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The vagaries of Winter weather in Cymru – Gwalia, as we call the land
When snow has fallen, the wise traveller should avoid boys, and men who behave like boys. Such people will look for every opportunity to compromise the dignity of others, whether by rendering paths slippery underfoot or by hurling compacted balls of snow.
Estela smiled as she sucked her bedraggled quill. Not since she’d been a girl bombarding her brother and Gilles from a perch in a tree had she so much enjoyed pelting a man with snowballs. Her face still glowed from the fresh cold and her back tingled, wet from a handful that had been thrust down the neck of her gown in very unchivalrous manner. Dragonetz was no doubt suffering from melting snow too. She smiled to herself again and hoped no prying eyes had followed their excursion into the glittering woods.
Perhaps they should have walked backwards so their footsteps hid an escape attempt, like that of King Henri’s mother, Empress Matilda, when she left her castle prison. They too could have kept going, hired horses, fled to England and a sea-port, chartered a ship for home.
As if they would be able to hire horses! When she’d been told a million times, on every ride, that this was Deheubarth land, for days in every direction. The brothers would find them easily. And then there would be no leaving, ever. Her good humour vanished.
Patience. Tonight was Christmas Eve and there would be a celebration, with song. Maredudd and Rhys had promised them fine entertainment over the coming days and a chance for them to sing. Patience. Only thirteen days to wait.
THE CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES were a mix of familiar and foreign traditions. Estela watched with approval as two men, chosen for their hulking strength, hobbled into the Great Hall with a Yule log that must have been half a well-aged tree. It would have been a fruit tree back home. Another familiar Christmas custom was the decoration of the Hall with boughs of holly, ivy and mistletoe, to keep evil spirits away.
Yes, that should burn through the twelve days, she thought, as the huge log was joined by its ceremonial partner. Rhys brought in the small, half-charred remnant of last year’s Yule log, and lit it from kindling already burning in the great fireplace. The wood of the old year sparked the future and the flame lived on, witnessed by all the courtiers.
She could not sprinkle wine on the log, as should be done, but she reached for Dragonetz’ hand and squeezed it, sharing the moment.
He murmured the appropriate blessing in Occitan, ‘Alègre, Diou nous alègre Cacho fio ven, tout ben ven; Diou nous fagué la graci de veïre l’an que ven, Si sian pas mai que siguen pas men. Good is coming. May God bless us in the coming year; if we are not more, may we not be fewer.’
The fasting of Advent had given an appetite for Christmas fare but Dinefwr plans were all for the banquets from Christmas Day onward. Estela missed the supper that was a Christmas Eve tradition at home, where salt cod and cardoons were followed by fresh and dried fruit, nuts and nougat. The desserts would be left on the tables throughout the twelve days of Christmas.
Here in Deheubarth, the Christmas Eve supper was a simple but filling soup. Vegetables, as always, were added like herbs, for flavour not substance, but meat was plentiful, and there was much talk of the feast planned for the next day. Estela knew from her visits to the kitchen that roast boar was on the menu and a dessert that required six hundred eggs. Her stomach liked the idea that there would be dessert, whatever it might be.
As the boys commenced serving, Estela excused herself. She met six well-rehearsed page boys in the kitchen and gave each one his precious burden. Solemn, with well-scrubbed faces, they paraded the length of the Hall to the High Table. Under Estela’s supervision, they carefully placed their three candles and three bowls of wheat shoots in front of Rhys and Maredudd, who looked to Dragonetz for an explanation.
‘My wife will explain our custom to you,’ he told them.
‘This is lo blat de la Santa Barba, the wheat planted on Santa Barba’s Day,’ she told them. ‘If the wheat grows well, so shall your harvests in the year to come. If you plant these shoots in offering to the land, she will be fruitful in return. This is what we say, in my country.’
Rhys was at his most gracious. ‘It is a beautiful tradition, my Lady.’ He looked to Maredudd and said, ‘We thank you.’
‘Does it grow well?’ Maredudd asked, looking at the spindly shoots.
‘Very well, my Lord,’ Estela reassured him.
‘You will see one of our traditions this night,’ Rhys told her. ‘We celebrate Mass during the darkest hours, in our ceremony of Plygain.’
