Myths of Gods and Goddesses in Britain and Ireland E-Book

Sharon Jacksties

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 271

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Ancient deities have shaped the mythological landscapes of Britain and Ireland. Layer by layer, these tales of the ancient gods and goddesses make up the narrative bedrock of these islands. Throughout the ages this has been the meeting place of successive cultures, each bringing their own stories to glorify those beings with supernatural powers. Despite their immortality, these divinities and superhumans are nevertheless vulnerable, depending on the voices and memories of people to celebrate their wondrous exploits. Here you will meet the all-powerful beings once revered throughout these lands. Elemental divinities of sky and earth, goddesses and gods in human guise, have escaped the confines of dusty encyclopaedias. Now you will come to know them by the stories of their deeds, famous and infamous in equal part.

Leseprobe

For Hugh and Eric,with love and gratitude for more journeysthan steps and more stories than words

First published 2022

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Sharon Jacksties, 2022

The right of Sharon Jacksties to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 8039 9128 3

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Introduction

A Divine Conference in British Weather

1 CHILDREN BORN OF POWER, CHILDREN BORN OF MĀGIC

Arianrhod, Goddess of the Silver Wheel

Deer Child, Pig Child, Wolf Child

Child Prophet

Foster Mother, Virgin Mother, Married Mother

Child Champion

Sons of the Earth Goddess

2 TĀLES OF MĀGIC, ENCHĀNTMENT ĀND TRICKERY

Merlin’s Prophecy

Enchanting Thor’s Wound

Shining Brow, Silver Tongue

Lost on the Mountain

3 TĀLES OF CREATION, NĀTURE ĀND HEĀLING

The Cailleach, Old Woman of Power

Dagda the Good, Dagda the Generous

Boann the Thirsty

Three Journeys from Sweet to Salt

A Hand of Silver, a Heart of Stone

Horse Goddesses

Rhiannon

Faster than Horses

4 TĀLES OF LOVE ĀND PĀSSION

Dream Lover

Puppets of the Gods

Spring Love

Song, Poetry and Love

United after Death

5 TĀLES OF WĀR ĀND CONFLICT

The First Sacrifice

The Death of Connla

The Battle with the Girdle of the World

Monster Menagerie

Wayland Smith

Cu Chulainn’s Last Battle

6 THE PĀSSING OF THE IMMORTALS

The Death of Cu Chulainn

The Coming of Wisdom

Merlin Enchanted

Baldur Betrayed

The Fairy Piper

Bibliography

INTRODUCTION

During my career as an oral storyteller, I have been lucky enough to be introduced to our great mythic heritage by the best of traditional tellers, who have made it their lives’ work to craft mythological tales into forms that can survive a fragmented oral tradition. The disruption of oral storytelling has been brought about by technology, the Industrial Revolution and the cultural suppression that accompanies colonialism. This last, however, can also be a spur for people to preserve and celebrate their threatened heritage.

Unlike the rest of the world, these islands have mostly lost that canon of traditional narratives that storytellers and ethnologists call ‘creation myths’ – those stories that tell us how the very fabric of our land, and even the universe, were created. I am, therefore, deeply grateful, during one of the Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns, to have been transported, if not in place, but in time, listening online to some storytellers in the Scottish International Storytelling Festival telling what must be the most intact British creation story from this earliest genre of myth.

The Cailleach, Old Woman, remembered also in Ireland, is with us still in our seasons and landscapes. She too can speak to us amidst our increasing concerns for our environment and the natural world. Enduring as the Scottish granite she created, she has survived the transition from the veneration of the Mother Earth goddess to that of the patriarchal Sky Gods, precursors to a single male patriarchy.

Recent astronomical discoveries have shown that this change in focus occurred during a period of prolonged meteoric activity, when our night skies were literally blazing with light, as waves of comets shot across our heavens like divine spears – such potent symbols and power objects in our later mythology of gods and superheroes. Archaeology, too, reflects this fundamental change, seen in our stone circles and megalithic monuments. This physical evidence from a uniquely Irish and British heritage is testament to our ancestor’s religious relationship with the celestial bodies, stone built from the element of Mother Earth herself, and connecting the old Goddess with the increasing worship of the Sky Gods. Ranging across these sacred sites strides a pantheon of divinities: goddesses and gods to be joined with and superseded by pantheons from other parts of Europe and beyond. How long these sacred, vertical stone bridges between earth and sky, these terrestrial maps of the movements of the heavens were venerated, is impossible to say. Some would protest that they have never ceased to be held sacred. Others were introduced later, such as the Roman Mithraeums and shrines dedicated to a divinity that originated at least as far east as ancient Persia. Mithras, too was worshipped in Britain, and readers should not be surprised to come across a creation myth from such a distant visitor.

