Crusader Kings II AAR - The Crimson Dragon of Britain - Hiatus

**Latin Knight** · July 02, 2012, 05:41 PM

The History of the House of Mathrafal – Chronicles of the Monarchs of Albion

Hello, folks, i'm starting my second AAR, this time playing vanilla Crusader Kings II, 1.06 version. I started in first scenario (Norman Invasion) - September 1066, as the Duke of Gwynedd (in Wales), Mathrafal Dynasty.

At the time i started writing it, it bothered me that there were ZERO CK II AARs in this forum

. The most logical place to post this AAR, obviously, would be in the official Paradox forum, but, as i for some reason can't post there (and as i like this community more) i decided to start it right here.

This will be a story-driven narrative, but will not be, like my first AAR, with POV characters. Dialogue will be almost non-existent, but i promise it won't be a dry "action report". Originally i thought of a the frame story as if it was a historian who is writing the chronicles of Mathrafal dynasty in 1452 A.D., but i kinda discarded that, in favor of a normal third-person quasi-omniscient narrative.

My previous effort, a M2TW AAR (now dead, you can see the link in my sig), despite the fact i gave up when the story was starting to take flight, i considered successful, due to the very positive response of the community members (including fellow AARtists who i greatly admire). This inspired me to start another one, hopefully this one i'll go to the very end (in fact, this is the first campaign in CK2 that i actually reached the end of the game

). In the end of most updates i'll to put some relevant notes that might be inconvenient to put inside the narrative itself (as not to detract the attention of the reader), or to explain some gameplay-based narrative decisions and events, for those who have yet to play the game.

Some relevant comments:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Also, regarding nomenclature:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Finally, some comments regarding gameplay:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

The Empire of Britannia is arguably the easiest one to form. For example, there is Spain, which is hard to make due to the powerful muslim rulers of Iberia, there is Russia, which requires the player to face the mighty Cumans, the largest faction in the start of the game, and later that the player resist the onslaught of the Mongol Invasions. Britannia, on the contrary, requires only the full conquest of the British Isles, which is no great feat when you start as England or Scotland. For this reason, i chose to test my skills by starting with an underdog, the Welsh Duke of Gwynedd, from Mathrafal Dynasty, whose in-game shield (which i hate) decorates the start of the thread

.

SUMMARY

Bleddyn ap Cynfyn Mathrafal

Introduction
Chapter 1: Those who remained

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn Mathrafal

Chapter 2: We make war that we may live in peace
Chapter 3: The Welsh Crusade

Cadwgan ap Llywelyn Mathrafal

Chapter 4: Bears and dogs
Chapter 5: And where the Welsh make a desert they call it peace

Llywelyn Cadwganson Mathrafal

Chapter 6: Things we do for love
Chapter 7: The Welsh conquest of England
Chapter 8: The sins of the son

Godwin Llywelynson Mathrafal

Chapter 9: Tis so much to be a king, that he only is so by being so
Chapter 10: The priest and the knight
Chapter 11: Wars of the Iron King - Part I - Part II - Part III

Sælræd Godwinson Mathrafal

Chapter 12: Two Crusades
Chapter 13: A thousand funerals and a wedding
Chapter 14: De sagittis Tartarorum libera nos, Domine!

Thoræd Sælrædson Mathrafal

Chapter 15: Saint Thoræd the Crusader - Part I - Part II

Sælræd Thorædson Mathrafal

Chapter 16: King Sælræd the Red

Chapter 17: The Sack of Roma
Chapter 18: The Silent Realms
Chapter 19: The Saxon Conquest of Scotland

IN-GAME MAPS
1162 Anno Domini
1266 Anno Domini

**Latin Knight** · July 02, 2012, 06:07 PM

Introduction

It came to be that, 1452 years after the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, the proud and faithful people of the island of Britain ascended to rule over the fairest part of the Earth. Various princes from Tangier to the Baltic Sea, and from Malta to the Innse Gall (Hebrides) are bound by oath of fealty to the True Defender of Christendom, the Imperator Britanniarum.

Swithelm I Mathrafal – by the Grace of God, Imperator Augustus of the Romans, King of Britain and of the Dominions beyond the Seas, Paramount Sovereign over the crowns of Ireland, Scotland, Iberia, France and Italy, Defender of the Faith, may his reign be long and prosperous – required of me, his humble servant, the task of chronicling the history of his glorious dynasty, since its very roots, until present.

