it was, Gwrtheyrn sat propping himself nicely in his chair of
state: a gold cup, relic of the sack of some Romano-British villa, lay
at his feet, and there were splashes of metheglin on the floor. The
King's mood was benign and expansive.
"Want thee--tell me," he greeted him. "Old preaching devil! Alleluia!
and they all ran away! Whatshisname?"
"Garmon, perhaps," answered Mogneid. Affecting indifference, he
watched his kinsman narrowly.
"Garmon--yes--yes--that's he. Father of the king of devils! Well,
Garmon--he's here. He's sent me a message." ... Gwrtheyrn seized his
cousin's arm. "I'll tell thee a secret. Knowest thou my first wife's
niece? Knowest her? A most sweet lass! She came to me, two years ago,
being widowed and very young, and having no protector. I have her now,
in the little summer dwelling of Rhaiadr Gwy. None know--the Queen
knows not. Well.... It has leaked out somehow.... Holy Garmon sends to
tell me that we are a scandal far and wide, and bids me mend my way of
life. The old fool! Calls her my daughter! Understand, she's not my
daughter. Not my daughter! Wife's niece!"
"Thou must send her away!" cried Mogneid.
"Don't want to send her away. 'Tis a pretty chuck--she pleases me....
Besides"--he beamed--"we have a son."
"All this is nought!" Mogneid insisted harshly. "Will you risk all we
have schemed for, my lord, for one girl? Put her from you, I say!"
He had used too rough a tone. A look of distress crept across the
stupor of the King's countenance.
"This priesthood! 'tis a cursed powerful thing," he said, with the
stirrings of cunning apparent. "Old Garmon--he has the ear of
Ambrosius. And these Christians show forth miracles in plenty."
"My lord, they are not the only wonder-workers. Can it be that the
wise men of old, who raised the giant stones for the temples, and
forged the swords and shields that none now can fashion, were weaker
than these unlettered saints? And their lore abides in me, and in some
few instructed ones in the west country. Now, Gwrtheyrn, my king, what
can a man's will do not, if he foster and train it by supernatural
discipline? And what is the first work of the will but to sink our
enemies?"
"What is the end of man, Mogneid?" said Gwrtheyrn. "Shall he be born
again, Mogneid? Perhaps from the crop of a hen? Shall he? From the
crop of a hen!"[5]
[5] Gwrtheyrn had Taliesin's mystical account of his
incarnations in mind.
"There is no end to the soul," Mogneid replied. "And every soul
returns to a body when he may find one. Come, O King, take heart. We
shall trample upon the necks of Ambrosius and Garmon."
"Kinsman, do what you can," said the King. "I rely on you."
Mogneid left him then, and sought the Queen's apartment. He despised
the King's wife, but as a tool she might be useful.
Gwrtheyrn, sobered now, beat his brow in turmoil of another sort.
"Beast or bird"--he cried--"man or woman--or wandering, bodiless
spirit! Or purgation by fire--or to roast in flames for ever! I
believe--I believe in hell! God--if Thou beest God ... O Christ,
Christ! I am lost--I cannot repent!"
Germanus of Auxerre and his colleague Lupus came to Caer Gwrtheyrn,
aflame with zeal for God and for the Church. In his palace hall they
upbraided King Gwrtheyrn, calling him the shame and scandal of all
Britain. As for the royal culprit, he would not hear them patiently.
Furious words were bandied between them.
"Things shall be as I will!" roared Gwrtheyrn. "Am I not lord in my
own dominions? Presumptious shaveling! what thinkest thou I care for
thy preachments?"
"O Gwrtheyrn, egregious sinner!" said Germanus. "Know that we have
power behind us. Ambrosius, who is near at hand with his army, will
soon be here, to punish or to break thee. Who will comfort thee with
the rites of holy Church if we proclaim thee outcast? Fortunate art
thou if thou escape so easily. Lupus and I will fast upon the Lord God
until He grant our demands concerning thee. Ere many days, heaven will
pour down fire upon thee, to shrivel up thee and thine and all thine
ill-famed land!"
