The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  So once more Arthur set off, and with him he took Cynddelig the Guide. They reached the place and found the witch’s cavern which was dark and evil and the stench of putrefaction offended the warriors. Cacamwri and his brother Hygwydd went into the cavern to fight the witch, but they returned bloodied by their wounds and terrified out of their minds by her magic.

  While Arthur himself wanted to go into the cavern, his men persuaded him to send in Amren and Eiddil, two more splendid warriors. They came out as worse for their wounds as the others.

  Arthur could no longer be restrained. He went into the cavern and hurled his knife, flashing into the darkness, so that it cut the witch in twain. Then Cadw of the Pictii rushed forward and drew the witch’s blood into a bowl which he kept.

  Then Arthur asked, “Are all the tasks completed?”

  Culhwch came forward and replied, “They are, my lord.”

  “Then I have kept my promise, Culhwch, son of Cilydd. The day when you first came to my court and I trimmed your hair, I made you a promise that if Olwen existed, you would have her. Go forth now and claim her from Ysbaddadan Pencawr.”

  Culhwch and his companions set off once more for the castle of Ysbaddadan Pencawr.

  Ysbaddadan Pencawr sat in his hall and, when they came before him, he demanded that his servants prop up his one great baleful eye with poles.

  Cadw of the Pictii came forward.

  “I am here to shave you.”

  And he shaved and dressed his beard as Ysbaddadan had asked.

  “So all the tasks are done?” inquired Ysbaddadan softly, knowing full well that this must be the case.

  “As you see,” Culhwch replied. “Olwen is now mine.”

  Ysbaddadan nodded with a surly expression.

  “Yet do not think that it was any deed of yours, Culhwch. The tasks were completed because of the deeds of your kinsman, Arthur, and his champions. They obtained Olwen for you. For my part, I should have done more to ensure that you never had her for a wife.”

  Then the beautiful Olwen was sent for. She came willingly and with love for the handsome young prince, Culhwch.

  “It is said on this day you would die,” Culhwch observed, looking at Ysbaddadan.

  The giant smiled sourly. “It is so, but even that task is not yours to perform.”

  It was Gorau son of Custennin who sprang forward and, with a single blow of his sword, struck off Ysbaddadan’s head.

  “True enough,” he said. “It was my task to perform, to avenge my twenty-three brothers who lay dead.”

  He took the giant’s head and raised it on a stake as a warning to all tyrants that their day would eventually come, no matter how they tried to protect their power. Then Ysbaddadan’s castle became the property of Gorau. From it, Gorau ruled wisely and justly and lived to a fine old age, marrying and having many sons.

  So Culhwch’s quest for Olwen came to an end and he had fulfilled the destiny curse placed on him by his stepmother and was able to return to his father’s palace with his bride. Here he found not only was his father dead, but also his stepmother and her daughter, and so the people rejoiced to see him alive and well and with his beautiful queen. They ruled the land wisely and justly and lived happily for the rest of their lives.

  The hosts of Arthur then dispersed each to his own lands. The bards told many tales of the quests of Arthur’s champions but there is none as great as the quest for Olwen.

  25 The Dream of Rhonabwy

  In the days when Madog ap Maredudd ruled over Powys, there was fighting and warfare. But Madog did his best to bring peace to his kingdom and to the neighbouring kingdoms. However, Madog’s brother, Iorwerth, was jealous of his brother, for he had wanted to be king in Powys, and to cause harm to Madog’s just reign he went raiding into a neighbouring kingdom.

  His band of renegade warriors attacked under Madog’s own standard and, by this means, Iorwerth hoped to destroy his brother’s kingdom. His ravaging army threatened to overturn all the peace treaties which Madog had made. Fire and blood were seen throughout the country.

  Madog summoned his loyal warriors and gave command of them to Rhonabwy. Rhonabwy was his best general and he was told to find the rebellious Iorwerth and bring him back to Powys, as a prisoner. The army set off immediately, searching for Iorwerth. It was no easy task and, indeed, Iorwerth could not be found.

