This is a translation and scholarly edition of four medieval Welsh prose tales drawn from the Red Book of Hergest, a fourteenth-century manuscript whose contents range across stories, prayers, laws, and poems. Though the manuscript itself dates to the early 1300s, the four tales—known as the Four Branches of the Mabinogi—preserve material far older in origin, reaching back to the tenth and eleventh centuries and drawing ultimately from early Celtic myth. They represent a rare surviving example of Welsh epic prose, compiled as traditional material for bards to learn and preserve, much as the Norse skalds used Snorri Sturluson’s Edda.
The Story
The Manuscript and Its Lineage
The four branches of the Mabinogi survive through a curious historical accident. Lady Charlotte Guest published them between 1838 and 1849 as part of a larger collection called “The Mabinogion,” drawing primarily from the Red Book of Hergest, a fourteenth-century Welsh manuscript containing a miscellany of stories, prayers, laws, and poems. Though the manuscript itself dates to that late period, the language and narrative material reach back much further—the tales themselves likely took written form around the twelfth or thirteenth century, while their underlying mythic content originates in the tenth and eleventh centuries, before the Norman conquest of England introduced Arthurian legend into Welsh storytelling. Guest’s translation, though generally excellent, proved incomplete and sometimes censorious; a reliable full version did not appear until J. Loth’s work in 1889. The word Mabinogi itself derives from the bardic tradition: a mabinog was a bard’s apprentice, and the mabinogi was the traditional mythical and historical material such apprentices were required to master—a function comparable to Snorri Sturluson’s Icelandic Edda, compiled for the use of skalds. The four branches represent fragments of an enormous body of legend, selected and arranged in a cyclic rather than linear form, with the figure of Pryderi loosely connecting them across generations while remaining secondary to other protagonists in each tale.
The Nature of the Mythic Material
Beneath the medieval narrative surface lies ancient Celtic divinity, transformed but recognizable to those who compare it with Irish legend. Many of the heroes bear divine names: Manawyddan son of Llyr corresponds to the Irish god Manannan son of Lir, while the sons of Don echo the Tuatha de Danann, the divine race of the goddess Danu. More tellingly, the atmosphere of magic and secret power that surrounds these figures proclaims their former nature, though Celtic gods were never set apart from humanity in the manner of Olympian deities but remained essentially akin to the mortal realm. The medieval bards who composed these tales no longer possessed the mythic material as living religious reality; instead they treated it as poetic inheritance, material in which the race-tradition they were obliged to preserve had become embedded. Matthew Arnold captured this condition aptly: the medieval storyteller pillages an antiquity whose secret he does not fully possess, like a peasant building a hut upon the ruins of Halicarnassus, using stones from a greater, older architecture whose history he knows only through glimmering tradition.
Pwyll’s Vision on the Mound
Pwyll, prince of Dyved, sits upon a mound with his retinue when he observes a woman approaching on horseback, dressed in shimmering gold. Struck by her beauty, he sends his squire for his horse and spurs, determined to discover who she is. Yet when he pursues her, his horse cannot close the distance, no matter how swiftly it runs; she remains always as far ahead as before. In frustration, Pwyll calls out to her to wait, invoking the man she loves most. She halts immediately, revealing her face and addressing him directly. She tells him it would have profited his horse better had he made his request known earlier—a cryptic rebuke that hints at powers beyond ordinary understanding.
The Maiden’s Revelation
The woman identifies herself as Rhiannon, daughter of Geveydd the Old. She has come because someone wishes to give her in marriage against her will, but she has accepted no man out of love for Pwyll, whom she has sought out to receive his answer. Pwyll declares that among all women in the world, he would choose her. Rhiannon proposes they meet a year hence at a feast prepared at her instruction in her father’s court. Pwyll agrees eagerly, and they part. He returns to his men without revealing the encounter, turning aside all questions about the mysterious maiden.