This curse carried such terror to all standing by that even Mogneid
durst not suggest that the King should order the seizure of the holy
men, and they two passed out and went their way. Said Mogneid to
Gwrtheyrn:
"If Ambrosius come upon us, and Garmon and his monks from Llanharmon,
we are undone, and they will surely do thee to death. I can think of
only one resource. Thy Queen--has she not Saxon kindred about
Pengwern, not forty miles away? I think she will be persuaded to send
them messages. We will make allies of them; and should Ambrosius
besiege this fortress, we can hold out within, until the Saxons come
to deliver us."
"Do what thou wilt," answered Gwrtheyrn. "Speak thou to my wife. By
now she must have heard some story of my pretty dear."
The Queen was not jealous; and very readily she dispatched a runic
writing and another token to a kinsman of hers whom she knew to be
commanding the Saxon outposts at Pengwern. These were entrusted to
three huntsmen of the King's, who had by heart every path and by-track
in the country. Gwrtheyrn and Mogneid made fast the defences, and
provided arms for every man of the King's subjects near at hand who
could be spared from gathering in the harvest in feverish haste.
But, on the morning of the next day, Eliseg brought dire tidings to
Caer Gwrtheyrn. The monks of Cilfachau had taken all three messengers,
and had carried them off to Germanus at Buallt. And the army of
Ambrosius had been seen moving upon Gwrtheyrn's palace.
"We must to Llanaelhairn, in the valley that opens into Lleyn from the
bay of Arvon," said Gwrtheyrn. "There it will be hard for them to
follow us."
"My plans have failed," thought Mogneid. "I came hither too late.
Cousin Gwrtheyrn cannot weather this storm."
In a very little while, their preparations were made and they set out:
the King and the Druid; the Queen upon a pillion behind Eliseg;
Dyfnwal and all the men of the household, a few of the women whose
homes were inaccessible, and every man of the royal hamlet who could
be quickly armed and mounted--leaving Caer Gwrtheyrn to whatsoever
might befall.
For seven hours they rode to the north-west. After passing the
confines of Gwrtheyrn's own lands, they kept to the course of the Wye,
which river became narrower and more rapid with every frequent bend.
They travelled slowly, for they were an unwieldy party. About sunset,
an ominous smoky glare appeared in the sky in the region they had
abandoned.
"They burn Caer Gwrtheyrn!" said the King; and he wept uncontrollably.
At nightfall they came to the outskirts of the waste about Plinlimmon.
This was an uninhabited tract, part oak and elm thicket, part
alder-shaded swamp. In the higher reaches, huge craggy hills arose
like spectral scaly monsters gathering their strength for a spring.
Beyond lay the open moorland where Wye has its rising, and where
Severn is a tiny trickle, whose source is unknown to man. Owls hooted
in this wooded valley, and there were strange flutterings, squeakings
and snappings, and patterings over the ground. The King's men refused
to go farther.
"The dogs of hell are abroad, lord!" cried one. "Arawn's hounds--yes,
yes! Once it is dark, they roam this desert place. There is fearful
they are now. White they are, every one, with rose-red ears, and their
jaws foam and drip. And the man who sees them--sure to be ailing from
that very hour, and die before long, and that is a fact. Very, very
unlucky! Let us stay where we are, now!"
They wailed and besought so piteously that Gwrtheyrn had to permit a
halt in spite of the friendly moonlight, and of Mogneid's whispered
urgings. A long low cave was near at hand: into it they packed,
shivering in the night-mist, for they durst not kindle a fire.
They passed a restless night; only the Queen slept soundly in the cave
on the borders of the haunted forest. Then on once more over the rocky
track that led through Arwystli and Meirionedd to their goal, the
peninsula of Lleyn.
