The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (53 page)

Arthur immediately attacked these two great pigs and got the best of them. But so fierce a clamour did they set up that Twrch Trwyth roused himself from where he had been resting, and leapt
forward to defend them. Life for life and death for death was the order of the day. The first of the pigs was slain at Mynydd Amanw and then others fell; Twrch Llawin, Gwys, Banw and Benwig were
killed. Indeed, only Grugyn and Llwydawg were left alive with Twrch Trwyth himself.

The three magical creatures were brought to bay at Llwch Ewin, and here Twrch Trwyth slew Echil Big-hip, as well as countless other champions of lesser degree. The pigs then retreated to Llwch
Tawy and here Grugyn was forced to leave them, making for Din Tywi and Garth Grugyn, where he was eventually slain, though not without destroying four more of Arthur’s champions in his
death-struggle.

Llwydawg went on to Ystrad Yw where he, too, was overtaken and slain, but not before he slew two great kings. One of them was Arthur’s own uncle.

In rage at the loss of his children, Twrch Trwyth destroyed all the countryside and its people between Tawy and Ewyas and began to move south across the Sabrann river.

Arthur called his champions together once more.

“While I live, I shall not let this magical boar pass into the land of Cernyw. I intend to stand before him and not chase after him. Life for life and death for death. One of us shall be
the victor. You may do as you will.”

Not one warrior chose any other course but to stand with Arthur.

So they gathered on the banks of the great Sabrann where Twrch Trwyth stood at bay.

Then it was that Mabon, son of Modron, seized his chance. On the stallion Dunmane, with Gorau ap Custennin and the sick Menw, crying for revenge, they rode forward. Then came Arthur, and Osla
Big Knife, and Manawydan ap Llyr and Cyledyr the Wild. They surrounded the great boar and, in the
struggle, Mabon seized the comb from beneath the boar’s ears while
Cyledyr the Wild seized the shears.

Then the great boar raced forward, chased by the hounds Aned and Aethlem, along the watery course of the Sabrann and into the sea, south-west to Annwn, the Otherworld, and vanished from
men’s sight. Some say – and who will deny them? – that Twrch Trwyth sleeps under a giant oak in Annwn, his snout among the lush acorns that drop from it. He is only resting. One
day he will return to this world to continue his fearsome contest with Arthur and humankind.

So the greatest task asked by Ysbaddadan was now completed.

But one task still remained, and that was the blood of the black witch, Dewines Du, with which Ysbaddadan wanted his beard dressed. Now she was the daughter of the White Witch who dwelt at the
head of the Valley of Grief in the uplands of Hell.

So once more Arthur set off, and with him he took Cynddelig the Guide. They reached the place and found the witch’s cavern which was dark and evil and the stench of putrefaction offended
the warriors. Cacamwri and his brother Hygwydd went into the cavern to fight the witch, but they returned bloodied by their wounds and terrified out of their minds by her magic.

While Arthur himself wanted to go into the cavern, his men persuaded him to send in Amren and Eiddil, two more splendid warriors. They came out as worse for their wounds as the others.

Arthur could no longer be restrained. He went into the cavern and hurled his knife, flashing into the darkness, so that it cut the witch in twain. Then Cadw of the Pictii rushed forward and drew
the witch’s blood into a bowl which he kept.

Then Arthur asked, “Are all the tasks completed?”

Culhwch came forward and replied, “They are, my lord.”

“Then I have kept my promise, Culhwch, son of Cilydd. The day when you first came to my court and I trimmed your hair, I made you a promise that if Olwen existed, you would have her. Go
forth now and claim her from Ysbaddadan Pencawr.”

Culhwch and his companions set off once more for the castle of Ysbaddadan Pencawr.

Ysbaddadan Pencawr sat in his hall and, when they came before him, he demanded that his servants prop up his one great baleful eye with poles.

Cadw of the Pictii came forward.

“I am here to shave you.”

And he shaved and dressed his beard as Ysbaddadan had asked.

“So all the tasks are done?” inquired Ysbaddadan softly, knowing full well that this must be the case.

“As you see,” Culhwch replied. “Olwen is now mine.”

Ysbaddadan nodded with a surly expression.

“Yet do not think that it was any deed of yours, Culhwch. The tasks were completed because of the deeds of your kinsman, Arthur, and his champions. They obtained Olwen for you. For my
part, I should have done more to ensure that you never had her for a wife.”

