“Vychan, Vychan, the hour has come!  That false traitor Sir Res has risen in revolt against England’s king.  Loyal men are called upon to put down the rebellion, and such as do so will be rewarded with the lands reft from the traitor.  Vychan, Vychan, lose not a moment; arm and take the men, and fly to Dynevor!  Now is the time to strike the blow!  And I will to Edward’s court, to plead with him for the lands and castle of Dynevor as my husband’s guerdon for his services.  O Vychan, Vychan, have not I always said that thou shouldest live to call thyself Lord of Dynevor again?”

Gertrude came flying to her husband with these words, looking scarce less young and certainly none less bright and happy than she had done four years back, when she and her husband had first stood within the walls of her ancestral home.  A beautiful, sturdy boy hung upon her hand, keeping pace gallantly even with her flying steps, and the joy of motherhood had given something of added lustre to the soft beauty of her dark eyes; otherwise she was scarce changed from the Gertrude of past days.  As for Vychan, he still retained the eagle glance, the almost boyish freshness of colouring, and the soldier-like bearing which distinguished his race, and the gold of his hair had not tarnished or faded, though he had developed from the youth to the man, and was a noble specimen of manhood in the zenith of its strength and beauty.

Rising hastily at his wife’s approach, he gazed at her with parted lips and glowing eyes, whilst she once more told him the news, brought by a special messenger from the Princess Joanna, brought thus, as both knew, with a special meaning which they well understood.  Four years of peaceful prosperity in England had in no whit weakened Vychan’s love for his own land or blunted the soldier-like instincts of his race.  There was something of the light of battle and of conquest in his eye as he gazed at his wife, and his voice rang out clear and trumpet-like as he gathered the sense of the message she brought.

“Take up arms against that false traitor-kinsman of mine? ay, verily, that I will.  False first to his kindred and his country, then false to the king who has trusted and rewarded him so nobly.  Res ap Meredith, methinks thine hour is come!  Thou didst plot and contrive to wrest from me the fair lands my father bequeathed me; but I trow the day has dawned when the false lord shall be cast forth, even as he has cast forth others, and when there shall be a lord of the old race ruling at Dynevor, albeit he rule beneath a new name.”

“Heaven grant it may be so!” cried Gertrude, the tears of excitement sparkling in her eyes; whilst little Griffeth, catching some of the sense of his father’s words, and understanding with the quick instinct of childhood that there was something unwonted going on, shook his little fist in the air, and cried: 

“Dynevor, Dynevor! me fight for Dynevor, too.”

The father picked up his son and held him in a close embrace.

“Ay, Griffeth, my man, thou shalt reign at Dynevor one of these days, please God to give us victory over false friends and traitorous allies.”

And even as the parents stood looking smilingly at the brave child, the blast from the warder’s trumpet gave notice that strangers were approaching the Hall; and hurrying to the entrance gate to be ready to receive the guests, Vychan and his wife beheld a little troop of horsemen winding their way up the valley, headed by a pair who appeared to be man and wife, and to hold some exalted position, for the trappings of their steeds and the richness of their own dress marked them as of no humble rank.

Visitors were sufficiently rare at this lonely place for this sight to cause some stir in the Hall; and Gertrude, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed eagerly at the two figures in advance.  Suddenly she gave a little cry of rapture, and bounded forward through the gateway.

“It is Arthyn ­ Arthyn and Llewelyn!  Vychan, thy brother and his wife are here.  Oh, they have come to bid thee to the fray!  They bring tidings, and are come to summon thee to the fight.

“Arthyn, sweetest sister, ten thousand welcomes to our home!  Nay, I can scarce believe this is not a dream.  How I have longed to see thee here!”

Vychan was at his brother’s side, as Arthyn, flinging herself from her saddle, flew into Gertrude’s arms.  For some moments nothing could be distinguished but the glad clamour of welcome, and scarce had that subsided before it recommenced in the eager salutations of the Welsh retainers, who saw in Vychan another of the sons of their well-loved Lord, Res Vychan, the former Lord of Dynevor and Iscennen, whose wise and merciful rule had never been forgotten.

Vychan was touched, indeed, to see how well he was remembered, and the sound of the familiar tongue sent thrills of strange emotion through him.  It was some time before he could free himself from the throng of servants who pressed round him; and when he could do so he followed his wife and guests into the banqueting hall, where the noonday repast was spread, giving charge to his seneschal for the hospitable entertainment of the retinue his brother had brought and their lodgment within the walls of the Hall.

When he reached the inner hall he found the servants spreading the best viands of the house upon the table; whilst Gertrude, Arthyn, and Llewelyn were gathered together in the embrasure of a window in eager discussion.  Gertrude broke away and came quickly towards him, her face deeply flushed and her eyes very bright.

