“Ar fore dydd Nadolig
Esgorodd Forwnig…”
On the Morning of Christmas Day, and all three men brought arms about each other’s shoulders, Hugh and Rhys lowered their robust voices and Tristan closed his eyes to join them, his tone a softer but stirring rasp.
“O new-born Saviour,
Day has dawned for us.”
Gwen saw his hand grip upon his twin’s shoulder and felt his emotion for this moment. A moment he’d thought would never happen when he’d returned to them – damaged and lost.
In fact, it’d been Hugh who’d first mooted the idea that the three men sing together but Tristan had laughed and shaken his head. Yet Gwen had seen the yearning behind that shake of head and so together with Rhys, she had come up with a perfect song for them all. This ancient plainsong was simpler for him to sing and for the others to hold their voices back.
“O geidwad aned,
Fe wawriodd arnom ddydd.”
The last lines faded to the heavens.
A hush…
And then, even though it had never been heard of in centuries of tradition within this ancient church, soft applause sounded.
It swelled, as one by one the congregation rose.
With tears tumbling, Mari jumped to her feet, Isabelle also, and Gwen gazed around with moist eyes to see Mrs Pugh sobbing into her handkerchief, Mr Pugh embracing her with a smile.
Candle flames swayed, faces brightened with gladness, and the light of Christmas was upon them all.
Tristan’s eyes opened. He looked to the exuberant congregation applauding them, the ancient stone walls, his tearful daughter.
Then his gaze settled upon herself.
He brought a hand to the dragon pendant that he wore proudly over his waistcoat and smiled.
Hiraeth.
Tristan was truly home.
The bellsof Saint Baglan’s rang out as the congregation filed into the lantern-lit churchyard, villagers all congratulating one another on their performances and children flinging snowballs from behind the gravestones.
Soon enough, however, the bells struck seven and the women of the village rushed home to prepare for the day’s feast while the men debated whether it was too early for a swift tipple to banish the pre-dawn cold. The sun still had an hour or so in bed but a grey hue to the sky promised a clear morn.
Beneath the twisted yew tree, Gwen chatted with Isabelle, Mari and Miss Brecken while a blushing Elen in a beautiful pale-green pelisse strolled arm in arm with Captain Brecken to the wooden lychgate in the hedge that bounded the churchyard.
“Where have our gentlemen got to?” enquired Gwen, as the sole persons absent were Tristan, Hugh and Rhys, who after shaking hands with the vicar had not been seen since.
Isabelle batted lashes beneath the brim of her hat. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
A pat on Gwen’s arm and she twisted to Mari who twirled her skirts and grinned. “I’m so glad you wore the green dress to match my own and Auntie Isabelle’s.”
“It was a lovely idea of yours for all the Llanedwyn ladies to wear the same colour for the service.”
“And your green dress has more ample skirts, does it not?”
“Er…”
“Shall we depart?” said Isabelle with eyes upon the gate. “It will be warmer in the carriage.”
