Myfanwy
By Philip J. Lees
The Sun Rose devoured the Moon Lily. Its luminous petals, mauve, pink and blue, swelled to fill the morning sky. Cloud thorns pricked the far hillsides, transfusing them with a golden green that seeped down their slopes as the dawn climbed over the hills of Powys.
High in her tower in Dinas Brân castle, Myfanwy watched and waited. Today. It would happen today. Before the Sun Rose folded its flower into the darkness once more, she would know her fate, become one with her true love, so the Druid had said.
Dwfyn darogan dewin drywon
Deep is the prophecy divine of the seers
The statues that flanked the east gate below her stretched their shadows across the garden. On one gatepost, the wyvern; on the other, the cockatrice. It was said that once they were alive and fell in love, but when their shadows crossed they turned to stone and were doomed to keep guard forever over the path from the deep valley. Unless … ‘Once the love, ere thrice the rooster,’ or so the fable had it. A new love before the cock crowed thrice could awaken them.
Myfanwy smiled. So superstitious were her people, but not she. She was practical, down to earth, and when that insolent slut of a maid had started babbling on about fate and magic while she was brushing her mistress’ hair at first light, Myfanwy had shut her up with a few caustic words.
Along the path defined by the shadows someone approached Myfanwy’s tower. Her heart beat faster. Already? But no. From the churns with which he was yoked it was only Ron from the dairy. As Ron turned aside towards the kitchens the cock crowed, and as if at a signal blackbirds and larks burst into their morning song.
Before Myfanwy could be disappointed, a second figure appeared. He passed the gate and approached the foot of the tower. Myfanwy backed into the shadows.
She heard a harp string plucked, then another, as her suitor tuned his instrument. There was a pause, and then he began to play. So beautiful was the sound that even the songbirds fell silent.
I know you hear me, O Myfanwy,
I long to see your eyes so clear.
Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy,
O might they blush when I draw near?
If I could see your smile so tender
’twould light my love so fond, so true.
But one sweet word from those sweet lips
Would draw my heart to follow you.
Entranced, Myfanwy returned to the window, unfastened the key from the cord at her waist and dropped it to the ground.
The music stopped. Myfanwy sat in her chair and waited.
Footsteps. The key in the lock. The door opened.
“My lady?”
The young man who stood there was medium height, with shoulder length brown hair. He was dressed simply, in moleskin breeches and a light green weskit, a harp case slung over his shoulder.
“Present yourself.” Nerves made Myfanwy’s voice harsh.
“I am Hywel ap Einion, milady.”
“And what does Hywel ap Einion have to offer?”
“Only his poor self, milady. And his music.”
“A bard?”
“That is so.”
“You play a fine melody, bard Hywel.”
“Milady does me honour, even as she enslaves me with her beauty.”
“Your music could well win a maiden’s heart.”
He bowed deeply, but said nothing.
“You please me, bard Hywel. Leave me now. I shall consider your suit.”
As she retrieved the key from the door, the cock crowed again. Was that twice? Or thrice?
§
By late afternoon another six suitors had come and gone. Three had been granted audience, but none had enthralled her like young Hywel. A lady cannot live from music alone, she mused, however heavenly. Yet her heart beat faster when she thought of him.
The Sun Rose was wilting, its colour fading to autumnal orange, when there was a knock on the door. She had not heard footsteps. Was it a servant come with refreshment? Or perhaps Hywel had returned! She made herself wait before crossing to unlock and open it.
But it was a stranger who stood there. Tall, red-headed, sharp-featured, clad in fine silks and gleaming sword, a man maybe twice her age. Now the light was behind him, turning his hair to gold. She retreated as he strode into the room and bowed.
“Lord Wye,” he said. “Earl of Hereford. At your service, milady.”
Hereford, she thought, where the King and all his court came to hunt. She curtseyed.
“It is I who am at your service, my Lord.” Why was his name not familiar?
“If so,” he said, “then that is good. For I come to ask you to be by my side.”
Too quick, she thought. Too large a matter to consider. And what of Hywel?
But a song was a passing thing, as was a young lad’s affection. This man had the assurance that came with property, name and status. Myfanwy smiled.
“I am honoured.”
“Then come with me.”
He crossed the room to stand beside her as the light from the doorway followed him.
He turned to her and the setting sun flashed on his sword, then off the mirror that hung on the wall. For a moment, it was as if the light had split in two. Myfanwy looked down and saw a flicker as Lord Wye’s shadow crossed her own.
Then there was silence. The room was gone and she was outside, the fading Sun Rose behind her. From the corner of her immovable eye she sensed the stone figure of the wyvern on her right. Between them passed Hywel ap Einion, hand in hand with a young maiden, laughing and talking as they set off down the valley, but Myfanwy could not hear the words.
There was no sound, no sensation; and soon there would be no light. She readied herself to adjust as the sun went down.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2010