Scarlet

CHAPTER 33

Coed Cadw

The damage was done. In a single ill-advised, ignorant stroke, Bran had dashed Angharad's carefully considered design for defeating the Ffreinc invaders and driving them from Elfael. In a mad, impulsive rush he had destroyed months of subtle labour and, she could well imagine, stirred the ire of the enemy to white-hot vengeance. For this and much else, the hudolion blamed Bran-but, more, she blamed herself. Angharad had allowed herself to believe that she had weaned Bran away from that unreasoning rage that he had possessed when she first met him, that she had at long last extinguished the all-consuming fire of an anger that, like the awen of the legendary champions of old, caused the lord of Elfael to forget himself, plunging him into the bloodred flames of battle madness-a worthy attribute for a warrior, perhaps, but unhelpful in a king. No mistake, it was a king she wanted for Elfael, not merely another warrior.

Alas, there was nothing for it now but to pick up the pieces and see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage of that disastrous attempt to capture the sheriff.

What she had seen in the cave while testing the onrushing stream of time and events had caused her to return to Cel Craidd with as much haste as she could command. Her old bones could not move with anything near their former speed, and she had arrived too late to prevent Bran from acting on his ludicrous scheme. The small warband had already departed for Saint Martin's, and the die was cast.

The wise hudolion was waiting when the raiders returned. Dressed in her Bird Spirit cloak, she stood beneath the Council Oak and greeted them when they returned. "All hail, Great King," she crowed, "the people of Elfael can enjoy their peace this night because you have gained for them a mighty victory over the Ffreinc." As the rest of the forest tribe gathered, she said, "I see a riderless horse. Where is Will Scarlet?"

"Captured," Bran muttered. There was a stifled cry from the crowd, and Noin rushed away from the gathering.

"Captured, is he?" the hudolion cooed. "Oh, that is a fine thing indeed. Was that in your plan, Wise King?"

Heartsick over his failure, he knew full well that he had made a grave and terrible mistake and was not of a mood to endure her mockery-deserved as it might be. "Silence, woman! I will not hear it. We will speak of this tomorrow."

"Yes," she croaked, "the rising sun will make all things new, and the deeds done in darkness will vanish like the shadows."

"You go too far!" Bran growled. Weary, and grieving the loss of Will, he wanted nothing more than to slink away to his hut and, like the beaten hound he was, lick his wounds. "See here," he said, pointing to Gwion Bach as Siarles eased the lad down from his mount. "We rescued the boy from the Ffreinc. They would have killed him."

"Oh? Indeed?" she queried, her eyes alight with anger. "Has it not yet occurred to you that the boy was caught only because he was following you?"

Bran drew breath to reply but, realizing she was right, closed his mouth again and turned away from her scorn.

When Bran did not answer, the old woman said, "Too late you show wisdom, O King. Too late for Will Scarlet. Go now to your rest, and before you sleep, pray for the man whose trust you have betrayed this night. Pray God to keep him and uphold him in the midst of his enemies."

That is exactly what Bran did. Miserable in his failure, he prayed the comfort of Christ for Will Scarlet, that the All-sustaining Spirit would keep his friend safe until he could be rescued or redeemed.

The next morning, Lord Bran gathered the Grellon and formally confessed his failure: they had not succeeded in taking the sheriff, and Will Scarlet had been captured instead. Noin, who already knew the worst, did not join the others, but remained in her hut taking consolation with Merian. Bran went to her to beg forgiveness and offer reassurance. "We will not rest until we have secured Will's release," he promised.

Angharad soon learned of the vow and cautioned, "The sentiment is noble, but word and deed are not one. It will be long ere this vow is fulfilled."

"Why?" he asked. "What do you know?"

"Only that wishing does not make doing easier, my impetuous lord. If our Will is to be rescued, then you must become wiser than the wisest serpent."

"What does that mean?"

By way of reply, Angharad simply said, "I will tell you tonight. When the sun begins to set, summon the Grellon to council."

So as twilight claimed the forest stronghold, the men stoked the fire in the fire ring, and the people of Cel Craidd gathered once more to hear what their wise banfaith had to say.

As Angharad took up her harp, the children crowded close around her feet, but their elders, apprehensive and fearful now, did not join them in their youthful eagerness. Will's fate cast a pall over everyone old enough to understand the likely outcome of his capture, and every thought was on the captive this night.

