Pendragon Saga: Chapter 1
Lord Arthur of Gwent
Motto: Son of the Dragon
Standard: Crown of Or on an Azure Field
Living Members: 1
January 1, 867
The purposeful steps of Lord Arthur echoed off the stone walls of Caerllion, a trepidatious quiet settled over the small keep that early morning. His first council awaited him.
The “lord” would take some getting used to. It was barely a year ago, not long after his fifteenth birthday, on the cusp of manhood, the man he thought was his father revealed the farmer boy’s destiny. The sole surviving member of an ancient line, the only remnants an ancient sword wrapped in a threadbare pennant and Arthur himself. Three gold crowns on blue field, but faded almost to white and grey, moth eaten and crumbling at the touch. The sword would serve, after a little sharpening. Caerllion would be his, as would Wales, as would all of England, should he rise to it, as was his birthright.
With the support of the bishop they had taken and rebuilt Caerllion. His first conquest, albeit of little consequence, a war against rats and the odd, desperate highwayman. The old Roman foundation was solid, the fortifications, his fortifications, went up with impossible speed. Ithel, the man who had raised him, worked swiftly with the men of the village, all of whom, the boy’s entire world, suddenly looked on Arthur with something like awe… or fear. A lord meant war to peasants, Arthur knew that. The two spent the year organizing the farmers of Caerllion into something like a small army, he and Ithel even trained up a couple of hundred men into something approaching warriors, handy with a sword and shield; his first appointment was Ithel as Caerllion’s marshal.
And now he was a man, the lord of Gwent. A sun-browned, freckled, lanky, gawky lord he was, but a lord nonetheless. Ithel awaited him, as did his other appointees.
Arthur took a moment to adjust his tunic–so bright and new, woven for this occasion, it looked to be spun of gold–before pushing the door open to the council chamber. Five sets of eyes glanced up from stilted conversation, five sets of feet stood, five people rising for their lord.
“Be seated, please,” Arthur murmured as he strode to the head of the table and took his seat in a heavy wooden chair carved with a rampant dragon. He was the son of the dragon, reasoned the carpenter in less elegant and more colourful language, and any poncey cunt that meets with him should be reminded as such.
Ithel smirked at Arthur from his right hand. In truth it’d been foolish, a childhood fancy to have assumed the man was his father. He would have had to have conceived at an age younger than Arthur almost half. Still, the burly, earthy farmer and occasional leader of Caerllion’s defenses had taught Arthur everything he knew about warfare, and how to hold a sword. Arthur now outstripped his guardian in both regards.
Although it was Arthur’s other teacher who spoke up first.
“My Lord Arthur, God blesses us on this day to see you seated there,” Bishop Rhiwal intoned from the other end of the table, likely meaning anything but. Arthur got the impression that the suffragan bishop of Trefynwy didn’t much care for this new arrangement, or for Arthur himself. Truth be told Arthur thought he was an idiot, calm and kindly, but obsessed with the scourge of carnality to an undue extent. There were rumours about the last bishopric he had left. Still he had impressed the power of reading and writing onto the young lord ascendant, something Arthur had taken to heart, even if he believed the bishop sparingly put to use his own abilities.
The others nodded politely, and the bishop leaned forward, appraising Arthur with an uncomfortable intensity, as if he were sizing up a prized hog. He gave his lord a polite but knowing smile, “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.”
The man seated to the right of the bishop scoffed, “Bloody hell, bishop, let the lordling warm his seat a little before we find some place for him to stick his cock.”
Hywel turned and winked at Arthur, whose gut fluttered as it did whenever he had encountered his now steward as a boy. There was something about him Arthur found… confusing and unsettling. At 29 summers, the apple picker had never married, had never even so much as looked at a woman, claimed Ithel. He was ruggedly handsome, kept his ruddy face clean shaven, kept his hair long and flowing, like a woman’s. He had never minced words, and had always spoke in arcane references Arthur found daunting. He had warranted a seat on the council solely for his ability to run his family’s orchard. A poor qualification for a steward, but Ithel always said “we go to war with the soldiers we have.”
The bishop gave an indignant “harrumph”, the perfect opportunity for kind Cynwallon to lean forward. Unlike Ithel, Arthur’s chancellor was not so dismissive of the bishop, of the duties a lord should carry out other than coveting the land of other, more powerful lords and ladies.
“M’lord, the bishop and I have written to houses we feel would be beneficial to secure ties to,” he smiled through his curly, bushy beard, pushing a piece of parchment he would never be able to read forward. Cynwallon was the obvious choice for a diplomat, he was beloved of the village, could reason with even the most obstinate of villeins and never forgot a face. He and his wife, Agnes, were two of the kindest people Arthur had ever met, an almost surrogate mother and father to him until… well, he was a lord now, not a dirty little urchin sneaking around for some fresh bread from Aunty Agnes. Now they lived down in the village, he in the keep on top of the hill.
“The Saxon woman would be a most advantageous partnership,” the bishop nodded sagely, although the faces of the others turned sour, even Cynwallon. The bishop had travelled to Canterbury, considered himself more worldly and tolerant of brutish Viking-spawn that had taken residence in southern England and beyond.
Ithel spit, “I rue the day my Arthur beds a Saxon whore.”