A storyteller’s journey, therefore, is one that travels through time as well as place, and perhaps an early understanding of this came half a lifetime ago, when I was an emerging storyteller, I regularly visited a remote district in an Irish-speaking part of Ulster. In those days the bank consisted of a van that would set up its services in someone’s living room for half a day every week, and apart from an occasional bus, any connection with the wider world was through the post office. There I was buying stamps when I noticed that their illustration could only be from the story that, unlike many from the oral tradition, is so well known that it has a title. I was so excited to notice this official celebration of traditional literature that my clipped BBC English rang out: ‘But these must be the Children of Lir!’

At that, the screen rattled down and the post master burst out of his kiosk. Business was over and joy was about to begin. There he stood, small, fat and bald, yet transformed by some enchanting glamour as he launched into that story, in his own language. Eyes half closed, his pudgy hands gesturing magnificently, he held forth in this poetic narrative medium. The queue stood there equally spellbound whether we could understand Irish or not. When he finished, he was met with a profound silence, more eloquent and complimentary than any applause. Mythology, as it was meant to be, in its oral and aural forms was, for a while, alive and well. I had been part of its sharing and, during those precious timeless moments, there had been little difference between myself and those listeners from distant millennia.

My move from London to Somerset inspired a less eclectic approach to my international repertoire, and enabled me to focus more deeply on regional material. This process led to my becoming an author of collections of local traditional tales. During a storytelling project called TheMaking of Wessex, I explored the story legacies left to us by the various cultures that had traded with, settled in, conquered or converted Britain and Ireland. From the Bronze Age to the Early Christian era, it was clear that Britain and Ireland are repositories for this overlay of mythologies, and this comparatively small geographical area is the custodian of the major traditional stories, folk tales and myths from the whole of Europe.

Readers may be surprised to discover stories of characters that we do not think of today as being divine. Let me plead for their reinstatement, if only in our imaginations, after millennia of being demoted by a ‘jealous God’ whose priests were eager to denigrate any perceived competition from other powerful beings. So it was, for example, that a Brythonic Celtic god of light, Gwyn ap Neath, became denigrated to the ‘King of the Fairies’ in his Underworld, where he was humiliated and defeated by a Christian saint. Others of his ilk eventually became the folklore characters of superstition – witches, imps, goblins and the like – their magical powers slandered as being in service to the Devil or dismissed as fairy tales only fit for children. Rare examples exist, however, of various powerful entities – mortal rulers, gods and fairy royalty – all co-operating from within their respective sovereign realms, such as in the tale I have entitled ‘Dream Lover’.

Other divinities underwent a kinder transformation, becoming our first superheroes, often characters with at least one divine parent, who although mortal, are remembered for their superhuman exploits, accomplished through more than mortal powers. It is said of Finn mac Cumhaill, one of the greatest of these heroes, that if a day goes by without one of his stories being told, that will be the day when our world will end. He has thereby reclaimed the immortality to which he is entitled. He and his mythological kindred continue to have their lives rekindled in our collective memory, through story.

We tend to think of the Irish/Scottish and Brythonic Celts, Iron Age peoples, as providers of our oldest stories. However, as with all peoples, the tales are older than those who told them and these Bronze Age myths conceal even earlier antecedents. Set in a pantheistic age, they contain features from an earlier belief system, that of Animism. The shape-shifting so prevalent among the protagonists in this book recall the transformations experienced by the most powerful among ancient peoples – their shamans. The focus on travelling between different worlds – underworlds, other worlds, those of fairies, monsters or giants – also recall the out-of-body experiences that enabled shamans to travel between this world and others. Another striking example of animistic belief survives in the Norse myth, here entitled ‘Baldur Betrayed’, in which every object becomes animate, whether tree or rock or metal. In this collection, therefore, we have Bronze Age stories told by Iron Age people in which also appear the animistic beliefs of our earliest Stone Age ancestors.