Bounded dutifully to the Truth and only the truth, I proceed now to recount those events that transpired for the course of almost four centuries, period in which this small dynasty, hailing from the edge of the world succeeded in restoring the Christian Empire of Rome to its former glory.

Bleddyn ap Cynfyn Mathrafal

Chapter 1: Those who remained

Duke Bleddyn I of Gwynedd – 1066 A.D.

Now the Emperors, their subjects, and the peoples of foreign nations, deem the Mathrafal dynasty to be “Saxon”, and indeed, hundreds of years have passed since the customs and language of the descendants of Cerdic and Ælle were thoroughly adopted by its members. Nevertheless, the cradle of the dynasty lay not in the land of the Angles and Saxons, but in the realm of the Cymry, more commonly known as the Welsh.

House Mathrafal, founded by Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, branched from the ancient and noble Dinefwr dynasty, and had its seat in the realm of Powys. They retraced their lineage to monarchs of legend: Rhodri Mawr and Hywel Dda.

After the death of Gruffydd ap Llywelyn in 1063 A.D. – who ruled all of Cymru and boasted himself “brenin y Brythoniaid” (King of the Britons) – the land was broken apart, each fraction ruled by a petty warlord.

In the northern part of the region, Bleddyn (who proclaimed himself “brenin” – or king – in Cymru, but was recognized only as an ealdorman – or duke, as we call it today – by the kings of Englaland) consolidated his power through the force of arms and the legitimacy of ancestral lineage.

Now, I’ve read chronicles that proclaim proudly that the Mathrafal dynasty was since its beginning fated to rule Albion, and they claim the planets and stars were aligned during the great coronation of king Bleddyn, and that he warred to unite Cymru inspired by visions of the archangels with fiery swords and enigmatic words of prophecy (indeed, Cymru, even today, is infested with that repulsive race of charlatans, who claim to follow the primeval teachings of the ancient druids and magicians). Notwithstanding how ludicrous those fantasies are, a sober historian, will be cautious when dismissing them, for even legend has its roots in facts. There were no coronations, archangels or prophecies, but it's certain that Bleddyn was the most powerful lord in Cymru, commanding men of Gwynedd and Powys, and by force of steel and of oaths he could become king as his brother Gruffydd had been.

Bleddyn owed his fief to the generosity of Harold Godwinson, king of the Anglecynn (English), and was nominally his vassal. Yet, in the fateful year of 1066, Harold would not care about whatever happened beyond the Y Mers (Welsh Marches), for he urgently marched north to battle the invading forces of Harald the Norwegian and his own traitorous brother Tostig Godwinson.

Neither of the two Harolds, the Saxon or the Norwegian, succeeded in bringing a decisive defeat upon his foe, and the northern conflict came to a stalemate.

Harold Godwinson, alarmed by the notice of yet another invading army, this one coming from Francia, a Norman army led by Guillaume the Bastard, decided to march south. His domain was Westseaxna (Wessex) and Mierce (Mercia), so he’d rather leave the distant north to be ravaged by the Norse than have his own powerbase wrecked by the Normans.

The mighty Saxon king vanquished Guillaume’s forces who laid siege to Lunden (London), expelling them back across the Channel. The duke of Normandie died in 1067 from his battle wounds, his name forever associated with defeat. His son, named Richard, by the laws of God and of men, inherited his claim upon the throne of Englaland, and could muster another host and invade the country. However, he was still a boy, and knew nothing of war, so Harold could rest knowing that the southern regions of Britain were save from invasion.

The war against his bitter vikingr foe, however, would last for many winters to come. While the Norwegians failed in crushing the Saxon army in the battlefield, they became undisputable conquerors of the north, having captured various holdings and devastated the land as far as Reading.

Godwinson’s approach to the Norse was one of caution. Neither of the sides could waste forces, a pitched battle would unmake one of two Harolds. Maimed by the conflict with the Normans, Harold the Saxon was unwilling to face his foe in the battlefield, and trusted in exhaustion to end the war: the Norwegian host would bleed slowly while subjugating the northern wastes. As vikings were wont to do, they would then sail back home after collecting enough spoils, or, if the stalemate became unbearable, the two Harolds would agree to share the kingdom: the Norwegian would rule every land north of the Humber river, and the Saxon would remain monarch in Westseaxna, Mierce and East Engla (East Anglia).

