Ben Grader
12-11-2003, 03:34 AM
Rhys ApYdriss ApYnar stood at the threshold of the thatched beer-house, for beer-house it was, and no Inn. “Have you a woman under your roof?” he said to the pot boy.
“Why would we be having women? There are women enough without harlots in this village.” the pot boy replied.
“Not harlots,” was the response, “but any female, I will not enter a house with a female in. Never; after my oath.”
“Then you need not worry here. My father is a widower and his only daughter away from home this day. Who are you that you should be so fussy, with your this and your that.” said a voice from inside the door. A young man looked around the door frame. He was red haired and looked as fiery in his temper as the hair on his head would suggest; it was Iybert the son of the landlord.
“I am Rhys ApYdriss the Harper and I have sworn an oath.”. and Iybert the son of the house fell silent, and silent too was the speech inside the house, stilled as though a spell had been cast. No longer the clink, plunk of the leather jacks, being drained, and replaced upon the rough tables, No longer the squeak, squonk, of the rude stools, upon which men were sitting. Silence for a moment, then once more the hustle, and the bustle of speech. This time not muffled idle talk, dilatory and halting, as men spoke of commonplace happenings, in a commonplace tref, but the hurley, burley of excitement, with voices raising in questions which although not hearing the words you knew the import of. All men in Powys knew of Rhys the Fair Harper, Rhys the Golden Voiced Sweet Singer, Rhys the Dearly Beloved.
“Come away in. I ask your pardon for my abruptness,” said the redhead. “Forgive me; and be welcome at my father’s house. Let my carry your harp for you”
“No man touches my harp but me.” replied Rhys as he lifted it from beside the saddle of his pony. Iybert thought of the legend which was already beginning to be told, and exaggerated no doubt, about the Harp. Made from three woods. Ash for Hating, Oak for Mourning, and Yew for the Grieving and the Graveyard. Oak for the grief that was in the song of one who had been betrayed in love. Ash for the feeling that was kept for the betrayer, and Yew for the double resonance, which was said to give the strings the ability, to pluck from a mans heart, the very life of his body, and lift it until he saw the heaven itself, and heard the voices of celestial choirs, before he was put back. Sometimes to be left despairing, that until Rhys was heard to sing again, he would never, until his dying day, hear such music as only Rhys could coax from wood and wire.
They cleared a way to the fire for him, for the evening was cold, and the fingers of a harper, and even more important a master harper must not grow too cold and stiff. A leather jack of Metheglin was brought to him as he sat hands stretched towards the log burning on the hearth.
“The bailiff is not here tonight I see, landlord. By the size of this log, the lord has lost a tree.” “I have firebote” the landlord said. “It is in my lease, for the supply of Ale and Metheglin to the manor. Better I burn it on a Welsh hearth, than it goes to cook Welsh food, stolen by Englishmen”
Rhys drank deeply then looked around him. It did not seem as though there were any foreigners present. “What have you for me to eat landlord?” he queried.
“Hogs meat and bread is the best we can do.” the man hesitated as he spoke. “Even the bread we had to hide, in case it was taken”
“A feast,” said Rhys. “A belly of roast pig and bread for a platter, is enough for any man” He sat quiet and alone as he ate, it was almost as thorough they feared him, dared not intrude upon him. Yet all that it was, was respect for his calling. A bit of privacy for him to collect his thoughts, and rest a while before the forthcoming night which they, and he, knew would be lively.
He finished his food and drained his pot, nodding his head in agreement, as the pot man refilled it. Then he turned to the side of the hearth and lifted his harp from where it had been standing in its wrapping cloth, close, but not too close to the heat of the fire. His face changed as he took the cloth from around it. A tentative finger plucked a string, then another, found a flat note tuned it, and then tapped the sounding box. A low note sang through the room as the strings picked up a harmonic vibration from the wood of the box.
He settled himself and with no more ado gave them the
The Viking.
Proudly our seahorse rode, through the white water.