Long past midnight, long past the hour when Estela thought of oxen and asses, their speech as miraculous as the birth they witnessed, she and Dragonetz joined a torchlight procession to Mass in the chapel.
The Latin service was familiar, with the priest and the monk each playing their part, from the thrice rung bell to the raising of the chalice. What followed, however, was uniquely Welsh.
Four men made their way to the altar, through the crowd standing there. They formed a line and faced the congregation, then they began to sing. Music fit for such a time and place resounded from the stone as if a whole choir of brethren gave voice.
The songs were tales of Christ’s death and birth, but also of everyman’s life. Estela could not understand all the words but she could hear the music in them. Some songs were twenty verses or more but nobody stirred in complaint at their length.
What made the music heavenly was the combination of voices, and Estela suddenly understood what she was hearing, what she had heard before among the women in Llansteffan kitchen but thought she must have dreamt it. She was hearing what Dragonetz had dreamt and what none of their countrymen believed possible. The men were singing in parts, each his own, different melody. It was nothing like the effect of different voices singing in unison. Each voice followed its own melody. When one voice soared, another fell, and the blend was beyond beautiful.
‘B flat,’ murmured Dragonetz as he moved towards the altar and the singers, like a child seeing the Christmas desserts on the table. ‘They start and end on B flat.’ Then he was out of her hearing, as close as he could get to the music that had been his quest for two years.
Estela watched him listening. He was lost to everything but the way each part contributed to the whole. In between songs, he turned to look at her, to share the Christmas miracle. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
For now, they let the music flow through them. The words they did understand were markers, like boulders in the stream of sound, giving shape to the current.
Later, they would analyse the techniques used, argue about how many voices could follow different paths. Dragonetz’ vision had seven voices. Was this possible? For the Welsh, such music was their tradition, both in church and out of it, with no thought that it might be unfit for praising God.
‘Bestial,’ Dragonetz muttered bitterly. ‘That’s what the Abbot of San Pau told me such a variation from their chant would be.’
‘Nobody could listen to such music and think that!’ Estela was outraged. ‘You must show them! Talk to the Welsh singers, find out all you can and we’ll bring your dreamsong to life!’
Dragonetz shook his head at how impossible their discovery seemed. ‘How can a race of such barbarism be so cultured? Like a pearl, made from common dew and growing in a coarse shell.’
Estela put that same question to herself many times during the period she still thought of as the Calendale, the festive season. Stuffed to bursting with all the foods missing during advent, Estela still found room each day for a little more roast boar, venison, bacon with mustard, partridge pie, hen stew or pottage with lashings of butter, cream and cheese. There was even the luxury of whole pieces of vegetable to aid digestion, cabbages and leeks, which grew well in these lands.
Rhys had not exaggerated. Interludes between feasts were filled with dancing, music and poetry. Estela found herself ringing handbells while Dragonetz hit the tambour, and the Lords of Deheubarth started a dance movement by making reverence to their partners. Within the span of one turn of the dance circle, Estela was the one gracefully accepting reverence from Rhys while Dragonetz bent his right knee to a giggling Welsh matron.
The diners were awash with spiced wine when cake was served. Six hundred eggs, thought Estela, as she found just enough room for a small piece – and then another one.
A sudden commotion at the far end of the Hall was followed by rowdy cheers. A man was lifted onto the table where he danced a little jig and sang an impromptu ditty whose sole lyrics were variations on, ‘I found the bean.’ He raised the item in question so everybody could see the cause of his celebration. Nobody could, so they all took his word for it. There was only one bean in the cake and closer inspection proved that this was indeed a bean, complete with cake crumbs.
‘John Halfpenny,’ groaned Dragonetz, his head in his hands.
Maredudd stood, calmed the gathering and confirmed John Halfpenny’s authority as the Lord of Misrule. Somebody found a staff with a fool’s head and John Halfpenny began reciting jokes in what was clearly poor Welsh and even poorer taste, to judge by the groans.
Estela whispered to Dragonetz, ‘Don’t they usually kill the Lord of Misrule after Twelfth Night and plant him in a cornfield?’
