The Cruel Prince

Wise men will tell you not to listen to legends, or heed the words of strangers whispered so low they hang on frosty air. But travel across the border from England to Wales along the Northern coast, past Connah’s Quay and Bagillt into the forests of twisted trees surrounding Gwaenysgor and the most cautious traveller could not evade the tale of the Cruel Prince of Dolwyddelan. Even if they were to avoid the roads and shun the company of men, some say that on misty nights the wind blows through the reeds and the reeds sing of his follies and of his fate.

I am not one to be cowed by the judgement of sages and so one night I ventured forth through the gloom to make my home among the moss covered trees. When the pockmarked moon had begun to sink towards the earth I stopped at the shore of a lake and lay on the upturned soil. For an hour I rested, battling the waves of weariness that came to drag me under the depths of sleep. The water lapped a gentle lullaby as it reflected back the soft light of a hundred thousand stars.

But all at once the wind picked up and a shadowy fog descended on the land. The trees creaked under the strain, the reeds bent their heads and a lone nightingale lifted its voice to the woods:

Beware, beware the prince’s rage,

That conquers men and humbles kings,

That kept peacocks in a gilded cage

With silver chains upon their wings.

I struggled to sit upright, to look in the direction of the eerie voice that drifted through the night but my limbs were pinned to my body. No amount of struggle would move my paralysed arms. When the voice began again it was closer. The honeyed words clung together in a sickly sweet melody:

Beware, beware the prince’s spite,

That his mother should die while others live,

He rules the land with all his might,

He cannot forget, will not forgive.

Beware, beware the prince’s hounds,

They have a taste for human flesh,

For with beggars the wood abounds,

Their begging stilled and blood fresh.

The voice faded and the air was filled with the sounds of the lake. I shook myself free of my numbness and sat up, resolving to depart immediately from this eldritch place. Crawling on hands and knees I inched myself to the water’s edge and splashed my face. Feeling somewhat revived, I was quickly gathering my belongings when a distant noise froze me in place. The noise came again, closer this time. It was the baying of bloodhounds.

Terror lent me speed. I shoved my possessions between the roots of a nearby tree and crouched amidst the thick reeds growing by the shore. My legs were burning when a ghostly figure stumbled out of the tree-line, dragging a colourless corpse behind it. With an echoey grunt the man threw the body up and into lake and stood to admire his work. He wore a shadowy doublet embroidered with jewels and covered with a long cloak fastened over his right shoulder.

The ripples from the spot where the bedraggled corpse had disappeared had reached the shore when the night turned still. An enormous figure burst forth from the lake, a haggard crone covered in bones and decaying weeds. The man started backwards before he recovered and stood firmly before the fearsome spectre.

‘Who are you, to seek an audience with the prince of these lands?’ He asked, taking a step forward so that his boots were inches away from the water’s edge.

‘Who are you, to pollute my waters with the bodies of the dead?’ She replied, pointing a crooked finger pruned by age. ‘Once I soaked in the blessed light of the sun, which warmed my waters and gave me youth. But you, with your arrogance of royalty have sullied my lake with the corpses of the beggars you hunt for sport. Toying with the lives of men yields mirth when one is young and powerful but beware, a man does not stay young forever.’

‘I fear you not,’ the Prince cried in defiance, ‘I will heap your lake so full of bodies that the sun will not be able to reach the lakebed and you will waste away in eternal darkness!’

And then the woman began to laugh, a short brittle laugh that split the evening air in two. The man staggered backwards, clutching his chest as his clothes began to fall away in shreds. His face became lined and his shoulders hunched, his hair became grey and his teeth chipped.

‘All that you may do and more,’ the river nymph said, now young with flowing hair and beaming eyes, ‘if you survive the night.’

Beware, beware the prince’s cries,

Close your ears to pleas for aid,

Lest underneath the open skies,

You become both of carrion made.

Sally forth for our tale is done,

And the hunt again has just begun.

And then, reader, I ran.