Tagged: john good

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Glyndwr's Dream cont'd

The room was as described: fine, sturdy, oak bed, large seated firedogs guarding a warm night fire, the dark cherry wood paneled walls softened with tapestries of ancient British myths and heroes. Sir John showed his guest the door–subtly anonymous, blending in with the wall panels–the door that led to the tight stone staircase that spiraled down to the dense forest close beyond. Owain, unaccustomed to such comforts, having recently found the straw mattress of a cold friar’s cell in Cardiff comparatively luxurious, sank instantly into untroubled and fathoms-deep sleep. The world and warfare, king’s pardon, parliaments and princes could all wait outside the door of this rare and serenely peaceful bedchamber.

Have you ever had a vivid dream when you knew that you were dreaming, but felt in full control? That you were an actor in and amongst the play of characters, environs and events, able to speak and clearly understand? Well, as Prince Owain’s long silver hair touched the wildflower-scented pillow, the second his eyes closed on a rare and memorable evening–the taste of full bodied red wine still on his lips–he seamlessly slipped through the door that nightly leads to life’s second self. The garden of recollections and imaginings, where deep cares and delights, fears and hopes, shadow and light, where the past present and tomorrows grow wild as blackberries in the teeming profusion of a long and late summer. Haf Bach Mihangel , the Little Summer of Michaelmas.

Owain found himself dream-walking through a series of fine, princely rooms and halls that were amalgams of real and imaginary buildings. A fusion of the family home at Sycharch, of Edward Longshank’s arrogant castle keeps, barons’ courts and knights’ fortified dwellings, all of which he had visited throughout the years; an amalgamation of a lifetime’s hallways, vestibules, galleries and even of the very room in which he now peacefully lay dreaming. The balmy air was pleasantly scented with forest flowers and herbs, and the exuberantly colored tapestries depicting ancient British heroes–struggling with dragons, Saxons, serpents, magicians, wild boars and giants–caught the eye and seemed to come alive. Almost imperceptibly, the vibrantly dyed warp and weft was slowly changing from textured threads and webs into living, breathing figures. Fifteenth century stylized bodies and faces were becoming corporeal; limbs gesturing, lips shaping sounds, growing in volume until many voices were conversing at once, as if anticipating a speaker, poet or musician.

This all seemed quite natural to our dreamer, as it would to most sleepers, and anyway, the medieval Welsh psyche was­–and in many ways will always be–wide open to magical and transcendental excursion. So it was of small concern when the woven throng surged forward, into the room, forming an arc around one eminent tapestry figure who, stepping out in front of the rest, spoke directly to the prince, or rather sang in the perfect meter of Bardic lore.

“ Henffych ! Owain, shining son! As one, Avalon hails Owain.” The millennially-aged man was familiar to Owain, simultaneously being many shifting face-shapes, another amalgam, this time of real and mythologized heroes. “Yes, it’s true, Urien I am.” The gold­en-robed man beat his hazel staff on the floor for emphasis, as he answered this unspoken question. Owain could ask and answer by thought-words. There was no need to speak. “I am Arthur, Peredur, Pwyll; Llywelyn, Merddyn and Madog, at rest now in this westerly world. All the gathering glittering ghosts, assembled hosts of our storied history, all–as one–call this council, merge in merit, culture and heritage.” These words were a mixture of the Bronze Age Brythonic, known to the eloquent Caractâcos, the Old Welsh of Taliesin’s singing and the universally timeless symbol-sounds of dream-speech. They seemed to flow like a verdant valley’s silver nant ; a pleasantly running stream, their beauty, authority and truth filling the mind of our dreamer, by now, become a deep lake of introspective tranquility.

“Unbearably heavy heart, your life load–great weight of Wales–you carry for the Cymry yet to come. A nation’s generations in chains? Life-breath or death the decision… To submit, take the pittance of Henry’s peace, or whether never to kneel, defiant in your defeat until–not long will you wait–you sail the sea of all souls. Another brother brought home, to the solace of timelessness; I Ynys Afallon , to Avalon’s Isle.”

