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.”
“Permit me to say that it poorly becomes a man of such exalted station to handle such a lowly creature as that. Thief or no, let it go.”
“I will not let it go,” declared Manawyddan, bristling at the suggestion. “I caught this rascal stealing, and I will execute the punishment for a thief upon it—which, as we all know, is hanging.”
“Do as you think best, Lord,” replied the bard. “But rather than watching a man of your rank stooping to such sordid work, I will give you three silver pennies that I earned with song if you will only pardon that mouse and release it.”
“I will not let it go—neither will I sell it for three pennies.”
“As you wish, mighty lord,” said the bard. And taking his leave, he went away.
Manawyddan returned to his work. As he was busy putting the crossbeam between the two gallows posts, he heard a whinny and looked down from the mound to see a brown-robed priest riding towards him on a fine grey horse.
“Pax vobiscum!” called the priest. “May our Great Redeemer richly bless you.”
“Peace to you,” replied Manawyddan, wondering that another human being should appear so soon. “May the All Wise give you your heart’s desire.”
“Forgive my asking,” said the priest, “but time moves on and I cannot tarry. Pray, what kind of work occupies you this day?”
“Since you ask,” replied Manawyddan, “I am hanging a thief that I caught stealing the means of my sustenance.”
“What kind of thief might that be, my lord?” asked the cleric.
“A low thief in the shape of a mouse,” explained the lord of Dyfed. “The same who, with his innumerable comrades, has committed a great crime against me—so great that I have now no hope of survival
at all. Though it be my last earthly act, I mean to exact punishment upon this criminal.”
“My lord, rather than stand by and watch you demean yourself by dealing so with that vile creature, I will redeem it. Name your price and I will have it.”
“By my confession to God, I will neither sell it nor let it go.”
“It may be true, Lord, that a thief ’s life is worthless. Still, I insist you must not defile yourself and drag your exalted name through the mud of dishonour. Therefore, I will give you three pounds in good silver to let that mouse go.”
“Between me and you and God,” Manawyddan answered, “though it is a princely sum, the money is no good to me. I want no payment, except what this thief is due: its right and proper hanging.”
“If that is your final word.”
“It is.”
“Then you do as you please.” Picking up the reins, the priest rode on.
Manawyddan, lord of Dyfed, resumed his work. Taking a bit of string, he fashioned a small noose and tied the noose around the neck of the mouse. As he was busy with this, behold, he heard the sound of a pipe and drum. Looking down from the gorsedd mound, he saw the retinue of a bishop, with his sumpters and his host, and the bishop himself striding towards him. He stopped his work. “Lord Bishop,” he called, “your blessings if you please.”
“May God bless you abundantly, friend,” said the satin-robed bishop. “If I may be so bold, what kind of work are you doing up there on your mound?”
“Well,” replied Manawyddan, growing slightly irritated at having to explain his every move, “since you ask, and if it concerns you at all—which it does not—know that I am hanging a dirty thief which I caught stealing the last of my grain, the very grain which I was counting on to keep myself and my dear daughter-in-law alive through the coming winter.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” answered the bishop. “But, my lord, is that not a mouse I see in your hand?”
“Oh, aye,” confirmed Manawyddan, “and a rank thief it is.”
“Now see here,” said the bishop, “it may be God’s own luck that I have come upon the destruction of that creature. I will redeem it from its well-deserved fate. Please accept the thirty pounds I will give you for its life. For, by the beard of Saint Joseph, rather than see a lordly man as yourself destroying wretched vermin, I will give that much and more gladly. Release it and retain your dignity.”
“Nay, Lord Bishop, I will not.”
“Since you will not let it go for that, I will give you sixty pounds of fine silver. Man, I beg you to let it go.”
“I will not release it, by my confession to God, for the same amount again and more besides. Money is no use to me in the grave to which I am going since the destruction of my fields.”
“If you free the mouse,” said the satin-robed one, “I will give you all the horses on the plain, and the seven sumpters that are here, and the seven horses that carry them.”
“I do not want for horses. Between you and me and God,” Manawyddan replied, “I could not feed them if I had them.”
“Since you do not want that, name your price.”
“You press me hard for a churchman,” said the lord of Dyfed. “But since you ask, I want, more than anything under heaven, the return of my own dear wife, Rhiannon, and my good friend and companion, Pryderi.”
“As I live and breathe, and with God alone as my witness, they will appear the moment you release that mouse.”
“Did I say I was finished?” asked Manawyddan.
“Speak up, man. What else do you want?”
“I want swift and certain deliverance from the magic and enchantment that rests so heavily upon the seven cantrefs of Dyfed.”
“That you will have also,” promised the bishop, “if you release the mouse at once and do it no harm.”
“You must think me slow of thought and speech,” countered Manawyddan, his suspicions fully roused. “I am far from finished.”
“What else do you require?”
“I want to know what this mouse is to you, that you should take such an interest in its fate.”
“I will tell you,” said the bishop, “though you will not believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Will you believe me if I tell you that the mouse you hold is really my own dear wife? And were that not so, we would not be freeing her.”
