The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  Then Arthur said again, “Call off your ravens, Owain ap Urien.”

  “Lord, it is your move,” replied Owain stoically.

  The messenger finally said to Arthur, “The ravens have destroyed your whole war-band, lord Arthur, and left all Britain to the mercy of the Saxon army.”

  Arthur sprang up then and, taking the gaming pieces on the board, he crushed them in his hands until they were dust. Only then did Owain ap Urien order his battle-banner to be lowered.

  At that moment, there came envoys from the commander of the Saxons, Osla Big-Knife, and he sought peace from Arthur. Surprised, Arthur summoned his counsellors – Cai, Bedwyr, Gwalchmai and Trystan and Peredur and Gwrhyr, Menw and March and they all considered what should be done. It was finally agreed that a truce be made and that there would be peace in the land.

  Cai then rose up and said, “Let every man who wishes to follow Arthur be with him tonight in the kingdom of Kernow.”

  As they departed, Rhonabwy turned to Iddawg. “I do not understand, Iddawg. Can you tell me the meaning of the game of ‘wooden wisdom’ between Arthur and Owain? What was the meaning of the battle between Arthur’s warriors and Owain’s ravens? Why did Cenferchyn give those three hundred battle-ravens to Owain in the first place?”

  Now the answer to these questions might have illuminated the darkness in Rhonabwy’s mind. But, as Iddawg was about to speak, Rhonabwy’s eyes flitted open and he found himself lying on the ox skin in the burnt-out shell of a hall. Alongside him were his companions. It was his men who had come to find their general who awakened them. They told them that they had actually slept for three days and three nights and nothing they could do would waken them.

  Rhonabwy told them all about his dream and his companions said that they, too, had shared the dream but none could offer a satisfactory interpretation.

  That there was an interpretation, it was obvious, but no one could offer it.

  So Rhonabwy and his men continued in their search to find the rebellious lord Iorwerth, brother of the King of Powys. It is not recorded what happened, whether he found Iorwerth or not, nor what further adventures Rhonabwy had. All we know is that, at some time, Rhonabwy told a bard his dream and that dream was recorded: but who knows what its meaning is?

  Cornwall (Kernow)

  Cornwall: Preface

  There is only one complete folk tale recorded in the Cornish language that has survived. This was taken down in the mid-seventeenth-century and is called “Jowan Chy-an-Horth” which is Jowan or John of Chy-an-horth. There is some scholastic discussion as to whether this was recorded by Nicholas Boson or his son John Boson. However, it was first printed in 1707 in Archaeologia Britannica, by the great Welsh scholar Edward Lhuyd (c. 1660–1709), whose work made him the most important forerunner to modern Celtic studies.

  It also survived into English oral tradition and was picked by William Bottrell in his Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall (1880). Robert Hunt, in Popular Romances of the West of England (1871), also printed a version as “The Tinner of Chyannor”, but his source came from Thomas Tonkin’s rather poor translation of the text, as printed by Lhuyd.

  The story is in no way original to Cornwall. Versions are found in Scotland, in a story called Na Tri Chomhairlie, collected in John F. Campbell’s four-volume study Popular Tales of the West Highlands (1860–62). The Breton scholar Roparz Hemon (d. 1978) gave a Breton version, for comparative purposes, in the Breton cultural magazine Gwalarnn, which he founded and edited from 1925–44. In 1938, Professor Ludwig Muelhauser had made a study of it, in Die Kornische Geshichte von der drei guten ratschwägen. Indeed, variants of the tale crop up in many European cultures. Nevertheless, mainly because it does survive in Cornish, Cornish people are proud of it and in 1984 it was made into a short Cornish language television film.

  As Robert Morton Nance, in an undated pamphlet (c. 1930s, Penzance) Folk-lore Recorded in the Cornish Language, explained – there survives nothing else in Cornish in its entirety as regards Cornish legends. Nance described that which did survive as splinters of a great shipwreck: snatches of songs, oblique references to stories, proverbs and the like.