Red-painted dragon head pointing to Ireland.
Many a riven helm tells of our coming;
Many a wailing wife tells how we came.
Con of the thirty hounds, he is no longer.
I and Brain Biter soon put him away,
Never a sword can stand up to Brain Biter
Forged in Damascus & thirsted in blood.
Two of the shaven pates guarded their chapel,
Waved crosses at us to keep us away.
Them too we slew, and the crosses we took
Larded with jewels and made of red gold.
Slowly our sea horse ploughs through the water
Back to our homeland from whence out we came
There we’ll be welcomed on rounding the headland
Down to the gunnels with treasure & slaves.
They joined in on the second time round giving it all the viciousness of attitude which they would have liked to display to their English overseer. The mood changed and Rhys sang of far climes and fair places, and although not one of them had been away from the tref where they were born, yet they felt a longing, a yearning to be a wanderer, to venture away, anywhere, to roam, to see new places, and new faces. Such was the magic of his voice, and the enticement of the strings, from which he drew his enchantment.
A change of mood, to a song of fair maidens, and sweet talking. The young men who were present felt the desire to go out to the fields with their loved ones, and dreamed as they listened, entranced, of walking through the grasses, until they could come to their secret places, and sinking down to the sweet earth, drown their passions, in the bodies of their hearts desires. Aptly was he named Rhys the Sweet Singer. The oldsters even, felt drawn back in time to the days when they were young, and envied the young men their youth, and their ability. Again the words changed, and they felt a betrayal, and they sensed that this was a song, that told of the reason which lead to the swearing of the oath, as the singer told of the fair haired, ice-blooded maiden who could take pure simple adoration, without giving her love in return. Of an angel faced slut who betrayed her lover, to love an Englishman with a voice like a crow, the visage of a weasel, the courage of a rabbit, and the morals of a cockerel, treading all the hens which were within his reach.
Again the song changed the harp vibrating with passion as he sang of battles, and fighting and the Welsh spirit of Nationhood, until the hearts leapt in their bodies, for the wanting of conquest of an enemy. Then again he drifted off into singing of love, and the friend who was found to be possessing the one who was loved from afar, worshipped and adored, held as sacred and found to be profaned, by one whom the singer felt was beyond doubt, as a staunch companion. Once more the audience were carried with him as he sang, and many a married man looked from the side of his eyes, in suspicion of his neighbour, and thought of the times he had returned to his house to find his wife perhaps a little flushed, and breathless, and later perhaps too casual at the mention of a man’s name.
Then a hush came over the room as the voice of a girl was heard, and he turned in his seat and saw Mwfanny the daughter of the house; standing in the doorway of the inner room. He realised that although the oath was broken, his was not the breaking of it. He looked again, and his voice, and his fingers, answered his heart, without conscious thought, and he sang without thinking of the words, the song of Mwfanny of the Auburn Hair, which he as many a true romanticist, pulled out of the air as he sang, because of the tenuous magic which passed between them, and the thread which stretched unseen, joining them in an invisible web, linking two hearts in one desire.
Mwfanny of the Auburn hair
Her head lay on my pillow as I slept
Her auburn hair, as soft and light as thistledown,
Trespassed upon my face, as, tenderly
She kissed my forehead then my lips.
So did I dream. Or did I dream?
For when I woke, though she was gone,
It seemed her sweet perfume
Still lingered in the air.
Reality seemed such a life away
The dream was real, and reality was not
Then would I rather dream this dream forever,
Even should I never wake again.
For it is the nature of romance, and romantic singers, to be always dreaming, of what you would like to have, one day, not today; but, ‘One day’. ... Without unrequited love or betrayal, there can be no broken heart, without a broken heart, there can be no real passion in the singing, and without real passion, there can be no true love-song. Easy enough to sing of war and fighting, or to jest and sing a lampooning song, but for the sweetest melody of all, to charm the birds from the trees, as it was said that Rhys could do, then the soft words that spoke of passion restrained, and un-rewarded, was essential for the troubadour.