"I dreamed of Garmon," said Gwrtheyrn, as they started. "His face
glowed white, like hottest iron, kinsman Mogneid--I cannot forget it.
He is fasting upon his God, to procure my destruction."
Mogneid answered nothing, but gnawed his lip.
"Llanaelhairn must we make upon the morrow," continued the King. "It
is a little old fortress of my father's building, for to guard the
valley beneath Yr Eifl from attack by sea: I myself have not set foot
there for more than thirty years. The way thither is little known, and
I wager Emrys will be finely entangled once or twice if he endeavour
to follow us. But there are caretakers, and there should be flocks and
herds for our regaling."
That night they spent in Arthog. A hospitable Goidelic lord
overwhelmed them with attentions, giving them what food he had, and
they passed the night in and about his dwelling. Across the estuary of
the Mawddach, the forsaken druidic stones showed white and awful.
By noon next day, they had reached the borders of Lleyn. By late
afternoon, as they pursued their rough, scarcely distinguishable,
interminable way, the Queen grew querulous. She could ride no longer;
every muscle in her body ached; she must drink deeply from a tumbling
spring that ran across their path, and bathe her face, hands, and
feet; she was hungry, and here were bilberries. Surely they were safe
from their enemies? And every one was sun-dried and speechless!
Well, she might rest a breathing-while: they might all stretch their
limbs and eat and drink their fill.
"But come thou on with me, cousin," said Gwrtheyrn. "I cannot stay
still. We will go ahead, and spy over the hills before us, and seek
the readiest way." To the commander of the men-at-arms: "Look you,
tarry not long, for sunset will soon be upon us."
Said Eliseg to Dyfnwal, "They are gone together, the King and he. I
like not the evil lowering of his face this day. We should follow
them."
"At once!" said Dyfnwal. "The bay and the roan are the fleetest."
The sky had clouded over, and there was a rainy light in the western
quarter.
"Look yonder!" cried Mogneid, when they had ridden some two miles
farther.
A great army of horsemen was winding about the foot of the hills of
Pennant, and at their head was something, broad and scarlet-gleaming,
that flapped in the evening breeze--surely the dragon-standard of
Ambrosius.
"Then the end is come," said Mogneid.
"On to Llanaelhairn!" Gwrtheyrn exclaimed. "Once there, we can get the
cattle within, and hold the ford, belike, with my people that dwell
there. Hasten, kinsman, hasten! The others have sure guides; they
cannot miss the way."
When they reached the ford of the little brook, now called by King
Gwrtheyrn's name, that flowed beneath the walls of the fortress of
Llanaelhairn, the moon was shining, and the clouds were fewer. They
crossed the castle forecourt. Not a soul was about, for the land-maer
and his family had gone to the upper pastures to bring in the sheep
and cattle. As they opened the hall door, the stifling atmosphere beat
heavily against their faces. A fierce fire was burning, upon which the
women of the household had lately roasted whole the carcasses of
several sheep. After glancing around, Mogneid sped up the stairway
leading into the look-out tower, and Gwrtheyrn followed him into the
small, low chamber at the top. He found Mogneid before its
half-ruinous window, tugging at the rusty iron grating that screened
the aperture.
Presently the mortar that had held it crumbled, the whole frame-work
came away in Mogneid's hands, and he cast it violently upon the floor.
Then he returned to the window. Above him the heights of the Rivals
towered; away to the west, the sea-waves lapped sullenly; below, Nant
Gwrtheyrn ran very low in its stony bed.
"What hope is there now?" cried Gwrtheyrn the King. "What hast thou
done for me, Mogneid my kinsman, who promised so much? Garmon is a
greater curser than thou--his magic mightier. The ancient gods have
lied to thee, Mogneid--they delude thee--thou art not their favoured
one! Wilt thou give me back my kingdoms, thou who hast all things of
power at thy fingers' ends!" He rushed upon the other with a snarl
like a wild beast's.