Harold the Saxon, however, greatly underestimated Harald the Norwegian’s resolve to put on his head the crown of Englaland, as his predecessor Knut had done. The Vikingr warlord, an old veteran called “Hardrada” (which meant iron ruler), who had warred in Rus, Italia and even Asia, under the Greek monarch, was not content with ruling only the featureless plains of Northanhymbra (Northumbria) and the rugged hills of Cumbraland (Cumberland). No, he coveted the rich and green lands of the south, so there was no peace talk. The war continued.

Nominally a vassal of Harold II, Bleddyn cursed his “liege” to hell, and didn’t give a damn about the fates of the Lloegyr, as they called everything in Albion that was not Cymru. Indeed, everything east of Offa’s Dyke could be consumed in flames and ash, most of the Cymry would only rejoice, for too long they prayed for the ruin of the godforsaken Saxons.

The Britons were there since dawn of time. The Angles, Saxons, Jutes, were all foreigners, hailing from godforsaken woods in the other side of the world, and who still professed their old heathen ways when they took all the land of Britain, when it was still named “Prydein”. From Caint (Kent) to Dyfneint (Devon), and from Ynys Wyth (Wight) to what they used to call Yr Hen Ogledd (The Old North), expelling the faithful in Christ to the edges of the world: Cymru, Kernw (Cornwall) and Gallic Breizh (Brittany). Arthwr ap Uther triumphed against them, crushing the invaders in Mynydd Baddon (Mount Badon). But Arthwr had died centuries before, his remains lay in the sacred Ynys Wydryn (Avalon), and the Saxons came to rule most of Britain.

Lord Bleddyn had the ambition of uniting all of the Cymry under his rule, so he could proclaim himself “brenin y Brythoniaid”. In 1069 he moved his warbands against the strong man of the north-east, the petty lord of Perfeddwlad, Edwyn the tooth-less, and subjugated him.

Then he tightened the hold upon the warchiefs of the borders of Powys, and raided the lands of the Saxons as far as Nametwihc (Nantwich), and, through violence and careful diplomacy, made himself suzerain over various chiefs of Brycheiniog and Ceredigion (which pertained to Deheubarth).

In 1072 Bleddyn had mustered a formidable host, and decided to invade the realm of Deheubarth, which comprehended all of southwestern Wales. It was after his own principality, the most influential in the land. If he conquered Deheubarth, it would be a matter of time to reduce the remaining independent fiefs.

He claimed the land of Dyfed due to his descent of Hywel Dda, founder of Deheubarth, but, in these times, might prevailed over law and customs. Bleddyn would govern Dyfed not properly due to this so-called birthright, but because he commanded many soldiers that dutifully followed him to war and imposed his iron will upon the defeated.

The then lord of Deheubarth, Rhys ap Owain, was an old man, almost dying and with no male sons, the eldest of two daughters being no older than five. His followers in campaign were few, and had not seen battle for years, differently of Bleddyn's men, who were hardened by conflict against the Saxons and the Irish pirates.

The leader of the defending host was a certain Gwntr, and he refused to battle the men of Powys, waging guerrilla in the hills and forests, reducing Bleddyn’s forces with ambushes and skirmishes.

The clever duke of Gwynedd, however, devised a risky stratagem: sent one of his most trusted advisors, disguised as an old soothsaying druid, to infiltrate the ranks of the enemies, and spread the prophecy that they would destroy Bleddyn’s forces in a glorious battle.

The Cymry are very superstitious, centuries after they converted to the True Faith they still clinged to the old ways. A priest could calm the hearts of men with holy prayers, but the prophets would inflame them with those obscure messages of the future. So the men of Deheubarth, inspired by these predictions, left their hiding and met Bleddyn's forces in the open field. They hurled themselves madly, screaming like horrid demons, jumping and swinging like wildcats upon the prey. The disciplined men of Powys and Gwynedd formed a solid shieldwall, their spears protuding like those of a porcupine. The men of Dyfed bleed themselves to a complete defeat. When they finally realized the falsity of the prophecy and despaired, it was too late, and their ranks collapsed as glass shattered by a club. The true slaughter of the battlefield does not occurs during the battle, when the shieldwalls clash, and the men bleed themselves with swords and spears, but after one of the sides routs. Bleddyn summoned his few horsemen, a light cavalry of youths from the border, who ran over the broken army and slew them to the last men. Without any further resistance, Bleddyn laid siege to the formidable castle of Dinefwr, but Bleddyn would not live to see victory.

