A HWYL
A Welsh church at the period of the Norman Conquest was much what it had
been from the time when Christianity had been adopted by the Britons. It
was of wood, as has been already stated.
The insular Celt could never apply himself to the quarrying and shaping
of stone.
The church of Cynwyl was oblong, built of split logs, roofed with
thatch. The eaves projected, so as to shelter the narrow windows from
the drift of rain, as these latter were unglazed. Only in the chancel
were they protected by sheep's amnion stretched on frames.
A gallows of timber standing at a short distance from the west end
supported the bell. This was neither circular nor cast, but was oblong
in shape, of hammered metal, and riveted. The tone emitted was shrill
and harsh, but perhaps was on this account better suited to be heard at
a distance than had it been deep in tone and musical in note.
Rude although the exterior of the church was, the interior was by no
means deficient in beauty, but this beauty was limited to, or at least
concentrated on, the screen that divided the long hall into two
portions. There were no aisles, the only division into parts was
effected by the screen, that was pierced by a doorway in the middle.
This screen was, indeed, constructed of wood in compartments, and each
compartment was filed with an intricate and varied tracery of plaited
willow wands. It was the glory and the delight of the Celt to expend his
artistic effort on the devising and carrying out of some original design
in interlaced work--his knots and twists and lattice were of
incomparable beauty and originality. If he took to carving on stone, it
was to reproduce on the best tractable material his delightful lacework
of osiers.
The patterns of the compartments were not merely varied in plaits, but
color was skilfully introduced by the flexible rods having been dyed by
herbs or lichens, and a further variety was introduced by the partial
peeling of some of the wands in rings. Moreover, to heighten the
effect, in places flat pieces of wood like shuttles, but with dragons'
heads carved on them, were introduced among the plait as a means of
breaking continuity in design and allowing of a fresh departure in
pattern.
Within the screen a couple of oil-lamps burned, rendered necessary by
the dusk there produced by the membrane that covered the windows. Here,
beneath the altar, was preserved the abbatial staff of the founder--a
staff invested by popular belief with the miraculous powers.
On the last day of April every year, this staff was solemnly brought
forth and carried up the river Annell, to a point where rested an
enormous boulder, fallen from the mountain crag, and resting beside the
stream, where it glanced and frothed over a slide of rock, in which were
depressions scooped by the water, but superstitiously held to have been
worn by the Apostle of Caio as he knelt in the water at his prayers and
recitation of the Psalter. Here the Archpriest halted, and with the
staff stirred the water. It was held that by this means the Annell was
assured to convey health and prosperity to the basin of the Cothi, into
which it discharged its blessed waters. Hither were driven flocks and
herds to have the crystal liquid scooped from the hollows in the rock,
and sprinkled over them, as an effectual preservative against murrain.
The bishop occupied a stool within the screen. On this occasion he had
nothing further to do than proclaim his inflexible determination to
maintain the prohibition of marriage within the seven degrees for the
future, and to annul all such unions as fell within them, whether
naturally or artificially, and to illegitimatize all children the issue
of such marriages. It was the object of the Norman invaders to sow the
seed of discord among those whose land they coveted, to produce such
confusion in the transmission of estates as to enable them to intervene
and dispossess the native owners, not always at the point of the sword,
but also with the quill of the clerk.
The villagers had crowded into the sacred building, they stood or knelt
as densely as they could be packed, and through the open door could be
seen faces thronging to hear such words as might reach them without.
Every face wore an expression of suspicion, alarm, or resentment. Pabo
stood outside the screen upon a raised step or platform, whence he was
wont to read to or address his congregation. It sustained a desk, on
which reposed the Scriptures.
The bishop's chaplain occupied the center of the doorway through the
screen. He held a parchment in his hand, and he hastily read its
contents in Latin first, and then translated it into Welsh. Pabo was a
tall man, with dark hair and large deep eyes, soft as those of an ox,
yet capable of flashing fire. He was not over thirty-five years of age,
yet looked older, as there was gravity and intensity in his face beyond
his years. He was habited in a long woolen garment dyed almost but not
wholly black. He was hearkening to every word that fell, his eyes fixed
on the ground, his hands clenched, his lips closed, lines forming in his
face.
It escaped Bernard, behind the lattice-work, and incapable of observing
such phenomena, how integrally one, as a single body, the tribesmen
present were with their ecclesiastical and political chieftain. Their
eyes were riveted, not on the reader, but on the face of Pabo. The least
change in his expression, a contraction of the brow, a quiver of the
lip, a flush on the cheek, repeated itself in every face.
Whilst the lection in Latin proceeded, the people could understand no
more of it than what might be discerned from its effect on their
Archpriest; but it was other when the chaplain rendered it into
every-day vernacular. Yet even then, they did not look to his lips. They
heard his words, but read the commentary on them in the face of Pabo.