  The story of Tewdrig, the first in this selection, as an example, is a story that now has to be pieced together from excerpts from medieval saints’ lives in Latin, and from the only surviving medieval saints’ play in the Cornish language, Beuanns Meriasek (Life of Meriadoc), the manuscript of which was written by Father Radulphus Ton, a parish priest of Crowan, near Camborne, in 1504. The manuscript is in the National Library of Wales (Aberystwyth) as Peniarth Mss 105.

  The curious thing about Tewdrig (given as “Tev Dar” in the 1504 manuscript) is that, in trying to give him a suitable pagan religion, the author makes this fifth to sixth century Cornish king a follower of Islam! Obviously, by this time, a memory of the old Celtic deities had been totally lost in Cornwall. The lines, with contractions expanded in brackets, are:

  Tev Dar:

  Tev Dar me a veth gelwys

  arluth regnijs in Kernov.

  May fo Mahu[m] Enorys

  ov charg yv heb feladov

  oges ha pel

  penag a worthya ken du

  a astev[yth] peynys glu

  hag in weth me[er]nans cruel.

  I am Tewdrig,

  reigning lord in Cornwall.

  That Mahommed be honoured

  is my unfailing duty,

  everywhere in my land:

  any who worship another god

  shall endure sharp pains

  and have a cruel death.

  Most of the other stories given here have survived through the medium of English, some much intermixed with Cornish words, sentences and the English dialect form that displaced the Cornish language. William Bottrell, in his three-volume collection, printed variant versions of many of them.

  The versions I give differ in many respects from Bottrell and also the Hunt retellings, and this is due to commentaries given me by the late Robert Dunstone and Leonard Truran, when I was living in Cornwall in the late 1960s. Between 1967 and 1968, my wife and I roamed the West Penwith peninsula, at the very end of Cornwall. Although we have been back to Cornwall for many visits, and I was honoured to be inaugurated as a bard of the Cornish Gorsedd (under the name Gwas-an-Geltyon – Servant of the Celts) as a recognition for my work on Celtic history and culture, my main work on Cornish was conducted during this period. From it, I produced The Cornish Language and its Literature, published by Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1974. It was gratifying that this was considered the definitive work on the history of the language and a standard text for the Cornish Language Board examinations.

  There were also many in Cornwall who were happy to offer advice on my queries about Cornish folklore and I should record my appreciation of their help: to E.G. Retallack Hooper (Talek), to G. Pawley White (Gunwyn) both former Grand Bards of the Cornish Gorsedd. Particularly, with regard to the story “Nos Calan Gwaf’ I would like to express my appreciation of the discussions I had with the late L.R. Moir (Car Albanek) during the time I spent in St Ives.

  L.R. Moir was a fluent Cornish speaker and worked closely with Robert Morton Nance (Modron) 1873–1959, taking over, at his death, as editor of Old Cornwall. Moir produced many works in Cornish and was interested in folkloric themes. Among several works he published, “An Map Dyworth an Yst” (The Boy from the East) in 1967 won a Gorsedd prize. The story concerned the famous Glastonbury legend. As I recall, by 1968, he had made draft versions of “Nos Calan Gwaf,” which is the Cornish for Hallowe’en, which title I have kept rather than the title of the version given by Bottrell: “An’ Pee Tregeer’s Trip to Market on Hallan Eve”.

  A variant of “The Bukkys” was first collected by Bottrell under the title “The Fairy Master”. The title, used by Retallack Hooper, is the equivalent to the fairy or mischievous spirit which leads travellers astray in most Celtic fairy tales, such as Púca in Irish and Pwca in Welsh. These are the equivalents of the Engli
sh Puck. The word is said to have come from the Norse settlements, from the word puki. There does not appear to be any early tradition of it.

  I have left the title “Lys-an-Gwrys”, which Len Truran recorded when he picked up the tale in the Lizard Peninsula. Coincidentally, the name “Lizard” comes from the word lys – a court or palace and arth – meaning high. People usually and mistakenly apply the name to the whole of the peninsula south of Helston, but it only belongs properly to the southern half, as the northern half is Meneage. The peninsula is almost an island and at its southern tip is Cornwall’s (and, indeed, Britain’s) most southerly town – Lizard Town. The story had a lot of Lizard topography in it. But when I first heard it, it reminded me of another tale.