Perhaps readers will also be surprised to discover stories of Roman and Norse origin in this volume. I have tried to restrict myself to including those that are specifically depicted in the archaeology to be found throughout Britain. It is impossible to imagine people living in Roman villas (in what are now Somerset and Dorset, for example), in which, at vast expense for their time, mosaics displayed the myths of Dido and Aeneas or Bellerophon, without their inhabitants being acquainted with their stories. Dinner guests would have admired and referred to them, mothers and slaves would have told these illustrated tales to children, and tutors would have included them as part of a formal curriculum. Fascinating too, are the depictions of events from Norse mythology, sharing space on Christian crosses and in church architecture – a narrative overlay that demonstrates how cultures absorb and transform each other.

I was discussing with a colleague how ‘foreign’ cultures become absorbed, and how, through longevity, they become accepted as ‘native’. I was using Dorset’s mosaic of Bellerophon slaying the monstrous Chimaera as an example, an art work that I had known of, but had never examined, and therefore was unaware of its other significance. Neither did I know that this colleague, on a college placement, was one of the first archaeologists on the site where that mosaic was discovered. Suddenly, as she was digging, she saw a face staring up at her. This part of the mosaic proved to be the earliest-known portrait of Jesus and she was the first to see it for many hundreds of years. There it lay, docile neighbour with Bellerophon and his monstrous Chimaera, a hero from a polytheistic religion whose iconography so resembled that which was to become a renowned Christian symbol – that of St George and the Dragon. Roman Christianity had reached Britain.

Little remains of our oldest civilisations apart from stone monuments, archaeological artefacts and, of course, a body of oral literature preserved by storytellers and, centuries later, in written form. Irish/Scottish and Brythonic Celts brought us their stories, and ‘brought’ is a careful word as their mythology speaks of waves of discovery and conquests of Ireland, and Britain by an incoming people. Their tales of the divine conquest of a brutish race, the Formorians, have close parallels with the classical Graeco–Roman myths of gods and goddesses defeating Titans, and the Norse examples of gods and goddesses warring with giants. Readers will notice many other similarities among these different mythologies. This phenomenon led me to consider how many Celts came westwards through a region that we now call Greece, and how the Vikings’ trading routes travelled through these regions and to Ireland for many hundreds of years. Small wonder that motifs and narratives were shared, repeated and survived any particular cultural cachets to an extraordinary degree of detail within storylines, whispering of a pan-European mythology that came to rest at its most westerly border.

Ā DIVINE CONFERENCE IN BRITISH WEĀTHER

There could not have been a single Roman soldier who relished a posting to Britain and its foul climate. There, treacherous tribes refused to lie down and surrender, the most fearsome warriors were often women, and the mud was impossible to march through. Any part of Britain would have been bad enough, but the very worst that could happen was to be sent to Hadrian’s Wall. That was the northern limit of the mighty Roman Empire, but not even the Romans had managed to conquer the unruly Picts who lived beyond it. The best that could be done was to prevent their raiding parties from penetrating any further south. How the wind howled and the rain lashed on top of the wall as the sentries looked out over unconquered territory.

On this particular summer’s day a sentry was trying to see through the gloom that this especially vicious storm had brought, along with the torrential rain, thunder, lightning and hailstones the size of hen’s eggs. His bare knees were as blue as the woad that adorned his enemies and if he had seen any, he knew that he would have been too cold to do anything about it. Misery permeated every cell of his body and he was shivering too violently even to accurately wipe his streaming nose with his sodden tunic.

History does not reveal the name of this unhappy soldier, so from a sense of irony I will call him ‘Felix’ or ‘Lucky’, just as nicknames are sometimes bestowed on those who display an opposite characteristic. Felix was wondering whether his name, which also means ‘cat’ in Latin, had somehow been responsible for getting him this posting. This was because the local unconquerable tribe’s totem animal was the wildcat, who, just like the people it represented, was elusive, cunning and disproportionately vicious for its size. Suddenly his shivering form was lit up by an almost direct hit as lightning struck the wall, making him tremble even more.

