“Blood and fire, gold and steel and poetry, a river’s voice in the silence of the night, and the shining strings of a harp—all these and more I have known in my time…”

That is the beginning of Storyteller, the first of my series of novels about Britain and her bards in the years after King Arthur’s death. The words are spoken by Gwernin, the narrator of the series, who begins as a traveling storyteller, and eventually becomes a true bard. If you have not yet read the novels, you might want to go and start there, as some of these poems – all of which are taken from the first three books of the series, which make up the “Young Gwernin” trilogy – could be considered to be plot spoilers. On the other hand, you might just want to plunge in now and see how you like Gwernin’s world.

Most of the poetry in the Storyteller books is more or less intricately intertwined with the narrative, so I thought it better to include bits of the surrounding prose which sets the scene; in some places I have also slightly abridged that prose to suit my altered purpose. I hope that this little book will serve as a pleasant reminder to those who have read the novels, and as an enticing introduction to those who haven’t yet. And I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together.

– G. R. Grove, Mabon 2010.

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Songs from Storyteller

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Gwydion’s Song

I was happy enough at that moment. The silken flow of the water around my bare feet, and the cool, stream-polished smoothness of the dark gray stone beneath me, and the warmth of the sun on my skin and hair—all these were all pure pleasure, as was the thin bright piping of my companion, which mixed and mingled gently with the singing of the small birds in the oak above us. I hardly noticed when the piping stopped, and changed to song instead:

“Oak there grows ’twixt earth and sky–

Rain may wet it, sun may dry.

In its branches broad and high,

One I seek may safely lie.

“And so may we for the moment,” said the piper, “though I fear the afternoon is drawing on. What brought you out here this afternoon, Gwernin, my friend, and what do you seek?”

- from The Black Stone

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Gwernin’s Song for Pryderi

The next day, as we left Maen Twrog, I looked back from across the river at Pryderi’s stone, standing quietly in its green field. As I walked, I made a song for him, and thus it runs:

Deep beneath this stone, now sleeping lies Pryderi;

Dark beneath this stone, the Prince of Dyfed dear–

Slain by Gwydion’s magic and enchantment,

But victor over time, deception, age and fear.

His is still the fame, the fame that lasts forever–

One of only seven who came back o’er the seas.

Now he lies beside this little river,

Dreaming of his Arberth ‘neath her flowering trees.

Bright he burned, the flame, the flame that lights forever–

One of only seven who came back o’er the Irish seas.

Now he sleeps beside the Cynfael River,

Dreaming of his Arberth midst her southern trees.

Rough enough stuff, but better it sounds with the music of the harp—or sung by the shining stings alone, as often I have played it…

- from The Black Stone

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Taliesin and Ugnach

“Yes,” said Edern after a while. “I think I have the most of it. Like a bright ball that encounter was, tossed from hand to hand…” He sat up straighter and pushed the tawny hair back out of his eyes. “Taliesin spoke first—but you will see that. Here it is, then, as best I can give it.” He took a deep breath and began:

“To Ugnach mab Mydno, my greeting–

long years is it since our last meeting–

an encounter which proved much too fleeting!”

Edern’s voice had changed and grown deeper as he spoke. His eyes were a little unfocused, staring into memory. I held my breath.

“Taliesin Chief Bard, my pleasure

to see you—in memory I treasure

our meeting—recall you its measure?”

This voice was different, lighter and with more of the accent of Gwynedd, but still pleasant. Edern, I thought fleetingly, was good at his work.

“Ugnach, I recall it most clearly–

wine, feasting and gold won most dearly

you offered, not fire and bed merely.”

I smiled with pleasure at the intricacy of the rhyme. Then it was Ugnach’s voice again:

“Yet none of those offers could lure you

to my household, wherein, I assure you,

whatever your ills, I could cure you!”

I frowned a little at that one. A bit presumptuous, surely—or perhaps not? Bards were not only poets—some were seers and magicians as well. Some were druids. Edern’s voice went on, speaking as Taliesin:

“Ugnach, I had cause to deny you–

yet longer I will not defy you–

invite me again, and I’ll try you!”

I smiled again. There was light-heartedness in that reply, and humor.

“Taliesin, you fill me with gladness!

Not to ask you again would be madness–

your refusal before caused much sadness!”

A good answer, that—and a good use of rhymes. Would that I could do so well after much thought, never mind on the fly! Edern was frowning, his eyes almost crossed with concentration. I held my breath.

“Ugnach, if I may be excused,

you will not thus again be abused–

I, Taliesin, say

to you fairly I’ll pay

the visit that once I refused!”

