The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (45 page)

When the feasting began, Matholwch made a great play of preaching peace and concord. Branwen, suitably clothed once more as a princess, was told to enter the feast and pretend to her brother
Bran that her letter of despair was all a mistake. Matholwch had brought her son, the boy Gwern, to the feasting-hall and threatened to kill him if Branwen disobeyed. And when the boy was led in,
Bran and his followers embraced their young nephew, in whom the kingship of Éireann rested.

But when the boy came to Efnisien, the boy’s half-uncle, Efnisien seized him and flung him into the blazing fire in the hearth saying: “No son of Matholwch can be trusted, for
treachery runs deep in his blood!” Branwen, with a cry of despair, would have leapt after him but Bran seized her and held her back.

Matholwch called his warriors to strike but they lay dead in their sacks.

Realising now that he had been betrayed by Matholwch, Bran ordered his men to arms while Matholwch and his nobles beat a hurried retreat from the feasting hall. Thereafter, the men of the Isle
of the Mighty and the men of Éireann closed in battle and the combat continued far into that first night.

During the night the men of Éireann told Matholwch that they were losing too many warriors. And so Matholwch ordered that the magic cauldron be readied and the bodies of the dead were
thrown inside. Come the next morning, the dead warriors emerged alive but without the power of speech. The fresh army of Matholwch renewed the attack on the exhausted army of Bran and there was
great slaughter.

Now Efnisien, who had inherited a little of the purity of
spirit of his mother Penarddun, for he was still half-brother to Bran and Branwen, was filled with remorse for what
he had done. He realised that he was responsible for everything that had come to pass since the wedding of Branwen. “It is up to me to find a way of delivering my people safely from this
catastrophe,” he said.

And so he hid himself that evening among the dead warriors of Éireann. He was taken up with their corpses and transferred to the hidden place of the cauldron during the night. Then he was
flung inside with the others and, once inside, he rent the cauldron into four pieces so that it could not be used again. Such was the effort of his deed that his own heart burst asunder.

The men of Éireann and the men of the Isle of the Mighty continued to wage war but, finally, all the men of Éireann were slain and only five pregnant women of Éireann were
left to repopulate that ravaged land. And among the warriors from the Isle of the Mighty, only seven remained. Bran himself was wounded in the foot by an arrow bearing poison and he knew that the
poison was spreading through his body. So he called the remaining warriors of Britain to him.

They were Bran’s brother Manawydan ap Llyr; Pryderi, son of Pwyll and Rhiannon; the great bard Taliesin; Gluneu son of Taran; Ynawg; Gruddyeu son of Muryel; and Heilyn son of Gwynn
Hen.

Bran gazed at them sadly. “I am dying. Before the poison reaches my head and destroys my soul, cut off my head. Take it with you to the fortress of Llyr and bury it on the White Hill.
There shall my head be placed so that it faces east, and then no foreigner will invade Britain while it is there. Once you have cut off my head, I shall remain and talk to you through my head, and
be pleasant company on your sad journey back to the Isle of the Mighty. I shall remain with you until you have completed your task.”

Then the seven cut off Bran’s head and, together with a sorrowing Branwen, those survivors left the ravaged shores of Éireann where so many had perished. And although the head of
Bran talked and was as joyful as it had been in life, the more Branwen grew mournful and depressed. And when the
party reached the shores of the Isle of the Mighty and came to
Aber Alaw, where she had once been so happy at her marriage feast, Branwen sat down in grief.

“Grief is on me that I was ever born. Two island kingdoms have been destroyed because of me. Though yesterday my grief was unbearable, today it is twice so.”

Without another word, the beautiful Branwen groaned and her heart broke.

The seven survivors gathered round and they built her a four-sided grave on the banks of the Alaw, which spot they called Ynys Branwen.

As they journeyed eastward, the seven found that Casswallawn son of Beli had overthrown Caradawg, Bran’s son, and destruction had settled upon the Isle of the Mighty. Caradawg had died of
grief and only Pryderi’s foster-father, Pendaran had escaped the destruction. And while Manawydan should have been king of the Isle of the Mighty, Casswallawn ruled instead, for the destiny
had been laid on the seven that they first accompany the head of their beloved leader to its final resting place.

