Cangen Ⅱ
I have had many names — some old, some even older — though the one I am best remembered for is Gwythyr. For it was under that name I was cursed and immortalized (both literally and figuratively). You’ll encounter me within the leaves of the great native Arthurian epic of ‘Mal y Kavas Kulhwch Olwen’, or ‘How Culhwch won Olwen’ to use the debased tongue of the invaders. Even though I am just a bit-part player in this tale; the wronged party and a member of the ‘once and future king’s’ teulu. Though my tale actually begins many years prior to that. Somewhere within the transition of the Neolithic and bronze ages to be precise. That time almost five thousand years before the present when agriculture came to the Island of the Mighty and, for the first time, the passage of the seasons became, quite literally, a matter of life and death.
But those early stories were tales for another time. In many ways his story began somewhere shortly after the fall of the Roman empire and the withdrawl of the last legions from Ynys y Kedyrn. He was making his way northwards towards the Manau Gododdin, traversing deeply-wooded forests and crossing bracken-cloaked glens. Several days’ hard travel brought him to a large clearing backed by a thickset stand of gnarled scots pine. To the right the clearing was an immense outcrop of stone that at one and the same time seemed to threaten and protectively cradle the clearing beneath its jutting prow. Nestled at the cliff’s base was what had once probably been a luxurious Roman villa. Though now its was patched and encrusted with external dry-stone walls; lending the structure the appearance of a squat fortress. Indeed, the only true indication of its origins were the tiles it still wore for a roof.
Urging his steed forwards he made for the long southern wall where the stout portal stood three man-heights tall and fully two wide. More than large enough for him to ride his steed through, had he so wished. The great double doors were supported within a gigantic ivy-decked arch. Though it was with more than a small sense of trepidation that he spurred his steed forwards towards those enormous doors. He had good reason to expect a warm reception at this Llys for his penteulu and his liege-lord resided there.
Drawing level with the doorway he unsheathed his sword and using the counterweight of the pommel as a club he struck the stout boards of the entranceway three sharp blows. Sheathing his sword he awaited for his entreaty to be answered. He waited awhile and was about to strike the door with his sword once again when it began to shudder and swing inwards. A strangely contorted figure emerged, hunched at the waist and the shoulders and it was only as he came outside and stood upright that Gwythyr saw the reason for this. For the man was a giant, a full head and shoulders taller than the height of the llys’ massive doors. So tall was he that he gazed down at Gwythyr even though he was still seated on his steed.
‘Who disturbs the emperor’s court?’ boomed the giant’s voice as his right hand dragged a treetrunk of a club out from the shadows behind the door. This he hefted against his left hand as he awaited a reply.
‘I am Gwythyr son of Greidawl,’ Gwythyr said, ‘and as Arthur’s nephew I have come to pay homage to my uncle and to ask of him a boon.’
‘’Tis late,’ the giant said, ‘and the entire company of the llys are at meat. I cannot let you enter.’
‘By dint of mastery with sword and spear, with horse and shield, which I pledge to the dux bellorum’s service, let me pass.’
‘The lords are at their mead,’ the giant said, ‘I cannot let you pass.’
‘Then I shall sup from the mead horn as sign of friendship and allegiance.’
It seemed that the giant was going to bar his way again, so wheeling his horse about Gwythyr spurred the fleet pony into a trot and dodging beneath the giant’s club he entered through the open doorway. His steed’s hooves clattered on the cobbles of the gatehouse before emerging into a long courtyard dominated by the scents of strange Mediterranean herbs — bay, laurel, rosemary and sage — their scents strange and heady within the high-walled confines of that open space. Though it passed in a blur as his pony thundered through to duck beneath the eaves of the cloisters and through to the main hall itself. Bursting through the great double doors he wheeled his steed to a halt and descended nimbly from its back. An entrance so dramatic that the halls revelries instantly ceased and silence fell over those assembled there. Quickly Gwythyr scanned the confines of the hall, taking in the light from windows, sputtering torches and candleflame. Descending to the knee on the ornate mosaic floor he bent his head even as the wolfhounds came up to snuffle at his form.
‘Who is this who would interrupt us at our meat?’ boomed out a voice which seemed to swell even as the words rolled out. Sensing that it was his turn to speak Gwythyr raised his head above the level of the hounds as his eyes locked with the violet orbs of his uncle and liege-lord, Arthur, battle-leader of all the Brython. The Grat Bear was seated not at table, but rather upon a golden throne wide enough for three knights to comfortably sit abreast upon. Seated upon his raised dais Arthur had a view of the entire llys and was ready for the night’s entertainments. The focus of which had suddenly become Gwythyr himself, who slowly eased himself upright as he addressed the figure before him.
‘Arglwydd’, he said, ‘I am Gwythyr son of Greidawl, your nephew and your sister’s son. As such, and despite your porter’s valiant efforts to dissuade me I come, as is my right, to ask of you a boon.’
‘Aye,’ Arthur responded, ‘you have done well to enter, and despite the manner of your coming I bid you welcome to my llys. Ask your boon, and if it is in my power to grant then it shall be yours.’
‘Lord, as the son of your sister I ask no more than admittance to your teulu, that I may become a member of your household and learn the skills that befit a warrior.’
‘Then welcome, sister-son, for I grant your boon gladly. Take your place amongst the members of this household and partake of the mead horn.’ Arthur indicated a bench to his right and then clapped his hands twice so that the revelries could continue. Almost immediately the hall erupted into noise once more as the music started and, the bards began to sing and the cyfarwydd started to relate their tales. From somewhere a page appeared to lead Greidawl’s horse to be stabled even as he turned left to take his place amongst the other men.
The men over to his left shuffled to make room for him. Of course, as a newcomer to the Llys he was to sit at the furthest point from Arthur’s own seat, though as a close blood relative to the great Emperor he was to be seated at the first bench rather tan the third. So he moved to the space cleared for him and took his place amongst the ranks of heroes. Someone thrust a mead horn into his hand and he joined with the revelries. During the evening the conversation ebbed and flowed as the tale-tellers and the cyfarwydd demonstrated their arts, regaling the company with ancient tales and displays of their bardic arts. All the while it seemed to Gwythyr at least as if his uncle were continuously in council, talking to a steady stream of his foremost champions. Amongst whose numbers Gwythyr noted Cei, Bedwyr and Drystan son of Tallwch.
But he had little time to observe the other advisers as a dagger and a pewter plate were slapped down before him and he gazed upwards and his eyes locked with these amazing blue-green orbs that simply transfixed him. Instantly he was smitten, even as his eyes drew back from those amazing eyes to take-in a rounded face with high cheekbones a pert nose and the fullest lips he had ever seen. All this being framed by a cascade of curly hair the colours of living flame. But she was gone before he could wrap his tongue around words of greeting she was gone, vanishing into the crowd of people who milled around the borders of the great hall. Gwythyr’s companions laughed at the very obvious infatuation and he suffered the next few minutes having his leg pulled by his companions. Eventually, however, he managed to enquire as to who the lad was and Cyfdwr ap Cellwarir the wild, bearded, one-eyed man to his left told him that she was Creiddylad daughter of Llŷr. As yet unpromised, but ‘not for the likes of thee young man.’