In September 1072 he suddenly died. Historians are quick to point him as victim of a conspiracy led by his own son, etifedd (prince) Cadwgan, who immediately succeeded him as lord of Gwynedd.

Although the exact details of Bleddyn’s death are uncertain (for no contemporary record survived), especially regarding his murder by the heir, there is an anecdote that explains that, during the lengthy siege, Bleddyn went to the woods with his sons and retinue, for he was an avid hunter. While looking for a place to sleep during the night, Bleddyn was lured by his traitorous son to a lonely roadside inn where the conspirators had prepared a lethal trap.

This embarrassing tale should not be taken more seriously than the pranks of the court jester. Probably, as it has happened so many times in history, it was nothing but a slight crafted by Bleddyn’s rivals (so that he could not have been a honorable man in life, nor in death). However, Bleddyn was known to have been a benevolent ruler, as describe in one text: the most lovable and the most merciful of all kings, he was civil to his relatives, generous to the poor, merciful to pilgrims and orphans and widows and a defender of the weak, the mildest and most clement of kings, openhanded to all, terrible in war, but in peace beloved.

Perhaps, that story could have been forged as to insult to Cadwgan himself, for he could count his enemies and rivals as one counts the stars in the sky, unscrupulous foes who'd do anything to guarantee that the memory of posterity in relation to Cadwgan ap Bleddyn was gravely stained. Yet, it was Bleddyn's son, infamously called "kinslayer", who'd fulfill his father's dream of uniting the land of the Cymry under the banner of the Mathrafal.

Chapter Notes:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**Chirurgeon** · July 02, 2012, 07:22 PM

wow this looks good! Great first part

**Latin Knight** · July 03, 2012, 01:04 AM

Originally Posted by Chirurgeon

wow this looks good! Great first part

Thanks, friend, your praise is much appreciated, i've already said how i really like your AARs

.

Now, as promised, here goes the next chapter, with a new character.

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn Mathrafal

Chapter 2: We make war that we may live in peace

Duke Cadwgan I of Gwynedd - 1072 A.D.

Of those conspicuous figures in the history of Britain, Cadwgan, duke of Gwynedd is certainly one of the most interesting: a man of remarkable vigor and willpower, a skilled general and, even more than his father, an accomplished politician, who knew how to achieve by contract what he failed to do by sword.

In the first years of his reign, nothing was certain, by the customs of the Cymry, his hateful brothers inherited Powys and Perfeddwlad, and claimed the entirety of the region of Gwynedd, which meant they’d sooner or later wage war. Fraternal warfare was not uncommon in Cymru, or, indeed, in all of Europe, but Cadwgan had resolved that his father's accomplishments in uniting the realm would not be in vain, and, if that meant slaying his brothers, it something he was willing to do.

Cadwgan rallied the greater part of his father’s demoralized host after he died – one more reason to trust the stories that deem the prince the assassin of his own father nothing more than slights to damage his reputation – captured Dinefwr and various strongholds and accepted the capitulation of the burghs and heard oaths of fealty from the petty nobles, thus imposing his lordship over all of the region of Dyfed.

Victorious Cadwgan returned to his seat of Abberfraw, the rich spoils and glory of war having won the respect and consideration of the soldiers. Indeed, it was said Cadwgan was endeared by the army, for he was a skilled and brave warlord in the battlefield, fighting shoulder to shoulder with his men in the shieldwall. Above all, he was a generous in sharing the spoils, which made the bellicose subjects share his dream of recreating a united realm of Brythons.

The year of 1073 was fateful not only due to his first conquest, but also because his firstborn, Llywelyn ap Cadwgan, came of age. Barely he became an adult, this brave youth soon proved himself an able war leader, bathing himself in glory in a series of quick campaigns against Glamorgan, Hereforda, going as far as Gleawcestre (Gloucester), where he torched Threwshon (Tewkesbury).

In the end of the year, as autumn drew to a close, Cadwgan made arrangements to subjugate Glamorgan as soon as spring came. Differently from his father, Cadwgan was interested in the fates of Lloegyr and the Saxons. Cymru was the last place where news would come, so the duke had spies of his trust spread over the frontier and in Mircea, so he’d be informed about the revolutions of this protracted struggle between Saxons and Norse.