“Assume Henry’s amnesty? At ease under these stout eaves; a soft bed, warm fires, safe at bread; in foul weather sheltering at rest from tempestuous death blows of snowy seasons; the rest of your brightest days blessed, living free with loving family. Yet know, Prince Owain, this path has a price.”

“Wales, the Cymry , her tales and tongue, bard harping and singing, verse, chapter, banter and boast, yea! Even history’s starry astrology will vanish, banished from books. Avalon bereft of the valiant? Immortals become mortal?” The speaker’s voice rose and fell like a restless, broiling ocean, building for the storm.

“This ancient, nascent nation, beloved and bedeviled bright country, within a century will breathe her last breath; no grace will keep her from the grave. Your bowed head our kindred’s eradication. Past glories fast forgotten, each tomorrow sorrowful.”

The figure himself grew to the size of a tidal mountain, then as easily subsided to dream-normal, as the great power and visible emotion of his words threatened to carry all away. In the calm that followed, “Disregard Henry’s pardon? Head held high in defiance, the winter snow of Snowden, eira gaea’ Eryri , will bring you peace, releasing your soul to ancestral rest. No slate will mark your wintery sleep. Carrion crow will carry Owain skyward… a final scattering.”

“Many will say you died in some wide wildwood, taken in some forsaken fastness, lie cold below some lonely crag. Yet our poets–true people­–harpers and tellers of tales, they will say you merely sleep; say you wait for the day of days, that you await the nation’s need. They know you’re the mab darogan , their wild-eyed prophesied son!”

A tangible, timeless silence fell, seeming to last both hours and yet no time at all. Then the speaker picked up the thread. “Many a setback, backtracking, hundreds and hundreds of indifferent, bowed years of obedience, a frail feeling, seemingly slight, still a slow tide–at its low sleep­–unseen and soundlessly will rise and in rising, as weight of waters gather scorn, will grow and flow into flood and our mystic ship of dignity, our ancient nascent nation will rise high on that rising river, in your name reclaiming the realm, fighting with and righting wrongs. Cymru fydd fel Cymru fu! Cymru will be as Cymru once was.”

The speaker’s appearance, shape and size mirrored–became metaphor–for his thoughts. Speaking plainly, “Either hero of heroes, or past and last of the line, choose wisely, this is your choice, choice, choice, choice...”

These last, curt words were accompanied by the rhythmic beating of his staff on the oak floor and, as the final phrase trailed away, the tapestried throng and speaker himself lost dimension, began slipping towards grayscale, as motion turned back to motionless woolen thread. Startled, Owain burst into wakefulness, surprised to find the night had completely passed. Dawn was stealing into the bedchamber and the distant sound of someone knocking at the manor house front door brought the new day to our astonished dreamer.

Rhodri had been up for hours, attending to his countless tasks, as he had done since childhood; making sure the fires were burning brightly, the house was in order and the kitchen staff were preparing the food for the day. Hearing the knocking, he carefully unbolted and opened the heavy, front door and was just about knocked down by Maredudd, rushing past him into the hallway. “ Bore da Rhodri , good morning, are my sister and Sir John ready to receive guests yet? I need to speak to them, this moment.” Rhodri regained his balance and told Maredudd they were in the great room along the hallway, waiting for the friar to rise. Maredudd looked inquisitively at Rhodri when he mentioned the friar, but rushed on, as was ever his impetuous way, to join Alys and Sir John.

Then it was true, Maredudd had been approached under truce by Sir Gilbert Talbot, one of the kings most trusted men. He and Owain, his father, if they submitted to the king–swore never to rise again or incite the wild Welsh tribes to rise–would be pardoned; would live within the king’s peace. Maredudd didn’t seem surprised when he heard that Owain himself was asleep in the tower. They were always aware of at least general whereabouts of one another, just in case Charles the Mad­–the French king­–recovered his senses and decided to live up to his promise to send ships and soldiers against the English. But it wasn’t long before all three and wily Rhodri, who had immediately recognized his aging Prince, even disguised as a friar, were climbing the steep stone steps to Owain’s bedchamber.