  Rhonabwy and his men, in their searching, came to the country of the lord Heilyn Goch, son of Cadwgawn ab Iddon. This lord’s hall had burnt black in Iorwerth’s raids and smoke was still rising from every blackened stone and timber. It had not only been burnt but now stood deserted; deserted, that is, except for a crone who sat in the cinders of the building, feeding a fire in a corner in order to warm herself. Night was approaching and Rhonabwy realised it was useless to continue the pursuit that day. He gave orders for his men to encamp in the grounds of the once-great hall, while he and his two fellow generals entered the ruins.

  “Where is the lord Heilyn?” demanded Rhonabwy, seeing the crone. “What tragedy has overcome his hall?”

  He and his men walked over to the woman’s fire, but the old woman took little notice of them, sitting feeding the fire and muttering under her breath. Rhonabwy presumed that she was either deaf or stupid and, anyway, he felt that it was obvious that the lord Heilyn had been overcome by Iorwerth.

  At least it was warm by the fire, in spite of the acrid smell and, seeing an ox skin spread nearby, Rhonabwy and his men took a seat on it.

  “Where are the people who lived here?” asked Rhonabwy again, trying to get the woman to speak.

  She was still mumbling when into the ruined hall came a man and a woman. They were a wizened old couple, toothless and almost hairless. They came with bundles of sticks which they offered to the old woman, who placed them on the fire.

  Rhonabwy greeted them but they simply ignored him.

  Now Rhonabwy turned to his companions to suggest that they go back to their encampment. Even a night spent on a cold camp bed was better than the putrid smells and the lack of civility of the old woman and her two new companions. But Rhonabwy found that his companions were fast asleep on the ox skin. As he looked at them, he realized just how sleepy he actually was. There was room on the ox skin and so he stretched himself out and the next minute he was fast asleep.

  He felt that he had not been asleep long when a horn sounded and it was daylight. He and his two companions appeared to be alone. They ran out of the ruins and found that their army had disappeared. Furthermore, the sun was up and they realized that this hall must stand on the plain of Aryngroeg. They mounted their horses and started riding towards the waters of the great river, the Sabrann by Rhyd-y-Groes. As they rode, they heard a thunder of hooves behind them and, turning in their saddles, they beheld a strange warrior dressed all in yellow with yellow curly hair, riding a horse of yellow and holding a sword of gold. He looked extremely fierce and threatening.

  “It must be a warrior from the Otherworld!” cried one of Rhonabwy’s companions and put spur to his steed. The panic spread but, try as hard as they could, they could not stay ahead of the strange warrior. In fear of their lives and worse, Rhonabwy turned and ordered his companions to yield.

  “We ask terms for surrender,” Rhonabwy cried.

  The young golden warrior halted his steed a little way from them and laughed good-naturedly. “Then you shall have quarter, in Arthur’s name.”

  “Since you have granted us that,” Rhonabwy replied, “permit me to know to whom I have surrendered.”

  “I am called Iddawg ap Mynio, but I am better known as Terfysgwr.”

  “Now that is a strange name to be called.” Indeed, the name meant “mischief”.

  “I am so called because I make mischief,” replied the other, unabashed. “I was an envoy at the battle of Camlann between Arthur and his nephew Medrawd, and I kindled all sorts of strife between them. I pretended one thing to one and another to the other. So when Arthur told me to give kind words to Medrawd
, I made his message rude and harsh. When Medrawd sought to reconcile himself to Arthur, I told Arthur that Medrawd was arrogant and hot-blooded. That is why my name is Terfysgwr, the mischief-maker.”

  While they were speaking there came the sound of more horses. Down the road came another horseman. This time he was clad all in scarlet, and his horse was chestnut but nearing redness. Blood was on his sword and his shield. In a moment, he rode up alongside them.

  “Are these little folk enemies or friends?” he demanded of Iddawg.

  “You may choose. I have chosen to make them my friends.”

  “Good enough,” agreed the other. “Friends they are.”

  Before another word could be said, the man spurred his chestnut-red horse on down the road.

  “Who was that?” asked Rhonabwy.