Springs and winters had come, and the Norwegians advanced, slowly, but inexorably, bringing fire and steel to the heart of Britain. The Witenagemot had grown tired of their King Harold’s strategy – which emulated Fabius Maximus against Hannibal – and decided that the future of the realm should rest in the able hands of Ætheling (prince) Godwin, Harold’s son and heir, a brash youth that proclaimed loudly that’d lead the Saxons to expel the Norse back to their wastes beyond the sea as Ælfred and Eadweard did centuries before.

The word of the Witan was law, so Harold retired. Young Godwin mustered a large force to meet the invaders in battle near Deoraby (Derby), was decisively defeated and captured in battle, dying a few months later in captivity of his dreaded enemy. His son, a boy of seven, was formally crowned king of the English, a grim ceremony in which the desolated nobles and churchmen postulated they had just crowned the last Saxon monarch of Englaland.

What the Danes had failed to do against Ælfred the Great, that is, dominating Englaland, the Norwegians now succeeded, as Harald the Conqueror advanced south like a northern storm. To the Angles and Saxons, then, Harald’s death in winter resulted of divine providence. The Norwegian lion passed away of old age in Yorvík, as they called the great city of Eoforwic (York). Perhaps, in his own mind, Harald himself had known that would be his last campaign before he left this world for Valhalla, as he believed when he was young, or, if his new faith was true, to rest in the company of Christ.

His troops, despite the victories and the certainty of the Saxons’ defeat, were completely demoralized and profoundly exhausted by the long conflict, their ranks ravaged by disease and the hardships of warfare. Harald’s heir, Olaf, was too concerned to take for himself the crown in Scandinavia to care about ruling Englaland – that had been his father’s ambition, not his own. And so, just as unexpectedly as the Norse had disembarked, they returned to their monstrous longboats and disappeared in the brooding mists beyond the sea, never to return.

In the onset of winter, however, when Cadwgan expected peace, he’d have war. He actively prayed that his despicable brothers would do him a favor by slaying each other, and secretly fomented discord between them. Nevertheless, his foes hated him more than they hated each other, and formed a convenient alliance against him (for he was the most powerful of the siblings), and before January marched to ravage his land.

Fortunately for Cadwgan, only Rhirid, who ruled in Perfeddwlad, made campaign, for his other half-brother, Madog, suddenly vanished with a handful of domestic warriors in the southern woods and hills of Powys, as his lands were being viciously raided by vengeful Saxons bands.

Earl Rhirid would discover too late that his ally would not arrive in time to support him, in his brash stupidity he had penetrated too deeply in Cadwgan’s domain to be able to make a safe retreat, and this mistake cost him everything. His victorious half-brother ambushed him, routed his meager forces, jailed him and captured his castle.

His remaining brother, Madog ap Bleddyn, after the bitter conflict against the foreign raiders, saw he was too weak to even hope of defeating Cadwgan and smartly paid him homage and professed eternal loyalty, claiming that he’d have never followed a madman such as Rhirid against his rightful liege. All lies, obviously, and Cadwgan was too intelligent to believe a word of it. But, for now, he was content with leaving Madog as the lord of Powys, for it would be he, as the marcher lord, to contend with the savage Saxon freebooters.

The restless warlord fulfilled his promise to his soldiers of a glorious campaign against Glamorgan as soon as the snows of winter melt. It was a quick campaign, the enemy, frightened by his larger host, refused to give battle, hiding in the woods and caves while the countryside was torched and the churches were plundered.

The greatest city in the fief, Swansea, surrendered without resistance; Cadwgan mercifully spared it from the flame and the burgh accepted him as their new protector, encouraging the small nobles to do the same. Before summer ended, Cadwgan ruled the greater part of Deheaubarth. He paraded with his troops through the recently conquered lands of Dyfed and Glamorgan as to remind them of his strong hold over the entirety of Cymru, strengthened the loyalty of his vassals by feasting in the longhouses, organizing hunts and made patronage to embellish the churches and built monasteries.

It was during the apogee of his reign that Cadwgan was named “the bewitched”. Initially this outraging epithet was called by those who hated him, for he was a monster that murdered his own kin, his remarkable victories being nothing more than evidences of his allegiance with evil forces. Supposedly he’d command warlocks to bring doom upon his enemies, and could change the face as men change their clothes.

