“I will still have your beard!” cried Rhita Gawr as he faced Arthur.
The young king smiled. “But my beard is that of a young man,” he called. “It would be but a poor cover to the hole I see in your coat.”
Rhita Gawr was not goaded by this. “True enough, but it is still a king’s beard and one that I do not have.”
“I know of a king’s beard which you do not have and which will more than adequately cover that hole.”
“Whose beard is that?” demanded Rhita Gawr, intrigued for the first time.
“Your own beard!” answered Arthur with a shout.
And with that the combat started.
It was a mighty combat and neither one of them showed any sign of weakness nor of yielding. Great valleys were carved out of the level plain on which they fought, scooped out by the pounding of their feet. The earth was so shaken, as if an earthquake was striking it, that Rhita Gawr’s army lost their balance: but Arthur’s men stood firm. For nine nights and nine days the contest went on.
Finally, Rhita Gawr, exhausted to the point where he could no longer lift his sword, fell to his knees before Arthur.
“You are the better man, Arthur,” he conceded.
So Arthur had Cadw of Pictland come forward and shave off the beard of the giant king of Gwynedd. Then Rhita Gawr’s beard was stitched to all the other beards that he had taken and the beard-mantle was draped over his shoulders. Rhita Gawr was sent back to Gwynedd and admonished never to shave anyone’s beard again and never to claim the grazing rights of the heavens, which were neither Nynniaw’s nor Peibiaw’s but belonged to all people to gaze upon.
Rhita Gawr returned to Gwynedd with much wisdom then, and he wore his beard-mantle as a token of his service to Arthur and his promise. Sometimes, so it is said, the old folks around Snowdon would gaze up at the night sky and look at the stars and, if it was a cloudy night and the snow falling, they would remark that the sky was as thick as barf Rhita or Rhita’s beard.
Rhita Gawr’s people remained fond of their giant king, in spite of his eccentricities. When he died, they came from every corner of the kingdom to pile stones over his body, which is the local custom. Soon the pile became a great cairn above Rhita Gawr’s grave. This great cairn grew and grew until they called it Gwyddfa Rhita, which is “Rhita’s cairn” and this, shortened to “Yr Gwyddfa” was the first name given to Yr Wyddfa, or Mount Snowdon.
Some people will tell you that Rhita Gawr is not truly dead but merely sleeping, and now and then he turns in his sleep, causing the stones atop his body to come crashing down in great landslides.
But I have set out to tell you about Bedd Gellert. It happened this way. Many years after Rhita Gawr’s death, his descendants were still kings of Gwynedd and these princes also called themselves the Lords of Eryri, which is the name of the mountainous district in which Yr Wyddfa lies. There was one prince of Gwynedd called Llewelyn who had a favourite hound named Gellert for he was a brown coloured beast, for gell means brown or auburn in colour. When Gellert was giving cry and chasing the fox across the mountains, the dog was as brave and magnificent as a lion, but when he was lying in front of the blazing hearth with his lord, he was as mild and gentle as a lamb.
He was so tame and gentle that Prince Llewelyn often entrusted the care of his young wife and tiny baby to the hound.
It happened one day that Prince Llewelyn set out for the hunt and blew his horn to gather his hounds. Now all the hounds answered the horn except Llewelyn’s favourite – Gellert. No one knew where the hound had hidden himself and so the disgruntled prince set off on the hunt without the swiftest and most tenacious of his hounds. There was bad sport that day for the Lord of Eryri.
In a rage he returned to his castle and what was the first thing he saw? Gellert his hound, bounding joyfully to meet him. As he came nearer, Prince Llewelyn saw that the dog’s muzzle was dripping with blood.
Now a terrible thought came into Llewelyn’s mind, for his wife was visiting her sick mother and he had left his baby, a son no more than a year old, in his chamber, asking his servants to look in now and then. Gellert was used to playing with the child, for he was usually a docile and gentle animal within the doors of the palace.
Prince Llewelyn let out a cry as he ran to his young son’s nursery. As he passed through the rooms, he saw the trail of blood thick upon the ground. Into the nursery he rushed, crying for his servants and attendants.