The bishop sighed, “I also sent word to a colleague in the bishopric of Saint-Flour–“
Ithel spit again, “Fucking frogs.”
“–and a nearby lord has a most charming daughter, almost of age, I’m told,” the bishop continued, shooting the marshal a withering glare.
“If we call our allies to war, they actually need to arrive in time to kill a few people, goodly bishop,” Ithel lobbed back, and shook his head, muttering, “Fucking frogs…”
“Are we at war?” asked a lilting woman’s voice on the other side of the bishop. “That was quick, even for you, Sir Ithel.”
Euronwy’s inclusion at the table had been a controversial one. Ithel begrudged the bishop needed to be part of the council, but he wanted his best comrades-in-arms represented, however ill-suited they may be to ruling. Arthur had insisted on the woman. The petite, fine-featured woman could read, for one, apparently an uncle had been a mendicant preacher who had shared his knowledge, and she just seemed to… know things, somehow the locus of all the villages gossip without even stepping away from her seamstress work at her mother’s hearth.
Ithel pounded the table with his fist, not hard, but it was the way he punctuated his speech. “We have the covetous coward to the west, conniving Anglo-Saxons to the east, and word down from Hereford is that he’s goaded the fucking Vikings into a fresh offensive. I would prefer to have as many blades between my home and the northmen as possible, m’lady.”
Euronwy gave Ithel a sickly-sweet smile, “I am so glad peace is at hand under your care, my lord marshal.”
Arthur cleared his throat, picking up the paper Cynwallon and the bishop had prepared. The others lapsed into silence, waiting. He studied the notes in the bishop’s scrawl a moment, then placed the paper down. “I will marry Lady Gormlaith of Meath.”
This chilled the conversation further until Ithel pounded his fist on the thick wooden table, “The fucking Irish?!”
“M’lord,” Cynwallon intoned, looking nervous, “We did not seek word from House Néill… we don’t even know if this… Lady Gormlaith is…”
“I have been in correspondence with her uncle, the High Chieftan of Meath, since his ship beached at the mouth of the Wysk,” Arthur continued, and Cynwallon did his best to surpress a shocked gasp. “Ithel is right, should we need the aid of allies they must be close at hand. The chieftan writes that Lady Gormlaith is accomplished with keeping house, it’s said she can make a third coin appear by rubbing two together. If we would raise more men we will need those kinds of skills.”
Hywel put a hand to his heart and gasped, “You wound me, m’lord.”
Arthur locked eyes with him and something passed between them. That same feeling. He offered a neutral smile to appease the steward’s jest. “We are a small household, we need every advantage should we hope to take Wales.”
“Yes,” growled Ithel in delight. “Irish barbarians fucked us for so long, our lord is going to fuck them right back, get a few babies out of their who–“
“Lady Gormlaith should be arriving within the week, and I expect every courtesy shown to her. She will be the lady of the house. Is that understood?” he shot a pointed look to Ithel.
The council muttered uncomfortable approval. Arthur glanced around, to gauge their reactions. Ithel and Cynwallon still did not look entirely pleased, while the bishop looked apoplectic at the thought of an Irish heathen among them. Hywel eyed Arthur with unveiled interest, which the lord hoped was only approval at his decision. He didn’t want to think about what else that gaze could mean otherwise. Euronwy studied him with guarded curiosity. She was watching him watch the others.
“Hywel,” Arthur continued, “This will be years in the doing, but I would like the old Roman port at the mouth of the Wysk rebuilt. When we have the gold we will have you hire builders and see to it. That will mean more gold and trade coming in.”
“An honour, m’lord,” Hywel drawled, and Arthur looked away before the strange man could catch his eye again.
The lord turned to his chancellor, “Cynwallon, I would like for you to send word House Pendragon seeks strong, honourable warriors.”
The other man bowed his head, “M’lord.”
Arthur reached for the rough hunter’s map in front of Ithel and placed it at the centre of the table. “Prince Hywel of Deheubarth’s land is largely unguarded, he has little more forces than we. Bishop, I would like for you to go through the archives of the bishopric and present evidence for a claim on Caerdydd.”
The bishop looked nervous about this, “And should no claim exist?”
“One will. If my namesake can be believed a claim exists for all of England. Once we have the coin to hire more men, Ithel and I will raise up more footmen, perhaps even archers. Within five years I would like to gather our forces at Tryfynwy and march on Caerdydd. This will not leave this room.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the others agreed. It would leave the room, perhaps even make its way to the craven in the west. Let him cower at the thought of his house’s seat being taken by Lord Arthur Pendragon of Gwent.
“I thank you for your council, my friends, unless there is any other business…”
Cynwallon cleared his throat. “There is the matter of your standard, m’lord. If we intend to fend off Ithel’s Vikings and war with the prince of Deheubarth, the soldiers will need one to gather to.”
“Thank you, my chancellor,” Arthur turned to Euronwy, who reached down and pulled out a tightly bound linen wrap. “I have seen to this as well. My lady, if you would.”
Euronwy unwrapped a sky-blue piece of cloth and threw it across the table. On the azure field sat a single golden crown. The crown of his birthright.
Son of the dragon, thought Lord Arthur. Now to the work of forging a kingdom.