The Feast and the Unwelcome Suitor
When the appointed year arrives, Pwyll equips himself with a hundred knights and journeys to the court of Geveydd the Old, where he is received with great honor and festivity. The hall is adorned, and all sit to eat and drink according to rank, with Geveydd on one side of Pwyll and Rhiannon on the other. As the drinking begins, a young man of princely bearing, clothed in silk, enters and addresses Pwyll directly. When Pwyll invites him to sit, the stranger refuses, saying he comes as a petitioner with a request. Pwyll, in a rash moment of courtesy, promises to grant whatever he asks if it lies within his power. The stranger then reveals his demand: he is Gwawl son of Efude, and he has come to claim Rhiannon as his bride, along with the feast and all its provisions. Pwyll falls silent, unable to respond.
Rhiannon’s Stratagem
Rhiannon exclaims at Pwyll’s sluggishness of spirit and explains that Gwawl is the man to whom her family wished to give her against her will. Since Pwyll’s word has been given before the assembled nobles, he must now surrender her to prevent shame. Yet she offers him a way forward: she will place a small sack in his hand, which he must keep carefully. When Gwawl demands the feast and its provisions, Pwyll should answer that these belong not to him but to her retinue and the common people, whom she will distribute them among. Rhiannon will then set Gwawl a term of one year before lying with him. At the year’s end, Pwyll is to come to the orchard dressed as a beggar, carrying the sack, with his hundred knights hidden nearby. When Gwawl is deep in feasting and carousing, Pwyll will enter and ask only that Gwawl fill the sack with food—a seemingly simple request that will become the instrument of Gwawl’s undoing.
Pryderi’s Naming and Succession
Years pass, and Pwyll and Rhiannon have a son. When the boy is brought before the court, Pendaran Dyved declares he should be named Pryderi, son of Pwyll, chief of Annwvyn. Rhiannon questions whether his own given name, Gwri Wallt Euryn, might suit him better, but Pendaran insists that Pryderi is most fitting, since it derives from the word his mother spoke upon receiving the glad tidings of his birth. Pwyll thanks Teyrnon, the noble who reared the boy in his youth, and promises to protect him and his lands. The boy is fostered jointly by Teyrnon and Pendaran Dyved, growing into the most agreeable, handsome, and skilled youth in games throughout the kingdom. After Pwyll’s death, Pryderi rules the seven Cantrevs of Dyved, beloved by his people. He then expands his dominion by conquering the three Cantrevs of Ustrad Tywi and the four of Ceredigiawn, bringing them under his rule as the seven Cantrevs of Seissyllwch. When he resolves to marry, he chooses Cigva, daughter of Gwynn Gohoyw, a noble of high lineage.
Bran the Blessed and the Irish Alliance
With Pwyll’s line established, the narrative turns to Bran the Blessed, son of Llyr, who is crowned king of the island and bears the high crown of London. One afternoon at his court in Harddlech, Bran sits upon a rock above the sea with his brother Manawyddan, also son of Llyr, and his half-brothers Nissyen and Evnissyen, sons of Eurosswydd. Nissyen is gentle and makes peace among kin, while Evnissyen stirs strife and discord. They observe thirteen ships approaching swiftly from Ireland, their sails bearing silk banners. One ship overtakes the others and raises a shield point-upward as a sign of peace. The foreigners land and greet Bran from the shore, announcing that Matholwch, king of Ireland, has come as a suppliant seeking alliance with the Island of the Mighty and the hand of Branwen, daughter of Llyr, to bring concord between the two realms. Bran invites him ashore for counsel.