They understood now with what they were menaced. It was shown to them,
not obscurely. They knew as the allocution proceeded what it involved if
carried out: there were wives present whose sentence of expulsion from
their homes was pronounced, children who were bastardized and
disinherited, husbands whose dearest ties were to be torn and snapped.
Not a sound was to be heard save the drone of the reader's voice; till
suddenly there came a gasp of pain--then a sob.
Again an awful hush. Men set their teeth and their brows contracted; the
muscles of their faces became knotted. Women held their palms to their
mouths. Appealing hands were stretched to Pabo, but he did not stir.
Then, when the translation was ended, the chaplain looked round in
silence to Bernard, who made a sign with his hand and nodded.
In a loud and strident voice the chaplain proceeded: "By order of
Bernard, by the grace of God, and the favor of his Majesty the King,
Bishop of St. David's and Primate of all Wales--all such as have
contracted these unlawful unions shall be required within ten days from
this present to separate from the women with whom they have lived as
husbands, and shall not occupy the same house with them, nor eat at the
same board, under pain of excommunication. And it is further decreed
that in the event of contumacy, of delay in fulfilling what is hereby
required, or refusal to fulfil these lawful commands, after warning,
such contumacious person shall forfeit all his possessions, whether in
lands or in movable goods, or cattle--his wearing apparel alone
excepted; and such possessions shall be divided into three equal
portions, whereof one-third shall be confiscated to the Crown, one-third
shall fall to the Church Metropolitan, and, again, one-third----" He
raised his head. Then Bernard moved forward in his seat that he might
fix his eyes upon Pabo; there was a lifting of his upper lip on one
side, as he signed to the chaplain to proceed: "And, again, one-third
shall be adjudged as a grace to the Informer." A moan swept through the
congregation like that which precedes the breaking of a storm, "To the
Informer," repeated the chaplain; "who shall denounce to the Lord Bishop
such unions as have been effected in this district of Caio within the
forbidden degrees."
This last shaft pierced deepest of all. It invited, it encouraged,
treachery. It cast everywhere, into every family, the sparks that would
cause conflagration. It was calculated to dissolve all friendships, to
breed mistrust in every heart.
Then Pabo lifted his head.
His face was wet as though he had been weeping, but the drops that ran
over his cheeks fell, not from his glowing eyes, but from his
sweat-beaded brow.
He turned back the book that was on the desk and opened it. He said no
words of his own, but proceeded to read from the volume in a voice deep,
vibrating with emotion; and those who heard him thrilled at his tones.
"Thus saith the Lord God. Behold, I, even I, will judge between the fat
cattle and between the lean cattle. Because ye have thrust with side and
with shoulder, and pushed all the diseased with your horns, till ye
have scattered them abroad; therefore will I save my flock, and they
shall no more be a prey; and I will judge between cattle and cattle----"
"What doth he say? What readeth he?" asked the bishop of his chaplain,
whom he had beckoned to him.
Pabo heard his words, turned about and said--"I am reading the oracle of
God. Is that forbidden?" A woman in the congregation cried out; another
burst into sobs.
Pabo resumed the lection, and his voice unconsciously rose and fell in a
musical wail: "I will set up one shepherd over them, and he shall feed
them." At once--like a rising song, a mounting wave of sound--came the
voice of the people, as they caught the words that rang in their hearts;
they caught and repeated the words of the reader after him--"One
shepherd, and he shall feed them." And as they recited in swelling and
falling tones, they moved rhythmically, with swaying bodies and raised
and balanced arms. It was an electric, a marvelous quiver of a common
emotion that passed through the entire congregation. It went further--it
touched and vibrated through those outside, near the door--it went
further, it affected those beyond, who knew not what was said.
Pabo continued--and his voice rolled as if in a chant--"I will set up
one shepherd over them, and he shall feed them--even my servant DAVID."
"David! He shall feed us--even he, our father--our father David!"
Those kneeling started to their feet, stretched their arms to heaven.
Their tears poured forth like rain, their voices, though broken by sobs,
swelled into a mighty volume of sound, thrilling with the intensity of
their distress, their hope, their fervor of faith--"Even he shall
come--God's servant David!" At the name, the loved name, they broke into
an ecstatic cry, "And I the Lord will be their God, and my servant David
a prince among them; I the Lord have spoken it."[1] The chaplain
translated. "He is uttering treason!" shouted Bernard, starting up.
"David a prince among them! We have no King but Henry."
Then from without came cries, shouts, a rushing of feet, an angry roar,
and the clash of weapons.
[Footnote 1: "A minnau yr Arglwydd a fyddaf yn Dduw iddynt, a'm gwas
Dafydd yn dywysog yn eu mysg; myfi yr Arglwydd a leferais hyn."--Ez.
xxxiv. 24.]