But the Gods had seen him! All the gods of thunder and storm who ruled over that land had not only noticed, but even more surprisingly had taken pity on that miserable specimen of mortality. Jupiter from the Roman pantheon, Thor from the Norse and Manannàn mac Lir from the Celtic, were in a huddle wondering what they could do for him, as each believed themselves responsible for the storm that had brought Felix such discomfort.

As they were discussing this between them, more divinities arrived to add their opinions. Wasn’t the mortal a soldier? Shouldn’t the gods or goddesses of war be consulted? Representing those three pantheons again, Mars, Odin and the Morrigan joined the divine throng on the storm clouds. The discussion became more animated, gestures became more expansive, clouds were pummelled like cushions and hailstones flew like feathers. Surely what the man needed was comfort, but what kind of comfort? At this any divinities of love who may have been listening in, such as Aphrodite, Freya or Aengus, melted into the distance.

What was needed was something sustaining to warm him, preferably from the inside out. All the gods and goddesses agreed about that.

The clouds got even thicker to accommodate another wave of divinities who had arrived to suggest their remedies. All of these consisted of alcoholic beverages, and Ceres, The Dagda, Aegir and Gobniu attempted to convince the divine assembly of the uniquely reviving properties of their particular brew and of their right thereby in assisting the mortal.

Was not Ceres Goddess of Crops and Harvests? Did not her grain grow over the largest area of the Earth? How would any beer be made without her gift of fertility? Strong arguments indeed. However, Dagda the Good, father of the Irish Gods, spoke up and explained that he had a magical cauldron that was always full of beer, a source that would never run out. Surely he should be the one to share this bounty? Another strong argument. Then Aegir explained why he should be the one to offer the remedy, as he was the host of all the Norse gods and goddesses who came to sample his beer in his drinking hall under the sea. There they were served in an atmosphere of conviviality. No bad behaviour was tolerated – and as with many publicans centuries later, any misbehaviour resulted in the perpetrator being barred – and in his case any overindulgence was explained by the rocking and tilting of the sea. All strong arguments.

Never had so many deities from so many religions attempted to do so much for so few. Jupiter could see that they were in a situation of overkill, and feared any competition escalating into conflict between pantheons that existed so peaceably together. He suggested that as the mortal was a Roman, newly sent from the capital of the Roman Empire, he, as a Roman god should be responsible for any outcome. He also decided to supply the soldier with a new kind of remedy, rather than allowing any competitiveness about beer to flourish. Before anyone else could think of a counter-argument, there was another flash of lightning that burned a small crater near to the hapless mortal. Peering into it when the smoke had dissipated, he noticed to his surprise that something vividly green lay there.

Curiosity overcame fear and he retrieved a strange-looking plant, complete with roots, a tiny stem and twisting tendrils with bright green leaves. At first he had no idea what to do with it, but knew that it had to be treasured as it was clearly a gift from Jupiter. Guessing that he should perhaps nurture it like some kind of delicate plant, he dug up some soil but then didn’t know what to put it in. Looking around, he saw a bird’s skull and gently tucked shoot and earth into that. It was astonishing how quickly this divine gift grew. Within a few days the roots were pushing through the eye sockets and the length of the stem had made the tiny vessel topple over. It would need to be transplanted into something bigger that also allowed for this rapid growth rate. On patrol, he had come across a bear’s skull. This curiosity was ideal for a while, but the vigorous plant soon outgrew that too. Another container was found – an ass’ skull. By now the grape vine was bearing grapes and wine had been made from them. From that day to this, when we drink a little we are inclined to sing, merry as birds. If we drink rather more, we gain the courage of a bear, but if we drink more than that, we sound and act like an ass.

1

CHILDREN BORN OF POWER, CHILDREN BORN OF MAGIC

… There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle …

Albert Einstein

ĀRIĀNRHOD, GODDESS OF THE SILVER WHEEL

Arianrhod was born into a family of the greatest magicians that Wales has ever known. It was said that only the ancient gods had powers such as theirs – small wonder then, as Arianrhod was the daughter of the great Mother Goddess herself. However, when their stories were finally written down, hundreds of years later in the time of the new religion, these beings of divine power were reduced to mere kings and queens, lords and ladies among the mortals of the land.

In the days when Wales had several rulers, none could equal Math or his family in the practice of magic. His nephew Gwydion’s art lay in the magic of illusion and transformation – the seeming and the un-seeming that could make one thing appear to be another. These illusions were mostly short-lived but quickened to the length of their purpose. He would use any form of trickery to his own ends, and these were such that it was often the only way he could get what he wanted.