The Marriage and the Insult
The next day a council agrees to give Branwen to Matholwch; she is one of the three chief ladies of the island and the fairest maiden in the world. The feast is held at Aberffraw, where Bran and Manawyddan sit on one side, Matholwch on the other, and Branwen beside her new husband under great tents, since no house could contain Bran’s enormous frame. That night Matholwch and Branwen lie together. The following day, as officials array Matholwch’s horses, Evnissyen comes upon them and learns they belong to the Irish king who has lain with his sister without his consent. Enraged at this insult, Evnissyen throws himself among the horses and mutilates them savagely, cutting off their lips to the teeth, their ears to the head, and their tails to the back, rendering them useless for service. When Matholwch learns of this outrage, he prepares to depart in anger. Bran, discovering his guest means to leave without farewell, sends messengers to inquire why. Matholwch declares he has been deliberately insulted and marvels that he was given so high-ranking a maiden if such wrong was intended. Bran sends further envoys with gifts—a sound horse for each ruined one, a silver rod as thick and long as Matholwch himself, and a golden plate as broad as his face—explaining that the deed was his half-brother’s doing, not his own, and inviting Matholwch to make peace on his own terms. Matholwch accepts, fearing greater shame otherwise, and peace is restored.
The Cauldron of Rebirth and Evnissyen’s Redemption
After a great battle between the men of the Island of the Mighty and the men of Ireland, peace is concluded and kingship passes to Matholwch’s son. During the conflict, Evnissyen commits a final act of treachery: he calls Matholwch’s young heir to himself, claiming his sister’s son should come to him, and when the boy approaches, he seizes him by the feet and hurls him headfirst into a fire. Branwen, seeing her son consumed by flames, attempts to throw herself into the fire from between her two brothers, but Bran holds her with one hand while gripping his shield with the other. All rush to find weapons as chaos erupts. The Irish light a fire beneath the Cauldron of Rebirth and cast their dead into it; the next day the corpses emerge as mighty warriors as before, except they cannot speak. Evnissyen, witnessing the corpses of the men of the Island of the Mighty for whom no rebirth was destined, laments that he has caused their destruction. He lies down among the Irish dead, and two barefoot Irishmen, mistaking him for one of their own, throw him into the cauldron. He stretches himself with such force that the cauldron breaks into four pieces and his own breast bursts. This sacrifice turns the tide: only seven men of the Island of the Mighty escape, though Bran the Blessed is wounded in the foot by a poisoned spear-point.
The Seven Survivors and Bran’s Final Command
The seven survivors are Pryderi, Manawyddan, Glivieri Eil Taran, Taliesin, Ynawc, Grudyeu son of Muryel, and Heilyn son of Gwynn the Old. Bran, mortally wounded, commands them to cut off his head and carry it to the White Hill in London, burying it facing France. He tells them they will be long upon the road; in Harlech they will sit seven years at table while Rhiannon’s birds sing to them, and all that time his head will be as pleasant company as when it sat upon his shoulders. In Gwales in Penvro they will spend eighty years, and may remain there keeping the head unharmed until they open the door facing Aber Henvelen and Cornwall; once opened, they cannot remain but must proceed to London to bury the head and continue onward. The seven cut off his head and travel through the strait with Branwen as their eighth companion.
Branwen’s Lament and Death
They land at Aber Alaw in Talebolyon and rest. Branwen looks toward Ireland and the Island of the Mighty, surveying all that is visible to her, and cries out in anguish, cursing her birth since two such beautiful islands have been destroyed for her sake. Her heart breaks from sorrow, and they make her a four-sided grave on the bank of the Alaw, burying her there.
The News from Home
The seven turn toward Harlech carrying the head and meet a company of men and women. Manawyddan asks for news and learns that Caswallawn son of Beli has conquered the Island of the Mighty and is crowned king in London. When asked what befell Caradawc son of Bran and the seven men left to guard the island, they report that Caswallawn attacked and killed six of them; Caradawc’s heart broke from grief when he saw the sword slaying his men without knowing who wielded it, for Caswallawn wore a magic cloak rendering him invisible, with only the sword visible. Caswallawn spared Caradawc because he was his nephew, the son of his cousin. Caradawc becomes one of the three men whose heart broke from sorrow. Pendaran Dyved the Young, who had stayed to serve the seven men, fled into the woods.