They journeyed onward, eating, drinking and feasting with the noble head of Bran.

Finally, they came to the fortress of Llyr, Llyr’s dun, which is now called London, and they took the head to a hill overlooking the place, called the White Hill, where in later years the
Tower of London was raised. Here they buried the head with its face to the east. And it came to pass for many centuries no conquerors truly conquered the Isle of the Mighty, and Britain remained
under the rule of the descendants of the Children of Dôn.

It is said that ages afterwards, Arthur, in his Christian
pride, thought it beneath his dignity to rely on the prophecy wrought by Bran, and he had the fabulous head dug up
and thrown into the sea. Within a short time, Arthur was slain at Camlann and the godless hosts of Angles and Saxons were swarming into Britain across the Northern Sea.

21 Math fab Mathonwy

B
ack in the time when the children of Dôn, the gods and goddesses, ruled the five kingdoms of Cymru, the god of increasing wealth was Math
son of Mathonwy. His palace lay in Gwynedd. He was regarded as wise and powerful, but he could not exist in the human world unless his feet were held in the lap of a virgin. Only when his prowess
in war or hunting were needed could he leave the virgin’s embrace.

The virgin to whom Math had given the honour of being his footholder was Goewin ferch Pebin, daughter of Pebin of Dol Pebin of Arfon. She was very beautiful, chaste and entirely devoted to her
lord.

Among those who dwelt at Gwynedd’s great palace were the children of Math’s equally powerful sister, Dôn, who had married Beli, god of death. And of these children there were
two sons, Gilvaethwy and Gwydyon. They were both handsome young men.

It was not long after Goewin came to live at the palace as Math’s footholder that Gwydyon noticed that his brother seemed listless and without appetite. He no longer seemed to enjoy the
hunt, nor occupy his time in games of
gwyddbwyll
, the ancient board game known as “wooden wisdom”. Finally, while the two brothers were out hunting, and Gilvaethwy had missed a
shot at a deer that not even a child could have failed with, Gwydyon turned and demanded to know what the matter was.

“I cannot say,” replied his brother.

“Nonsense!” snapped Gwydyon. “It seems obvious to me.
You’ve been like this since Goewin came to the palace. You have fallen in love with
her.”

Gilvaethwy turned around nervously and put a finger to his lips. “Don’t you know that Math can hear the most intimate of whispers anywhere in Gwynedd?”

Gwydyon shook his head dismissively. “I have the power over science and light. Math may be powerful but I can distract his hearing.”

“Whether you can or not matters little. What can I do? Math is powerful and I cannot best him in combat.”

“You can elope with Goewin,” Gwydyon suggested.

His brother looked at him as if he were stupid. “Bring down the power of Math? He is the supreme leader among our people. Is he not the brother of Dôn, the divine waters who has
given us all life?”

“And are we not the children of Dôn? We have no need to be scared of Math. But we shall go about abducting Goewin for you in a more subtle manner.”

Gwydyon was a sharp-minded young man.

One day, seated before Math, he remarked: “Have you heard that the people of Dyfed are talking about some curious beasts which have arrived in their kingdom?”

Math frowned. “Curious beasts? What do you mean?”

“They are unlike anything anyone has seen, smaller than cattle, fat with lots of flesh and a sweet-tasting meat.”

“And what are they called?”

“
Mochyn
.” That is to say, pigs.

“Who owns these creatures?”

“Pryderi, son of Pwyll and Rhiannon, lord of Dyfed.”

“I would like to own some of these creatures.”

Gwydyon grimaced negatively. “Pryderi guards them with his most élite warriors. He will not part even with one. I have heard that many have offered him fortunes for them.”
Then Gwydyon, knowing how covetousness plays with the soul, held his head to one side and said softly: “Yet I believe that I could get them for you.”

Math leaned forward eagerly. “How so?”

“I will go, disguised as one of a company of bards. We will sing Pryderi’s praises and demand the pigs as our repayment.”

Everyone knew that even a great king could not refuse a bard’s fee, for fear that the poet might satirise the king and thereby destroy his power.