Math’s niece, Arianrhod, was moved by an older magic, one that was shaped by the elements themselves, the powers that brought life to land or water or air. It was these forces that moved through Arianrhod as she sought to blend their power with hers, rather than keeping company with those who thronged her uncle’s court. Not for her the soft cushions, the sweet musicians, the whispered gossip of court scandal. She took her ease on rough granite, her music was the roaring of waves and her conversation the whispering of the wind. For Arianrhod lived far away in a deserted spot, her home a craggy castle at the tip of the land, surrounded on three sides by wild waters, overarched by the wide sky.

Mighty though Lord Math was, he had one strange peculiarity: unless he was at war, he could not put his feet upon the ground while at rest. To do so would be to risk his life. That is why his feet always needed to be placed in the lap of a maiden, whose purity was the only thing that could protect him from this strange weakness. Goewin, a pure and gentle young woman, was always on hand for this purpose. In times of peace she followed him everywhere in case she was needed.

‘Happy is the man even if it is only Goewin’s shadow that falls upon him,’ Lord Math would say about her. There was none as lovely in the whole land and Math protected her as she protected him.

Arianrhod and Gwydion had another brother, but whatever magical powers Gilfaethwy may have had, they were no help to him in his affliction. He had fallen in love with Goewin and was pining away. At last Gwydion took pity on his brother and decided by use of trickery to embroil his uncle in a war, so that Goewin would be left unprotected. That is how Gilfaethwy was left free to violate the object of his passion – and Math returned to discover the full extent of the treachery. The brothers would have to be punished and another maiden found before his own weakness could take hold, now that he was no longer at war. Eager to re-ingratiate himself with his uncle, Gwydion suggested his sister Arianrhod, and a messenger was hurriedly dispatched to her distant castle.

There she sat spinning a thread made from streams of moonlight brought to her on the incoming tide, twisting them together with filaments she had teased from veils of starlight. As she wove she sang, and her song turned her silver wheel as it hung low on the horizon – the silver wheel that others in a later tongue would call the Corona Borealis. For hers was the magic of the night sky, the cool touch of moon and stars, the places beneath rock and earth that never knew the light. The threads she spun on her wheel were a guide for those who passed from this world into another, dreaming their way onward, then following them once more to find their way back again. Her silver wheel turned to a song she had heard from the greatest bard that the land of Britain had ever known: Taliesin’s words brightened moonlight, shimmered starlight as she sang, ‘I know all the names of the stars from north to south, I have been in the galaxy at the throne of the One who allocates generously, three times have I been in Arianrhod’s prison …’

As her silver wheel sank closer to the sea she thought of all those who had sat on her perfect throne in her wheeling castle – those whose journeys she had guided between the worlds – who always left with their gleaming, silken thread of destiny in their grasp. Some knew her turning castle to be the sky itself, the stars its windows. Some believed that as they sat upon Arianrhod’s peerless seat, that the sky wheeled around that place of vision, and that each star was a window into another world. But tonight she was spinning a different thread, a life-giving cord that was also a secret, twisted with the very elements from which this secret life had sprung, a cord that she would keep closer to her than anyone could know.

The court messenger arrived as Arianrhod’s silver wheel was about to disappear into the sea. It was an unchancy moment to be interrupted, the wheel’s cycle was not complete, and she knew that no good would come of it.

Math’s court fell silent as Arianrhod paused at the threshold – too hastily called away from her task, she blinked in that place where people turned night into day. Fires burned, lights blazed, jewels glittered. Her dazzled eyes sought her uncle to greet him first, as was fitting. Then she could see how pale he looked, how weak he had become without his lap maiden. Lady Goewin sprang up. Now full of hope, she embraced Arianrhod, the woman who had been her friend and who was now her kinswoman, for Math had married her as soon as he had heard how she had been used by his nephews. He would not suffer her to be dishonoured and raised her up by making her the first lady in the land. Dishonour would fall on the perpetrators of the crime, not their victim. Punishment and ridicule were to follow as certain as day follows night, but there was a more urgent matter at hand.

‘Have you ever lain with a man?’ Math demanded of his niece.

‘Never, my Lord, how would I when there is none to match me?