The Feast at Harlech and Gwales
The seven settle at Harlech, providing themselves with abundant food and drink. Three birds arrive and sing them a song compared to which all other songs ever heard were without charm; the birds hover far over the flood yet are seen as clearly as if close by. This feast lasts seven years. At its end they journey to Gwales in Penvro, finding a pleasing royal place above the sea with a great hall. Two of its doors are open, but the third, facing Cornwall, is closed. Manawyddan declares this is the door they must not open. They spend the night in abundance and joy, remembering nothing of all they had seen and heard, and experiencing no sorrow. Thus they remain eighty years, having never known sweeter or more delightful time, never growing tired, none noticing that the others have aged. The head’s company is no more burdensome than when Bran the Blessed lived. This period becomes known as the Feast of the Sacred Head. One day Heilyn son of Gwynn declares shame upon himself for remaining so long in this place and opens the forbidden door toward Cornwall.
The Mouse Thief and the Hanging
As harvest approaches, Manawyddan inspects his fields and finds them ripe for cutting. He returns to Arberth for the night, resolving to begin work at dawn. When he returns the next morning, he discovers devastation: the grain has been stripped from the stalks, leaving only bare stubble. A second field, equally promising the day before, meets the same fate. Bewildered and grieving, Manawyddan cries out to God, recognizing in this destruction the continuation of the curse that has plagued him and his land. A third field, finer wheat than any he has seen, remains untouched. Determined to discover the agent of his ruin, he declares he will watch through the night, certain that whoever took the other harvests will come for this one too. He arms himself, stations himself in the field, and tells Ricva of his intention.
At midnight, a sound like the greatest tumult in the world erupts around him. Manawyddan looks to see an immense swarm of mice—countless and unmeasurable—pouring into the field. Each creature climbs a stalk, bends it with its weight, breaks off the ear, and carries it away, leaving only stubble. In his fury, Manawyddan strikes at them repeatedly, but his blows find nothing; the mice scatter like midges or birds beyond his reach. Among the swarm he notices one mouse of such heavy appearance that it moves with difficulty, hindered by its own weight. He pursues this creature, seizes it, places it in his glove, and ties the opening shut with cord. He returns to the court, kindles a fire in the hall where Ricva sits, and fastens the glove securely to a peg.
When Ricva asks what he has caught, Manawyddan answers that he has seized a thief. She questions how a thief could fit in a glove, and he recounts the devastation of his fields and the appearance of the mouse swarm. The heavy-footed mouse he holds is the one he will hang tomorrow, he declares, and God witness that he would hang them all if he had them in his power. Ricva urges him not to touch so lowly a creature, saying it ill becomes a man of his rank to hang a mouse. Manawyddan refuses, insisting that shame would fall upon him if he did not hang all of them were they in his grasp. Ricva yields, saying she has no cause to defend the animal and wishes only to spare him from an ignoble act. Manawyddan replies that if she had any ground to stand by the creature, he would follow her counsel, but since she does not, he will kill it.
The Scholar and the Priest
Manawyddan carries the mouse to the mound of Arberth and plants two forks at its highest point. As he prepares the gallows, he sees a scholar approaching in poor, worn clothes. For seven years, Manawyddan reflects, he has seen no one in this region save his four companions and now this man—a striking break in the desolation that has surrounded him. The scholar greets him and asks what he does. Manawyddan explains he is hanging a thief he caught stealing from him. The scholar sees the mouse in his hand and urges him not to touch so lowly a creature, offering a pound received as alms in exchange for its release. Manawyddan refuses both to release it and to sell it. The scholar departs, troubled that a man of such rank would concern himself with so base an animal.
As Manawyddan lays the crossbeam across the two forks, a priest approaches on a richly harnessed horse. The priest greets him and asks his blessing in return. When the priest inquires what he is doing, Manawyddan again explains he is hanging a thief—a mouse that has stolen from him and must suffer a thief’s penalty. The priest, like the scholar before him, offers to buy the creature rather than witness a man of Manawyddan’s rank deal with something so lowly. Manawyddan calls God to witness that he will neither sell nor release the mouse.