“Vychan, it is even as we have heard.  That false traitor is in open revolt, and he has been even more false than we knew.  What think you of this? ­ he professed to be sorry for his revolt, and sent a letter of urgent pleading to Llewelyn and Arthyn begging them to use their influence with the king to obtain his pardon.  Believing him to be sincere, Llewelyn set out for England not more than two short weeks back, taking with him, on account of the unsettled state of the country, the pick of the men from Carregcennen.  And when this double-dyed traitor knows that Arthyn is alone and unprotected in the castle, what does he do but send a strong band of his soldiers, himself at their head, who obtain entrance by the subterranean passage, slay the guard, and take possession of the fortress.  Arthyn has but bare time to escape with a handful of men, and by hard riding to join her husband on the road to England.

“So now have they turned aside to tell the tale to us, and to summon thee to come with thy men and fight in the king’s quarrel against this wicked man.  And whilst ye lead your soldiers into Wales, Arthyn and I will to the court, to lay the story before the royal Edward, and to gain from him the full and free grants of the castles of Dynevor and Carregcennen for our husbands, who have responded to his call, and have flown to wrest from the traitor the possession he has so unrighteously grasped.”

“Thy wife speaketh wise words, Vychan,” said Llewelyn, whose dark brows wore a threatening look, and who had the appearance of a man deeply stirred to wrath, as indeed he well might be; “and it were well that we lost no time in dallying here.  How many men canst thou summon to thy banner, and when can we be on the march for the south?  The Earl of Cornwall has been called upon to quell this revolt, and he has summoned to his aid all loyal subjects of the king who hold dear the peace and prosperity of their land.

“The days are gone by in which I should despise that call and join the standard of revolt.  The experience of the past has taught me that in the English alliance is Wales’s only hope of tranquillity and true independence and civilization.  When such men as this Res ap Meredith break into revolt against Edward, it is time for us to rally round his standard.  What would our lives, our lands, our liberties be worth were such a double-distilled traitor as he transformed into a prince, as is his fond ambition?”

“True, Llewelyn, true.  The race of kings has vanished from Wales, and methinks there is no humiliation in owning as sovereign lord the lion-hearted King of England.  Moreover, has he not given us a prince of our own, born upon Welsh soil, sprung of a kingly race?  We will rally round the standard of father and son, and trust that in the future a brighter day will dawn for our long-distracted country.”

So forthwith there sped messengers through the wild valleys and wilder fells of Derbyshire, and many a sturdy son of the mountains came gladly and willingly at the call of the feudal lord whose wise and kindly rule had made him greatly beloved.  The fighting instinct of the age and of the race was speedily aroused by this call to arms, and the surrounding gentlemen and yeomen of the county likewise pressed their services upon Vychan, glad to be able to strike a blow to uphold the authority of a king whose wise and brave rule had already made him the idol of the nation.

It was a goodly sight to see the brothers of Dynevor (as their wives could not but call them once again) ride forth at the head of this well-equipped following.  Llewelyn marvelled at the discipline displayed by the recruits ­ a discipline decidedly in advance of anything his own ruder followers could boast.  But Welsh and English for once were in brotherly accord, and rode shoulder to shoulder in all good fellowship; and the English knew that their ruder comrades from Cambria, if less well trained and drilled, would be able to show them a lesson in fierce and desperate fighting, to which they were far more inured than their more peaceable neighbours from the sister country.

And fighting there was for all; but the struggle, if fierce, was brief.  Sir Res was a coward at heart, as it is the wont of a traitor to be, and finding himself opposed by foes as relentless and energetic as Vychan and Llewelyn, he was speedily driven from fortress to fortress, till at length he was forced to surrender himself a prisoner to the Earl of Gloucester; who, out of kindness to his wife, Auda de Hastings, connived at his escape to Ireland.

There he lived in seclusion for some time; but the spirit of rebellion was still alive within him, and two years later he returned to Wales, and succeeded in collecting an army of four thousand turbulent spirits about him, at the head of which force he fought a pitched battle with the king’s justiciary, Robert de Tibetot.  His army was cut to pieces.  He was taken prisoner himself, and met a cruel death at York as the reward of his many acts of treasonable rebellion.

But the halls of Dynevor saw him no more from the moment when Res Vychan, with a swelling heart, first drove him forth, and planted his own foot once again upon the soil dearer to him than any other spot on earth.  As he stood upon the familiar terrace, looking over the wide, fair valley of the Towy, his heart swelled with thankfulness and joy; and if a slow, unwonted tear found its way to his eye, it was scarce a tear of sorrow, for he felt assured that his brother Griffeth was sharing in the joy of this restoration to the old home, and that his loving and gentle spirit was not very far from him at this supreme hour of his life.