‘I do hope so,’ Dragonetz replied, earning a wave of the fool’s staff in his direction, and a barbed comment which was some play on the words ‘Long Shadow’ that Estela preferred not to understand.
To give Halfpenny his due, he did not lack inventiveness, and if he occasionally drew blood with his satirical humour, he also drew laughter with the games he proposed. Exactly what was needed during the dark season.
Estela was drawing breath after a particularly vigorous game of blind man’s buff, when Halfpenny shook the bells on his staff and made his announcement.
‘This was your idea, wasn’t it!’ Estela accused Dragonetz, whose mischievous eyes appeared above the blindfold as he loosened the ties and removed the frayed band.
‘Maybe,’ he acknowledged. ‘Just as well for you, too. I nearly had you.’
It was true. She’d been trapped in his blind-man’s arms, condemned to be the next to wear the blindfold, when Halfpenny had called the game to a halt.
She was indignant. ‘Only because you cheated! You said you’d hurt yourself and I believed you!’
‘I was very convincing, wasn’t I.’ He grinned and limped a little, rubbing his poor thigh, then pulled her close, whispered, ‘I should have let the sport continue. I swear these Welshwomen are well-practised in tormenting a blind man.’
Estela was well aware of the liberties taken by courtiers of both sexes in touching and prodding their blindfolded victim. Old scores could be settled and new amours proposed, all in the guise of Christmas fun. Dragonetz could well have been really hurt from some of the buffets given him by husbands who resented their wives’ squeals at being nearly caught. It was all part of the game.
‘Sh,’ she told him, but she stayed in the circle of his arms.
Rhys was speaking, accepting the role he’d been given by Halfpenny. ‘Let it be as the Lord of the Season wills! We’ll all gather in the Great Hall this evening for a grand tournament, with prizes for the best musician, the best singer and the best bard!’
‘So, this is when we are allowed to sing in public,’ observed Estela with satisfaction.
‘Yes,’ he said, tightening his embrace. ‘What shall we sing?’
SO IT WAS THAT ESTELA held Rhys to his promise and sang for the Lords of Deheubarth, despite being a woman. Wyn introduced each song with a summary in Welsh but music has its own language and the court of Dinefwr was well-versed.
Estela began with an aubade, the dawnsong written by Dragonetz, easy for the audience to understand and with a hook to the melody that lingered in the memory.
She sang for the composer, her lover, who accompanied her on his lute and hummed a soft background. As if in preparation for part-singing, she thought, as she drew out the moment of parting to the last mournful note.
‘My sweet, my own, what shall we do?
Day is nigh and night is over.
We must be parted, my self missing
All the day away from you.’
She was experienced enough as a troubadour to know the moment her audience forgot their conversations and cares, the moment when they were carried away on the stream of music. The moment of silence when she finished the aubade told her they were with her, and she felt confident enough to let Wyn introduce her second song.
‘A new song, written for a Welshwoman of exceptional passion and the fair Prince of Deheubarth who inspired her.
Estela inclined her head to acknowledge Rhys and waited till the murmuring subsided. No doubt all were now familiar with the tale behind the song. Maybe if she sang well enough, the echo would reach Mair one day, let her know that all women could be heroines, were the heroines of the songs that they lived each day.
She sang the closing verse, in tribute and in mourning.
‘Red drops he spilled
For the land of his fathers
Red drops she spilled
For the man she would keep.’
Estela moved to the empty place at the High Table, laid out as a reminder of the poor, so that symbolic food could be placed there and show gratitude for the bounty enjoyed. The more visible poor massed in front of the castle gate each morning and were well-rewarded. If the courtiers ate well, their left-overs were rich pickings and Christmas-tide was a feast shared.
Estela picked up the goblet at the empty place, held it high, paused deliberately and sang the closing couplet.
Drain the red drops from the chalice of life
Without thought for those staining the blade of a knife.
She placed the cup upside down, for the absent friend. The Hall was still. Nobody was sure how to react. Rhys’ face was grim. He stood up and Estela’s heart beat fast. She could not have written or performed better but she did not know how the golden prince would respond.
He threw his arms wide. ‘Wonderful,’ he told the Hall. ‘You brought the symbolism of our Lord’s life to a story of one man and one woman, made it universal. No Welsh bard could have done better.’
