Scarlet (26 page)

“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.”