The Last Bard

The Last Bard

  Tom Davies

  Copyright Tom Davies 2010

  Thank you for your support.

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  The Last Bard

  I really don’t know if this is a ghost story or not. Perhaps it’s something more, maybe not. It’s possible that I have filled in some parts over the years, a mixture of remembrance and dreams. All I can tell you are the facts as I think they happened.

  Some nine years ago, two friends and I stayed for a night in Beddgelert, in the shadow of mount Snowdon. Nineteenth century legend has it that the village is named for Gelert, Prince Llywelyn the Great's ill-fated hunting hound, possibly the most famous animal ever to have been punished for someone (or something) else’s crime. We were there to climb the mountain, and decided we should go to the pub the night of our arrival, in case we didn’t make it the next day. Anyway, after unpacking at our bed and breakfast, we set out on foot in search of liquid refreshment.

  What sticks in my mind, even now, was the feeling of homecoming, of familiarity, that had struck me as we wound through the valleys. The smell of the air, the spectacular greens, browns and greys, they didn't so much enter my mind as fight their way free, like suppressed memories buried too long. Walking through the village, I again felt a kind of contentment, a feeling of belonging that I could neither explain nor deny. The pub we chose was old, towards the centre of the village. I can’t remember much of the exterior, and perhaps it’s unimportant. I must, however, have looked at the pub sign, because the name of the establishment sent my thoughts in a specific direction; The Prince Llywelyn.

  My friends and I bustled inside in the half light of the evening. There was some early trade already warming the bar, so, ale secured from the wild-bearded landlord, we decamped to a corner table and people-watched for a while. Again, the details are hazy, but I recall the interior of the pub as a place out of time, the light from the fire playing on the light, waxed wood. It seemed to glow golden. After the comedic potential of the evening’s punters faded somewhat, the conversation turned from general gossip about people we knew, to stories, and then, because I’m half welsh, and perhaps given a nudge by fate and the presence of a large and friendly Irish Wolfhound in the bar, I regaled my two companions with the story of Gelert himself, how…

  Prince Llywelyn had gone hunting without his faithful, favourite hound, and how the sun hadn’t seemed to shine half as bright, and how the quarry had not run as spectacularly as it did when the great beast was there.

  By this point I’d had a few beers and my voice was loud, and I noticed a few other people listening, maybe locals or tourists, and an old man with bright, amused eyes sat at the bar, nursing a pint of dark ale. I described how …

  Llywelyn had become bored and listless, given the day up for lost and returned home vowing never again to go without Gelert…

  I paused for a sip of beer, and realised suddenly how quiet the pub was. I’m generally quite shy, so my nerves started to tingle, but the beer made me brave, and I’d started this, so I told them …

  Of the Prince’s shock, upon returning to his hunting lodge to find the door ajar, how he drew his sword, and pushed it open gently with his fingertips, cautious, for assassination was a way of life. How he became aware of the quiet, how the warrior in him was tempered by that sudden dread of every parent. For his baby son was in the lodge somewhere, not yet out of his cradle. Here, as he moves stealthily down the corridor, an overturned chair, blood on the spokes. He edges up to an inner door, nerves alight, and again uses his fingers to push it open, taking in the room an inch at a time. The room is a mess, total disarray. Perhaps a curse escapes his lips as he sees more blood on the floor, the table shattered, crockery smashed. And then he sees the leg of the baby’s nursemaid protruding obscenely from behind a pile of furniture, the body partially covered by a torn and shredded tapestry. Behind him he can hear his hunting companions moving through the rest of the building, hurried footsteps, but he gradually becomes aware of another sound…

  I stopped again, to catch my breath, and most of them were hanging on my words. I’d never had this power before…

  Panting. He can hear panting. He throws the door wide, takes in the rest of the destruction. What he expects to see, I can only guess, this man of war, but two things leap straight to his eye. The first is the cradle, twisted and overturned, blood on the floor all around. His heart lurches, but he controls it. The second thing is…

  ‘Gelert’ called someone, only to receive a slap around the head from his neighbour.

  Yes. Gelert the faithful, sitting calmly, waiting to greet his master home from the hunt as he has been trained from a pup. For a second, perhaps, Llywelyn is pleased to see him. And then he works it out, or thinks he has, for Gelert is covered in gore. Overcome with excitement, he bounds over to his master, who stands aghast in the remains of his life. Then the trained-but-wild part, the painted blue Celt, the screaming savage part inside all of us reacts, and his sword is in his hand above his head, point down, the killing blow dropping like a stone, like a falcon, unstoppable.

  He runs his faithful servant through like he would any other enemy.

  The dog screams, puzzlement and pain and loss, one last howl, and then he dies.

  And Llywelyn, standing shocked, hears another sound, one that has him scrabbling at the overturned cradle. A young child’s cry; loud and demanding and strong. He tears back the heavy wooden cradle, throws it aside as easily as you and I would toss away a cigarette, and the truth is revealed. There, safe under the cradle is the boy, his son. Beyond it, a great wolf, grey and red, for it has no throat, but how much of the blood is the wolf’s and how much the nursemaid’s? And Llywelyn remembers then the deep scratches in Gelert’s flank, the way he favoured one paw, honourable wounds indeed, for although the wolf is thin, it is large, and has jaws like a vice… and then he weeps, for he understands what he has lost, a true comrade and valiant friend. And they say he heard that last howl the rest of his life and never smiled again….

  I saw tears in the eyes of one woman, and sat down, suddenly embarrassed by my forwardness at standing there in that circle of people, for I suddenly realised that I was no longer seated. A couple of them clapped, and I caught a few approving nods from a couple of older men at the bar. The smiling old man was nowhere to be seen, I noticed with a strange disappointment. Drinks were bought for my friends and I, but my head was spinning and I was hot. I excused myself and went outside, blowing air into my cheeks in the cold night air. I fumbled around for my tobacco, and started forming a cigarette with my fingers. I’d just licked the paper and set it between my lips when a soft voice behind me made me jump.

  ‘You did OK in there, bach….’ I turned, ready to say thank you to the smiling man, for somehow I knew it was he, but he continued before I could open my mouth to speak. ‘Not brilliant, and certainly not as well as you thought you did, but you deserve the beer that your friends are now drinking.’ He smiled as he said it, and I smiled too, knowing he was right about both my performance and my friends. ‘You here to climb?’ I nodded yes. ‘Then do yourself a favour, get off on your own on the mountain. Just let her take you out of yourself for a while, you’ll be a better man for it.’ I lit my cigarette while he talked, and studied him. He was shorter than me, but wiry, with the look of a man who walked a lot, and I knew he could get up the mountain faster than me, despite his years, that he probably spent half his life up there. Hell, he could carry me up there, most likely. Suddenly he stuck out his hand and speared me with a quizzical look. I shook and told him my name. His grip was like a Dashiell Hammett cliché, hard enough to crush rocks. I felt it in my elbow, and my grip is pretty good from climbing. ‘With a name like that you must be a Welshman.’ It was a statement, n
ot a question, so I explained a little of my family background. He nodded again. ‘Good man, only a Welshman could tell that story the way you did.’ He took out a pouch of tobacco and a pipe. ‘Now, remember what I said about the mountain, lad. You need to be alone to let her in. She won’t let you come to any harm. In fact, I’ll tell you a story about her.’