For a moment, she waited for him to say more, thinking he might ask whether Dragonetz had written the lyrics but she chid herself for seeing insult when none was even contemplated.
For Mair, for the bara lafwr, for the work we shared, thought Estela as she took the applause and curtseyed. Was that hiraeth she felt? For Llansteffan and for Gwalia itself? A rush of affection for these people and their place. Home, she thought. Soon we’ll go home. Before we forget where home is.
She returned to Dragonetz, took the stool beside him and picked up her oud.
‘Bravo,’ he said, ‘Nicely done.’ The praise that mattered most to her.
She looked to Dragonetz and he nodded. She took a stool beside him, picked up her oud and it was his turn to start the duet that had become their hallmark.
‘Can vei la lauzeta mover
de joi sas alas contra.l rai.’
‘When I see the lark beat its wings
With such joy against the sunbeam.’
The song was known, even here, and Estela saw some smiles of appreciation at the twist they gave to the well-known lines. Such a song could be interpreted differently each time.
Changing their usual allocation of lines, Estela claimed the ending, made an ironic bow to Rhys as she sang
‘De chanter me gic e.m recre,
E de joi e d’amor m’escon.’
‘From singing I will refrain
As I shun all joy, all love, all.’
There followed instrumentalists and singers, poets and declaimers. Estela bet on a fiddler to win, Dragonetz on a flautist until a harper thin as his strings placed the instrument to his left shoulder and plucked the strings. The faerie music rippled through the air and the small hairs on Estela’s arm shivered to attention.
‘The harper,’ they agreed in unison as the last beautiful notes faded. Never had they heard a harp played with such a combination of technique and art. With an instrument so difficult too! Truly, this was the land of music.
Of the singers, they could be more critical, but there were two whose phrasing impressed them, a red-haired foxy-faced youth and a rotund baritone who drew on his deep voice with ease. The others struck them as melodramatic, especially a stocky, bearded tenor – who won.
For the Welsh, the most important performers were the bards. Not only were they melodramatic but their poetry was beyond the level of the troubadours’ Welsh although they understood some phrases and could appreciate the music of the verses.
Some bards recited the old poets, Taliesin and Aneurin. Some recited their own compositions, spinning magic tales of ravens and thick-maned horses, sons who did not flee, fair Enid and lying mirrors. Truly, the reputation of Welsh bards was well-deserved.
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ Dragonetz whispered. ‘The prizes will go to the Welshman with the deep voice, who told of the king who does not cower and does not hoard. He deserves them too.’
‘And I was so looking forward to a longbow and arrows.’ Estela remembered other tourneys, other prizes and she felt the runes on her Viking brooch.
John Halfpenny stood up, jangled the bells on his fool’s staff and announced, ‘Let the prize-giving begin! I award the special prize for music that nobody here understands to...’ He gestured to the drummer and was given a drum roll for suspense.
‘...to Dragonetz los Pros!’
Polite applause changed to laughter as people realized exactly what was being presented to the foreign guest by the Lord of Misrule.
‘May your next haircut be truly Welsh!’ declared Halfpenny, presenting Dragonetz with a pudding basin. The knight had no option but to bow low and accept the honour.
Then Rhys took over the ceremony, presenting rather more valuable rewards. A Pembroke herding dog was presented to the bearded tenor.
‘I’d have liked his prize,’ murmured Estela wistfully, wondering how Nici would have liked a short-legged friend.
There was a jeweled belt for the harper; and a Book of Hours for the grey-cloaked bard. Then, Rhys asked the bard, Ivor, to sit in the carved oak chair he himself had just vacated. He placed a laurel wreath on the Bard’s head, proclaimed Ivor victor of the games. Rhys gave the tournament winner food and drink, with his own hands and instated Ivor as a counterpart of the light to Halfpenny’s dark misrule. There were four days left until Twelfth Night. Until Halfpenny’s reign was ended and they would be allowed to go home.
‘No,’ said Dragonetz that night in bed.
‘I never asked for anything,’ replied Estela.
‘You can’t take a Pembroke puppy home with you. Their legs are too short.’
Estela made no reply. But she had indeed thought about it.