There was the child’s cradle overturned and the covers and floor were drenched in blood.
No anguish could compare with Prince Llewelyn’s despair. He and his servants searched everywhere, but nowhere was any sign of the tiny child. It was clear to him that the hound Gellert had devoured his son and heir.
There was a rage on him as he went back into the courtyard and saw Gellert sitting patiently wagging his tail, as if puzzled at his master’s behaviour.
“Evil monster!” yelled the prince. “You have devoured my son, my baby and my joy!”
Without more ado, he drew his sword and struck the animal, thrusting the point into the hound’s side.
Gellert gave an agonized cry, gazed for a moment into its master’s eyes, and fell dead.
In that moment, as Gellert gave his dying howl, the prince heard a little child’s answering cry.
Prince Llewelyn dashed back into the nursery, where the cry had come from. There, underneath the upturned cradle, where he had been asleep, was the prince’s tiny son. No one had thought of looking under the upturned cot. Moreover, beside the child, who was entirely unhurt, there lay the carcass of a great, gaunt grey wolf. And the wolf was covered with blood and its throat torn out.
Now what had happened became very clear.
A wolf had entered the castle without anyone seeing it, but Gellert had sniffed out the beast and stayed to protect Prince Llewelyn’s son. He had fought the great beast and slain it before it could harm the little prince.
Now Prince Llewelyn was filled with grief and remorse for what he had done. He had not only killed his favourite hound, but without just cause. The hound had saved the life of his son and trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. Now Prince Llewelyn realised the true meaning of the old proverb: “The nut cannot be judged by the husk”, for it seems that a bull with long horns, even if he does not butt, will always be accused of butting.
So sadder and wiser, Prince Llewelyn carried his faithful hound to the slopes of Yr Wyddfa and buried him. Over his grave he raised a cairn. So this is why the place is called Bedd Gellert, or the Grave of Gellert. It is said that the phantom of Gellert still hunts across the mountainside and you may hear its lonely howl on cold winter’s nights. It is the howl of a trusting, loyal soul betrayed.
Some people will tell you to beware of Gellert’s tomb, especially if there is disloyalty lurking in your heart; the hound will sniff it out and take revenge. Therefore, on certain days, especially after dark, beware as you wander across the slopes, beware of a leaping phantom hound.
24 The Quest for Olwen
There was once a king of Cilydd who was related to the famous Arthur of Britain. This king, who also bore the name Cilydd, married a princess named Goleuddydd. As her name suggested, she was a “bright light” among her people. The marriage was a happy and a prosperous one, and soon the couple were blessed by Goleuddydd becoming pregnant. However, she visited Gwiddanes the Hag, who dwelt in a forest, and asked her fortune. The fortune was not good.
It was a troubled period for the young queen, for the foresight of Gwiddanes lay heavily upon her. Nearing the time when she would give birth, while passing through a forest, she became unhinged by the pain of childbirth and the doom disclosed by Gwiddanes. She leapt from her horse and fled into the depths of the forest, coming near a place where a swineherd was keeping his pigs. It was there that she gave birth to a handsome boy child. The name that she gave him was Culhwch, which meant one born in a “pig run”.
Now all this had come to pass as Queen Goleuddydd had bee
n warned. But in the fever of her childbirth, she saw a vision of a sorrowful goddess; and some said that it must have been Arianrhod, whose childbirth was also sorrowful. She told Goleuddydd shadows of the future, but also how they might be avoided.
Cilydd and his retainers found her and they carried her and the child back to the palace where she lay still in a fever. She knew that she would die. As her husband knelt beside her bed, she spoke sorrowfully to him: “My lord, death is approaching me. When I am gone, you will seek another wife.”
The king protested, but she brushed aside his protestations of love for her alone.
“It is the nature of things, my lord. Your new wife shall be your companion and the dispenser of your gifts. Remember, however, that it is Culhwch who is your first child, your son. He must be the champion of this kingdom and its heir. So there is a promise you must make me, a sacred promise, before I die.”