Sir John knocked quietly at first, saying Prince Owain’s name in lowered tones, then waited. When even insistent knocking failed to bring a response, he unlatched, opened the door and went in. The room was completely empty. The fire was still embering, the bed slept in, still warm and unmade, and the door to the back staircase was wide open. The assembled company rushed through the narrow opening as one; two-at-a-time ran down the spinning back stairs, out into the bracing beauty of a clear and crisp autumn morning in the Monnow Valley.

Looking out into the ever-encroaching forest, there was not even a suggestion of a breeze to animate a turning leaf and the evocative mist had completely vanished as, apparently, had Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan ap Madog. The stillness was palpable…

No one, not even his family, would ever see the great man again. That beautiful October morning, Owain Glyndwr had quietly and unobserved walked into history without leaving a trace or even a note of farewell. There would be no eulogy or headstone when he passed and, to tell the truth, he didn’t need either. He had joined the immortals.

Deeply sad at heart, Sir John, Alys, Maredudd and Rhodri stood in complete silence for a very long time, hoping to see this enigmatic man walk back out of the woods. Then they themselves, without saying a single word, as if one, turned back to the house. As they reached the tower’s back stair, the crisp silence of the bright, new morning was broken by a solitary skylark, as it soared up, up into the clear air, singing its ecstatic praise for the day. Alys managed a bitter-sweet smile. Now she understood the meaning of her song.

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Glyndwr's Dream

It was one of those mysterious, autumn evenings that could have been painted in pastel tones of light and shade – of almost-color – by J. M. Turner, or sketched in liquid pentatonics and waterlogged whole-tones by Claude Debussy; or even, for those with intrigue running in their veins, it could have been the perfect setting for a masterful Conan Doyle sleight of hand. All along the southern border of England and Wales, especially in the hill folds, river runs and water meadows, the residue of unseasonably late October warmth had condensed into a delight of veils, chiffon scarves and coverlets of pure light-grey wool; redolent with the smell of nettles, docks, wet sycamore leaves and vegetation. The ancient oaks and beeches struggled for definition, barely keeping heads out of the haze, while the once-vibrant emerald of the highest hills offered an archipelago of solace for the weak platinum sun, gratefully setting in a sea of mist and taking all the lingering greens, browns and blues with it. Left behind was a grayscale stream and treescape with the pencil-traced outline of a substantial, castellated manor-house etched into the edge of the quiescent, always sentient forest.

There had been no sound whatsoever ever since a solitary crow had given up its unashamed, tuneless mockery; his final thoughts on the day fade-echoing into evening. There had been no movement to mention either, save the almost swirl of mist and the occasional bovine coming briefly into sleepy focus, before browsing back into the ambient haze. In the final glimmerings of day, you wouldn’t have been sure if the eventide might have been playing tricks on your senses. The locals would have said it was the Tylwth Teg , the Welsh elves again, but the hint of a frail, grey, hooded figure seemed to flow as lightly as a light, late, evening breeze, ghosting in, out and under the canopy of leaves and encroaching undergrowth along the forest edge. Then the wraith would dissolve into nothingness, only to reassemble, all the while sidling obliquely for the manor. But, maybe not, the whole vision–trees, mist, house et al–quickly and silently faded to moonless indigo, then black. Only a halo of pale lantern light, next to the ivy-shadowed door, suggested any kind of responsive life at all.

John and Alys were sitting near a cheerful, reassuring fire that scattered red, yellow and gold fingers of light onto their concerned faces; the lively, crackling wood and flickering flames in deep contrast to their studied silence. Even in these strained circumstances–keeping her lineage secret, and his double life and true allegiance concealed–there was a medieval elegance and poise about the pair; a sense of appropriate and comfortable nobility. Looking every part of a life-long courtier and storied knight of the realm, John got up and, as he distractedly tended the fire, put voice to his concerns.

“I wonder if Maredudd has seen him. They were inseparable, until those damnable cannons from Bristol and Pontifract tipped the balance and Aberystwyth and Harlech fell to King Henry. After that, I think they thought to make capture more difficult, with the two of them always agitating, slipping away into the blaenau , the uplands, but always in different parts of the old country. They would surely have traveled the old Welsh ridge-paths, still largely a mystery and feared by the English pursuit.” Alys brushed her long, blue-black hair from her face and sat back in her sturdy high-backed chair. “They may have decided it would be better not to know where the other was. The Tower of London has jolted more than one Welsh rebel’s memory, even of a fearless father and faithful son, but if you don’t know, you can’t betray, no matter the jailor’s malice. Knowledge is the best of weapons , gorau arf, dysg, but as my father was fond of saying, arf doeth yw pwyth, discretion is the weapon of the wise.”