For to fall in love is easy, - - - but to stay in love, - - - is the most difficult thing in the world.
“Why would we be having women? There are women enough without harlots in this village.” the pot boy replied.
“Not harlots,” was the response, “but any female, I will not enter a house with a female in. Never; after my oath.”
“Then you need not worry here. My father is a widower and his only daughter away from home this day. Who are you that you should be so fussy, with your this and your that.” said a voice from inside the door. A young man looked around the door frame. He was red haired and looked as fiery in his temper as the hair on his head would suggest; it was Iybert the son of the landlord.
“I am Rhys ApYdriss the Harper and I have sworn an oath.”. and Iybert the son of the house fell silent, and silent too was the speech inside the house, stilled as though a spell had been cast. No longer the clink, plunk of the leather jacks, being drained, and replaced upon the rough tables, No longer the squeak, squonk, of the rude stools, upon which men were sitting. Silence for a moment, then once more the hustle, and the bustle of speech. This time not muffled idle talk, dilatory and halting, as men spoke of commonplace happenings, in a commonplace tref, but the hurley, burley of excitement, with voices raising in questions which although not hearing the words you knew the import of. All men in Powys knew of Rhys the Fair Harper, Rhys the Golden Voiced Sweet Singer, Rhys the Dearly Beloved.
“Come away in. I ask your pardon for my abruptness,” said the redhead. “Forgive me; and be welcome at my father’s house. Let my carry your harp for you”
“No man touches my harp but me.” replied Rhys as he lifted it from beside the saddle of his pony. Iybert thought of the legend which was already beginning to be told, and exaggerated no doubt, about the Harp. Made from three woods. Ash for Hating, Oak for Mourning, and Yew for the Grieving and the Graveyard. Oak for the grief that was in the song of one who had been betrayed in love. Ash for the feeling that was kept for the betrayer, and Yew for the double resonance, which was said to give the strings the ability, to pluck from a mans heart, the very life of his body, and lift it until he saw the heaven itself, and heard the voices of celestial choirs, before he was put back. Sometimes to be left despairing, that until Rhys was heard to sing again, he would never, until his dying day, hear such music as only Rhys could coax from wood and wire.
They cleared a way to the fire for him, for the evening was cold, and the fingers of a harper, and even more important a master harper must not grow too cold and stiff. A leather jack of Metheglin was brought to him as he sat hands stretched towards the log burning on the hearth.
“The bailiff is not here tonight I see, landlord. By the size of this log, the lord has lost a tree.” “I have firebote” the landlord said. “It is in my lease, for the supply of Ale and Metheglin to the manor. Better I burn it on a Welsh hearth, than it goes to cook Welsh food, stolen by Englishmen”
Rhys drank deeply then looked around him. It did not seem as though there were any foreigners present. “What have you for me to eat landlord?” he queried.
“Hogs meat and bread is the best we can do.” the man hesitated as he spoke. “Even the bread we had to hide, in case it was taken”
“A feast,” said Rhys. “A belly of roast pig and bread for a platter, is enough for any man” He sat quiet and alone as he ate, it was almost as thorough they feared him, dared not intrude upon him. Yet all that it was, was respect for his calling. A bit of privacy for him to collect his thoughts, and rest a while before the forthcoming night which they, and he, knew would be lively.
He finished his food and drained his pot, nodding his head in agreement, as the pot man refilled it. Then he turned to the side of the hearth and lifted his harp from where it had been standing in its wrapping cloth, close, but not too close to the heat of the fire. His face changed as he took the cloth from around it. A tentative finger plucked a string, then another, found a flat note tuned it, and then tapped the sounding box. A low note sang through the room as the strings picked up a harmonic vibration from the wood of the box.
He settled himself and with no more ado gave them the
The Viking.
Proudly our seahorse rode, through the white water.
Red-painted dragon head pointing to Ireland.
Many a riven helm tells of our coming;
Many a wailing wife tells how we came.