The Fourth Branch Begins: Math’s Transformations
The narrative shifts to the tale of Math fab Mathonwy. A year after Math transformed two men into a stag and a doe as punishment, he hears the sound of hounds and noise at his chamber walls. A servant reports that a stag, a doe, and their calf have appeared. Math strikes all three with his staff, transforming the doe into a boar and the stag into a sow. He keeps the calf, has it baptized, and names it Hyddwn. He commands the pair to return in a year with their young, bearing the instincts of wild forest swine.
A year passes and the scene repeats: hounds bark, Math goes out, and sees a boar, a sow, and their well-grown offspring. Again he keeps and baptizes the young one, naming it Gwydwn, and transforms the pair into a wolf and a she-wolf, ordering their return in another year. When they come again, Math sees a wolf, a she-wolf, and their cub. He keeps and baptizes this third offspring, named Bleiddwn, and declares that the three sons of Gilfaethwy the Traitor are Bleiddwn, Hyddwn, and Sychddwn the Tall. He restores the wolves to their own flesh with a stroke of his staff and pronounces their punishment complete, their shame sufficient for their wrong against him. He orders that they be bathed, clothed, and restored to dignity.
Arianrod and the Test of Virginity
Once clothed and restored, Math asks the transformed men whose counsel he should seek regarding which maiden he should take. Gwydion, son of Dôn, suggests Arianrod, daughter of Dôn and Math’s own niece. Arianrod is brought before Math and asked if she is a virgin. She answers that she knows nothing else. Math bends his magic staff and commands her to step over it. As she does, she immediately bears a fair-haired, sturdy child. Startled, she moves toward the door and bears a second small being. Gwydion quickly seizes this second child, wraps it in silk, and hides it in a chest at the foot of his bed. Math has the fair-haired child baptized and named Dylan. Upon his baptism, Dylan goes to the sea, takes on its nature, and becomes as swift a swimmer as the fastest fish. He is called Dylan Eil Ton, and no wave ever breaks beneath him—until the day his uncle Govannon strikes him down in one of the three fateful blows of the tale.
The Hidden Child and His Growth
One morning Gwydion hears cries from the chest at his bedside. He opens it to find a small boy throwing off the silk mantle. Gwydion carries the child to a woman capable of nursing him and arranges for a year’s nourishment. After one year the boy has grown to the size of a two-year-old; after two years he can walk to court alone. Gwydion watches over him with care, and the boy loves him above all others. By four years old he is as large as an eight-year-old. One day Gwydion walks out with the boy and comes to Arianrod’s castle. She welcomes Gwydion but demands to know who the boy is. Gwydion tells her the boy is her son. Arianrod grows angry, accusing him of shaming and persecuting her. Gwydion replies that if a boy like this is her only shame, she has little to grieve. She asks the boy’s name; Gwydion says he has none. Arianrod lays a destiny upon him: he shall have no name until she gives him one. Gwydion calls God to witness that she is worthless, vows the boy shall have a name despite her, and curses her never to find the name “maiden” she so madly lost. He departs in anger to Caer Dathyl.
The Shoemaker’s Trick and the Naming
The next day Gwydion takes the boy to the seashore at Aber Menai. There he conjures a boat from seaweed and transforms seaweed into Cordovan leather of many colors, the finest ever seen. He sails to the entrance of Arianrod’s castle and begins making and sewing shoes until noticed from within. He disguises both his own appearance and the boy’s. When Arianrod asks who is in the boat, she is told they are shoemakers. She sends messengers to inspect their leather and work, and they find Gwydion gilding the leather. She sends her foot measurements and requests shoes. Gwydion makes them too large; she asks for smaller. He makes them too small; she refuses them. He declares he will make no shoes until he has seen her foot. Arianrod comes to the boat, where Gwydion is cutting and the boy is sewing. A wren lands on the boat’s deck; the boy shoots it, striking it in the leg between sinew and bone with perfect accuracy. Arianrod laughs and says the little lion has struck it with a sure hand. In that moment, Gwydion declares the boy now has a name: Llew Llaw Gyffes. All of Gwydion’s work reverts to seaweed.