“Name it and it shall be as you say,” vowed the king.
“Do not take this second wife until you see a two-headed briar growing from my grave.”
“Easily done. I have no wish for a second wife.”
“You cannot change the spinning of the world.”
Now it happened that Goleuddydd had a loyal servant and she called this servant to her and told him what he should do. For the vision of the goddess Arianrhod had advised her how the future might be changed. Knowing of the evils to come, she told the servant to ensure that nothing at all grew on her grave so that King Cilydd, not seeing the two-headed briar on her grave, might never marry again and no harm would ever come to her son Culhwch. This servant promised faithfully to keep the grave clear of all growths.
So it came about that Goleuddydd, the bright light, died and the court mourned and the child Culhwch was found a nurse.
As time passed, King Cilydd overcame his grief and found that he had grown lonely and his thoughts turned to finding a new wife. But he was a moral man when it came to keeping promises. So he would go to visit Goleuddydd’s grave. For seven years the grave stood bare, and not even so much as a weed grew upon it. But the servant grew old and tired. He neglected his duties and did not weed the grave. One day, when King Cilydd came to the grave, he found a briar growing there and the briar was two-headed.
“So it is now time for me to find a new wife,” he said in satisfaction. He went to his palace and summoned his attendants and he asked them if they knew of any suitable prospects. None of them knew of any available princesses who were worthy of King Cilydd. Then one of his advisers, a sly fellow, said: “There is only one lady who is worthy of marriage to you, my lord. Alas, she is married already, albeit unhappily. And she has a daughter.”
“Who is she?” demanded the King.
“She is the wife of King Doged.”
“No hardship there,” replied the King Cilydd thoughtfully. “If she is the right woman, I can see no problem. King Doged is such a weak monarch and can soon be disposed of.”
So it came about that King Cilydd found an excuse to go to war with King Doged and soon slew him and claimed his wife. Now, in bringing this queen to his court, King Cilydd neglected to mention that he already had a son and heir named Culhwch. In fact, the king had sent Culhwch to be fostered, which was the practice among the kings and lords in those days, for, in fosterage, the young received their education and were taught the art of weaponry and warfare.
Now some time went by and this queen, who already had a daughter, did not bear any children to King Cilydd.
“Can it be that he cannot sire a child?” mused the queen. So she went to Gwiddanes the Hag to ask her advice.
“Lady,” said the crone, “your husband already has a son and heir by his first wife. The boy’s name is Culhwch.”
The queen was amazed at hearing this, rewarded the old woman and hastened back to the palace.
“Husband, I was not told that you had a son. Why have you hidden this prince, Culhwch, from me?”
The king, when he saw that his new wife was not jealous, was apologetic. “I will hide him no longer but will send for him immediately.”
Now Culhwch had grown into a handsome youth and, when he came to the palace to meet his stepmother, she was impressed at his beauty and his bearing. Immediately she thought that if she could marry him to her daughter it would ensure the dynastic succession and consolidate her position as the most powerful woman in the kingdom.
“You look of age to marry, Culhwch,” she observed. “So is my daughter, and what better match could you make?”
Culhwch shook his head. “Lady, I am not old enough to have a wife and, if I were, I would not marry your daughter.”
The queen flew into a rage immediately.
She foresaw that when King Cilydd died, she would be ousted as queen and her daughter would have no inheritance. It so happened that she had sought some other magical advice from Gwiddanes the Hag.
“As my daughter is not good enough for you,” she told Culhwch, “I shall make a curse of destiny on you – you will never have a wife unless you can win the love and marry Olwen, the daughter of Ysbaddadan Pencawr, the Chief of the Giants.”
Now although Culhwch had never heard of her, he was suddenly consumed with love for this unknown girl. Perhaps this had something to do with the magic of the curse that his stepmother laid upon him.
“Very well, lady,” he replied, colouring at the emotion which welled in him. “You have set forth my destiny and I shall follow it.”
He turned to his father, who was very unhappy at this outcome. He was sad, for he knew that a terrible burden had been placed on his son.
