she did not even have a pallet, but one evening a small featherbed appeared upon her sleeping shelf. Forced to compete with the dogs in the hall for her food, she was near to starving, for the cruel among Pwyll's courtiers found it amusing to set the dogs afighting over choice morsels thrown upon the rushes, particularly when they saw the poor princess attempting to gather up a few crusts for her meal. Then one morning Rhiannon awoke to find a fresh trencher of bread filled with steaming barley cereal set within a small hollow in the stone walls by her sleeping shelf. She gobbled it eagerly, relieved to know she would not be nipped by the dogs that day. And in the evening there was more bread and an apple! Each day the food appeared; simple food; sometimes a piece of fowl, or game, or cheese; and always bread. She never knew who brought it, but she was grateful for the kindness, for lack of food, Rhiannon discovered, seemed to make her woes appear even greater.
Then the winter came and the days grew shorter. The air was bitter cold and the winds cut through the soft fabric of her gown, which had now grown quite faded and thin. One day a red-cheeked peasant woman approached Rhiannon, and she arose to say the words taught her. The woman, however, said in no-nonsense tones, 'Now, my princess, ye'll not say such a lie to me, for I know it not to be true, whatever those wicked men may claim!' Then she removed her own long cloak, a thickly woven wool garment in a natural color and dropped it over Rhiannon's shoulders. 'Ye'll not get through the winter without it, dearie,' she said, and walked away in the same direction from which she'd come.
For the first time since she had been forced to sit before the gates of Pwyll's castle in punishment, Rhiannon wept. And it was not the only kindness that would be shown her. On another winter's day a young boy pushed a crudely carved comb of pearwood into her hand and, with a bob of his head, ran off. Rhiannon could not have been more delighted, for she had been forced to comb her hair with her fingers these many months.
But there was cruelty as well as kindness. One night Rhiannon watched, puzzled, as Bronwyn deliberately plied both her father and Pwyll with goblet after goblet of wine until Pwyll slid unconscious beneath the high board. Bronwyn then led the drunken Cynbel to that secluded place in the hall where Rhiannon now made her home and encouraged her inebriated parent, who had secretly lusted after Rhiannon since his first sight of her, to forcibly violate Pwyll's beautiful wife. Cynbel would not remember his bestial act come the dawn, but Bronwyn, her own hand silencing Rhiannon's cries for help, knew this final act of treachery would assure her her victory over Rhiannon.
In her pain the mauve mists swirled about her once again.
How long had she sat here before Pwyll's gates, the heavy collar pressing its brutal weight upon her delicate frame? Four summers had passed since the birth and mysterious disappearance of her infant son. Four long summers when the dust from the road had almost choked her each time a party of merchants or other travelers passed by. Three long, cold winters when the icy rains, and finally the snows, had put chilblains upon her delicate hands and feet that would not heal completely until the warm weather had returned. She still wore the same gown she had worn from the first day, but it was now ragged beyond repair, and its soft lavender color had long ago faded to a dingy, pale ash-grey. Without the cloak she had been given, she would have never survived the winters, but she could not wear the wool garment throughout the summer, and wondered how she could obtain a new gown to cover her painfully thin form.
They had not broken her brave spirit, however. The common people had continued to be kind, and but for occasional cruelties from Bronwyn, the court ignored her entirely. As the featherbed had appeared so magically one day, and the food each morning and evening, so also did Rhiannon's silver hairbrush come into her possession after a time. She kept it with her wherever she went. Once each day she would sit before the gates of the castle, unbind her long golden hair and slowly brush it until it came alive with light. The Cymri people would come to watch her, enjoying the simple entertainment she offered. Seeing Rhiannon one day as she slowly stroked her golden hair with her silver brush, Bronwyn was enraged.
'Take the brush away from her!' she screamed at her father. 'The bitch but draws attention to herself in an effort to gain the peasant's sympathy! Next, Pwyll will learn of it and take her back! All my work of the last few years will be for nought!'