  Indeed, this is a similar tale, under a similar name, to one collected by Luzel on the Côtes-du-Nord, in Brittany, and told to him in 1873 by Louis Le Braz, a weaver of Prat. The name translates as “The Crystal Palace” but I have left the Cornish name in the version given here. Both stories are esoteric journeys rather than adventure stories, for they constitute a spiritual quest. Luzel believed the Breton version was pre-Christian.

  26 Tewdrig, Tyrant of Treheyl

  “Tewdrig! A strange ship has appeared in the estuary,” cried Wron the Druid, bursting into the great feasting hall of Tewdrig, king of Treheyl and emperor of all Kernow, that south-western peninsula of the Isle of the Mighty that is today called Cornwall.

  Tewdrig glanced up in agitated surprise. “What guards do I have, that I am not warned of the sight of a strange sail until a ship sails into the estuary?” he demanded vehemently. “I should be informed as soon as a sail appears on the distant horizon.”

  Wron made a dismissive gesture. “Better to learn late than learn never, my king.”

  “Does it come in war or does it come in peace?” demanded Tewdrig, buckling on his great sword and taking up his rounded buckler.

  Tewdrig was a strong man, as tall as a spear and as straight, with long black hair and a face that was saturnine and cruel. Skill with his weapons had brought Tewdrig power and his domains spread through the land of Kernow as far east as the great River Tamar, the quietly flowing river that marked the border with the kingdom of Dumnonia.

  It was not strength alone, however, by which Tewdrig had kept his kingdom secure. He believed in the gods and the old ways in a world that was rapidly changing. In the east, whole kingdoms were falling before the hordes of Saxons with their mighty gods of war. Countless tribes had fled north, west and south to escape massacre by the children of Woden.

  So far, the kingdom of Kernow had been kept safe. But Tewdrig was ever vigilant. Only a battle-hardened king could keep harm from his people.

  Now he hurried to the battlements of his fortress at the place of the estuary, Treheyl, and looked out across its waters. The estuary of the river, which was also called Heyl, formed a wide sac stretching two miles which, at low tide, was a stretch of mud banks on which numerous seabirds nested. The ramparts of Tewdrig’s fortress rose above them.

  Wron had obviously alerted the guards, for they were gathered ready, their weapons in their hands.

  Tewdrig came to the battlements and halted.

  Indeed, there was a ship sailing into the estuary, its sails filled before the wind. It was heading towards the quay below Treheyl.

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “It bears a strange emblem on the sail, Wron. Can you identify it?”

  The Druid peered forward and shook his head. “I cannot identify it, my king. It is not a symbol that is familiar in this land. Though, from the cut of the vessel, I would say that it is from the western island of Ywerdhon.”

  Ywerdhon was the name by which the people of Kernow called the land of the goddess Éire.

  Tewdrig bit in irritation at his lip, a habit he had often tried to control since childhood. “Well, if they are foreign and mean us harm, they can harm us little. There is not room enough on that little craft for many warriors and their approach is open enough.”

  Wron nodded. “Nevertheless, my king, it would be best to have the men stand ready.”

  Tewdrig turned to Dinan, chieftain of Pendinas, who was the captain of his guard, and told him to take a company of warriors to the quay to greet the strangers. Dinan was, in fact, Tewdrig’s own brother and as fair as Tewdrig was dark, yet they were both born at the same hour of the same mother and father. Dinan was Tewdrig’s right hand and his shield at every battle. Firm in battle and as shrewd in war was Dinan.

  Some said that without Dinan, Tewdrig could not have maintained his kingdom. Though this was never said before either Tewdrig or Dinan. Further, many said that Tewdrig was as evilly tempered to those nearest to him as Dinan was amiable and obliging. Indeed, at Tewdrig’s sharp commands, Dinan smiled but a gentle acknowledgment of his brother’s order and went down in obedience to it.

  Tewdrig turned back to examine the sail and its strange emblem again. It consisted of two curving lines which crossed each other, so that the emblem appeared as if it was meant to be the outline of a fish.