  “That was Rhiwawn Bebyr, a mighty warrior,” replied Iddawg. “Now come with me to our encampment.”

  They rode on and, when they reached the great River Sabrann, they saw a mighty host encamped on its banks. The camp was a square mile in size. Pennants and banners fluttered in the breeze and there were many pavilions set up on the field. Iddawg conducted them through the encampment to a dais on which sat a tall handsome man. His hair was auburn, his skin white and he had a golden circlet around his head and a great sword in his hands.

  Next to him stood a youth who was fair of skin and black of hair.

  “Blessing on you, my lord Arthur,” cried Iddawg, bowing before him.

  The man with the golden circlet, Arthur, turned and examined Rhonabwy and his companions curiously.

  “Who are these folk, Iddawg? Where did you find such little fellows?”

  Iddawg laughed good-naturedly while Rhonabwy coloured hotly. He was Madog’s best general and warrior and did not like to be called a “little fellow”.

  “I found them on the road, lord.”

  Arthur gazed at them and grinned as if in derision at what he saw.

  “Are we amusing to you?” demanded Rhonabwy, because he was a proud man. “Do you find us a laughing matter?”

  Arthur pursed his lips in a grimace. “It is no laughing matter when little men like you are the only means of keeping our people safe from the Saxon hordes, when yesterday giants guarded our shores against them.”

  He then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When they had withdrawn out of earshot, Iddawg whispered to Rhonabwy: “Did you see the ring worn by Arthur?”

  “The gold ring with the large stone? Yes, I saw it. What of it?”

  “That is a magical stone which will force you to reveal all you have seen since first we met.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of cantering horses and, turning, Rhonabwy saw a troop of warriors on horseback coming into the camp. They were colourful men, with bright shields and wore nothing save red and crimson.

  Iddawg, catching his look of curiosity, said: “They are the warriors of Rhiwawn Bebyr, the Shining One: he that you met on the road. None but they may pay honour to the daughters of kings in this Island of the Mighty, and their drink is honey-mead.”

  Then came another troop of warriors on horseback and they were clad all in white. They raced up so quickly that the leading rider drew very near Arthur, whereupon the youth, who was fair of skin and black of hair, stepped forward and smote the horse on the muzzle with the flat of his sword, causing it to rear up and halt.

  “Is it an insult that you give me?” demanded the rider, a hand on his own sword.

  “It is a warning that I give you. You ride near Arthur and have splashed him with mud from your horse.”

  “Then no insult has been made to me,” said the man, thrusting his half-drawn sword back into his scabbard.

  “That is March ap Meirchion,” Iddawg told Rhonabwy, indicating the youth. “He is first cousin to Arthur.”

  Then a third troop of warriors arrived on horseback and they were clad all in black.

  “Those troops are led by Edern ap Nudd,” confided Iddawg.

  Now a great army was around them and one of the warriors said it was marvellous to see the host of the Britons gathered in such a narrow place. His name was Caradoc.

  “Remember at the battle of Badon, how each one of us swore an oath that we would meet here when we were needed?” went on Caradoc. “Now the host of the Saxons have taken over the fair land of the Britons and great is the need of our people.”

  “This is truly spoken,” agreed Arthur. “And now we are gathered, it is time to march forth and challenge our enemies once more.”

  Iddawg took Rhonabwy and his companions with him and the whole host set off in the direction of Cefn Digoll.

  At the entrance to a large plain, the army had halted to arrange its positions. Suddenly, a great uproar broke out in the centre of the army and there came riding through the ranks a tall man in silver armour with a white cloak and a red plume. It looked to Rhonabwy that the ranks of Arthur’s army were splitting asunder to allow this single man through.

  “What is it?” he demanded of Iddawg. “Are the warriors of Arthur fleeing?”

  “Rhonabwy,” Iddawg replied, “Arthur and his men have never yielded a foot of our sacred soil to the Saxons. If your remark had reached other ears, it would have doomed you to a traitor’s death.”

  “For that I am sorry. Truly, I merely wanted to know what was happening.”