“Right you are, friend,” agreed Manawyddan. “I do not believe you.”
“It is true nonetheless.”
“Then tell me, by what means did she come to me in this form?”
“To plunder this realm of its possessions,” the bishop answered, “for I am none other than Llwyd Cil Coed, and I confess that it was I who put the enchantment on the seven cantrefs of Dyfed. This was done to avenge my brother Gwawl, who was killed by you and Pryderi in the Battle of the Cauldron. After hearing that you had returned to settle in the land,” the false bishop continued, “I turned my lord’s war-band into mice so they might destroy your barley without your knowledge. On the first night of destruction the warband came alone and carried away the grain. On the second night they came too, and destroyed the second field. On the third night my wife and the women of the court came to me and asked me to transform them as well. I did as they asked, though my dear wife was pregnant. Had she not been pregnant, I doubt you would have caught her.”
“She was the only one I caught, to be sure,” replied Manawyddan thoughtfully.
“But, alas, since she was caught, I will give you Pryderi and Rhiannon, and remove the magic and enchantment from Dyfed.” Llwyd the Hud folded his arms across his chest and, gazing up to the top of the mound at Manawyddan, he said, “There! I have told you everything—now let her go.”
“I will not let her go so easily.”
“Now what do you want?” demanded the enchanter.
“Behold,” the mighty champion replied, “there is yet one more thing required: that there may never be any more magic or enchantment placed upon the seven cantrefs of Dyfed, nor on my kinfolk or any other people beneath my care.”
“Upon my oath, you will have that,” the Llwyd said, “now, for the love of God, let her go.”
“Not so fast, enchanter,” warned Manawyddan, still gripping the mouse tightly in his fist.
“What now?” Llwyd moaned.
“This,” he said, “is what I want: there must be no revenge against Pryderi, Rhiannon, Cigfa, or myself, ever, from this day henceforth, forever.”
“All that I promise and have promised, you shall get. And, God knows, that last was a canny thought,” the enchanter allowed, “for if you had not spoken thus, all of the grief you have had till now would be as nothing compared to that which would have soon fallen upon your unthinking head. So if we are agreed, I pray you, wise lord, release my wife and return her to me.”
“I will,” promised Manawyddan, “in the same moment that I see Pryderi and Rhiannon standing hale and hearty in front of me.”
“Look then, and see them coming!” said Llwyd the Hud.
Thereupon, Pryderi and Rhiannon, together with the missing hounds, appeared at the foot of the gorsedd mound. Manawyddan, beside himself with joy, hailed them and welcomed them.
“Lord and king, now free my wife, for you have certainly obtained all of what you asked for.”
“I will free her gladly,” Manawyddan said, lowering his hand and opening the glove so the mouse could jump free. Llwyd the Enchanter took out his staff and touched the mouse, and she changed into a charming and lovely woman once more—albeit a woman great with child.
“Look around you at the land,” cried Llwyd the Hud to the lord of Dyfed, “and you will see all the homesteads and the settlements as they were at their best.”
Instantly, the whole of the country was inhabited and as prosperous as it had ever been. Manawyddan and Rhiannon and Pryderi and Cigfa were reunited, and, to celebrate the end of the dire enchantment, they made a circuit of all the land, dispensing the great wealth Rhi Manawyddan ha
d obtained in his bargain with the enchanter. Everywhere they went, they ate and drank and feasted the people, and no one was as well loved as the lord of Dyfed and his lovely queen. Pryderi and Cigfa were blessed with a son the next year, and he became, if possible, even more beloved than his grandfather.
Here, Angharad stopped; she let the last notes of the harp fade into the night, then added, “But that is a tale for another time.” Setting aside the harp, she stood and spread her hands over the heads of her listeners. “Go now,” she said softly, as a mother speaking to a sleep-heavy child. “Say nothing, but go to your sleep and to your dreams. Let the song work its power within you, my children.”
Bran, no less than the others, felt as if his soul had been cast adrift—all around him washed a vast and restless sea that he must navigate in a too-small boat with neither sail nor oars. For him, at least, the feeling was more familiar. This was how he always felt after hearing one of Angharad’s tales. Nevertheless, he obeyed her instruction and did not speak to anyone, but went to his rest, where the song would continue speaking through the night and through the days to come. And although part of him wanted nothing more than to ride at once to Llanelli, storm the gaol, and rescue the captive by force, he had learned his lesson and resisted any such rash action. Instead, Bran bided his time and let the story do its work.
All through the winter and into the spring, the story sowed and tended its potent seeds; the meaning of the tale grew to fruition deep in Bran’s soul until, one morning in early summer, he awoke to the clear and certain knowledge of what the tale signified. More, he knew what he must do to rescue Will Scarlet.
CHAPTER 34
I wake in the night all a-fever with the odd conviction that I know what it all means. The letter, the ring, the gloves—I know what this strange treasure signifies, and why it has come to Elfael. For the first time, I am afraid. If I am right, then I have discovered a way to save Elfael, and I fear I may not live to pass on this saving knowledge to those who can use it. Oh, Blesséd Virgin, Peter, and Paul, I pray I am not too late.