Arianrod, enraged, declares he shall not fare better for his ill treatment of her. Gwydion restores the boy’s true appearance. She lays another destiny: the boy shall bear no armor until she clothes him in it herself. Gwydion vows he shall have weapons nonetheless. They go to Dinas Dinllev, where Gwydion raises the boy until he can ride any horse and is complete in appearance, growth, and strength. Seeing the boy ashamed at lacking horse and weapons, Gwydion proposes a journey. They ride along the shore to Brynn Aryen, take horse at Cevyn Clydno, and ride toward Arianrod’s castle.
Characters
The tales circle around a succession of figures bound by blood and fate, though none dominates all four branches. Pwyll, prince of Dyved, encounters the otherworldly maiden Rhiannon and wins her through a year of patience and a clever stratagem involving a magical sack; their son Pryderi is born under mysterious circumstances and becomes a ruler of considerable lands. Bran the Blessed, king of the island and son of Llyr, is a giant whose very body cannot fit within ordinary halls; his half-brother Evnissyen embodies destructive impulse, while Manawyddan, another son of Llyr, emerges as a figure of endurance and cunning. Branwen, Bran’s sister, becomes a pawn in dynastic alliance, marrying the Irish king Matholwch only to suffer humiliation and heartbreak. The fourth branch introduces Math fab Mathonwy, a magician-king whose power over transformation shapes the fates of those around him, and Gwydion son of Dôn, a sorcerer of remarkable ingenuity who protects and raises his nephew Llew Llaw Gyffes against a series of supernatural curses. These figures move through a landscape where the boundary between human and divine, natural and magical, remains fluid and permeable.
Themes
The tales enact a meditation on the nature of sovereignty and its costs. Pwyll must prove himself worthy of Rhiannon not through martial prowess but through persistence and humility; Bran’s kingship brings him into conflict with Ireland, and his death—though he commands it with dignity—leaves his realm vulnerable to usurpation. The second branch traces how a single act of dishonor, Evnissyen’s mutilation of Matholwch’s horses, cascades into catastrophic war, suggesting that shame and retaliation operate as inexorable forces in the Celtic world. Branwen’s tragedy—destroyed by the very marriage meant to secure peace—underscores the powerlessness of women caught between kingdoms, yet her death is marked by a grave and memory, a dignity the text grants her.
Magic and transformation pervade the narratives, not as wonders to be marveled at but as expressions of a deeper reality. Math’s ability to turn men into animals, Gwydion’s conjuring of boats from seaweed, the Cauldron of Rebirth that restores the Irish dead—these are not ornaments but the grammar of the world. The tales also explore the theme of patience and cunning as alternatives to force. Manawyddan’s long endurance through poverty and humiliation, his trapping of the mouse and his negotiation with the mysterious figures who come to ransom it, reveal a hero whose strength lies in will and intelligence rather than the sword.
Underlying all four branches is a sense of loss and transformation. The tales are built from fragments of older myth, and the narrators seem aware that they are handling materials whose original meaning has grown obscure. The heroes themselves often stand at the threshold between the mythic and the human, between the timeless otherworld and the mortal realm. Their stories do not resolve so much as they exhaust themselves, leaving the reader with a sense of cycles repeating and fates working themselves out according to laws only half-understood.
Why It Endures
The Four Branches survive as the most complete record of pre-Christian Welsh narrative tradition, a window into a literary culture shaped by a professional caste of bards and storytellers. They preserve the texture of a world in which magic is not exceptional but woven into the fabric of existence, and in which honor, kinship, and the keeping of oaths carry weight that transcends individual will. The tales have influenced modern literature and scholarship profoundly, from Matthew Arnold’s meditations on them as fragments of a lost civilization to their presence in contemporary fantasy and Celtic studies. Their formal strangeness—the way they circle back to the same figures across generations, the way motifs are hinted at rather than fully resolved—gives them an almost dreamlike quality that resists easy interpretation and invites perpetual rereading. They remain, as the editorial introduction suggests, materials of which the full history is known only by glimmering tradition, stones from an older, greater architecture, and their very incompleteness is part of their power.