Con of the thirty hounds, he is no longer.
I and Brain Biter soon put him away,
Never a sword can stand up to Brain Biter
Forged in Damascus & thirsted in blood.
Two of the shaven pates guarded their chapel,
Waved crosses at us to keep us away.
Them too we slew, and the crosses we took
Larded with jewels and made of red gold.
Slowly our sea horse ploughs through the water
Back to our homeland from whence out we came
There we’ll be welcomed on rounding the headland
Down to the gunnels with treasure & slaves.
They joined in on the second time round giving it all the viciousness of attitude which they would have liked to display to their English overseer. The mood changed and Rhys sang of far climes and fair places, and although not one of them had been away from the tref where they were born, yet they felt a longing, a yearning to be a wanderer, to venture away, anywhere, to roam, to see new places, and new faces. Such was the magic of his voice, and the enticement of the strings, from which he drew his enchantment.
A change of mood, to a song of fair maidens, and sweet talking. The young men who were present felt the desire to go out to the fields with their loved ones, and dreamed as they listened, entranced, of walking through the grasses, until they could come to their secret places, and sinking down to the sweet earth, drown their passions, in the bodies of their hearts desires. Aptly was he named Rhys the Sweet Singer. The oldsters even, felt drawn back in time to the days when they were young, and envied the young men their youth, and their ability. Again the words changed, and they felt a betrayal, and they sensed that this was a song, that told of the reason which lead to the swearing of the oath, as the singer told of the fair haired, ice-blooded maiden who could take pure simple adoration, without giving her love in return. Of an angel faced slut who betrayed her lover, to love an Englishman with a voice like a crow, the visage of a weasel, the courage of a rabbit, and the morals of a cockerel, treading all the hens which were within his reach.
Again the song changed the harp vibrating with passion as he sang of battles, and fighting and the Welsh spirit of Nationhood, until the hearts leapt in their bodies, for the wanting of conquest of an enemy. Then again he drifted off into singing of love, and the friend who was found to be possessing the one who was loved from afar, worshipped and adored, held as sacred and found to be profaned, by one whom the singer felt was beyond doubt, as a staunch companion. Once more the audience were carried with him as he sang, and many a married man looked from the side of his eyes, in suspicion of his neighbour, and thought of the times he had returned to his house to find his wife perhaps a little flushed, and breathless, and later perhaps too casual at the mention of a man’s name.
Then a hush came over the room as the voice of a girl was heard, and he turned in his seat and saw Mwfanny the daughter of the house; standing in the doorway of the inner room. He realised that although the oath was broken, his was not the breaking of it. He looked again, and his voice, and his fingers, answered his heart, without conscious thought, and he sang without thinking of the words, the song of Mwfanny of the Auburn Hair, which he as many a true romanticist, pulled out of the air as he sang, because of the tenuous magic which passed between them, and the thread which stretched unseen, joining them in an invisible web, linking two hearts in one desire.
Mwfanny of the Auburn hair
Her head lay on my pillow as I slept
Her auburn hair, as soft and light as thistledown,
Trespassed upon my face, as, tenderly
She kissed my forehead then my lips.
So did I dream. Or did I dream?
For when I woke, though she was gone,
It seemed her sweet perfume
Still lingered in the air.
Reality seemed such a life away
The dream was real, and reality was not
Then would I rather dream this dream forever,
Even should I never wake again.
For it is the nature of romance, and romantic singers, to be always dreaming, of what you would like to have, one day, not today; but, ‘One day’. ... Without unrequited love or betrayal, there can be no broken heart, without a broken heart, there can be no real passion in the singing, and without real passion, there can be no true love-song. Easy enough to sing of war and fighting, or to jest and sing a lampooning song, but for the sweetest melody of all, to charm the birds from the trees, as it was said that Rhys could do, then the soft words that spoke of passion restrained, and un-rewarded, was essential for the troubadour.
For to fall in love is easy, - - - but to stay in love, - - - is the most difficult thing in the world.