One day the boy followed Gwydion as he went out walking. He made for Caer Aranrhod and the boy with him. When he came to the court, Aranrhod got up to meet him, to welcome and to greet him.
‘May God prosper you,’ he said.
‘Who is the boy behind you?’ she said.
‘This boy is a son of yours,’ he said.
‘Alas man, what has come over you, putting me to shame, and pursuing my shame by keeping him as long as this?’
‘If you have no greater shame than that I should foster a boy as fine as this, then your shame is but a small matter.’
‘What is your boy’s name?’ she said.
‘God knows,’ he said, ‘he has no name yet.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will swear a destiny that he shall not get a name until he gets one from me.’
‘By my confession to God,’ he said, ‘you are a wicked woman; but the boy shall have a name, though it displeases you. And you,’ he said, ‘it is because of him you are angry, since you are no longer called a virgin. Never again will you be called a virgin.’
Then he walked away angrily, and made for Caer Dathyl and stayed there that night. And the next day he got up and took the boy with him, and went walking along the seashore between there and Aber Menai. And where he saw dulse and wrack* he conjured up a ship. And out of the seaweed and dulse he conjured up Cordovan leather, a good deal of it, and he coloured it so that no one had seen more beautiful leather than that. Then he rigged a sail on the ship, and he and the boy sailed to the harbour entrance of Caer Aranrhod. Then they began to cut out shoes and stitch them. And then they were seen from the fort. When Gwydion realized they had been seen from the fort, he took away their own appearance and gave them another so that they would not be recognized.
‘Who are the people in the ship?’ said Aranrhod.
‘Shoemakers,’ they said.
‘Go and see what kind of leather they have, and what sort of work they are doing.’ They went. When they arrived, Gwydion was colouring Cordovan leather with gold. Then the messengers returned and told her.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘measure my foot and ask the shoemaker to make shoes for me.’ He made the shoes, not according to her size, but bigger. They bring her the shoes. Behold, the shoes are too big.
‘These are too big,’ she said. ‘He shall be paid for these, but let him also make some that are smaller.’ So he made others much smaller than her foot, and sent them to her.
‘Tell him that not one of these shoes fits me,’ she said. He was told that.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I will not make shoes for her until I see her foot.’ And she was told that.
‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I will go to him.’ Then Aranrhod went to the ship, and when she arrived he was cutting out and the boy was stitching.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘good day to you.’
‘May God prosper you,’ she said. ‘I find it strange that you could not make shoes to fit.’
‘I could not,’ he said. ‘But I can, now.’ And suddenly a wren lands on the deck of the ship. The boy aims at it and hits it in the leg, between the tendon and the bone. She laughs.
‘God knows,’ she said, ‘it is with a skilful hand that the fair-haired one has hit it.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And God’s curse upon you. He has now got a name, and it’s good enough. From now on he is Lleu Llaw Gyffes.’*
Then everything vanished into dulse and seaweed. And Gwydion pursued the craft no more. But because of that occasion was called one of the Three Golden Shoemakers.*
‘God knows,’ she said, ‘you will be none the better for treating me badly.’
‘I have not treated you badly yet,’ he said.
Then he changed the boy back into his own shape, and he himself took on his own form.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will swear a destiny on this boy that he shall never get weapons until I arm him myself.’
‘Between me and God,’ said Gwydion, ‘this stems from your wickedness. But he shall get weapons.’
Then they came to Dinas Dinlleu.* Lleu Llaw Gyffes was brought up until he could ride every horse, and until he had matured as regards appearance, and growth, and size. Then Gwydion noticed that he was pining for horses and weapons, and summoned him.
‘Lad,’ he said, ‘you and I shall go on an errand tomorrow. So be more cheerful than you are.’
‘That I will,’ said the boy.
Early the next day they got up, and followed the coast up towards Bryn Arien. At the very top of Cefn Cludno they got ready on horseback and came towards Caer Aranrhod. Then they changed their appearance and approached the gate disguised as two young men, except that Gwydion looked more serious than the lad.
‘Porter,’ said Gwydion, ‘go inside and say there are poets here from Morgannwg.’ The porter went.
‘God’s welcome to them. Let them come in,’ said Aranrhod. There was great rejoicing at their arrival. The hall was prepared and they went to eat. When they had finished eating, she and Gwydion talked of tales and storytelling. And Gwydion was a good storyteller.
When it was time to end the carousing, a chamber was prepared for them, and they went to sleep. Long before daybreak Gwydion got up. Then he called on his magic and his power. By the time day was dawning, there was rushing to and fro and the sound of trumpets and wailing throughout the land. When day broke, they heard knocking on the chamber door, and then Aranrhod asking them to open up. The young lad got up and opened the door. In she came, and a maiden with her.
‘Men,’ she said, ‘we are in a bad situation.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘we can hear trumpets and wailing, and what do you make of it?’
‘God knows,’ she said, ‘we cannot see the colour of the sea for all the ships tightly packed together, and they are making for land as fast as they can. And what shall we do?’ she said.
