The Bwy Hir Complete Trilogy Read online

  The Bwy Hir Trilogy

  Lowri Thomas

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities

  is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Lowri Thomas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

  permission of the author.

  Lowri Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  Cover illustration © Lowri Thomas

  Edited by Fran Hall

  REFERENCE

  Adfyw: Half alive, half dead

  Ateb: Potion

  Bradychwr: Traitor; follower of Arawn

  Bwy Hir: Ancient race, referred to in the bible as Nephilim

  Caerlleon: Chester

  Cerdd Carega: ‘Music Stone’ or ‘Here and There Stone’

  Cân y Pant: Song of the Dell

  Chosen: Male initiates of the faithful families

  Cwn Annwn: Hounds of Annwn

  Drych Derwydd: Druid Mirror

  Dduallt: Hound kennels and prison

  Tân Derwydd: Druid’s fire

  Druids: Bards, alchemists and intermediaries

  Eryri: Snowdon

  Gwaradwyddedig: Shamed

  Gwyddbwyll: Ancient Cymric Board Game

  Gwrach(od): Witch(es)

  Hanner bridia: Half breed

  Helgi: Druid Hound

  Host: Males of the Bwy Hir

  Lost: Title given to all those not part of the Triskele

  Maen Du : Druid Halls

  Mynyd y Gelli: Gelli Mountain, sacred meeting place

  Powlen ysbryd: Spirit bowl

  Pride: Females of the Bwy Hir

  R’hela: The Hunt

  Tarian: Shield.

  Triskele: Ancient bond of Chosen, Druids & Bwy Hir

  Tylwyth Teg: Small folk or faeries

  Y Gwag: The emptiness

  Ysbrydion: Ghostly spirits

  Drych Ysgrifennu: Writing Mirror

  The Triskele

  BOOK ONE OF

  THE BWY HIR TRILOGY

  Truth not fable binds us so,

  Three in one to Gelli go,

  Icy waters bathe our skin,

  Side by side both kith and kin,

  Freely given, freely took,

  Bound and bidden,

  Hound and crook.

  PROLOGUE

  The chosen men were led in single file into the ring of ancient standing stones. Torches flickered furiously against the impudent wind blowing across the hallowed hilltop. The inky sky was clear and the stars sparkled brightly in rivalry with the flames blazing beneath them, pulsing to the rhythm of the Bodrans that echoed through the valley.

  Once each man was stationed in his allotted place within the circle they were each brought to their knees by the black hooded Druids performing the ceremony. Every chosen man was naked and still dripping wet from their submersion in the hoary lake at the foot of the hilltop. They were pure, they were willing; they were Chosen.

  They were genuflected in preparation for the Harvest, as had their fathers and their forefathers. The blood that coursed through their veins was untainted; pure. They were the descendants of princes: The Princes of Cymru.

  The Druids each had a small table positioned at their hip laden with the required instruments to continue with the ritual. Binding each man’s arm with a tourniquet in readiness to extract the yield, they inserted silver needles into each arm and the required amount of blood was extracted before being poured into a ceremonial bowl.

  Once complete, the tourniquet was removed and then a silver goblet was passed between the men, each taking a sip that would send their minds into a temporary oblivion, their eyes rolling into the back of their heads, jaws slackened, muscles relaxed. Some would slump to the ground, some would remain kneeling; all were now disregarded, their service rendered.

  The Bodrans increased their tempo as the recipients of the Harvest moved forward to receive their bounty, standing in front of their allotted donor. The Bwy Hir: demigods, the ancient that make their final home in the lands of Cymru. They did not kneel; they tower over both Druid and man. The female recipients wore simple sarongs loosely bound to their waist, their bare breasts glistened in the moonlight, their eyes glazed, their expressions cold, their only movement was to lift their arm forward, surrendering to the Druids’ cold, nervous touch.

  The females took the blood in pure form, nothing was added to the deep red fluid as it was injected to fuse with their own lifeblood; rejuvenating, recharging, invigorating.