Looking out upon her audience, Angharad saw the faces grim in the reflected fire glow; and they seemed to her in this moment not faces at all, but empty vessels into which she would pour the elixir of the song which was more than a song. They would hear and, God willing, the story would work in their hearts and minds to produce its rare healing fruit.

As silence descended over the beleaguered group, she began to strum the harp strings, letting the notes linger and shimmer in the air, casting lines of sound into the gathering darkness-lines by which she would ensnare the souls of her listeners and draw them into the story realm where they could be shaped and changed. When at last she judged the fortuitous moment had arrived, she began.

"After the Battle of the Cauldron, when the men of Britain conquered the men of Ireland," she began, her voice quavering slightly, but gathering strength as she sang, "the head of Bran the Blessed was carried back to the Island of the Mighty and safely buried on the White Hill, facing east, to protect forever his beloved Albion."

Recognition flickered among some of the older forest dwellers as the familiar names of long ago tugged at the chords of memory. Angharad smiled and, closing her eyes, began the tale known as "Manawyddan's Revenge." As the warriors made their farewells and departed for their homes, Manawyddan, chief of battle, gazed down from the hill upon the muddy village of Lundein, and at his companions, and gave a sigh of deepest regret. "Woe is me," said he. "Woe upon woe."

"My lord," said Pryderi, a youth who was his closest companion, "why do you sigh so?"

"Since you ask, I will tell you," replied Manawyddan. "The reason is this: every man has a place of his own tonight except one only-and that one happens to be me."

"Pray do not be unhappy," answered Pryderi. "Remember, your cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and although he may do you wrong, you have never asked him for anything, though well you might."

"Aye," agreed the chieftain, "though that man is my kinsman, I find it somewhat sad to see anyone in the place of our dead comrade, and I could never be happy sharing so much as a pigsty with him."

"Then will you allow me to suggest another plan?" asked Pryderi.

"If you have another plan," answered Manawyddan, "I will gladly hear it."

"As it happens, the seven cantrefs of Dyfed have been left to me," said young Pryderi. "It may please you to know that Dyfed is the most pleasant corner of our many-coloured realm. My mother, Rhiannon, lives there and is awaiting my return."

"Then why do we linger here, feeling sorry for ourselves, when we could be in Dyfed?"

"Wait but a little and hear the rest. My mother has been a widow for seven years now, and grows lonely," explained the youth. "I will commend you to her if you would only woo her; and wooing, win her; and winning her, wed her. For the day you wed my mother, the sovereignty of Dyfed will be yours. And though you may never possess more domains than those seven cantrefs, there are no cantrefs in all of Britain any better. Indeed, if you had the choice of any realm in all the world, you would surely have chosen those same seven cantrefs for your own."

"I do not desire anything more," replied Manawyddan, inspired by the generosity of his friend. "I will come with you to see Rhiannon and this realm of which you boast so highly. Moreover, I will trust God to repay your kindness. As for myself, the best friendship I can offer will be yours, if you wish it."

"I wish nothing more, my friend," Pryderi said. And the next morning, as the red sun peeped above the rim of the sea, they set off. They had not travelled far when Manawyddan asked his friend to tell him more about his mother.

"Well, it may be the love of a son speaking here," said the young warrior, "but I believe you have never yet met a woman more companionable than she. When she was in her prime, no woman was as lovely as Queen Rhiannon; and even now you will not be disappointed with her beauty."

So they continued on their way, and however long it was that they were on the road, they eventually reached Dyfed. Behold! There was a feast ready for them in Arberth, where Cigfa, Pryderi's own dear wife, was awaiting his return. Pryderi greeted his wife and mother, then introduced them to his sword brother, the great Manawyddan. And was it not as Pryderi had said? For, in the battle chief 's eyes, the youth had only told the half: Rhiannon was far more beautiful than he had allowed himself to imagine-more beautiful, in fact, than any woman he had seen in seven years, with long dark hair and a high, noble forehead, lips that curved readily in a smile, and eyes the colour of the sky after a rain.

During the feast, Manawyddan and Rhiannon sat down together and began to talk, and from that conversation the chieftain's heart and mind warmed to her, and he felt certain that he had never known a woman better endowed with beauty and intelligence than she. "Pryderi," he said, leaning near his friend, "you were right in everything you said, but you only told me the half."