Mogneid son of Votecori turned upon him a look that scorched, and
Gwrtheyrn cowered back against the wall, shaking from head to foot.
"Thou scum of dross! Thou refuse thing! Thou drunkard and son of
drunkards! Aye, a high destiny hadst thou once--until thou gavest over
thy will to sloth and rottenness! Talk ye of hope, my lord? Was
Ambrosius ever known to spare? Well, there is one way--by this
opening, see you?--it is fully wide enough: a man may lower himself;
it is a swift ending. Concerning what will follow, these Christians
lie. Perchance thou wilt become a silvery salmon, very wise, in Wye or
Dyfi; or a wallowing hog; or Emperor of the West, perchance, or Pope
of Rome. Jump, Gwrtheyrn, King of Gwrtheyrnion, Buallt, Erging, Ewyas,
and Caer Glouwy, sometime Pendragon of all Britain, and flee shame!"
"Shame--only that ... I must flee shame!" muttered Gwrtheyrn, climbing
into the window as though compelled by the fascination of Mogneid's
eye. "I must--I will ... I cannot...."
He faltered on the edge, but the Druid, standing behind, pushed him,
and his long body fell hurtling through the air.
After peering for a moment at a certain motionless dark patch upon the
stones below, Mogneid descended the staircase, in haste to make his
escape.
Eliseg and Dyfnwal caught him in the doorway. They carried him, bound
hand and foot, into the hall, and threw him upon the fire that still
burned brightly. After a little while, they took him off the fire, and
hacked off his head with a chopper that was used for jointing meat.
Dewi Sant
"_O holy David, our bishop, take away our sadness._"
David strode along the winding road: his feet were bare, his head was
bare and tonsured, and one garment, of coarse felt, but snowy white,
was his only bodily covering. The sun beat down upon him; the sky, of
a deep, throbbing blue, held few clouds, and they silvery and
sweetly-curved as the breast-feathers of a dove; on his left, the
sea dazzled; before and about him, small columns of dust twirled
mischievously. David's eyes, dark and bright, feasted untiringly upon
the life and growth around him, and he sang as he went.
"Dancing is the sea, the winds are dancing also:
Breath of angels hath the sun-warmed hay, the poppies
are out in scarlet.
Good thing it is for a man to strive in his lifetime.
"A mighty chorus echoeth from the bed of ocean:
There is also the poem of the flight of birds.
Who would conquer sin, must learn praise and gratitude.
"Who hath set the thrift in the rocks that are smooth
and barren?
Who nourisheth the little sweet rose that maketh a garden
of the sand-dunes?
How can a man wander, when for him the Love of God is nailed
on high?
"The corn-ears are purple-ripe:
Generous gifts bring the apple-boughs against the season of
All Saints.
Very good is song, that giveth cheerfulness."
He turned him about, and looked back upon the whitewashed walls of
Mynyw, his darling among his many foundations. To the little company of
religious who followed his steps, he cried:
"I do think that of all the lands in all the world the fairest is our
land of Cymru. And of all the parts of Cymru, look you, the fairest and
the sweetest is this Dyfed."
Aidan, Teilo, Ismail, and some few more clustered round him. Said they
all together:
"Indeed, indeed, blessed, holy father, blessed is our Dyfed!" and many
were the looks of affection they cast upon their little abbot.
"I have been in the Holy Country," said David. "That is the very marvel
of the world--a jewel set in the desert; but hard and bright, dear me!
there is unplayful it is! I can never give thanks enough, children,
that I am permitted to dwell here where I was born."
So saying, he resumed his journey. They had left the monks' cultivated
domain behind them, and were now in the shade of a broad lane between
willows and hazels, where the mallows and the bellflowers grew rankly.
Of a sudden, the lane came to an end, and they emerged upon the little
promontory below Porth Mawr. Carn Llidi loomed above them, on their
right hand, and at its foot rose Ty Gwyn, the deserted college of
Patrick, with its grave-stones round about it. In the western distance,
far away, appeared a green fairy land, with the hazy forms of mountains
melting into the skyline.