“Father, do you know where this Olwen and her father, Ysbaddadan Pencawr, abide?”
King Cilydd shook his head. “I do not know where they may be found. All I can give you is this advice – go to your cousin, the mighty Arthur. As your cousin, he is bound to offer you gifts. Ask of him the gift of delivering Olwen to you.”
Young Culhwch embraced his father, the king, and taking his weapons, his grey-coloured warhorse and his hounds, he set off to find the court of his cousin, Arthur.
He eventually came to Arthur’s court at dusk and the gates were closed, for the feasting had already begun. So Culhwch rode up to the gates and hammered on them.
It was Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr, Glewlwyd of the Mighty Grasp, who came to the door.
“Open the gate!” demanded Culhwch.
“Who are you, little boy, who speaks so arrogantly?” demanded the disgruntled Glewlwyd.
“I do not speak to gatekeepers, if such you are.”
“I share the task with Huandaw, Gogigwr, Llaesgymin and Penpingion,” agreed Glewlwyd.
“Then if you are the gatekeeper of Arthur, open Arthur’s gate.”
“I will not. The knife has gone into the meat and the drink into the horn, and there is music in Arthur’s hall. None may enter now but the son of a rightful king or a craftsman or a poet. Go away, for this gate will not be opened until dawn tomorrow.”
Then Culhwch leant forward, frowning. “Listen, proud gatekeeper, if you do not let me in, I shall raise three shouts as shall cause every woman in this palace to miscarry and will bring shame and dishonour on Arthur’s court. Now go, tell Arthur what I have said.”
So Glewlwyd of the Mighty Grasp, somewhat taken aback by the youth’s persistence, scurried into the feasting hall and told Arthur of the strange youth outside the gate. “I tell you, my lord, I have never seen a youth so handsome as this one, and so forceful in manner and strong in carriage.”
Arthur was annoyed but realised that Glwelwyd would not trouble him for no reason at all.
“Bring him in, then, and let us see who he is.”
One of Arthur’s companions, Cai, agreed. “Indeed, if he is all that is reported, it would be a shameful thing to leave so fine a youth outside our gate.”
So the gate was opened and Culhwch came in. He strode straight up to his cousin and bowed. Arthur did not know who he was but greeted him civilly.
“Greetings, stranger. Share our food and drink for dusk has come and the night is chill.”
“I am not here to beg your hospitality, lord king. I came to ask a favour of you,” replied Culhwch.
“Ask it,” said Arthur, quite intrigued at the boy’s directness.
“I would have you cut my hair.”
Now this was a ritual of kinship and Arthur knew then that he must be speaking to a blood relation. So he sent for a golden comb and scissors and began to trim Culhwch’s hair and beard. And while he did so, they spoke of their lineage and came to the conclusion that they were first cousins.
“Excellent!” Arthur said with satisfaction. “As my blood relation, I can now ask you, what gift is it that I can bestow on you?”
“There is a curse of destiny on me, cousin,” Culhwch replied. “I must win the love of Olwen, daughter of Ysbaddadan Pencawr. I must marry her and none other. I ask you to give her to me or tell me where she may be found and won.”
Now Arthur confessed that he had never heard of Olwen nor even of Ysbaddadan Pencawr, the Chief of Giants. However, he invited Culhwch to stay at court with him while he sent messengers to the four corners of the kingdom to seek out the girl.
Time passed and each messenger returned saying that they had been unable to find word of Olwen. Indeed, a full year and a day went by and still there was no news of where the girl might dwell or even of who her fearsome father was. Culhwch became impatient.
“Cousin Arthur, you have given gifts to everyone who asks of you. Yet here I am, your own cousin, asking a simple gift and yet I remain empty-handed. If I leave your palace without even news of Olwen, then your honour must be called into question.”
Now Cai, son of Cynyr, one of Arthur’s greatest champions stood forward. Cai could hold his breath for nine nights and nine days under water and for nine nights and nine days he would go without sleep. He could change his stature at will, even growing as tall as a tall tree. He was headstrong but also quite ruthless. A wound given by his sword would never be healed by a physician.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 38