Rhiannon overheard them talking. "And what was it that you said, my son?" she asked.

"Lady," said Pryderi, "if it pleases you, I would see you married to my dear friend Manawyddan, son of Llyr, an incomparable champion and most loyal of friends."

"I like what I see of him," she answered, blushing to admit it, "and if your friend feels but the smallest part of what I feel right now, I will take your suggestion to heart."

The feast continued for three days, and before it had ended the two were pledged to one another. Before another three days had passed, they were wed. Three days after the wedding, they began a circuit of the seven cantrefs of Dyfed, taking their pleasure along the way.

As they wandered throughout the land, Manawyddan saw that the realm was exceedingly hospitable, with hunting second to none, and fertile fields bountiful with honey, and rivers full of fish. When the wedding circuit was finished, they returned to Arberth to tell Pryderi and Cigfa all they had seen. They sat down to enjoy a meal together and had just dipped their flesh forks into the cauldron when suddenly there was a clap of thunder, and before anyone could speak, a fall of mist descended upon the entire realm so that no one could see his hand before his face, much less anyone else.

After the mist, the heavens were filled with shining light of white and gold. And when they looked around they found that where before there were flocks and herds and dwellings, now they could see nothing at all: neither house, nor livestock, nor kinfolk, nor dwellings. They saw nothing at all except the empty ruins of the court, broken and deserted and abandoned. Gone were the people of the realm, gone the sheep and cattle. There was no one left in all Dyfed except the four of them, and Pryderi's pack of hunting dogs, which had been lying at their feet in the hall.

"What is this?" said Manawyddan. "I greatly fear some terrible tribulation has befallen us. Let us go and see what may be done."

Though they searched the hall, the sleeping nooks, the mead cellar, the kitchens, the stables and storehouses and granaries, nothing remained of any inhabitants, and of the rest of the realm they discovered only desolation and dense wilderness inhabited by ferocious beasts. Then those four bereft survivors began wandering the land; they hunted to survive and banked the fire high each night to fend off the wild beasts. As day gave way to day, the four friends grew more and more lonely for their countrymen, and more and more desperate.

"God as my witness," announced Manawyddan one day, "we cannot go on like this much longer."

"Yet unless we lie down in our graves and pull the dirt over our own heads," pointed out Pryderi, "I think we must endure it yet a while."

The next morning Pryderi and Manawyddan got up to hunt as before; they broke fast, prepared their dogs, took up their spears, and went outside. Almost at once, the leader of the pack picked up the scent and ran ahead, directly to a small copse of rowan trees. As soon as the hunters reached the grove, the dogs came yelping back, all bristling and fearful and whimpering as if they had been beaten.

"There is something strange here," said Pryderi. "Let us see what hides within that copse."

They crept close to the rowan grove, one trembling step at a time, until they reached the border of the trees. Suddenly, out from the cover of the rowans there burst a shining white boar with ears of deepest red. The dogs, with strong encouragement from the men, rushed after it. The boar ran a short distance away, then took a stand against the dogs, head lowered, tusks raking the ground, until the men came near. When the hunters closed in, the strange beast broke away, retreating once more.

After the boar they went, chasing it, cornering it, then chasing it again until they left the familiar fields and came to an unknown part of the realm, where they saw, rising on a great hill of a mound in the distance, a towering caer, all newly made, in a place they had seen neither stone nor building before. The boar was running swiftly up the ramp to the fortress with the dogs close behind it.

Once the boar and the dogs had disappeared through the entrance of the caer, Pryderi and Manawyddan pursued them. From the top of the fortress mound the two hunters watched and listened for their dogs. However long they were there, they heard neither another bark, nor whine, nor so much as a whimper from any of their dogs. Of any sign of them, there was none.

"My lord and friend," said bold Pryderi, "I am going into that caer, to recover our dogs. You and I both know we cannot survive without them."

"Forgive me, friend," said Manawyddan, leaning on his spear to catch his breath, "but your counsel is not wise. Consider, we have never seen this place before and know nothing about it. Whoever has placed our realm under this enchantment has surely made this fortress appear also. We would be fools to go in."

