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* Author : Heather Rose Jones
* Narrator : Pip Hoskins
* Host : Rachael K. Jones
* Audio Producer : Peter Wood
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PodCastle 486: Hyddwen is a PodCastle original.


Rated PG-13.
Hyddwen
by Heather Rose Jones
Morvyth verch Rys na vynnei wr, o achaws y serch, a’r caryat a dodassei hi ar Elin, Arglwyddes Madrunion. A guedy daruot a dywedyssam ni uchot—anvon y gwylan yn llatai attei, a’r chwarae a’r got yn y wled, a gyrru’r Gwyddel i ymdeith yn waclaw—dyvod a wnaeth Morvyth hyt yn Llyswen. Ac yno y trulyssant teir blyned trwy digrivwch a llywenyd.
Morvyth, the daughter of Rys, had no desire for a husband because of the passion and the love she had for Elin, the Lady of Madrunion. And after what we spoke of above—sending the gull as love-messenger to her, and the trick with the sack at the wedding feast, and sending the Irishman away empty-handed—Morvyth came to live at Llyswen. And there they spent three years in happiness and joy.


At the end of the year—when the harvest has been taken in and all the land looks toward the long, dark winter—doors can open between the worlds and we, as well as other things, may come and go between them. Indeed, it was at the changing of the year four years past that my Elin first took me from Caer Alarch, and again at the next year’s changing when she returned to my father’s hall to win my freedom. And though Llyswen lay in as mortal a realm as the one I had left, it was a fitting time for such a journey.
But the turning of the year is also the season for hunting. We were a company of two score that day—noble men and women of the court—and thought to hunt the wood of Coetmor, where the deer were said to be plump and the deep branch-vaulted shadows left running space for horse and hound.
The wind was sharp and chill, with a threat of rain to it, but the clouds stayed off to the north. Elin was dressed in a short gray tunic, and rough hunting boots on her feet. Her only concession to rank was a scarlet cloak with golden borders and the gold fillet on her brow. For the rest, she put me in mind of the wild, bare-legged girl I had loved—more than I knew then—and had followed over the hills near Caer Alarch.
When my horse stood ready, Elin came to help me into the saddle and I said, “You make me cold just to look at you!”
She laughed and kissed my fingers. “So, Morvyth, it isn’t only modesty that keeps you in long skirts?”
I laughed in return as I arranged my blue gown about my limbs where the leggings showed above my boots. Not modesty entirely, no, but she ruled here and I was her woman. That was enough to ask her people to accept. I had not yet found my own place so I had to be careful.
The hounds yelped, eager to be off, and the huntsmen strained to keep them in check. I took my bow from the hand that held it up and fastened the quiver of arrows to my saddle. Like a flock of birds we were off. We followed the ridge up along the valley, past the fallow fields and into the scattered oak and hazel at the forest’s edge. The hounds were slipped and soon we could hear their belling through the trees.
Elin would always be at the front, while I was content to ride in the crowd, so I rarely saw her during that morning. But as the day drew on toward afternoon and still we had seen no quarry, she fell back to my side and we rode easily together as if we had come for pleasure and not for sport.
“It will be mutton again tonight,” I teased her.