  For the male recipients, looming eagerly over their donors, naked and resplendent, their elixir would be enhanced by the Druids. This was the true purpose of the Harvest. Although Human blood was vital for the continued existence of the Bwy Hir recipients, the enhancement added to the elixir by the Druids was vital for the reproduction of the Bwy Hir; no child could be conceived without it.

  The Bodrans continued their pounding from the shadows and the Druids removed themselves from the circle, turning their backs on the flickering torches and staring into the night. The hostile, violent coupling that was about to transpire was forbidden to look upon. Only once the last Bwy Hir removed themselves from the hilltop would the Druids complete the ceremony, removing all trace of occupancy and by sunrise the men would begin to stir, finding themselves fully dressed with no recollection of the ritual subsequent to sipping from the silver goblet.

  Fuzzy headed, aching and tired, each man would return to their normal, everyday lives. They would return home, kiss their wives and children, till the fields and tend their livestock. Normality would continue on the farms nestled in the valley until the next Solstice, which just happened to coincide with the bi-annual Farmers Union Conference.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Summer’s gentle breeze blew through the valley, caressing the rich green grass as it journeyed over fields and rivers, stirring dandelion heads, sending their florets spinning into the cloudless sky. Cattle idling in the meadows lifted their heads and inhaled the potent scent of Summer as the breeze continued through the valley, whirling through the branches of an ancient oak tree standing majestically on the valley floor and stroking the skin of the two lovers illicitly entwined beneath its leafy boughs.

  Taliesin lifted his head and shivered as the clement breeze passed over his naked body. Contrary to the warmth, he felt the hairs on his arms and neck rising; something felt wrong. His lover, lying languidly beneath him, snaked an arm around his neck to resume their tryst, but Taliesin pulled away.

  ‘You need to leave, Anwen.’ His voice was unusually stern as he rose to dress. Anwen sat up in the flattened grass and cast a worried glance around the meadow.

  ‘What is it Tali?’ she whispered. She looked up at him as he hurriedly pulled his shirt over his head and covered his milky, rippled torso.

  Taliesin’s skin was as white as marble, unblemished and hairless. He was a grown man but his skin was as soft as a small child’s. He was muscled and lithe, reminding Anwen of the Grecian statues she had seen in the Natural History Museum in Cardiff. He had a chiselled jaw, thin lips and beautiful black eyes; the iris was the same colour as the pupil. His hair was shaved on either side of his head, from his temple to the nape of his neck and a thick black mane spilled down the centre of his head to just above his shoulde
r blades. Anwen thought he was the most beautiful creature she had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘You need to leave. Go straight home Anwen.’ Taliesin leaned forward and kissed her brow as he buttoned his shirt. His eyes scanned the horizon; every tree, every hedge. His head swivelled left and right as he gathered his cloak and without a further word, walked towards the shelter of the Gwydir forest.

  Anwen sat a moment longer as she watched him leave, hurriedly slipping on her jeans and pulling her t-shirt over her head. She wriggled her feet into her boots, stood up and hastily threw on her cardigan while smoothing down her unruly curly red hair. Checking her watch she cursed. With one last longing glance towards the trees she loped off in the opposite direction towards home.

  Anwen surefooted her way through the fields, enjoying the afternoon breeze, the smell of the yellow gorse and wild garlic, the vibrant orange and violet speckling the grass where scarlet pimpernel and speedwell had taken seed, the gurgling of the stream at the bottom of the fields all blended together in blissful union.

  Her afternoon had been perfect, as every stolen afternoon with Taliesin always was. Anwen recalled their first meeting with a wistful smile on her face. It had been nearly eight weeks since she first laid eyes on him. Anwen had been on one of her walks on the edge of the forest. She’d been looking for something interesting to sketch and had stumbled and fallen when Taliesin suddenly appeared on the pathway in front of her.