  “The horseman in silver and white is none other than Cai, son of Cynyr, the most handsome and fierce warrior in all Arthur’s court. Cai is the best rider, the best warrior, the best champion. The men are making way for him and then closing in around him.”

  As the tumult grew, Cador of Cornwall was called for, because he was the bearer of Arthur’s mighty sword. He appeared and raised it so all could see it. He held the magic sword Caladfwlch, “the hard dinter”, up in its scabbard. The sword then leapt from the scabbard and whirled around like a tongue of flame and so terrifying was it that it quelled the tumult and all became quiet among Arthur’s men.

  Then Rhonabwy heard the named of Eiryn called. He was Arthur’s servant and a big, red-headed and ugly fellow he was. He came forward and unpacked a golden chair, along with a coverlet of brocaded silk, which he spread over the chair. A table was set before it and another chair was placed there. On the table he laid out a board and gaming pieces known as Gwyddbwyll or “wooden wisdom”.

  “Owain, son of Urien, come forward,” Arthur called.

  A handsome young warrior came forward. “I am here, lord.”

  “Does it please you to pass an hour playing wooden wisdom with me?”

  Owain smiled. “That would please me fine, lord Arthur.”

  So they stretched themselves on each side of the board and began to play in earnest. It was clear to Rhonabwy that Owain was an excellent player but needed to concentrate more carefully on his game to overcome Arthur. Now it happened, and no man knows why, that Cenferchyn had given Owain three hundred night-black ravens to follow him in battle. Whenever these ravens followed Owain, he became invincible in combat.

  At a crucial point of the game, Owain’s servant came running forward to him and saluted.

  “What is this distraction?” muttered Arthur.

  “He is my servant, lord.”

  “Then bid him speak.”

  The servant stood hesitating. Then he said, “Lord Owain, the king’s servants are molesting your ravens.”

  Owain ap Urien was upset and said to Arthur, “Lord, if this be true, please call off your servants and do not harm my ravens of battle.”

  Arthur did not reply directly, but simply said, “It is your move in this game.”

  The servant was sent off and the game continued.

  A little while later, the same servant came running forward to Owain.

  “Lord Owain,” he cried out, “is it with your permission that the king’s servants are wounding and killing your ravens?”

  Owain was shocked. “It is against my will that anyone should do so.” He turned to Arthur. “Lord, if
these are your servants that are killing my ravens, please call them off.”

  Arthur did not reply directly but, turning to Owain, said, “It is your move in this game.”

  The servant was sent away.

  After a little while, the same servant came running back and called out, “Lord Owain, your favourite among the ravens has been killed, and many of the rest that have not been killed are so badly hurt that they cannot lift their wings again. It is the king’s men who have done this terrible deed.”

  Owain ap Urien was greatly upset. “Lord Arthur, what does this mean?”

  Arthur did not reply directly but, turning to Owain, said simply, “It is your move in this game.”

  Then Owain turned to his servant. “Go to where the battle is hardest fought and raise my standard as high as possible. Then call the ravens and those that are able will go there.”

  The servant disappeared to do this bidding.

  Some distance away, the battle was raging and it was seen that the bright standard of Owain ap Urien was raised on a hill. With rage and passion the ravens, seeing Owain’s standard in the thick of the battle, went berserk and rose in the air, higher and higher, wounded and dying and dead as well. Down they came tearing into the battle; flesh and bone and hair were torn from those beneath their talons. Croaking with exultation, the ravens drove the enemy from the ground.

  The board game between Owain and Arthur resumed in peace.

  Then one of Arthur’s servants came running forward and bowed to the king. “Lord king, Owain’s ravens are now attacking your warriors.”

  Arthur looked in annoyance at Owain. “If this is so, call off your ravens.”

  “It is your move in this game,” observed Owain, not replying directly.

  The servant went off and, a short time later, returned. “Lord king, Owain’s ravens are wounding and killing your men.”

  “If this be so, tell your ravens to stop.”

  Owain took no notice of the king but said, “It is your move in this game.”

  A third time, the servant came running back. “Lord king, now your warriors are slain and the greatest sons of the Island of the Mighty are no more.”