'That, my dear Bronwyn, is your problem, not mine,' Cynbel of Teifi told his furious daughter coldly. 'If you cannot win Pwyll over, it is not my fault. He loves the woman of the Fair Folk yet, though not enough to overcome a suspicion of her which I have so carefully instilled in him. Be patient, and you will be Pwyll's wife, I promise you. Take Rhiannon's brush from her, and you will cause a spectacle. The peasants will turn against Pwyll,
They argued in the Great Hall and, though she could not overhear their words, Rhiannon saw the discord between them, and she was glad of this division among her enemies. As the shock of the injustice visited upon her had worn off, Rhiannon realized that though she would never return to Pwyll, neither could she allow Bronwyn to become his wife. Bronwyn was not fit to be poor Pwyll's wife. Besides, wherever Anwyl was, it was he who was the true heir to Dyfed.
The autumn came once more, and one afternoon as she sat upon the horse block before the castle gates, she saw three figures upon horseback coming toward her. As they drew nearer Rhiannon could see a man, a woman, and a small boy. She arose slowly and began her now familiar litany in a dull monotone. It was the only way she could manage to say the awful words without shrieking her frustration.
'As I murdered my child, I am condemned to remain here for a term of seven years. Should you wish to enter the court of Pwyll of Dyfed, it is my duty to bear you upon my back into the prince's hall. This is my punishment.'
The man, who was obviously a wealthy lord, as the gold torque about his neck indicated, said quietly, 'Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, I greet you. I am Teirnyon, lord of Gwent. This lady is my wife, Elaine, and the child is called Cant. We will take no part in a shameful injustice visited upon an innocent woman.' The lord of Gwent was a tall man with a kind face. He reached out and carefully lifted the heavy horse collar from Rhiannon's slender shoulders. 'Come with us into your husband's hall, princess.'
'My lord, I am forbidden to leave my place until after the sun has set,' Rhiannon said softly. The lord of Gwent's kindness was almost more than she could bear. It had been months since anyone had spoken to her, let alone spoken to her with kindness.
'You will never sit before these gates again, princess,' Teirnyon told her firmly. 'We are here to right the wrong done you four years ago by those who have only their own interests and not Dyfed's in their evil hearts. Only trust us and come.' Then taking her hand, he led her into Pwyll's hall. Behind him Elaine and Cant followed.
It was the dinner hour. There were gasps of surprise and many a shocked face as the quartet entered the Great Hall of Dyfed and made their way to stand before Pwyll. Because of his great size, however, none attempted to stop the lord of Gwent or his little group, the crowd giving way before him as he strode through the hall, directly up to the high board.
'How dare you escort this felon into the center of the prince's hall?' demanded Bronwyn of the White Breast boldly from her place next to Pwyll on the prince's bench. 'Has she not told you how she murdered her own newborn son? She is a witch of the Fair Folk, though her power has been rendered useless before honest folk as ourselves. Where is her collar? Whoever you are, you will answer for this outrage!'
The look Teirnyon cast in Bronwyn's direction was scathing in both its content and its brevity. 'Greetings, Pwyll of Dyfed,' Teirnyon began, addressing the prince directly and ignoring Bronwyn. 'I am Teirnyon, the lord of Gwent, and this is my lady wife, Elaine of Powys.'
Pwyll sighed deeply, but he focused his sad eyes upon his visitor. Gracious hospitality was the first law among the Cymri peoples. 'You are welcome to my castle, Teirnyon of Gwent, and your family also,' Pwyll responded. He deliberately ignored Rhiannon. Seeing her now was far too hard for him. She was so painfully thin, and yet her beauty seemed to glow as brightly as it ever had.
'Hear me, prince of Dyfed, for I have come to right a terrible wrong done your family. You have allowed your faithful wife, Rhiannon of the Fair Folk, to be unjustly condemned. Such behavior is unworthy of the prince of Dyfed.'
Pwyll looked startled by this rebuke and more alert than he had in the past several years. 'Can you prove my wife's innocence, my lord?' he asked Teirnyon hesitantly. 'If you can, you will do what no other, even she, has been able to do.'