‘Lady,’ said Gwydion, ‘there is nothing we can do except to shut ourselves in the fort and to defend it as best we can.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘May God repay you. You defend us. And you will find plenty of weapons here.’
Then she went to fetch the weapons. She returned, and two maidens with her carrying arms for two men.
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘you arm this young man. And I will arm myself with the help of the maidens. I hear the clamour of men approaching.’
‘I will do that gladly.’ And she armed him gladly, and completely.
‘Have you finished arming that man?’ said Gwydion.
‘I have,’ she said.
‘I have finished, too,’ he said. ‘Let us now remove our weapons; we have no need of them.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘why not? Look, the fleet surrounds the place.’
‘Woman, there is no fleet there.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘then what kind of uprising was it?’
‘An uprising to break your fate on your son,’ he said, ‘and to get weapons for him. And now he has weapons, no thanks to you.’
‘Between me and God,’ she said, ‘you are an evil man. And many a lad could have lost his life in the uprising you brought about in this cantref today. And I will swear a destiny on him,’ she said, ‘that he will never have a wife from the race that is on this earth at present.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you always were a wicked woman, and no one should ever come to your aid. But he shall have a wife nevertheless.’
They came to Math son of Mathonwy, and made the most vehement complaint in the world against Aranrhod, and related how Gwydion had obtained all the weapons for Lleu.
‘Fine,’ said Math, ‘let you and I try through our magic and enchantment to charm a wife for him out of flowers.’ By then Lleu was a man in stature, and the most handsome lad that any one had ever seen.
Then they took the flowers of the oak, and the flowers of the broom, and the flowers of the meadowsweet, and from those they conjured up the fairest and most beautiful maiden that anyone had ever seen. And they baptized her in the
way they did at that time, and named her Blodeuedd.*
After Lleu and Blodeuedd had slept together at the feast, ‘It is not easy for a man without a realm to support himself,’ said Gwydion.
‘I know,’ said Math. ‘I shall give him the best cantref that a young man can have.’
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘what cantref is that?’
‘The cantref of Dinoding,’ he said. That is now called Eifionydd and Ardudwy. Lleu set up a court in the cantref at a place called Mur Castell,* in the uplands of Ardudwy; he settled there, and ruled. And everyone was pleased with him and his governance.
Then one day Lleu went to Caer Dathyl to visit Math son of Mathonwy. On the day he left for Caer Dathyl, Blodeuedd was wandering around the court. And she heard the sound of a hunting-horn, and after the sound of the horn a weary stag passed by with hounds and huntsmen chasing it, and after the hounds and the huntsmen came a band of men on foot.
‘Send a lad to find out who they are,’ she said. The lad went, and asked who they were.
‘This is Gronw Pebr, the man who is lord of Penllyn,’* they said. The lad told her that. Meanwhile Gronw went after the stag. And at the river Cynfael he caught up with the stag and killed it. And there he was, skinning the stag and baiting his hounds until night closed in on him. And as day was failing and night drawing near, he came past the gate of the court.
‘God knows,’ she said, ‘the chieftain will pour scorn on us for letting him go at this hour to another land if we do not invite him in.’
‘God knows, lady,’ they said, ‘it is only proper to invite him in.’ Then messengers went to meet him and invite him in. He accepted the invitation gladly and came to the court, and she came to meet him, to welcome him and greet him.
‘Lady, may God repay you your welcome’, he said. He took off his riding clothes, and they went to sit down. Blodeuedd looked at him, and from the moment she looked there was no part of her that was not filled with love for him. And he gazed at her, and the same thought came to him as had come to her. He could not hide the fact that he loved her, and he told her so. She was overjoyed. And their talk that night was of the attraction and love they felt for one another. And they did not put off making love to each other any longer than that night—that night they slept together.
The next day he asked permission to depart.*
‘God knows,’ she said, ‘you will not leave me tonight.’ That night, too, they were together. And that night they discussed how they might stay together.
‘There is only one thing to do,’ he said; ‘find out from him how his death may come about, and do that by pretending to be concerned about him.’
The next day he asked permission to leave.
‘God knows, I do not advise you to leave me today.’
‘God knows, since you do not advise it, I will not go,’ he said. ‘However, I would say there is danger that the chieftain who owns this court will return.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘tomorrow I will let you leave.’
The next day he asked permission to leave, and she did not prevent him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘remember what I told you, and keep on talking to him as if you really loved him. And find out from him how his death might come about.’
Lleu returned that night. They spent the day in conversation, song, and carousal. That night they went to sleep together. He spoke to her, and a second time. But he got no reply.
‘What’s the matter,’ he said, ‘are you well?’
‘I am thinking about something you would not expect of me,’ she said. ‘Namely, I am worried about your death, if you were to go before me.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘may God repay you your concern. But unless God kills me, it is not easy to kill me,’ he said.
‘Then for God’s sake and mine, will you tell me how you can be killed? Because my memory is better than yours when it comes to avoiding danger.’