I laughed aloud at that middle couplet. It was a pun, of course—the bard punning on his own name. “Taliesin” is usually translated “Shining Brow”—tâl iesin—but it can also be understood to mean “Fair Payment”. I thought I was right about the light-heartedness.

- from The Reciter’s Tale

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Songs from Flight of the Hawk

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Taliesin’s Praise of Arthur

Taliesin was dressed more formally tonight, and wore the silver circlet I had seen on him once or twice before, and the great enamel-set golden brooch which Neirin said had been of a gift from Arthur the High King, in the far-off days when Taliesin served him and first got his title “Chief of Bards.” Whether because of this, or because of something in his bearing, he seemed taller tonight, a larger, more shining presence, so that all eyes went to him again and again, and when he stood up presently from the high table to sing, the silence in the hall was immediate and total. The song which he sang that night began with praise of Arthur as the great warrior who had defeated the Saxon armies:

“I sing a great King, Arthur Chief Dragon—

I saw him destroy men, I saw his delight!

Great Bull of Battle, strong Pillar of Britain,

Bright-blood-stained Wolf he was, red-shafted Spear!

Once here beside this same City of Legions

Dead of all England he spread on the field.

Charging upon them he led in the front line—

Ravens grew red as he splintered their shields.

You broke them wholly, Arthur War-Leader,

Many a man you trampled in mire,

Marshes ran red beneath your rich vengeance,

Five kings you slew in a single charge!

Forcing surrender on Sussex’s raiders,

Back to the beaches you hurled them in woe—

Nor let them leave without their sore wounding—

Reaper of corpses, most fierce to your foes!”

So far, so good; but Taliesin did not stop there. Best in war Arthur was, but also best in peace:

“Greatest of Britons, generous gold-giver,

None could surpass you in peace as in war.

Kindest of kings, best gift you gave us—

Peace in our fields, peace in our homes!

Gifts from our God garnered in safety—

From your iron hand no raider could reave!

Strongest you stood, standing above us,

Steadfast and stern, great Lord of all.

Like the high God, none could defy you,

None could defeat you, thrice-honored king!”

For this, said Taliesin, Arthur would be remembered:

“Though at cruel Camlann you won your last battle

And into the West then you sailed from our sight,

Down through all ages your legend will burn still—

Brightest of Britons, our great beacon-light!

Until this world, darkness-enveloped,

Winds to its end, your name will be known—

All bards that be praises will sing you,

And in high heaven build your new throne.”

At the end the hall was full of breath-held silence. Then the applause began, a pounding, shouting tumult that seem to shake the roof-tree itself. When it died down at last Taliesin sang again, a shorter, simpler song but no less potent, praising the Prince Cyndeyrn, his strength in war and in peace, his strong sons and beautiful daughter. Then he sat down again, and the Lady Denw with her green eyes and faint smile came to bear him the mead-cup from her father the Prince, and in a little while the hall returned to its customary conversation.

- from The Road North

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A Riddle Under the Ground

“Ah,” said Claddedig, and was a while silent. “The Romans broke our language: the Romans broke our customs. So I have said. They did more than that: they did worse than that. They would have made this Island a land without a people: a people without a land. Do you know, O my children, who I was?”

“A Druid: a Priest: a Prince,” said Neirin. “And more than that, and less than that, and wholly that. A maker, a shaper, a remembrancer: one tied to the earth, and the heavens, and the seasons. Is there more?”

“Yes,” said Claddedig, “and no: all of these, and none of these I was. Will you hear a questioning?”

“Yes,” said Neirin, “go on.”

“Sa, sa,” said Claddedig, “here it is then:

“Who is the King within the Ground,

Why is the Stone within the Ring,

What is the Bell that makes no sound,

When will the New Lord come in spring?

“Can you answer?”

- from The King in the Ground

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Neirin’s Song for His Mother Dwywei

When the feasting was over that night, Gwallawg turned to his nephew as before. “Well, Sister’s-Son,” he said, “tomorrow I take the war-trail. Have you anything to show me before I go, that I may see the worth of your teaching, and your teacher?”

“Sa, sa, I do that,” said Neirin. “I have a song for you, Mother’s-Brother: weigh it as you will.” And he stood up, and took the singer’s stance, and he began.

“A golden song for a golden one,

a bright song for a bright fallen star:

she is gone down into deep darkness;

my heart within me is heavy as stone.

A golden song for a gold sister,

a bright song for one bright as day:

she is gone out forever from Elmet;

my heart within me is winter-dark.