Math looked at his niece and could tell that there was, nevertheless, something that she was not telling him. He took up his magic wand and slowly, before the court, bent it in his hands. Everyone knew that Truth itself would straighten it, but that in the presence of falsehood it would remain bent. He placed it on the floor before her, and everyone watched her take the test. As she stepped over the wand, Arianrhod parted her legs to do so, and from her body slipped a fully formed boy child. His cry rang out in that place of sudden light, and his mother sprang for the door. Fast as an autumn wind she moved, but she was not quick enough to keep the other life that should also have stayed inside her. As she took another step, something else slipped from between her legs, something that as yet had no shape. People hardly noticed it, all eyes were upon that storming fury, Arianrhod, as she rushed from the room. But Gwydion, with his magician’s eye, could see his nephew’s shape to come. Quick as a snake he darted down and scooped up the formless thing, in the same movement wrapping it in his silken cloak. He then placed it in a chest in his private chamber.

Everyone stared at the little boy, sturdy, strong, already standing as no mortal newborn could do. From him came the smell of the sea, while his strong chest heaved with the swell of the waves. Math’s magician’s eye could see that this little one indeed did not have a human father. He was a child of the Sea God himself – his niece had become pregnant when she had been swimming in the sea. To honour the boy’s father, Math had the boy baptised ‘Dylan’, which is one of the names of the God of the Sea. But it wasn’t enough to keep the child in that place. The salt water of the sea had a stronger pull than the sweet water of baptism. On legs so powerful that no one could keep up with him, faster than any flood tide, the boy ran to the shore. Those who had followed saw him dive and frolic in the water, riding every wave.

It was Gwydion who raised the other child, but until he came to manhood, his mother sought to shield him from the corrupting ways of the court. She tried to protect him from the trickery, the seeming/un-seeming deception, of his uncle’s kind of magic. She wanted him to know his maternal heritage, the raw elemental power of the old magic. She wanted him to know more than the new religion that showed no respect for the old. Three times she tried to utter a different fate for him, one that should never have been his, but one that would keep him from being swallowed up in her brother’s world. Each time she was thwarted by Gwydion’s skill. It was only when the young man was close to dying that he felt his true father’s power stir inside him. The element of air that had given him life as Arianrhod’s throne wheeled about the sky, now gave him the power to save himself, when, mortally wounded, he escaped his attacker in the form of a bird.

So it was that Arianrhod gave birth to her twins before her time, before her silver wheel could finish spinning the silver thread of their destiny twined with their father’s elements of water and air. Those who did not have the knowledge saw her leave Math’s court a shamed woman. But there were those who knew that she left in anger, never to return, and that any shame should perhaps be theirs.

DEER CHILD, PIG CHILD, WOLF CHILD

Math the magician, lord of Gwynedd, waited for the return of his fugitive nephews. They well knew they were to be punished for the terrible crimes they had committed. His nephew, Gwydion, as great a magician as himself, had contrived a trap for his uncle that had resulted in Math’s most beloved maiden being left unprotected so that she could be raped. Although everyone in the court knew what was happening – her servants had been hustled out of her chamber and everyone could hear her screams – they were all too frightened of Gwydion to interfere, so his brother Gilfaethwy made the most of the opportunity to violate the young woman. Gwydion had arranged all this because he believed that his brother would otherwise die from unrequited passion, despite knowing that this would threaten his uncle’s life as Math had to rest his feet in the lap of a virgin when not engaged in war. This decoy of ill-cast magic and trickery had also resulted in a gift from the God of the Other World being stolen, the violation of the sacred law of hospitality, a war between the north and the south of the country, the loss of many innocent lives and the death of the country’s greatest hero. Enough, surely, to merit punishment.

At last Math gave an order that no one in all the land was to give his nephews hospitality. If they were starved out they would have to return home sooner or later. The fugitives held out for as long as they could but eventually returned to their uncle’s court. Were they shamefaced? Did they try to brazen it out? Before everyone, they greeted Lord Math and asked him what was his will.

‘It was not my will to lose all those brave men and their weapons. It was not my will that you shamed me by raping a maiden in my own bed, dearly beloved as she was, and a protector of my own life. It was not my will that you caused the death of Pryderi, greatest of heroes. But if you have come to submit to my will, it is for you to receive your punishment.’