Then the beautiful Olwen was sent for. She came willingly and with love for the handsome young prince, Culhwch.

“It is said on this day you would die,” Culhwch observed, looking at Ysbaddadan.

The giant smiled sourly. “It is so, but even that task is not yours to perform.”

It was Gorau son of Custennin who sprang forward and, with a single blow of his sword, struck off Ysbaddadan’s head.

“True enough,” he said. “It was my task to perform, to avenge my twenty-three brothers who lay dead.”

He took the giant’s head and raised it on a stake as a warning to all tyrants that their day would eventually come, no matter how they tried to protect their power. Then Ysbaddadan’s
castle became the property of Gorau. From it, Gorau ruled wisely and justly and lived to a fine old age, marrying and having many sons.

So Culhwch’s quest for Olwen came to an end and he had fulfilled the destiny curse placed on him by his stepmother and was able to return to his father’s palace with his bride. Here
he found not only was his father dead, but also his
stepmother and her daughter, and so the people rejoiced to see him alive and well and with his beautiful queen. They ruled
the land wisely and justly and lived happily for the rest of their lives.

The hosts of Arthur then dispersed each to his own lands. The bards told many tales of the quests of Arthur’s champions but there is none as great as the quest for Olwen.

25 The Dream of Rhonabwy

I
n the days when Madog ap Maredudd ruled over Powys, there was fighting and warfare. But Madog did his best to bring peace to his kingdom and to
the neighbouring kingdoms. However, Madog’s brother, Iorwerth, was jealous of his brother, for he had wanted to be king in Powys, and to cause harm to Madog’s just reign he went raiding
into a neighbouring kingdom.

His band of renegade warriors attacked under Madog’s own standard and, by this means, Iorwerth hoped to destroy his brother’s kingdom. His ravaging army threatened to overturn all
the peace treaties which Madog had made. Fire and blood were seen throughout the country.

Madog summoned his loyal warriors and gave command of them to Rhonabwy. Rhonabwy was his best general and he was told to find the rebellious Iorwerth and bring him back to Powys, as a prisoner.
The army set off immediately, searching for Iorwerth. It was no easy task and, indeed, Iorwerth could not be found.

Rhonabwy and his men, in their searching, came to the country of the lord Heilyn Goch, son of Cadwgawn ab Iddon. This lord’s hall had burnt black in Iorwerth’s raids and smoke was
still rising from every blackened stone and timber. It had not only been burnt but now stood deserted; deserted, that is, except for a crone who sat in the cinders of the building, feeding a fire
in a corner in order to warm herself. Night was approaching and Rhonabwy realised it was useless to continue the pursuit that day. He gave orders for his men to
encamp in the
grounds of the once-great hall, while he and his two fellow generals entered the ruins.

“Where is the lord Heilyn?” demanded Rhonabwy, seeing the crone. “What tragedy has overcome his hall?”

He and his men walked over to the woman’s fire, but the old woman took little notice of them, sitting feeding the fire and muttering under her breath. Rhonabwy presumed that she was either
deaf or stupid and, anyway, he felt that it was obvious that the lord Heilyn had been overcome by Iorwerth.

At least it was warm by the fire, in spite of the acrid smell and, seeing an ox skin spread nearby, Rhonabwy and his men took a seat on it.

“Where are the people who lived here?” asked Rhonabwy again, trying to get the woman to speak.

She was still mumbling when into the ruined hall came a man and a woman. They were a wizened old couple, toothless and almost hairless. They came with bundles of sticks which they offered to the
old woman, who placed them on the fire.

Rhonabwy greeted them but they simply ignored him.

Now Rhonabwy turned to his companions to suggest that they go back to their encampment. Even a night spent on a cold camp bed was better than the putrid smells and the lack of civility of the
old woman and her two new companions. But Rhonabwy found that his companions were fast asleep on the ox skin. As he looked at them, he realized just how sleepy he actually was. There was room on
the ox skin and so he stretched himself out and the next minute he was fast asleep.