"It may be as you say," answered Pryderi, "but I will not easily give up my dogs for anything-they are helping to keep us alive these many days."

Nothing Manawyddan could say would divert Pryderi from this plan. The young warrior headed straight for the strange fortress and, reaching it, looked around quickly. He could see neither man, nor beast, nor the white boar, nor his good hunting dogs; neither were there houses, or dwellings, or even a hall inside the caer. The only thing he saw in the middle of the wide, empty courtyard was a fountain with marble stonework around it. Beside the fountain was a golden bowl of exquisite design, attached by four chains so that it hung above the marble slab; but the chains reached up into the air, and he could not see the end of them.

Astonished by the remarkable beauty of the bowl, he strode to the fountain and reached out to touch its lustrous surface. As soon as his fingers met the gleaming gold, however, his hands stuck to the bowl and his two feet to the slab on which he was standing. He made to shout, but the power of speech failed him so he could not utter a single word. And thus he stood, unable to move or cry out.

Manawyddan, meanwhile, waited for his friend outside the entrance to the caer, but refused to go inside. Late in the afternoon, when he was certain he would get no tidings of Pryderi or his dogs, he turned and, with a doleful heart, stumbled back to camp. When he came shambling in, head down, dragging his spear, Rhiannon stared at him. "Where is my son?" she asked. "Come to that, where are the dogs?"

"Alas," he answered, "all is not well. I do not know what happened to Pryderi, and to heap woe on woe, the dogs have disappeared, too." And he told her about the strange fortress and Pryderi's determination to go inside.

"Truly," said Rhiannon, "you have shown yourself a sorry friend, and fine is the friend you have lost."

With that word she wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and set off for the caer, intending to rescue her son. She reached the place just as the moon rose, and saw that the gate of the fortress was wide open, just as Manawyddan had said; furthermore, the place was unprotected. In through the gate she walked, and as soon as she had entered the yard she caught sight of Pryderi standing there, his feet firmly planted to the marble slab, his hands stuck fast to the bowl. She hastened to his aid.

"Oh, my son! Whatever are you doing here?" she exclaimed. Without thinking, she put her hand to his and tried to free him. The instant she touched the bowl, however, her two hands stuck tight and her feet as well. Queen Rhiannon was caught, too, nor could she utter a single cry for help. And as they stood there, night fell upon the caer. Lo! There was a mighty peal of thunder, and a fall of shining mist so thick that the caer disappeared from sight.

When Rhiannon and Pryderi failed to return, Cigfa, daughter of Gwyn Gloyw and wife of young Pryderi, demanded to know what had happened. Reluctantly, Manawyddan related the whole sorry tale, whereupon Cigfa grieved for her husband and lamented that her life to her was no better than death. "I wish I had been taken away with him."

Manawyddan gazed at her in dumb disbelief. "You are wrong to want your death, my lady. As God is my witness, I vow to protect you to my last breath for the sake of Pryderi and my own dear wife. Do not be afraid." He continued, "Between me and God, I will care for you as much as I am able, as long as God shall wish us to remain in this wretched state of misery."

And the young woman was reassured by that. "I will take you at your word, Father. What are we to do?"

"As to that, I have been thinking," said Manawyddan, "and as much as I might wish otherwise, I think this is no longer a suitable place for us to stay. We have lost our dogs, and without them to help in the hunt we cannot long survive, however hard we might try. Though it grieves me to say it, I think we must abandon Dyfed and go to England. Perhaps we can find a way to support ourselves there."

"If that is what you think best, so be it," Cigfa replied through her tears; for she was loath to leave the place where she and Pryderi had been so happily married. "I will follow you."

So they left the comely valleys and travelled to England to find a way to sustain themselves. On the way, they talked. "Lord Manawyddan," said Cigfa, "it may be necessary while among the English to labour for our living. If that be so, what trade would you take?"

"Our two heads are thinking as one," replied Manawyddan. "I have been contemplating this very thing. It seems to me that shoemaking would be as good a trade as any, and better than some."

"Lord," the young woman protested, "think of your rank. You are a king in your own country! Shoe-making may be very well for some, and as good a trade as others no doubt deserve, but it is far too lowly for a man of your rank and skill."

"Your indignation favours me," replied Manawyddan ap Llyr. "Nevertheless, I have grown that fond of eating that it does me injury to go without meat and ale one day to the next. I suspect it is the same with you."

