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Day One
Catrin
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Towards noon, Catrin gazed out over the sea of faces gathered in front of the main stage, set at a sharp angle to the viewing stand, from which the king and the royal court would watch the festival’s various competitions.
One thousand bards had come. That was the number reported by Huw, or rather, Hugh, the man charged with the organization of the festival. While he was Welsh and had been christened Huw, in recent years he had anglicized his name. Honestly, it hardly sounded any different to Catrin however he spelled it, but it appeared to be an important distinction to him. Given that he was steward to Owen de la Pole, who, in his younger years, had been known as Owain ap Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, the change shouldn’t have been surprising.
In point of fact, they now had only nine hundred and ninety-nine bards, since Trahaearn had successfully escaped. Any joviality in the festival participants, even if forced at times these last few days, was gone. If by now every single one of them wasn’t in fear for his life, he should be. As far as Catrin and Rhys knew, nobody had seen them entering Trahaearn’s tent shortly after the incident. At the very least, nobody had reported them. The man who’d reported Trahaearn to the king hadn’t been a bard but one of the many merchants who’d come to the festival, running a stall that sold scented candles.
It was a fine line the two of them were walking—a knife’s edge really. One slip and they might find themselves on the ground bleeding out.
Catrin hadn’t asked Hugh what he thought of this new world he was living in. No man of Wales got to choose the lord he served. He followed where his lord led, and Owen had led Hugh into King Edward’s arms. In truth, she couldn’t begrudge Hugh whatever he did in his attempt to survive the transformation of Wales that had taken place, even as she hated it. She herself had refused to change her name to Catherine.
But today, if never before, she could appreciate the extent to which Hugh was caught between two worlds.
Hugh looked up from his ledger where he had been recording the names of the bards in attendance and the order of events. “Where is Moriddig, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen him.” As she spoke, Catrin realized the question had been somewhat rhetorical. She could hardly be expected to know where Moriddig was if Hugh didn’t. Moriddig was Owen’s bard in the same way Hugh was Owen’s steward. If anyone should be keeping track of him, it was Hugh.
He looked back to his ledger. “We have very little time to get this right. He is supposed to walk at the front of the line. Does he really want to give Gruffydd the opportunity to lead the other bards all by himself?”
He was referring to Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Coch, who at one time had been the most renowned bard in Gwynedd, if not all Wales, since he’d sung for Llywelyn ap Gruffydd himself. Now, he served in the household of Tudur, Catrin’s brother. It was a reduction in status for him, but since he was still alive when so many others were dead, she hadn’t heard him complaining. He was also Moriddig’s chief rival for the station of preeminent bard of Wales and for the chair of this eisteddfod.
From what Catrin knew of Moriddig, it was extremely unlike him not to put himself at the front and center of any ceremony or festival in which he was participating. He was always front and center. Admittedly, what was happening now was only the rehearsal for the main event. He still should have been the one holding the staff of chief bard and leading the procession towards the viewing stand, where in a few hours the king would be sitting.
Unless Moriddig had chosen to cede that position to Gruffydd? On the whole, that seemed as unlikely to Catrin as it was to Hugh.
Although secure in his position as Owen’s household bard, Moriddig, like every other bard present, had been summoned to Overton-on-Dee by King Edward. And just as when the king had called the archers of Wales to him at Nefyn in July, he was offering a rich prize of silver for the winner. However, the point of the event, also as it had been in July, was less about the festivities per se than to make an accounting of all the bards of Wales.
Over the centuries, accomplished bards had been revered, in addition to being well paid by the lords who sponsored them. Now, instead of counting archers, King Edward would be recording the name of every bard. Most importantly, he had brought them here to ensure they understood to the very core of their being that their previous way of life was, for all intents and purposes, gone. If they hadn’t understood that before Trahaearn’s misadventure, they knew it now.
No more could they sing what they were moved to sing. No more could they compose ballads lauding the achievements of great Welsh warriors from the ancient past like Cadwaladr, the last Pendragon. No more could they convey the stories of heroic deeds to a new generation. No more were they the repositories of Welsh history and learning. Most importantly, they explicitly could not lament the loss of their country to the English or bewail the assassination of Llywelyn, their former ruler. From now on, they could sing praises to God; they could sing praises to the king; they could sing of the love of women or the beauty of the landscape.
There was nothing more offensive to the king’s ear than to hear a song that ended and the Cymry will rise.
King Edward hadn’t yet elucidated broadly the potential consequences of violating this stricture. But, as had been the case this morning, severe penalties had been implied. These would fall upon not only the bard who violated the rules, but also the lord who allowed him to sing an offending song in his hall and every person who listened to such a song and did not report it immediately to the king or one of his designated authorities.
Thus, Trahaearn had represented a grave threat to every person who’d heard him singing. It was no wonder the candle-maker had reported him. He’d been rewarded with a handful of silver pennies too, which was possibly more money than he would make in his stall during the entire fortnight.
None of the Welsh noblemen still alive in Wales needed to be reminded of the dire consequences of disobedience. Over the last two years, King Edward had laid waste to their brethren. Men like Owen de la Pole and Tudur, Catrin’s brother, had survived the initial purge. They were thus fully cognizant of what was required of them going forward. And since any nobles still on their feet owed their station entirely to the king’s largesse, it was unlikely any would be willing to commit treason this soon into their renewed tenure.
It went without saying as well that any of the Norman lords who’d been given land in Wales were even more beholden to the king than their Welsh counterparts. Certainly, none had any allegiance to a past when Wales had been independent. They, in fact, were instrumental to King Edward’s plan to ensure it never would be again.
“Why don’t I try to find Moriddig for you?” Catrin turned abruptly to Hugh.
“You would do that for me?” Hugh put a hand over his heart. “I would be grateful, my lady.”
“It would be my pleasure.” The words came easily because they were sincere. It wasn’t that Catrin had any desire to speak to Moriddig. Rather, in looking over the once-great men before her, she found herself unable to stomach the extent of their diminishment even for one more moment.