  Taliesin had been just as shocked and had spun on his heels to avoid her. ‘I know what you are!’ she’d blurted as she knelt on all fours, looking ridiculous. He’d turned back to stare at her. ‘You’re Bwy Hir. My family are Dewisedig: Chosen.’

  ‘You are female,’ Taliesin replied flatly. ‘You should not know who I am.’

  Anwen had blushed under his scrutiny and he had made no attempt to help her up which annoyed her for some reason. ‘Are you Bwy Hir rude?’ she’d snapped at him. ‘Or are you the exception?’

  Taliesin had thrown his head back and laughed. Anwen blushed all over again. ‘Are you all as irritable?’ he had retorted. ‘Or are you the exception?’

  Anwen had stifled a smile and Taliesin moved towards her, offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. From then on they had met every Saturday afternoon. At first they had just talked; she had so many questions about the Bwy Hir and he had equally as many about Humans, not just The Chosen but every Human, every race, every culture and Anwen had been hard pressed to answer him.

  The first kiss had come two weeks later and finally they had both succumbed to their desires and had begun to make love at every meeting. It had shocked Anwen this afternoon when Taliesin had become unusually abrupt and left her so suddenly, but she would make sure he made up for it next Saturday.

  Nimbly jumping a fence and joining the track that wound its way to the farm Anwen checked the big cardigan pockets to ensure she had her sketch book with her. It was her proof that she’d spent the afternoon alone, sketching in the afternoon sunlight among the flora and fauna of Ty Mawr’s acres. She loved living at Ty Mawr, she always felt privileged at having free reign through all the fields: her fields, hers and her family’s. No-one else could just walk over these lands, no trespassers were able to gain entry to her magical, beautiful domain. She checked her watch for a second time and sighed. Her father would be furious if she was late to help with the animals, again. Saturday afternoon was the only time her brother Gwyn got time off from the farm to join his fellow muttonheads in the local pub before stumbling home late in the evening, hungry and quarrelsome.

  The only downside to living at Ty Mawr was that Anwen was the only female living in an all-male household, but on the other hand it was the reason she got away with so much, the reason she was able to slip away and meet Taliesin. A smile played on her lips as she thought of him, he was so beautiful. She was in no doubt whatsoever that she was head over heels in love, she didn’t care she if she was only seventeen and he was what he was, who he was. She loved him and that was all that mattered and if she had to keep it secret, so be it, it just made it more exciting anyway.

  She giggled and wrapped her arms around herself and drifted back into Taliesin’s arms, daydreaming as she walked up the steep track. Suddenly she pulled up short and spun to check behind her, she was sure she heard someone behind her, but there was no-one there… weird. Anwen convinced herself she was just spooked because of how Taliesin had acted back at the tree, but that didn’t stop her running the rest of the way home, throwing open the gate and bursting into the house.

  ‘Good god, Anwen!’ Her father exclaimed from the kitchen, ‘You’re not so late you have to break the door down! What’s the emergency?’ Bara, the family sheepdog, barked in protest of the sudden drama.

  ‘Sorry Dad.’ Anwen tried to catch her breath in the hallway. ‘I didn’t want to be late, that’s all.’ Anwen smoothed her hair again, straightened her cardigan and put on her best smile as she entered the kitchen. ‘I hope you haven’t been sampling the casserole.’ She wagged a finger at her dad. ‘You know how Gwyn gets if he can’t have a second helping when he gets home from the pub.’

  Her father turned from the Aga and hid the evident spoon behind his back. ‘Now Anwen, you know I would never do such a thing.’ He put on his best smile and they both laughed as they left the house, making their way to the milking barn with Bara leading the way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s a long way home when you zigzag, Gwyn thought to himself as he ambled up the track. He could see the welcoming light glowing from the kitchen window promising warmth and a hearty meal. His stomach rumbled. Saturday was beef casserole night and he could practically taste the meat as he smacked his lips in anticipation.