For what seemed like an age, the room fell back into a profound, oak-paneled silence, only to be revived by a light knock at the door. “Excuse me Sir John, Lady Alys,” said the liveried servant Rhodri, “there’s a greyfrair at the front door asking for a little food and lodging for the night. Shall I show him into the kitchen?” “What does he look like? How does he strike you?” said Alys with a barely detectable lift in her voice. “Taller… perhaps older, though it’s hard to say my Lady. His hood is shadowing most of his face, though his voice seems honest enough.” Rhodri, having served and protected Alys since a child, would have immediately noticed such a thing by instinct and the long experience gained from the imminent and ever present menace of a dozen years or more of bitter border warfare. Strangers could be dangerous. “Then Rhodri, if you sense him to be of a kindly nature, show him in here,” said Sir John, “he can have the room in the old square tower tonight. The Friars Minor do good work in the borderlands and their conversation always lightens up a gloomy night. Show him in.” Rhodri, with the discretion that only comes from very long years of service, noiselessly disappeared from the room. Alys and John looked intensely into each other’s eyes. Much was said without a word being exchanged.

The Franciscan entered the room in front of Rhodri and, as was customary, gave the Mendicant greeting, “ Pax et bonum be on this house and family.” It took every fiber of Alys’ being to remain outwardly calm and keep her explosive excitement hidden from Rhodri. Mercifully John dismissed the servant summarily, asking for the door to be closed as he went. As soon as the old retainer’s footsteps had echoed away down the hollow stone hallway, Alys rushed over, reached up and threw her arms around the hooded man’s neck, quietly crying out “ Diolch Duw . Tad ! Thank God. Father!” John, wearing a warm, broad smile, chipped in with “Welcome to our home Prince Owain.”

Raising his strong, weathered hands deliberately and pulling his hood back slowly, in the warm fire glow, before their very eyes, there stood a smiling Owain Glyndwr–or to be precise– Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan ap Madog , by the grace of God, Trwy Ras Duw , Prince of Wales. You could clearly hear Alys gasp before she mastered her disbelief, though tears of love fell freely. The old warrior’s penetrating blue-green eyes still managed a mischievous smile. The hair had thinned and turned from midnight black to moonlight silver; the face, though deeply furrowed, still fascinated, compelled attention and, even with sandaled feet beneath the home-spun, rope-tied robes of a lowly friar, the upright body clearly spoke of bridled strength. The years of hard-won battlefield victories, crushing defeats, grief and loss of home, family, close friends and, more recently, surviving biblically cold Welsh winters in open country and in cheerless mountain caves and crags, all this had very visibly taken their relentless and inevitable toll. Prince Owain would never be broken, his pride, naturally cheerful spirit and birthright would not assent to that, but Alys and John could see that the shadow of time was closing in on this aging hero, and ‘though others would still see the great man who had inspired a small and obedient outback of a country to stand up against a medieval world power, they sensed immediately that his legendary strength could not fight off many more February snows. All of this keen perception took place in the several seconds it took for everyone to feast their eyes on each other and re-run a lifetime’s memories. Yes, it really was him!

Fueled by a hearty supper, robust red wine from the continent and good cheer, in the wood-fire-and-wax scented warmth of the next several hours, the conversation, led largely by Alys, attempted to fill in the missing chapters, the hynt a helynt , comings and goings of several rumor-laden years. At the outset, Owain insisted that there should be no talk of lost family and friends. The unbearable fate of brother, wife, children and grandchildren was well known to all present and beyond any useful resurrection. The collateral costs of failed insurrection were a darkly accepted and unspoken reality of fifteenth century warfare and life; even The Black Death had a kind of inevitable medieval logic to its heartlessness. Eventually the talk turned to the rumored pardon.