A golden song for a gold lady,

a bright song for one briefly loved:

she is gone out now from Manau;

my heart within me is empty and cold.

A golden song for a golden one,

a bright song to warm my cold heart:

heavy green turf grows now over Dwywei:

who will not weep with me here for her loss?”

Gwallawg looked a long time in silence at his nephew when the song was done. “Sa, sa,” he said at last, and I could hear the tears in his voice. “I will weigh it and reward it.” And he called to a servant, and had a heavy chest brought into the hall and opened. From it he took a sword in a jewel-set scabbard, a weapon for a king, and held it out to Neirin. “Take you this, Sister’s-Son, as a small part of the value of your song: I repent me that ever I spoke against your master or his teaching. Hereafter you will both be welcome in my hall.”

- from In the High Hills

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Neirin’s Singing for the Queen of Rheged’s Ladies

After a while, in and around the phrases of melody, he began to sing. It was not like any song I had ever heard a bard make before, where the harp is usually there to strengthen the beat of the words. But Neirin’s harping was not like any I had ever heard before, either; maybe that was the difference. The women were watching him intently, their eyes bright and their mouths a little open, as if to drink his words.

“Silver flows now bright as moonlight;

Cool lady’s light calling my name.

Now from their home, free they come riding,

Bridles ringing, bridging the sky.

Locked away, lost in cold darkness,

Silver sparkles, shining in night.

Arrow’s flight, unerring archer,

Strikes her target, shines silver-bright…”

- from The Court of Urien Rheged

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Neirin’s Song for Urien Rheged

He walked up the center of the hall from where we had been seated, and took his stance beside the high table, where he could see Urien and his two eldest children with a single glance. He looked around the hall calmly—I saw his master in him that night—and then began to sing.

“Great King of the North, your hand is heavy

on all your enemies, on all your foes.

They groan in anguish—Urien’s their master.

From his hard hold they cannot escape…”

I let out a sigh, but only half a sigh; so far it was a straightforward praise song, but it was not over yet.

“Fairest of women, your wife beside you,

and her fine daughter, equally fair…”

Well, that was safe enough…

“As you in arms crush all before you,

so do all fair ones before them despair…”

Careful, Neirin!

“Blesséd of Kings with such blesséd children,

blissful the court wherein they do dwell;

blushes I bear; ‘tis bliss to be near them;

best of all beauty, God’s great gift to you.”

He stopped; there was applause; Urien said something complimentary and Neirin replied. Then, after taking the silver present he was given, he took three steps to his left, went on one knee before the Lady Morfudd, and offered it to her. There was a sudden dead silence in the hall. I groaned, and wondered how fast I could saddle the horses.

- from The Court of Urien Rheged

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Neirin’s Song in the Contention of the Bards

He took his stance; I even saw him draw a deep breath to begin. Then there was a burst of snarling and barking, and almost under his feet a dog-fight broke out, three great hounds contending loudly for a single bone. Neirin took an unwary step back, tripped on something hidden in the rushes, and started to fall. Twisting instinctively to protect his harp, he struck his left shoulder on the trestle table beside him. I saw his mouth open; I saw the spasm of pain go through him; but he made no outcry. Before I could move to help him, he was on his feet again, the harp clutched clumsily against his chest. Someone had kicked the dogs away; it was time to begin. He tried to adjust the position of his harp on its sling, shook his head, and slipping off the instrument, set it on the table-top beside him. Then he stood up straight and began to sing, alone and unaccompanied, and the hall grew quiet to listen.

“I sing a great deed—the North has known it—

High will I sing it here in the King’s hall!

I sing seven warriors in harsh battle fallen,

seven bright swords, blood-bordered and keen—

Taran and Talogan, Galan and Drest,

Buan and Llif, and Arthnac the Tall—

riding swift horses you went to the North:

may the green earth above you lie light!

Bold you went forth from the courts of Dundurn,

with no concern for the end that awaited;

on that day red, though your own blood was flowing,

ravens you fed—you deserved well your mead!

Dauntless, undoubted, you slew as you fell—

one man alone came back from that slaughter:

Anile mab Talorc, defending me dearly—

and I, streaming blood, for the sake of my song.

I sing a great deed—the North has known it—

high will I sing it here in the King’s hall!

I sing three strong friends who brought me my ransom:

Gwernin and Erp and Llywarch’s bold son.

With fine steel and silver, with gold and black cattle,

ready for battle they rode from the south

to buy my way free with bleeding or blood-price,

with high hearts, hurt-heedless, they came like fierce hounds!