  Tewdrig was seated in the great hall of his palace when Dinan escorted the visitors to him. Wron the Druid stood at his right elbow, for Wron was his chief counsellor.

  There were five people who came before him: three men and two women and, while they were all clad in simple attire, they stood tall and had the look of nobility on their faces. Around the neck of each one of them there hung a silver cross on a leather thong. Tewdrig’s eyes narrowed, for the cross seemed to be a badge of their fellowship.

  “These, my brother, are travellers from Ywerdhon,” Dinan announced.

  Their leader stepped forward. He was a tall, elderly man with a regal countenance. “The Blessing of the Living God on you, Tewdrig of Treheyl,” he greeted.

  Tewdrig frowned before he replied. “The prosperity of each of the gods of my ancestors on you, stranger. Who are you, and what do you seek in this land?”

  “I was a king in my own country, but have given up earthly pomp to follow a more glorious life. My name is Germoe.”

  “Welcome then, Germoe. And what is more glorious in your eyes than temporal splendour?” smiled Tewdrig indulgently, wondering if the man was mad.

  “To follow the ways of the Son of God and teach His truth and peace to your people.”

  Wron drew his brows together. “The Son of God? The Father of the Gods had many sons, each of them gods in their own right. Of which do you speak?”

  “The one and indivisible God,” replied Germoe. “Him we shall speak of anon, if you allow me and my band to stay in your kingdom.”

  “And who are these others?”

  “I am Coan,” said one of the two young men.

  “I am Elwyn,” announced the other.

  “My name is Breage,” one of the young women added.

  “I am Crowan,” said the last.

  “We are all servants of the Living God,” Germoe said. “We seek your permission to settle in peace and preach the new faith of our God.”

  Wron glanced at the king. “To settle in peace?” he sneered. “Yet you would preach against our faith, destroy our beliefs and our laws. Do you call this peace?”

  “Once you have opened your ears to the word of our Lord in heaven, it will be peace,” replied Germoe confidently. “Our God is not a God of war, strife or dissension.”

  “I would hear them, brother,” Dinan suddenly said. “Let them go where they will in our land. For what can five people do to shake the faith of a nation?”

  Wron flashed an angry glance at Dinan. “I like it not. If they must stay, let them go south, away from this place, so that they may not contaminate our good government.”

  Tewdrig chuckled suddenly in humour. “We will give in to our brother’s urgings,” he said. “For I agree – what harm can five strangers do in our midst? But Wron is my counsellor. Go southward, strangers, and preach as you wish.”

  They all left Treheyl and journeyed south. But Crowan was the first to break away and t
ook an eastern road, until she came to a spot where she built a round enclosure and she prospered. They call this place Crowan, to this day.

  The others continued southwards. Then Coan also turned east and found a river called the Fal. On its eastern bank, he started to preach the word of the Son of the Living God. But it is said that this land owed allegiance to Wron the Druid, who stirred up the people against Coan and, in their anger, they stoned him to death. So the place where this happened was afterwards called Merther, which stands between Tresillian and St Michael Penkevil. The word merther, in the Cornish tongue, means “martyr”.

  The others continued southwards. And first Germoe halted at the southern coast of Kernow and established a house where he taught, and the spot became named after him. The others continued to the south-east, following the coast. Then Breage stopped and, under the shadow of a fortress called Pencaire, between the hills of Tregonning and Godolphin, she built her house and began to teach, and so the place was called Breage after her. Finally, the young man named Elwyn came to the sea’s edge and to a small port where he established himself and taught. The place was thereafter called Porth Elwyn, or Elwyn’s port, which is now Porthleven.

  Now Tewdrig watched the progress of the strangers, with their strange stories of the son of God, with anxiety on his brow. His people, who had followed the wise Druids of old, had begun to fall away from the rituals at the stone circles and the worship of the old gods. In spite of the martyrdom of Croan, the other members of Germoe’s party were gaining converts throughout the southern lands of Kernow.

  What Tewdrig did not realize was that his own brother had listened to the word and accepted the truth of the new faith.

  It happened that a year and a day after the coming of Germoe and his followers, Wron came running to Tewdrig, who was seated in his feasting hall.