Arthur The Founder...

It was late afternoon on a windy Autumn day, with high wide clouds scudding across the skies, and fitfull breaks of mild bright sunshine dappled the hills with a moving pattern of light and shade. Three young boys stood idly near the banks of the river Wye, just above its junction with the river Monnow, at the place known as Monmouth. All around them grazed horses, and here and there along the river were other herdsmen.

The boys were dressed in simple shirts like tunics of brightly colored plaids woven diagonally. Each had a blanket-like cloak around his shoulders. They were dark skinned and carried staves, and were bare legged and barefoot.

The horse herds along the river meadows had been growing all day, as new parties of warriors arrived led by their chieftains. The shields, the spears, the armour and weapons of the helmeted warriors occasionally sparkling and glinting dull in the weak Autumn sunlight. The tree covered hills cast shadows in all directions.

Other groups of mounted men were riding in, some up along the Wye valley from Tintern shouted greetings to each other, some singing, some talking noisily as they rode in. The Princes and Chieftains and their lead and warriors rode magnificent huge horses, mostly chestnut brown, some roan, others gleaming black, and the most prized shining white. The Bonheddig - the freeman followers and Clansmen of the chiefs, rode less valuable mounts and sturdy mountain ponies. It was the year 502 A.D. and the Kings of Southern England - South Wales - were gathering for a meeting.

There was less excitement now than there had been amongst the watchers in the meadows when the first troops had come riding in during the morning. The horses were being unsettled and watered at the river before being hobbled for the night, each warrior carried small sacks of grain and other bags containing their own food, slung around the back and the front of his saddle. The armoured horseman of South Wales could travel to Scotland in one week needing only to stop for water on their way.

The warriors led by their chiefs had strutted off proudly to the great encampment at the halls of Gwrgan fawr-Varius, the Great, son of King Cynfyn and grandson of King Pebiau the Dribbler, leaving a few servants and boys to take care of the horses. Suddenly there was a larger moise, a distant rumbling of many, many hooves a-pounding the earth like a low distant thunder. One of the boys near the stream climbed into the low branches of a leaning tree and his companions scrambled to join him. As they peered westward, shading their eyes against the setting sun, over the brow of the hill above Trelech and Troy, hundreds of bright spear points and helmets gleamed, silver blue and copper red, as a long column of horsemen made their way down the old track road which led from the top of the hill. Clouds of dust rose from the road, and the noise increased as the head of the column came closer, with more and more men still pouring over the ridge of the hill. The arrival of this large army created a commotion which spread through the meadows affecting the grazing herds, and, their watches. One of the three boys in the tree, a lad of about ten years old, called out to a nearby herdsman watering some horses at the river edge.

“What Chieftain is this?” The herdsman laughed quietly. “It's no Chieftain, that is Theoderic, King of all Southern Britain, and his son King Maurice.

The boys in the tree stared as the long column moved across the meadow, closer and closer. Other minor Kings had arrived during the day. Their magnificent armour and horse trappings gleaming gold and silver, and bright blue and red enamel shining brightly. But here was a much larger regiment and there were many princes and chiefs riding in the column.

Agricola Longhand - Aircol Lawhir - the Prince of Dyfed in West Wales had sailed up to the river Severn and anchored his ships at the mouth of the Wye and marched the twenty miles up to the meeting place. King Iddon of the city of Caerwent, on the plains of Gwent on the banks of the Severn, had arrived first, travelling up the Valley. Then had come King Cadwgan, ruler of the lands beyond the Tawe in the West called Carmarthen, and with him came the great warrior princes Tredecil and Rhun from the far West. From the North had come Awst - Augustus - King of Brecon and his sons, and from Powys had come the mighty King Conan Aurelian son of Cadell.

The fields along the river banks as far as the eye could see were filled with horses and scattered groups of men talking, chatting, sitting around small fires.

The procession of King Theoderic had moved down the hill and across the level ground, and the King led his followers with a great splashing and much laughter, into the shallow ford across the river. They churned through the water and the King's Theoderic and Maurice his son, rode out of the river close to the tree where the three boys stood on the thick, low branch.

They had never seen the High King before, and they stared with great interest at the thick-set powerfully built man, aged about fifty-five years, who sat upright on a gleaming huge black Stallion.

The King's face was weather beaten, his dark black curly hair was laced with grey. He was clean shaven as were all the British, and he had piercing grey eyes and a long jagged white, old scar wound ran from his right ear lobe to the corner of his mouth. The king wore a great red cloak fastened across his chest with a solid gold clasp, covering the heavy leather jerkin which was itself covered with gold embossed armoured plates, and scales.

“Good day to you, Lord King.” Shouted one of the boys, and the other two quickly repeated the words.

The king glanced at them, “Good day to you, three men in the tree,” he called back with a laugh, answering the greeting as the custom of the land demanded. Three was considered to be the ultimate magical lucky number of the Celtic race. To be greeted simultaneously by three people the moment he rode his horse across the river onto the land of Gwrgan the Great, his cousin, was obviously a very lucky omen. The significance of the fact that the three were in a tree would be something that the Wise Men and Soothsayers would work out.

King Maurice, son of Theoderic, rode with his father, wearing a light blue cloak with red bands. He was aged about twenty-six, leaner and not so heavily built as the older King. With long straight black hair and with the same piercing grey eyes. He wore the typical round domed helmet, covered in bright blue enamel and circled with rings of ornamental silver and gold, and surmounted by a short spike. His shield was slung over his shoulder and in common with all the other warriors he carried a thick twelve foot spear resting over his other shoulder. The young King’s horse was a magnificent chestnut beast.

“How has the fishing been in the Wye this year?” he called to the three boys.

“Good for Salmon, poor for Trout,” shouted back the boy who had spoken first.

Some of the men laughed, and the procession moved on until at least one thousand armoured horsemen had crossed the river nearest the tree.