‘I will, gladly,’ he said. ‘It is not easy to kill me with a blow. You would have to spend a year making the spear that would strike me, working on it only when people were at Mass on Sunday.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ she said.
‘Sure, God knows,’ he said. ‘I cannot be killed indoors,’ he said, ‘nor out of doors; I cannot be killed on horseback, nor on foot.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘how can you be killed?’
‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘By making a bath for me on a riverbank, and constructing an arched roof above the tub, and then thatching that well and watertight. And bringing a billy-goat,’ he said, ‘and standing it beside the tub; and I place one foot on the back of the billy-goat and the other on the edge of the tub. Whoever should strike me in that position would bring about my death.’*
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I thank God for that. That can be avoided easily.’
No sooner did she get the information than she sent it to Gronw Pebr. Gronw laboured over making the spear, and a year from that very day it was ready. That day he let Blodeuedd know.
‘Lord,’ she said, ‘I am wondering how what you told me before could happen. Will you show me how you would stand on the edge of the tub and the billy-goat, if I get the bath ready?’
‘I will,’ he said.
She sent word to Gronw, and told him to be in the shadow of the hill which is now called Bryn Cyfergyr, on the bank of the river Cynfael. She had all the goats she could find in the cantref rounded up and brought to the far side of the river, facing Bryn Cyfergyr.*
The next day she said to Lleu, ‘Lord, I have had the roof prepared, and the bath, and they are ready.’
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘let us go and look at them, with pleasure.’ The next day they came to look at the bath.
‘You will get into the bath, lord?’ she said.
‘I will, with pleasure,’ he said. He got into the bath, and washed himself.
‘Lord,’ she said, ‘these are the animals you said were called billy-goats.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘have them catch one and bring it here.’
A goat was brought. Then he got up from the bath and put on his trousers, and placed one foot on the edge of the tub and the other on the billy-goat’s back. Then Gronw got up from the hill called Bryn Cyfergyr, and on one knee he aimed at Lleu with the poisoned spear, and struck him in his side so that the shaft stuck out of him but the head remained inside. And then Lleu flew up in the form of an eagle and gave a horrible scream, and he was not seen again.
As soon as Lleu disappeared they made for the court, and that night they slept together. The next day Gronw got up and took possession of Ardudwy. Having taken possession of the land, he ruled it so that Ardudwy and Penllyn were in his control. Then the news reached Math son of Mathonwy. Math felt sad and sorrowful, and Gwydion even more so.
‘Lord,’ said Gwydion, ‘I will never rest until I get news of my nephew.’
‘Yes,’ said Math, ‘may God be your strength.’
Then he set off and went on his way, and wandered through Gwynedd and the length and breadth of Powys. Having travelled everywhere he came to Arfon, and in Maenor Bennardd he came to the house of a peasant. Gwydion dismounted at the house and stayed there that night. The man of the house and his family came in, and last of all came the swineherd. The man of the house said to the swineherd, ‘Lad,’ he said, ‘has your sow come in tonight?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she has just come to the pigs.’
‘Where does this sow go?’ said Gwydion.
‘Every day when the pen is opened she goes out. No one can grab her, and no one knows where she goes, any more than if she sank into the earth.’
‘For my sake, will you not open the pen until I am at the side of the pen with you?’ said Gwydion.
‘Yes, gladly,’ he said. They went to sleep that night.
When the swineherd saw daylight he woke Gwydion, and Gwydion got up and dressed and went with him and stood beside the pen. The swineherd opened the pen. As soon as he opens it she leaps out and sets off at
a brisk pace, with Gwydion following her. And she goes upstream and heads for a valley which is now called Nantlleu,* and there she slows down and feeds. Then Gwydion goes under the tree and looks to see what the sow is feeding on; and he can see the sow feeding on rotten flesh and maggots. He looks up to the top of the tree. And when he looks, he can see an eagle at the top of the tree. And when the eagle shakes himself, the worms and the rotten flesh fall from him and the sow eats them. He thinks that the eagle is Lleu, and sings an englyn:*
‘An oak grows between two lakes,
Very dark is the sky and the valley.
Unless I am mistaken
This is because of Lleu’s Flowers.’
The eagle lowers himself until he is in the middle of the tree. Gwydion sings another englyn:
‘An oak grows on a high plain,
Rain does not wet it, heat no longer melts it;
It sustained one who possesses nine-score attributes.
In its top is Lleu Llaw Gyffes.’
And then he lowers himself down until he is on the lowest branch of the tree. Then Gwydion sings him an englyn:
‘An oak grows on a slope
The refuge of a handsome prince.
Unless I am mistaken
Lleu will come to my lap.’
And he dropped down onto Gwydion’s knee; then Gwydion struck him with his magic wand so that he changed back into his own shape. But no one had ever seen a man look more wretched—he was nothing but skin and bone.
Then he made for Caer Dathyl, and there all the good physicians that could be found in Gwynedd were brought to him. Before the end of the year he was completely recovered.
The Mabinogion (Oxford World's Classics) Page 11