Lady Cigfa nodded, but said nothing.

"Therefore, I have set my sights on the trade of making shoes," he said, "and you can help by finding honest folk to buy the shoes I shall make."

"If that is what you wish," said the young woman, "that is what I will do."

The two travelled here and there, and came at last to a town where they felt they might settle for a spell. Manawyddan took up his craft and, though it was harder than he had imagined, he persevered-at first making serviceable shoes, then good shoes and, after much diligence and hard labour, fashioning the finest shoes anyone in England had ever seen. He made buckle shoes with gilt leather and golden fittings, and boots of red-dyed leather, and sandals of green with blue laces. He made such wonderful shoes that the work of most other cobblers seemed crude and shabby when compared to his. It was soon voiced aloud through all England that as long as either a shoe or boot could be got from Manawyddan the Welshman, no others were worth having. With lovely Cigfa to sell his wares, the nobles of the realm were soon refusing to buy from anybody else.

Thus, the two exiles spent one year and another in this way, until the shoemakers of England grew first envious and then resentful of their success. The English cobblers met together and decided to issue a warning for the Welshman to leave the realm or face certain death, for he was no longer welcome among them.

"Lord and father," said Cigfa, "is this to be endured from these ill-mannered louts?"

"Not the least part of it," Manawyddan replied. "Indeed, I think it is time to return to Dyfed. It may be that things are better there now."

The two wayfarers set off for Dyfed with a horse and cart, and three good milk cows. Manawyddan had also supplied himself with a bushel of barley, and tools for sowing, planting, and harvesting. He made for Arberth and settled there, for there was nothing more pleasant to him than living in Arberth and the territory where he used to hunt: himself and Pryderi, and Rhiannon and Cigfa with them.

Through the winter, he fished in the streams and lakes, and despite the lack of dogs, was able to hunt wild deer in their woodland lairs. When spring rolled around, he began tilling the deep, rich soil, and after that he planted one field, and a second, and a third. The barley that grew up that summer was the best in the world, and the three additional fields were just as good, producing grain more bountiful than any seen in Dyfed from that day to this.

Manawyddan and Cigfa peacefully occupied themselves through the seasons of the year. When harvest time came upon them, they went out to the first hide and behold, the stalks were so heavy with grain they bowed down almost to breaking. "We shall begin reaping tomorrow," said Manawyddan.

He hurried back to Arberth and honed the scythe. The following day, in the green light of dawn, he went out to begin the harvest. When he arrived at the field he discovered, to his shock and dismay, nothing but naked stalks. Each and every stalk had been broken off and the ear of grain nipped clean away, leaving just the bare stem.

It fair broke his heart to see it. "Who could have done this?" he wailed, thinking it must have been English raiders because there were no countrymen near, and no one else around who could have accomplished such a feat in one night. Even as he was thinking this, he hurried on to examine the second field; and behold, it was fully grown and ready to harvest.

"God willing," said he, "I will reap this tomorrow."

As before, he honed the scythe and went out the next morning. But upon reaching the field, he found nothing except stubble.

"O, Lord God," he cried in anguish, "am I to be ruined? Who could do such a thing?" He thought and thought, but reached only this conclusion: "Whoever began my downfall is the one who is completing it," he said. "My enemy has destroyed my country with me!"

Then he hurried to examine the third field. When he got there, he was certain no one had ever seen finer wheat fully grown and bending to the scythe. "Shame on me," he said, "if I do not keep guard tonight, lest whoever stripped the other fields will come to carry off this one, too. Whatever befalls, I will protect the grain."

He hurried home and gathered his weapons, then went out and began guarding the field. The sun went down and he grew weary, but he did not cease from walking around the borders of the grain field.

Around midnight, the mighty lord of Dyfed was on watch when all of a sudden there arose a terrific commotion. He looked around, and lo, there was a horde of mice-and not just a horde, but a horde of hordes! So many mice it was not possible to count or reckon them, though you had a year and a day to do it.

Before Manawyddan could move, the mice descended upon the field, and every one of them was climbing to the tip of a barley stalk, nipping off the ear, and bearing it away. In less time than it takes to tell, there was no stalk untouched. Then, as quickly as they had come, the mice scurried off, carrying the ears of grain with them.