“Father, father, father!”

Vychan turned with a start at the sound of the joyous call, and the next moment was clasping wife and son to his breast.

“Sweetheart! come so quickly?  How couldst thou?”

“Ay, Vychan, love hath ever wings, and neither I nor Arthyn could keep away, our business at the court once accomplished.  Vychan, husband, thou standest here Lord of Dynevor in thine own right.  Thou hast won back thine ancestral home, the boy’s inheritance.

“Seest thou this deed?  Knowest thou the king’s seal?  Take it, for it secureth all to thee under thy name of Vychan Cherleton.  And if in times to come those who come after know not that it was the son of Res Vychan who thus reclaimed his patrimony, and if our worthy chroniclers set down that Dynevor and its lands passed to the keeping of the English, what matters it?  We know the truth, and those who have loved thee and thy father know who thou art and whence thou hast come.  Let that be sufficient for thee and for me.

“Griffeth, little son, kiss thy father, and bid him welcome to his own halls again ­ the halls of Dynevor.”

Vychan could not speak.  He pressed one passionate kiss upon the lips of his wife, and another upon the brow of his noble boy, who looked every inch a Dynevor, with the true Dynevor features, and the bold, fearless mien so like his father’s.

Then commanding himself by an effort, he opened the king’s parchment and quickly mastered its contents, after which he took his wife’s hand and held out the other to his son.

“My faithful fellows are mustering in the hall to bid me welcome once more to Dynevor.  Come, sweet wife; I must show to them their lady and their future lord.

“Arthyn ­ where is she?  Has she gone on to Iscennen to meet Llewelyn there?”

“Ay, verily:  she was as hungry for him as I for thee; and she hath a similar mandate for him regarding his rights to Carregcennen.

“O Vychan, dearest husband, I can scarce believe it is not all a dream.”

Indeed, to Vychan it seemed almost as though he dreamed, as in the old familiar hall he stood, a little raised from the crowd of armed retainers upon the steps of the wide oak staircase, as he addressed to them a speech eloquent with that thrilling eloquence which is the gift of all who speak from the heart, and speak to hearts beating in deep and true response.  Vychan thanked all those who had so bravely fought for him, explained to all assembled there his new position and his new name, bid them not think him less a Welshman and a Dynevor because he bore his wife’s arms and called himself the servant of the English king, and held up before their eyes the mandate of that English king confirming to him the lands and halls of Dynevor.

A wild, ringing cheer broke from all who heard him as he thus proved to their own satisfaction that the royal Edward was their best friend, and as the new Lord of Dynevor held up his child for them to see, and to own as future lord in the time-honoured fashion, such a shout went up from the throats of all as made the vaulted roof ring again.  Blades were unsheathed and waved in wild enthusiasm, and Gertrude’s dark eyes glistened through a mist of proud and happy tears.

Suddenly from some dim recess in the old ball there issued a strain of wild music ­ the sound of a harp played by no unskilled hand; whilst mingling with the twang of the strings was the voice of the ancient bard, cracked through age, yet still retaining the old power and some of the old sweetness.  And harp and voice were raised alike in one of those triumph songs that have ever been as the elixir of life to the strong, rude, sensitive sons of wild Cambria.

“It is Wenwynwyn,” quoth Vychan.  “He is yet alive.  I little thought to see him more.

“Griffeth, boy, run to yon old man and bid him give thee his blessing, and tell him that there is a son of Dynevor come back to rule as Lord of Dynevor once again.”

Postscript.

The story of the sons of Res Vychan is very intricate and difficult to follow, owing to the lack of contemporaneous documents; but the main facts of their story as related in the foregoing pages are true, though a certain license has been taken for purposes of fiction.

They have been represented as somewhat younger than they were at the time of these events, whilst the children of Edward the First have been made some few years older than their true ages.

There is no actual historical warrant for the change of identity between Wendot and Griffeth, and for the escape and reinstatement of the former in the halls of Dynevor; but there are traditions which point to a possibility that he did escape from prison, in spite of the affirmation of the chroniclers, as there have been those who claim descent from him, which they would hardly have done if such had not been the case, for there is no record that he was married before he was taken prisoner to England.

The children of the English king were not really at Rhuddlan Castle in 1277, as represented here, as they were at that time too young to accompany their father on his expeditions.  If, however, they had been as old as represented in these pages, there is little doubt they would have accompanied him, as the monarch was a most affectionate father, and loved to have wife and children about him.

Arthyn is a fictitious character; as is also Gertrude.  There is no record that any of the sons of Res Vychan married or left descendants, except the tradition alluded to above.