Elphin took the bowl and drank, emptying it in three great swallows. Hafgan refilled the bowl from the pitcher and gave it to Rhonwyn, repeating his injunction. She drained the bowl and returned it to the druid. The bowl was filled a third time and placed in the wedding couple’s hands. “This bowl represents your new life commingled; drink deeply of it together. “

Elphin and Rhonwyn lifted the bowl and shared it between them until it was gone. While they were drinking, Hafgan stooped and, taking hold of the ends of their cloaks, tied the two ends together.

“Smash the bowl!” instructed Hafgan when they had finished, and they threw the bowl to the ground where it broke into three large pieces. The druid studied the shards for a moment, then raised his staff and proclaimed, “I see here a long and fruitful marriage! A union richly blessed with every good fortune!”

“Long live Elphin and Rhonwyn!” returned the guests. “May their house prosper!”

An avenue was opened in the circle, and Elphin and his bride were conducted to the long timber table where they were seated on a couch of rushes covered with dappled fawn skins, and the feast began. Food was served up in wooden trenchers, the choicest morsels going to the wedding pair. A huge silver chalice was filled with wine and placed before them. Everyone found a place to sit: honored guests were seated at the low tables to the right and left of die wedding pair according to rank, and all the rest claimed places on skins and rugs scattered on the ground.

They talked and laughed as they ate, voices loud in rejoicing. And when the delights of the table had been sampled sufficiently, the people began to clamor for entertainment.

“Hafgan!” called Gwyddno merrily. “A song! Sing us a song, bard!”

“I will sing,” answered the druid. “But I beg the honor of singing last. Allow my filidh to begin in my stead.”

“Very well, save your voice,” answered Gwyddno. “But we will require your best before this feast is through.”

The apprentice bards produced their harps and began to sing. They sang the old songs of conquest and loss, of heroes and their mighty deeds of valor, of the love of their women, of beauty bright and tragic death. As they sang, the moon rose with her train of stars, and evening deepened to night.

Elphin gazed at his wife and loved her. Rhonwyn returned his gaze and leaned close, nestling her head against his chest. And all who saw them remarked at the great change in Elphin, for indeed he seemed a new-made man.

When the filidh finished their songs, a cry went up for Hafgan. “Give us a song!” cried some. “A story!” cried others.

Taking up his harp, he came to stand before the table. “What do you wish to hear, lord?”

He addressed Elphin, and no one failed to grasp the significance, although Elphin deferred, saying, “It is my father’s place to choose. I am certain his choice will please.”

“A story, then,” said Gwyddno. “A tale of bravery and magic.”

Hafgan paused for a moment, plucking a few idle notes on the harp, men announced, “Hear then, if you will, the story of Pwyll, Prince of Annwfn.”

“Excellent!” the listeners cried. Cups and bowls were refilled as the wedding guests hunkered down to hear the tale.

“In the days when the dew of creation was still fresh on the earth, Pwyll was lord over seven cantrefs of Dyfed, and seven of Gwynedd, and seven of Lloegr as well. In Caer Narberth, his principal stronghold, he awakened one morning and looked out upon the wild hills abounding with game of all kinds and it came into his head to assemble his men and go hunting. And this is the way of it…”

Hafgan’s voice rang out strong and clear, and the story unfolded in its familiar pattern to the delight of the listeners. At certain places in the tale, the druid would strum the harp and sing the passage, as prescribed by tradition. It was a well-known story, one relished by all who heard it, for Hafgan told it well, acting out the important parts, making his voice accommodate the speech of the various characters. This is the tale he told:

“Now the part of his realm that Pwyll wished to hunt was Glyn Cuch and he set out at once with a great company of men and they rode until dusk, arriving just as the sun was slipping into the western sea, beginning its journey through the Underworld.”

They made camp and slept, and at dawn the next morning they rose and entered the woods of Glyn Cuch, where they loosed the hounds. Pwyll sounded his horn, mustered the hunt and, being the fastest rider, set off behind his dogs.

“He followed the chase and in no time was lost to his companions, far outdistancing them in the thick-tangled woods. As he was listening to the cry of his hunting-pack, he heard the cry of another pack, far different from his own, coming toward him, their cry a chill on the wind. He rode to a clearing before him and entered a wide and level field where he saw his dogs cowering at the edge of the clearing while the other pack raced after a magnificent stag. And lo, while he watched, the strange dogs overtook the stag and bore it to the ground.

“He rode forward and saw the color of the hounds, and of all the hunting dogs in all the world he had never before seen any like these: the hair of their coats was a brilliant, shining white, and that of their ears red. And the redness of the ears gleamed as bright as the whiteness of their bodies glittered. And Pwyll rode to the shining dogs and scattered them, choosing to set his own hounds upon the killed stag.

“As he was feeding the dogs, a horseman appeared before him on a large dapple-gray horse, a hunting horn about his neck, wearing a pale gray garment for hunting gear. The horseman approached him, saying, ‘Chieftain, I know who you are, but I greet you not at all.’

“ ‘Well,’ said Pwyll, ‘perhaps your rank does not require it.’

“ ‘Lieu knows,’ exclaimed the horseman, ‘it is not my dignity or the obligation of rank that prevents me.’

“ ‘What else then, lord? Tell me if you can,’ said Pwyil.

“ ‘Can and will,’ replied the horseman sternly. ‘I swear by the gods of heaven and earth, it is your own ignorance and discourtesy!’

“ ‘What lack of courtesy have you seen in me, lord?’ inquired Pwyll, for indeed he could not think of any.

“ ‘Greater discourtesy have I never seen in man,’ the strange horseman replied, ‘than to drive away the pack that killed the stag and set your own upon it. Shame! That shows a woeful lack of courtesy. Even so, I will not take revenge upon you-though well I might-but I will have a bard satirize you to the value of a hundred stags.’

“ ‘Lord,’ Pwyll pleaded, ‘if I have committed a wrong, I will sue directly for peace with you.’

“ ‘On what terms?’ asked the horseman.

“ ‘Such as your rank, whatever it is, may require.’

“ ‘Know me then. I am crowned king of the land from which I hail.’

“ ‘May you prosper with the day! Which land might that be, lord?’ wondered Pwyll, ‘For I myself am king of all lands hereabouts.’

“ ‘Annwfn,’ replied the horseman. ‘I am Arawn, King of Annwfn.’

“Pwyll thought about this, for it was ill-luck to converse with a being of the Otherworld, king or no. But as he had already pledged himself to redeem friendship with the horseman, he had no choice but to abide by his word if he would not bring greater dishonor and misfortune on his name. ‘Tell me then, O King, if you will, how I may redeem our friendship, and I will do it gladly.’

“ ‘Listen, chieftain, here is how you will redeem it,’ began the horseman. ‘A man whose realm borders on mine makes war on me continually. He is Grudlwyn Gorr, a lord of Annwfn, and by ridding me of his oppression-which you can do quite easily-you will \have peace with me, as will your descendants after you.’

“And the king spoke ancient and mysterious words and Pwyll’s likeness became that of the king’s so that no one could tell them apart. ‘See?’ said the king, ‘You now have my shape and manner; therefore, go into my realm and take my place and rule as you will until the end of a year from tomorrow, when we shall meet again in this place.’