"Let us pray for our brethren of Ireland," said David, "of the Second
Order of Saints."
About an hour later, David was still some few paces at the head of his
people, and repeating to himself, hands folded, the prayers for the
third hour after noon, when he felt his shoulder seized in a brawny
grip, and he was forcibly twisted round until he faced a sturdy
individual, with a broad, smiling red face, sandy hair, and twinkling
green-grey eyes, and fully equipped with the war-sword, flowing robe,
and shoes of dressed leather which only a nobleman might wear. Near him
were his retinue of horsemen, one of whom held the steed from which his
lord had just dismounted.
"David, little cousin," was his greeting, "whither so fast, I pray
thee, with thy chin to the ground? Have you mission to punish
wrong-doers, O very powerful saint?"
"Why, kinsman Cadfan," David replied, "sweet is the sight of you to the
eyes. It is seldom we meet now. But I am not abroad to deal with
evildoers, look you. Dyfed, thanks be to God! is a very peaceful place;
the religion of Christ reigns even in the farthest nooks. I have enough
to do, kinsman, to order mine own house and the brethren and disciples
over whom I rule. The bishops hold synod at Brefi, and I must be there
with the rest; though little doing, say I, follows much talking."
"Hast indeed won all this land by thy words and wonders?" cried Cadfan,
who, though he had great affection for David, could never, in his
presence, master an uncontrollable desire to tease him. "Look that they
deceive thee not, the pigs of Dyfed! and pay not double tithes to their
Druids, and turn to them first at birth and at death! What did I hear
of thee and of a monstrous old stone? Some tale spread by women...."
"Dost thou doubt the power of God?" exclaimed David, with flashing
eyes. Then, as he caught sight of his interlocutor's face, he could not
help smiling. "Cadfan, they would not give up the old stone of
Cetti--slew beast and fowl upon it, to obtain prosperity, or for
blessing or cursing, and slept beneath its shade that dreams might
visit them! Then, on a day, when a great crowd was there assembled, I
prayed, and took a sword in my hand, and climbed upon the old
abomination, to the very top; and I smote with my sword in the face of
all the people, and lo! the stone split in twain with a hideous scream.
Oh, joyful was my heart for that God had deigned to heed my
supplication! And so was the unbelieving remnant drawn into the
Church's fold."
"Well done, well done!" said his jovial kinsman.
"And the Gwyddel chieftains? Are they forbearing towards thee?"
"Boia is dead. Leschi came out of Ireland and slew him and all his in
one night; and Leschi is for holy Church. But it was pity for Boia. He
suffered us gladly, and I think would have hearkened to the word ere
long. A brave soul! I say mass for him often, as Cattwg does for worthy
Virgil. But the wicked shrew, his wife! she urged him with all her
might against us; and when we would take no notice of her handmaidens
whom she sent to bathe in the stream that runs before our very doors,
one day she lured Dunawd her step-daughter to an ancient altar in a
forsaken spot, and sacrificed her to the Siddi, her underground gods.
First shore off the little one's hair,[6] and then slit her throat! A
sweet innocent child! who would come to our church door, to peep and to
listen, and then flee shyly away. Alas! alas! a grievous happening!"
[6] In sign of dedication.
"And wilt thou spend all thy days in lonely Dyfed, little holy one? I
did hear of thee at Afallach,[7] where Joseph's thorn grows. Didst thou
not bestow there some very rich treasure? Would that not be a kingly
centre for thee to dwell in?"
[7] Glastonbury.
"At Afallach left I the sapphire altar which I brought from Caer Salem.
Afallach will be great and famous, I doubt not; but, Mary be aiding! I
will live and die yonder in Glyn Rhosyn, nursery of the dearest of my
sons. Lonely we are, yes. We control no state policy, for Britain is
the dominion of the Saxons; but Cymru shall render us thanks in days to
come: we shall have great power of prayer."