A mighty rage gripped the warrior. He lunged out at the fleeing mice. But he could no more catch them than he could catch the birds in the air-except for one that was so fat and heavy Manawyddan was able to spring upon it and snatch it up by the tail. This he did and dropped it inside his glove; then he tied the end of the glove with a string. Tucking the glove in his belt, he turned and started back to where Cigfa was waiting with a meal for the hungry guardsman.

Manawyddan returned to the simple hut where he lived with Cigfa, and hung the glove on a peg by the door. "What have you there, my lord?" asked Cigfa, brightening the fire.

"A marauding thief," replied mighty Manawyddan, almost choking on the words. "I caught him stealing the food from our mouths."

"Dear Father," wondered Cigfa, "what sort of thief can you put in your glove?"

"Since you ask," sighed Manawyddan, "here is the whole sad story." And he told her how the last field had also been destroyed and the harvest ruined by the mice that had stripped it bare, even as he was standing guard.

"That mouse was very fat," he said, pointing to the glove, "so I was able to catch it, and heaven and all the saints bear witness, I will surely hang that rascal tomorrow. Upon my oath, if I had caught any more of the thieves I would hang them all."

"You may do as you please, for you are lord of this land and well within your rights," replied the young woman. "However, it is unseemly for a king of your high rank and nobility to be exterminating vermin like that. It can avail you little to trouble yourself with such a creature. Perhaps you might better serve your honour by letting it go."

"Your words are wise counsel, to be sure," answered Manawyddan. "But shame on me if it should become known that I caught any of those thieving rascals only to let them go."

"And how would this become known?" wondered Cigfa. "Is there anyone else, save me, to know or care?"

"I will not argue with you, my daughter," answered Manawyddan. "But I made a vow, and since I only caught this one, I will hang it as I have promised."

"That is your right, Lord," she replied. "You know, I hope that I have no earthly reason to defend this creature, and would not deign to do so except to avoid humiliation for you. There, I've said it. You are the lord of this realm; you do what you will."

"That was well said," granted Manawyddan. "I am content with my decision."

The next morning, the lord of Dyfed made for Gorsedd Arberth, taking the glove with the mouse inside. He quickly dug two holes in the highest place on the great mound of earth, into which he planted two forked branches cut from a nearby wood. While he was working, he saw a bard coming towards him, wearing an old garment, threadbare and thin. The sight surprised him, so he stood and stared.

"God's peace," said the bard. "I give you the best of the day."

"May God bless you richly!" called Manawyddan from the mound. "Forgive me for asking, but where have you come from, bard?"

"Great lord and king, I have been singing in England and other places. Why do you ask?"

"It is just that I haven't seen a single person here except my dear daughter-in-law, Cigfa, for several years," explained the king.

"That is a wonder," said the bard. "As for myself, I am passing through this realm on my way to the north country. I saw you working up there and wondered what kind of work you might be doing."

"Since you ask," replied Manawyddan, "I am about to hang a thief I caught stealing the very food from my mouth."

"What kind of thief, Lord, if you don't mind my asking?" the bard wondered. "The creature I see squirming in your hand looks very like a mouse."

"And so it is."

"Permit me to say that it poorly becomes a man of such exalted station to handle such a lowly creature as that. Thief or no, let it go."

"I will not let it go," declared Manawyddan, bristling at the suggestion. "I caught this rascal stealing, and I will execute the punishment for a thief upon it-which, as we all know, is hanging."

"Do as you think best, Lord," replied the bard. "But rather than watching a man of your rank stooping to such sordid work, I will give you three silver pennies that I earned with song if you will only pardon that mouse and release it."

"I will not let it go-neither will I sell it for three pennies."

"As you wish, mighty lord," said the bard. And taking his leave, he went away.

Manawyddan returned to his work. As he was busy putting the crossbeam between the two gallows posts, he heard a whinny and looked down from the mound to see a brown-robed priest riding towards him on a fine grey horse.

"Pax vobiscum!" called the priest. "May our Great Redeemer richly bless you."

"Peace to you," replied Manawyddan, wondering that another human being should appear so soon. "May the All Wise give you your heart's desire."

"Forgive my asking," said the priest, "but time moves on and I cannot tarry. Pray, what kind of work occupies you this day?"

