The following is my humble attempt to produce some sort of Arthurian Legend that includes and attempts to make sense of the many legends and stories that make up the Arthurian quilt. One of the problems with this is the issue of names. For instance, I have found the name Uther to be spelled 'Ythr', 'Wythr', or 'Uter', and just about every combination of the two. I have decided to use Wthyr because it is one of the Welsh forms, and because I think it looks better. Whenever possible I have tried to use Welsh forms because that is what most Britons spoke before the invasion of the Angles and Saxons made Anglo Saxon the language of Britain. In both tongues though, 'C' is almost always hard, and 'Y' is usually pronounce as a long 'i' as in 'twine'. I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to leave feedback.
The Legend of Arthur
Part I
In years not long past, Roman rule on Britain grew slowly slack. The Picts in the North raided deeper into the richly tilled lands made rich by Roman slaves, and the Jutes from across the channel regularly attacked the eastern provinces. The governor sent word to Rome, asking for troops, but Rome had not the troops to guard its own gilded halls, much less the farthest flung province on its western border.
The Legions which had been posted in the land were dragged across the channel time and again to fight for greedy generals who coveted the emperor’s crown, and Britain was bled dry. Constantius, the second of that name, when word reached him of the plight of the legions in Britain, sent word to them, ordering them to recruit warriors from among the people of Britain. But the Britons, who had once lived for war and painted themselves in the woad had grown soft. They raised cattle and pigs instead of hunting dogs, and painted their faces with powered and oils. But a few came to the legions, from the North, and from Wales.
Now the greatest band, over a hundred strong came from Wales led by Wthyr, a descendant of the chieftains who had led the Britons ere the Romans came. They rode into Deva as the sun was going down in the west, and the red light caught and burned in their flaming hair. The people stopped their gossiping and trading to stare at them as they rode by, tall men with long spears riding mighty horses. A few wore armor of bronze, with intricate designs hammered into their shields.
The halted at the gate of the fort, and Wthyr asked the guard to bring the legate in command of the legion. The Legate, Marcus Aurillianus, came to meet them ere the dust of their ride had settled. He was a tall man, and Wthyr looked at him with respect as he came through the gate, his armor gleaming in the sun, and the horsehair crest swaying in the wind. For a moment the two men looked at each other, then Wythyr offered his hand. Aurillianus took it, and Wthyr and all his men were sworn as soldiers of Rome.
In the following months, the Britons trained, learning to use roman weapons and wear roman armor. Aurillianus was a wise man, having fought in many wars, and he allowed the Britons to wear their ancestral helms and carry the weapons of their father when they went to war, but he ordered them to learn to use steel blades and how to care for steel armor, and after a time, Wthyr began to wear roman gear, and his men soon followed his example.
When the snow was just beginning to melt in the plains, a rider came along the road from Eboracum with word that a force of Jutes, some three or four hundred strong were marching on the city. Aurillianus ordered Wthyr to take his men immediately North with the second cohort of the legion close behind.
“Watch their movements, and aid the city if it comes under attack.” Aurillianus said, “When the cohort arrives, lead them to the Jutes.”
Wthyr stroked his red mustache, pulling them down to his chin, trained as a warrior from birth, he had no thought of waiting for the cohort. “I will go.” He said in his native tongue, for though he had lived long with the Romans and understood their Latin, he had no desire to speak it. Within an hour, Wthyr led his company through the gates and set off at a gallop down the road. As Aurillianius watched him go, his bones warned him that the man had more on his mind than seeking the enemy and waiting for the cohort.
They rode hard through the night and into the next day, stopping for a short rest at midnight before they hurried onward. As they rode they sang the war songs their fathers had sung when they marched against the romans.
Bright is the sword with the broad blade shining
And keen is the spear swiftly flying
Great is the helm and the hauberk glowing
Mighty the horse with his hair all aflowing.
For the sons of the Saeldwn are riding!
Look to your blades, look to your walls,
Ready yourselves if wrath you can stand
or flee from your barns, flee from your halls!
For the riding upon you are the sons of Saeldwn !
When they drew near to Eboracum, Wthyr took Cynyr, his sword brother, and the two of them set out to find the Jutes. They rode far around the city, and climbing to the top of a low hill, found the Jutes spread out on a plain before them. The smoke from the raided country side rose high in the air to the north west, already they were feasting on their plunder and drinking the rich ale of Britain with little thought of any enemy within a days march.
As dusk was drawing on to evening, the Wthyr divided the Britons in two groups. Cynyr took the first and rode North beyond the city and hid in a hollow between Eboracum and the encamped Jutes. Wthyr took his men and rode east, and assembled on the hill over looking the south eastern side of the Jutes.
As the sun began to fall and the Jutes piled wood upon their fires, Wthyr called his men together.
“Oaths we have sworn.” He cried. “Boasts we have made! Now we fulfill them! From this day on, no invader shall ever touch this Isle! From this day forward, we take back the lands of our fathers.”
With that he rode to the crest of the hill and setting his horn to his lips blew a great blast that rang above even the noise of the Jutes in their camp.
Down rode Wthyr from the hill with his helm afire in the setting sun. Down rode the sons of the Saeldwn behind him, and their battle cry echoed through the plain. They were upon the Jutes in a moment, cutting down the few sentries who had been posted and wreaking havoc through the camp. They did not break stride as they swept through the camp, killing as they went, and sweeping fire into the tents.
When they reached the other side they turned and rode back as they had come, slaying drunken Jutes as they reached for their weapons. When they had passed through the camp they turned yet again to ride through, but the Jarl had already begun to rally his men, and they swiftly slowed Wthyr’s charge.
Yet just as his charge was halted, Wthyr set his horn to his lips a second time, and Cynyr came thundering down from the opposite side of the camp with the rest of their force. What little defence the Jutes had begun to gather fell to pieces, and soon the only fighting was at the center of the camp where the Jarl gathered a score of men from his household together, and forming a shield wall kept all at bay. Three times the Britons charged them, and three times they were beaten back, before Wthyr and Cynyr lead them in a fourth charge. So violent was Wthyr, and so strong was Cynyr, that none could with stand them, and they slew the Jarl and cut off his head.
They hunted down the fleeing Jutes until the moon rose, and they turned back to the camp. They piled the bodies by the coast and set fire to them, and some say that the smoke could be seen across the sea, where men began to speak of a new warrior in Briton, one armed like a roman yet not like a roman, and who fought like a dragon.