  With a robust belch he swung open the door, kicked off his boots and followed his nose into the kitchen. His father was already sitting at the table folding the newspaper, his glasses still perched on the end of his nose. Anwen was pulling a roasting dish from the oven and the table was already laid. Bread and butter piled high, steaming green beans and peppered boiled potatoes decorated the centre of the table. Gwyn’s stomach growled in anticipation.

  ‘I am starving!’ he announced, plonking himself down on a chair and grabbing his knife and folk. ‘Bloody starving, man. All I’ve had today is a couple of packets of crisps!’

  ‘And beer,’ Anwen sniped, as she placed the casserole on the table and removed the lid.

  ‘And beer,’ agreed Gwyn. ‘Lots and lots of beer. What else would I go to the pub for? Oh, I’m sorry Anwen, I forgot, you’re not old enough to drink at the pub yet, are you?’

  Anwen stuck her tongue out at Gwyn and dumped a ladle full of casserole onto his plate causing it to splash his jumper. ‘Oh sorry, Gwyn!’ she exclaimed sarcastically.

  Gwyn’s face clouded over. ‘Enough!’ rumbled their father. ‘Sit, eat and enjoy – both of you.’

  The look Gwyn shot Anwen promised repercussions later, but Anwen shrugged and passed her father the bread first, away from Gwyn’s clutching fingers.

  During the meal Gwyn relayed the local gossip from the pub. ‘Gary Jones is engaged to marry Ellen Richards from Dylas Farm, both sets of parents are happy with the match, but the wedding is being rushed, so everybody is presuming she’s pregnant already,’ Gwyn scoffed. ‘Oh, and Will Pant-y-Carw has fallen out with John Glas over some grazing rights and neither are speaking, I reckon it will turn into a feud sooner or later, both are stubborn buggers.’

  Gwyn halted his chattering while he concentrated on fishing another ladle of casserole out of the dish, making sure it was laden with as much meat as possible. Anwen glanced at her brother and sneered. In her opinion her brother was an ugly, overbearing oaf, nothing like Taliesin and in fact, they couldn’t be more opposite. Taliesin was tall and sleek, Gwyn was short and stocky. Taliesin had long, thick, shiny black hair. Gwyn’s was close-cropped, dull and mousey. Taliesin’s face was all strong angles, Gwyn’s was rounded and his nose was too small and covered in freckles. Anw
en couldn’t fathom why the village girls took so much interest in him. Gwyn wasn’t worldly and wise like Taliesin. Her big brother was childish, stubborn and crude.

  Gwyn continued with his immature gossip while Anwen and her father hummed and hawed at the appropriate moments until the meal was finished and Gwyn’s appetite was sated. Then as was usual, the men cleared the table and Anwen washed the dishes before returning the crockery to the cupboard.

  As per every Saturday night, once the meal was over, Gwyn and his father retired to the living room to watch television in front of the fire. Anwen would instead have a long bath, read a book and finally snuggle up in bed to dream of Taliesin.

  Somewhere around ten o’clock her father would gently tap on her bedroom door to wish her goodnight. Sometimes he would perch on the end of her bed and ask her about her day, Anwen would tell him about her day idling in the fields, about just reading or drawing. Sometimes she would prove the lie and show him her latest sketches of flowers, fields and birds. She never mentioned Taliesin. Her father would smile and tell her how clever and talented she was, but he would worry that she was spending too much time on her own.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to go into the village and hang round girls your own age?’ he gently asked. ‘Don’t you want to go and buy magazines, talk with the girls? You used to like Sian Parry, you always used to go and play at her house when you were younger.’

  Anwen looked into her father’s careworn face, his brow creased with concern, his jowly cheeks all pink from a hard day’s work on the farm and she felt guilty at her dishonesty. ‘Oh Dad, I’m not a baby anymore!’ she sighed and rolled her eyes, hiding her discomfort. ‘The girls just want to talk about Gwyn or makeup or clothes, how boring is that? Do you know that Sian Parry admitted to not reading a book since she left school? They’re stupid Dad! I don’t fit in with them anymore.’