"Since you ask," replied Manawyddan, "I am hanging a thief that I caught stealing the means of my sustenance."

"What kind of thief might that be, my lord?" asked the cleric.

"A low thief in the shape of a mouse," explained the lord of Dyfed. "The same who, with his innumerable comrades, has committed a great crime against me-so great that I have now no hope of survival at all. Though it be my last earthly act, I mean to exact punishment upon this criminal."

"My lord, rather than stand by and watch you demean yourself by dealing so with that vile creature, I will redeem it. Name your price and I will have it."

"By my confession to God, I will neither sell it nor let it go."

"It may be true, Lord, that a thief 's life is worthless. Still, I insist you must not defile yourself and drag your exalted name through the mud of dishonour. Therefore, I will give you three pounds in good silver to let that mouse go."

"Between me and you and God," Manawyddan answered, "though it is a princely sum, the money is no good to me. I want no payment, except what this thief is due: its right and proper hanging."

"If that is your final word."

"It is."

"Then you do as you please." Picking up the reins, the priest rode on.

Manawyddan, lord of Dyfed, resumed his work. Taking a bit of string, he fashioned a small noose and tied the noose around the neck of the mouse. As he was busy with this, behold, he heard the sound of a pipe and drum. Looking down from the gorsedd mound, he saw the retinue of a bishop, with his sumpters and his host, and the bishop himself striding towards him. He stopped his work. "Lord Bishop," he called, "your blessings if you please."

"May God bless you abundantly, friend," said the satin-robed bishop. "If I may be so bold, what kind of work are you doing up there on your mound?"

"Well," replied Manawyddan, growing slightly irritated at having to explain his every move, "since you ask, and if it concerns you at all-which it does not-know that I am hanging a dirty thief which I caught stealing the last of my grain, the very grain which I was counting on to keep myself and my dear daughter-in-law alive through the coming winter."

"I am sorry to hear it," answered the bishop. "But, my lord, is that not a mouse I see in your hand?"

"Oh, aye," confirmed Manawyddan, "and a rank thief it is."

"Now see here," said the bishop, "it may be God's own luck that I have come upon the destruction of that creature. I will redeem it from its well-deserved fate. Please accept the thirty pounds I will give you for its life. For, by the beard of Saint Joseph, rather than see a lordly man as yourself destroying wretched vermin, I will give that much and more gladly. Release it and retain your dignity."

"Nay, Lord Bishop, I will not."

"Since you will not let it go for that, I will give you sixty pounds of fine silver. Man, I beg you to let it go."

"I will not release it, by my confession to God, for the same amount again and more besides. Money is no use to me in the grave to which I am going since the destruction of my fields."

"If you free the mouse," said the satin-robed one, "I will give you all the horses on the plain, and the seven sumpters that are here, and the seven horses that carry them."

"I do not want for horses. Between you and me and God," Manawyddan replied, "I could not feed them if I had them."

"Since you do not want that, name your price."

"You press me hard for a churchman," said the lord of Dyfed. "But since you ask, I want, more than anything under heaven, the return of my own dear wife, Rhiannon, and my good friend and companion, Pryderi."

"As I live and breathe, and with God alone as my witness, they will appear the moment you release that mouse."

"Did I say I was finished?" asked Manawyddan.

"Speak up, man. What else do you want?"

"I want swift and certain deliverance from the magic and enchantment that rests so heavily upon the seven cantrefs of Dyfed."

"That you will have also," promised the bishop, "if you release the mouse at once and do it no harm."

"You must think me slow of thought and speech," countered Manawyddan, his suspicions fully roused. "I am far from finished."

"What else do you require?"

"I want to know what this mouse is to you, that you should take such an interest in its fate."

"I will tell you," said the bishop, "though you will not believe me."

"Try me."

"Will you believe me if I tell you that the mouse you hold is really my own dear wife? And were that not so, we would not be freeing her."

"Right you are, friend," agreed Manawyddan. "I do not believe you."

"It is true nonetheless."

"Then tell me, by what means did she come to me in this form?"