A green mound above me, beyond daylight’s candle

in darkness I lay with cold stone for my bed;

men called me dead then and laid in my grave there,

but chained like a slave, I still waited alone.

In the dark night then, unfrightened and fearless,

my friends found me there—they broke my iron chain!

They brought me to freedom from out my cruel prison,

from my death risen—my awen their gain!

I sing a great deed—the North has known it—

high will I sing it here in the King’s hall:

how we met Finaet, False-King, in fair fight—

Cenau mab Llywarch put flight to his pains!

Feeder of Ravens, fierce, first in slaughter,

blood flowed like water when Cenau came near:

strong door of battle, he stood in the gateway—

gave men their fate: he filled many a bier!

I saw blue blades bloodied,

I saw red blood spurting,

I saw white bones shattered

by strong Cenau’s hand;

I saw brave men fleeing,

I saw bodies broken,

I saw a strong troop routed

by one savage man!

I sing a great deed—the North has known it—

high will I sing it here in the King’s hall!

I sing of bright swords, blood-streaming in battle,

of red-bordered saddles, and fire in the night!

I sing of swift Cenau, who saved me from harm,

his strong arm around me—the warrior was bold!

Over cold hills they found me my freedom;

on eagles’ wings my friends bore me home.

Now can I sing them the song they deserve—

fierce and unswerving in that my sore need!

I sing a great deed—the North has known it—

high have I sung it here in the King’s hall!

May all who hear it remember these names:

grant them true fame: they deserved well their mead!

Taran and Talogan, Galan and Drest,

Buan and Llif, and Arthnac the Tall—

Anile mab Talorc, defending me dearly—

Gwernin and Erp, and Llywarch’s bold son.”

When he was finished, there was a long silence; then the cheering began. I found my cheeks were wet with tears, and I know I was not the only one weeping, not the only one exalting. Neirin stood in the midst of it, smiling faintly; then he picked up his harp with his right hand—he had tucked his left thumb in his belt while he sang—and came back to join me at the table. And at last the storm of applause died away.

- from The Contention of the Bards

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Neirin’s Itinerary

The light was almost gone, and the rain was getting heavier, when we broke out suddenly from beneath the trees, and found ourselves riding between the sort of grassy hummocks that we knew well by now: the ruins of a Roman town. Ahead of us a narrow bridge spanned a dark, fast-running river, and beyond it fortress walls showed the broken mouth of a gateway, black as the gates of Annwn itself. “Well,” I said, “the gods send we find a dry lodging for the night over there! Where would you be thinking we are?”

“Na, I am not sure,” said Neirin, counting on his fingers.

“Corstopitum a-top her Wall,

Vindomora in the moorlands;

Longovicium—long its welcome,

Vinovia—bend of river…

“but after that I am not remembering. Something, something by its bridge, something loud with falling water…”

“This one is loud enough,” I said as we came to the bridge. “Let us hope that the arch is sound—I am not for falling into this water tonight!”

- from The Gates of Annwn

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Neirin’s Song for the Old One

As I watched he spoke to the man in the doorway; but the words were strange to me, of no language I had ever heard. They echoed like music; they had a pitch and a timbre I could not match. But the stranger heard, and answered: and his words rang like bronze, speaking not to my ears but to my mind, to my heart. Beyond the years I remember them, and this is what he said.

“Who are you,” he asked, “that stable your beasts in the place of the God? Do you come to make the offering?”

“Na, Old One,” said Neirin. “We did not know this was a holy place. If we have offended you, we ask pardon. Of what offering do you speak?”

“The sacrifice to the God,” said the stranger. “The Dark-Of¬fering, the Blood-Offering, to the One born in winter. Long it is now since any has made it; the stones beneath you cry out for blood. Do you not hear them?”

“Na, but I do not,” said Neirin. “And I have never been deaf before! What god do you serve, Old One, and how do you come to be here in this place?”

“I ask: I do not answer,” said the stranger. “I come when the time is right. Do you not know the rhythm of the seasons, the pattern of the days? Who are you?”

“I know them well, or so I think,” said Neirin. “As to who I am—

“I am the seeker on the path,

I am the hawk upon the wind,

I am the word that shapes the breath,

I am the fire that wakes the mind,

I am a string strung in the harp,

I am a spear held in the hand,

I am the light of summer stars,

I am the life within the land,

I am the crown that makes a king,

I am the singing of his song,

I am the speaking of his word,

I am the light that brings the dawn,

I am the oldest living thing,

and I have never yet been born.”

“Not hard,” said the stranger, and laughed. “And your friend who does not speak? Who is he? Is he also a bard?”

- from The Gates of Annwn

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