“Prince Owain, I heard at Hereford this last St. Mathew’s Day that the Plantagenet King was willing to offer you a pardon, if you would submit to him.” Owain, while remaining seated seemed to visibly grow in stature, and although the far side of sixty–an old man in such times–his warrior-like demeanor and penetrating gaze would have alarmed a young Llewellyn the Great, or even an Arthur. He started speaking quietly and deliberately, measuring his response, “Although I do not trust the House of Lancaster–their clemency has a dark red history–I have learnt to respect Henry of Monmouth as a soldier, and of late, I have felt myself mewn gwth o oedran , in the thrust of age.” His face softened into an almost whimsical smile. “I admit my dear Lord and cherished daughter, to be tiring in my long struggle to deny a full life its rightful due, and I yearn for a short rest in a comfortable goose feather bed at night, with a roof to hide and keep the stars from causing me to dream of what might have so easily been. A week ago, at the friars’ house in Cardiff, I heard the same thing about Henry’s offer. That night in my cell, I dreamt of the house at Sycharth, with harps, dancers, pipes and old Iolo Goch the bard, entertaining us all after supper with his satires and odes, elegies and englynion . We drank our Shrewsbury beer, laughed at our enemies, imagined and planned our victories to come, and took to our lofts to sleep the sleep of the hopeful!”

It was good to see her father in good spirits again. Very softly Alys said, “Why don’t you take… or at least consider his offer father? You have fought the good fight for more than ten years; have given everything, but your life and honour. Wales could not ask for any more of a mortal man. There is a comfortable room and loving family for you here. Please, please think it over.” “Yes Prince Owain, Alys is right. Henry the Fifth is not as his father was. I know he knows that Alys is your daughter but, because of my past loyalty and service, and for that matter my continued usefulness in his court and parliaments, he has left us alone to live our lives. Submission would mean the end of the war of independence and the hope of freedom for Wales, but Maredudd your son would be protected by the same royal seal, and you both could live a life of ease on my estates.” “Yes father, the ox men and drovers–by all the signs they read in the sky, land and lakes–say this winter will be even worse than the last, with heavy snows early and late.”

“I will sleep on it and make my decision in the morning.” The quiet authority in Owain’s voice clearly indicated that the topic of conversation was over for the night. Then, breaking into an easier tone, “Now, let’s talk of happier things. Alys, fetch your harp and sing your poor old father a song.” Everyone in the room laughed as the celebratory mood returned.

“Strangely enough, last night I dreamed a curious song. It came to me all at once, verse, cadence and melody. I’m not sure I understand it ‘though. It’s a little melancholy, but pretty.” With that, she took the lap harp from the corner alcove, brushed her long hair back over her shoulder, sat motionless and in a silent muse for a few seconds, then laid her elegant hands gently on the strings. Coaxing the instrument into a lyrical life of gentle cascades and slow flowing pools, then with the rhythmic flow steadied, pure and liquid, she began to sing:

Mi a glywais fod yr 'hedydd                I heard that the skylark

Wedi marw ar y mynydd                    Had died up on the mountain

Pe gwyddwn i mai gwir y geirie          If I knew these words were true

Awn a gyrr o wyr ac arfe                   I'd take a troop of men and weapons

I gyrchu corff yr 'hedydd adre.           To bring the skylark's body home.

Sir John noticed the moisture gathering around the old soldier’s eyes and diverted Alys’ attention away, saying, “That was quite beautiful. Your voice and sensitive playing match the sentiment of the song perfectly. How do you Welsh say it, Hyfryd ? Lovely!” Owain by now had regained his composure and said, “I know what the song is about but, if you don’t mind, that can wait until the morning. I’ve walked from the other side of Abergavenny today, across fields and streams, as I could not take the ease of the Hereford drovers’ road. The king’s eyes and ears are at every crossroad, market and tavern. So forgive me, if you don’t mind I would like to go to my rest now.” “Of course, Prince Owain. I’ll show you to your room in the old tower. There’s a fire lit and you’ll rest well there. By the bye, there’s a back staircase that leads to the forest behind the house, just in case Henry’s men come midnight visiting. They’ve surprised us before. Let me lead the way.”

Glyndwr's Dream Part 2 here...