"To plunder this realm of its possessions," the bishop answered, "for I am none other than Llwyd Cil Coed, and I confess that it was I who put the enchantment on the seven cantrefs of Dyfed. This was done to avenge my brother Gwawl, who was killed by you and Pryderi in the Battle of the Cauldron. After hearing that you had returned to settle in the land," the false bishop continued, "I turned my lord's war-band into mice so they might destroy your barley without your knowledge. On the first night of destruction the warband came alone and carried away the grain. On the second night they came too, and destroyed the second field. On the third night my wife and the women of the court came to me and asked me to transform them as well. I did as they asked, though my dear wife was pregnant. Had she not been pregnant, I doubt you would have caught her."

"She was the only one I caught, to be sure," replied Manawyddan thoughtfully.

"But, alas, since she was caught, I will give you Pryderi and Rhiannon, and remove the magic and enchantment from Dyfed." Llwyd the Hud folded his arms across his chest and, gazing up to the top of the mound at Manawyddan, he said, "There! I have told you everything-now let her go."

"I will not let her go so easily."

"Now what do you want?" demanded the enchanter.

"Behold," the mighty champion replied, "there is yet one more thing required: that there may never be any more magic or enchantment placed upon the seven cantrefs of Dyfed, nor on my kinfolk or any other people beneath my care."

"Upon my oath, you will have that," the Llwyd said, "now, for the love of God, let her go."

"Not so fast, enchanter," warned Manawyddan, still gripping the mouse tightly in his fist.

"What now?" Llwyd moaned.

"This," he said, "is what I want: there must be no revenge against Pryderi, Rhiannon, Cigfa, or myself, ever, from this day henceforth, forever."

"All that I promise and have promised, you shall get. And, God knows, that last was a canny thought," the enchanter allowed, "for if you had not spoken thus, all of the grief you have had till now would be as nothing compared to that which would have soon fallen upon your unthinking head. So if we are agreed, I pray you, wise lord, release my wife and return her to me."

"I will," promised Manawyddan, "in the same moment that I see Pryderi and Rhiannon standing hale and hearty in front of me."

"Look then, and see them coming!" said Llwyd the Hud.

Thereupon, Pryderi and Rhiannon, together with the missing hounds, appeared at the foot of the gorsedd mound. Manawyddan, beside himself with joy, hailed them and welcomed them.

"Lord and king, now free my wife, for you have certainly obtained all of what you asked for."

"I will free her gladly," Manawyddan said, lowering his hand and opening the glove so the mouse could jump free. Llwyd the Enchanter took out his staff and touched the mouse, and she changed into a charming and lovely woman once more-albeit a woman great with child.

"Look around you at the land," cried Llwyd the Hud to the lord of Dyfed, "and you will see all the homesteads and the settlements as they were at their best."

Instantly, the whole of the country was inhabited and as prosperous as it had ever been. Manawyddan and Rhiannon and Pryderi and Cigfa were reunited, and, to celebrate the end of the dire enchantment, they made a circuit of all the land, dispensing the great wealth Rhi Manawyddan had obtained in his bargain with the enchanter. Everywhere they went, they ate and drank and feasted the people, and no one was as well loved as the lord of Dyfed and his lovely queen. Pryderi and Cigfa were blessed with a son the next year, and he became, if possible, even more beloved than his grandfather. Here, Angharad stopped; she let the last notes of the harp fade into the night, then added, "But that is a tale for another time." Setting aside the harp, she stood and spread her hands over the heads of her listeners. "Go now," she said softly, as a mother speaking to a sleep-heavy child. "Say nothing, but go to your sleep and to your dreams. Let the song work its power within you, my children."

Bran, no less than the others, felt as if his soul had been cast adrift-all around him washed a vast and restless sea that he must navigate in a too-small boat with neither sail nor oars. For him, at least, the feeling was more familiar. This was how he always felt after hearing one of Angharad's tales. Nevertheless, he obeyed her instruction and did not speak to anyone, but went to his rest, where the song would continue speaking through the night and through the days to come. And although part of him wanted nothing more than to ride at once to Llanelli, storm the gaol, and rescue the captive by force, he had learned his lesson and resisted any such rash action. Instead, Bran bided his time and let the story do its work.

All through the winter and into the spring, the story sowed and tended its potent seeds; the meaning of the tale grew to fruition deep in Bran's soul until, one morning in early summer, he awoke to the clear and certain knowledge of what the tale signified. More, he knew what he must do to rescue Will Scarlet.