So Gwydyon, with his brother Gilvaethwy, and seven others – for nine is the powerful number – rode forth to the kingdom of Dyfed, pretending to be a company of travelling bards.
Pryderi was always delighted to welcome poets and song-makers to his court and a lavish feast was prepared. Afterwards, Pryderi invited Gwydyon and his company to tell their stories and sing their
songs. They did so; all through the night they held the court of Pryderi spellbound with stories and songs, and reduced them to laughter or weeping or fear, so powerful was their entertainment.

As dawn came up, Pryderi realised that the entertainment must be drawn to a close and he asked Gwydyon what his fee was. When Gwydyon asked for the pigs, Pryderi was very serious.

“I would have no hesitation in meeting your fee, bard of the north, but I have taken an oath to my people of Dyfed that I will not part with one of the pigs until they have bred twice, so
that there will always be pigs in the kingdom of Dyfed. Ask what else you want and it shall be given. Of the pigs, I cannot give you one neither by gift nor by sale.”

Gwydyon said that as they were all tired, he and his fellow bards would retire and sleep on the matter and let Pryderi know later that day. Now Gwydyon seized on the words of Pryderi that he
would not part with the pigs by gift or sale. So being, as most gods are, a master of illusion, he created nine black stallions, saddled with silver and gold, and had them tethered in the palace
courtyard.

“If you will part with your pigs neither by gift nor sale,” he told Pryderi after they had rested, “exchange is a fair way of dealing with the matter, so that you do not break
your oath to your people. Here are nine beautiful night-black stallions and in return I will accept the pigs.”

Pryderi sought the advice of his counsellors and was told that an exchange would not break his oath.

So the pigs went to Gwydyon and the magic horses to Pryderi’s stable.

Gwydyon and Gilvaethwy, with their pseudo-bardic company and the pigs, set off back to Gwynedd. Of course, as Gwydyon knew, his illusion did not last long. They had barely reached Gwynedd when
the night-black stallions disappeared. An enraged Pryderi, realizing he had been tricked, mustered an army and set off after the “bards”.

Math heard that Pryderi was marching on his kingdom. Gwydyon had told him only part of the story, saying that Pryderi had agreed to make a deal about the pigs but now seemed determined to break
it and seize the pigs back by force. Math’s great war-horn sounded, summoning all the men of Gwynedd. Because it was war, Math had to leave the side of Goewin the virgin, and lead his men out
to face the men of Dyfed.

Now all the men had left the palace of Math and only the women remained behind. Knowing this, Gwydyon and Gilvaethwy left the camp of Math and slunk back to his palace at night.

“Go to, brother,” grinned Gwydyon. “I shall stand here on guard while you press your suit on your lady.”

So Gilvaethwy went to Goewin’s chamber.

“What are you doing here?” the virgin demanded. “All the men are with my lord, Math fab Mathonwy, preparing to do battle with Pryderi of Dyfed.”

“I am here because I am in love with you,” replied Gilvaethwy.

Goewin was shocked. “That cannot be. I am the servant of my lord. That is my destiny.”

But Gilvaethwy pressed his suit upon her. The more she refused to countenance his protestations, the more ardent he became. The more she refused his love, the more his passion grew. Finally,
like a kettle boiling, he burst the constraints of manhood and leapt on her, tearing off her clothes and took away her virginity.

Next morning, before dawn, Gilvaethwy, sheepish and regretting his passion, joined his brother, who grinned lewdly and winked at him. Together they rode back to Math’s army
and it seemed that they had not been missed during the night. They were just in time to take their positions at the side of Math when Pryderi’s war-horns sounded and the army of
Dyfed moved forward. Most of the day the terrible battle raged; first Dyfed were moving forward then it was Gwynedd’s turn.

Finally, Pryderi sent word to Math.

“Good women are becoming widows, mothers losing sons, wives their husbands and sweethearts their lovers. There is little good in this. Let Gwydyon the conjurer come forward and settle this
dispute man to man.”

So a truce was held and a single combat between Pryderi and Gwydyon was agreed on.

Now had Gwydyon been a man and not a son of the Ever-Living Ones who was steeped in magic, Pryderi might have overcome all odds, for he was a mighty warrior. But only guile and cunning won the
day against him. Gwydyon set to with his magic so that Pryderi never knew where his opponent was and which was reality and which was a shadow, or from where the sword edge would fall.