He felt that he had not been asleep long when a horn sounded and it was daylight. He and his two companions appeared to be alone. They ran out of the ruins and found that their army had
disappeared. Furthermore, the sun was up and they realized that this hall must stand on the plain of Aryngroeg. They mounted their horses and started riding towards the waters of the great river,
the Sabrann by Rhyd-y-Groes. As they rode, they heard a thunder of hooves behind them and, turning in their saddles, they beheld a strange warrior dressed all in yellow with yellow curly hair,
riding a horse of yellow and holding a sword of gold. He looked extremely fierce and threatening.

“It must be a warrior from the Otherworld!” cried one of Rhonabwy’s companions and put spur to his steed. The panic spread but, try as hard as they could,
they could not stay ahead of the strange warrior. In fear of their lives and worse, Rhonabwy turned and ordered his companions to yield.

“We ask terms for surrender,” Rhonabwy cried.

The young golden warrior halted his steed a little way from them and laughed good-naturedly. “Then you shall have quarter, in Arthur’s name.”

“Since you have granted us that,” Rhonabwy replied, “permit me to know to whom I have surrendered.”

“I am called Iddawg ap Mynio, but I am better known as Terfysgwr.”

“Now that is a strange name to be called.” Indeed, the name meant “mischief”.

“I am so called because I make mischief,” replied the other, unabashed. “I was an envoy at the battle of Camlann between Arthur and his nephew Medrawd, and I kindled all sorts
of strife between them. I pretended one thing to one and another to the other. So when Arthur told me to give kind words to Medrawd, I made his message rude and harsh. When Medrawd sought to
reconcile himself to Arthur, I told Arthur that Medrawd was arrogant and hot-blooded. That is why my name is Terfysgwr, the mischief-maker.”

While they were speaking there came the sound of more horses. Down the road came another horseman. This time he was clad all in scarlet, and his horse was chestnut but nearing redness. Blood was
on his sword and his shield. In a moment, he rode up alongside them.

“Are these little folk enemies or friends?” he demanded of Iddawg.

“You may choose. I have chosen to make them my friends.”

“Good enough,” agreed the other. “Friends they are.”

Before another word could be said, the man spurred his chestnut-red horse on down the road.

“Who was that?” asked Rhonabwy.

“That was Rhiwawn Bebyr, a mighty warrior,” replied Iddawg. “Now come with me to our encampment.”

They rode on and, when they reached the great River Sabrann, they saw a mighty host encamped on its banks. The camp was a square mile in size. Pennants and banners fluttered
in the breeze and there were many pavilions set up on the field. Iddawg conducted them through the encampment to a dais on which sat a tall handsome man. His hair was auburn, his skin white and he
had a golden circlet around his head and a great sword in his hands.

Next to him stood a youth who was fair of skin and black of hair.

“Blessing on you, my lord Arthur,” cried Iddawg, bowing before him.

The man with the golden circlet, Arthur, turned and examined Rhonabwy and his companions curiously.

“Who are these folk, Iddawg? Where did you find such little fellows?”

Iddawg laughed good-naturedly while Rhonabwy coloured hotly. He was Madog’s best general and warrior and did not like to be called a “little fellow”.

“I found them on the road, lord.”

Arthur gazed at them and grinned as if in derision at what he saw.

“Are we amusing to you?” demanded Rhonabwy, because he was a proud man. “Do you find us a laughing matter?”

Arthur pursed his lips in a grimace. “It is no laughing matter when little men like you are the only means of keeping our people safe from the Saxon hordes, when yesterday giants guarded
our shores against them.”

He then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When they had withdrawn out of earshot, Iddawg whispered to Rhonabwy: “Did you see the ring worn by Arthur?”

“The gold ring with the large stone? Yes, I saw it. What of it?”

“That is a magical stone which will force you to reveal all you have seen since first we met.”

They were interrupted by the sound of cantering horses and, turning, Rhonabwy saw a troop of warriors on horseback coming into the camp. They were colourful men, with bright shields and wore
nothing save red and crimson.

Iddawg, catching his look of curiosity, said: “They are the warriors of Rhiwawn Bebyr, the Shining One: he that you met on the road. None but they may pay honour to
the daughters of kings in this Island of the Mighty, and their drink is honey-mead.”

Then came another troop of warriors on horseback and they were clad all in white. They raced up so quickly that the leading rider drew very near Arthur, whereupon the youth, who was fair of skin
and black of hair, stepped forward and smote the horse on the muzzle with the flat of his sword, causing it to rear up and halt.