"O cousin, it is marvel to me that thou canst thus go barefoot in the
dust, and hang rough texture of the taeogion[8] about thee, and drink
nought but tasteless water. I am but an ordinary man, and I would not
forego my pleasures of everyday for any miracles which might be sung of
down the ages. Well, well! each man to his own taste! I go to old Aunt
Angharad, at Porth Mawr. The blessed woman! she has found me a dainty
maid to wife, says she. Now speak me a blessing, David, and let me have
your prayers."
[8] Villeins.
"Our Lord God be aiding thee, kinsman Cadfan! May He preserve to thee
thy good tenderness of heart!"
"And may He prosper thee, my David! Fare thee well, little kinsman."
Cadfan departed on his way, and David and his companions set their
faces northwards. They were not a solitary party. The road swarmed with
priests and monks, and was trodden also by many laymen and some few
women whom devotion or curiosity drew to the synod of the bishops at
Brefi in Ceredigion. As evening drew on, the abbot-bishop of Menevia
led his tired followers up the slope of a wooded hill, where he knew
were dry caverns to pass the night in, and a spring of water. When they
neared their proposed resting-place, a tonsured figure ran out from
under the trees, and stood in their path-way, waving his arms.
David whistled to the mongrel greyhound that padded by his side. Then,
suddenly, he hastened his steps, his face aglow.
"Padarn! Dear, dear me! My Padarn! Are ye many? Or may we spend this
night with thee and thine in this God-given spot?"
"Well met, well met, David!" cried Padarn, "And well met all, ye
road-stained travellers! There is surely room for all." He hurried
through the thicket to the clearing before the rocky bank which the
aforesaid caves perforated, calling out: "Brethren! whom see ye here,
whom see ye? Look you, this is David of Mynyw. Teilo, he, and I did
journey together to the holy Jerusalem, one in soul, in joy, and in
sorrow; and is it not a gladsome thing that he should be here amongst
us this night?"
An enthusiastic welcome ensued, and before long David, Teilo, Aidan,
Ismail and the rest had been seated by the fire and supplied with food
and drink. This was the Age of the Saints. Besides the newcomers there
were some dozen holy men, whose names are living yet, sitting about
upon the ground, each one bound for the great synod of the Cymric
priesthood. In the mouth of the largest cave squatted an elderly man,
sallow and wrinkled, with a beak-like nose and weary eyes; he had
vellum, pen, and inkhorn, and wrote sedulously, giving himself no
respite, with a heavy frown between his brows the while. David knew him
for Gildas of Strathclyde, the apostle of Ruys in Lesser Britain.
They yielded early to their fatigue, and lay down where they best
might, most of them within the shelter of the caves. Gildas put aside
his pen.
"They are all mightily drunken with the use and custom of sins!" he
thundered. "If I reckoned without pause for ten years, the scandals
concerning the high men of Britain would not be enumerated--and
concerning also our monks and ordained priests (Have mercy, have mercy,
on us miserable sinners!). Our princes are a host of devils--nay, worse
than devils, for have they not received the sign and sacrament of
baptism? Lust, and pillage, and oppression are such as were never
before since the creation of the world. Stinking to heaven is
Gomorrah--I should say Aberffraw! And there dwells the most heinous,
the Satan of them all--and that is Maelgwn Gwenedd!"
David yawned, said a prayer for his kinsman Maelgwn, stretched himself,
and fell asleep.
At the first glimmer of dawn, they were awakened by the clanging of
Gildas's bell. Their prayer said, David went to bathe in the brook near
by. When he returned to the camp-fire, Gildas, his countenance sallower
than usual, twisting and biting his lips, had just bent down to the
simmering pot that hung over the flames, with a loaf of bread in his
hand, when the mongrel grey-hound darted up to him, made an ecstatic
leap, and snatching the loaf in his teeth, rushed away with it down the
hill-side.