Instead of muffling such ludicrous rumors, Cadwgan actually liked them, and its said he himself instructed his courtiers and retinue to spread fantastical histories about him. If we’re to believe the contemporary poetry, Cadwgan was a shape-shifting sorcerer, who dialogued with the ancient spirits of the woods and rivers, and even could transform in mist during moonless nights!

For the next years, the realm would witness peace, at least the peace they were used to: with continued raids of Cymry against the Saxons, and of the Saxons against them, and the attacks of Irish and Norse pirates from Scotland. Yet, Cadwgan did exactly as one ancient philosopher said: spent the times of peace preparing for war. He commanded the building of new castles, reinforced the defenses of the cities and hardened green boys into soldiers and promised spoils and glory to the veterans. He strenghtened old alliances and forged new ones: his nubile daughters and nieces were send to marry noblemen in Alba (Scotland), Éire (Ireland) and Kernw.

In Englaland, Harold III, the boy-king, had to muster the weakened forces of his wrecked realm to face another invasion from northern Francia. As soon as he came of age, Guillaume the Bastard’s son, Richard IV de Normandie crossed the Channel, but, instead of disembarking in Hastings as his father did, navigated through the estuary of the Temes river and laid siege to Lunden.

In 1078 A.D., Cadwgan’s sobriquet would assume a different and sinister meaning. As if stricken by the hexes of a witch, efiddel Llywelyn, Cadwgan’s heir, was caught the camp fever and passed away, 21 years of age.

Cadwgan was completely devastated, not only because he’d have to bury his own beloved firstborn and desired heir, but also because he, only a few years before, made a decision to strengthen Llywelyn’s hold over his vassals during succession. Until then, the laws of Cymru dictated that all sons would inherit the estates, titles and wealth of the father in rather equal shares, as it was the custom of the Franks. Cadwgan knew that was the reason of their ruin, and knew, after he died, Llywelyn would have to battle his brothers as he himself had done.

Then, what use would have the unification of Cymru, if in the next generation the realm would break apart again? So, Cadwgan, with his power consolidated, decreed that in his kingdom, they would adopt the Saxon custom. That meant the firstborn son was entitled to all the estates of the predecessor, and he himself would be responsible for further passing of inheritance to the excluded siblings.

Cadwgan hurriedly summoned the wise men and councilors, and they solemnly explained that the eligible descendants of the firstborn were to have preference over living siblings, that meant that Cadwgan’s grandson was now the efiddel, in detriment of late Llywelyn’s brothers. The heir apparent was also named Cadwgan, and was yet a child when Cadwgan the bewitched approached old age.

While still mourning, Cadwgan hoped that the hardships and triumphs of war would diminish, even if only temporarily, the suffering. First he marched against his brother, to secure succession for his grandson. Now that Llywelyn was dead, Madog, who still ruled in Powys with his sons, plotted, distributed gifts and fortified his castles. Before he could get strong, however, Cadwgan cleverly launched a pre-emptive strike, neutralizing Madog’s most loyal vassals, and stormed Mathrafal when his brother and nephews were far, mustering the army for a desperate counter-attack. Cardwgan knew he’d already won even before Madog’s men were butchered before the solid shield wall. He captured his foes and imprisoned them, were they’d spend the rest of their cursed days.

Cadwgan crushed other rebellious petty lords in Powys and Deheubarth, and advanced against the last independent Welsh territory, Gwent. The duke of Gwynedd, Powys and Deheubarth had spared Gwent all these years because its lord, aptly named “earl” Caradog, had long ago sworn fealty to the powerful Saxon ealdorman of Gleawcestre.

Now that the Saxons had moved east to fend off the second Norman invasion, Gwent was left completely unprotected, and earl Caradog wisely submitted to Cadwgan when he brought his hosts before his castle.

With this last triumph, duke Cadwgan took solace from his soul tearing grief by the fulfillment of his life-long dream: the unification of all Cymry under the Mathrafal banner.

His name would be forever remembered in history, like those of Arthwr, Rhodri Mawr and Hywel Dda, as the ruler of one realm, that the Angles and Saxons named “Wales”.

Chapter Notes:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**ccllnply** · July 03, 2012, 06:52 AM

Very well written and easy to read. Plus I just love CK2, really enjoying reading this. The manure explosion was excellent

**Latin Knight** · July 03, 2012, 01:24 PM

Originally Posted by ccllnply

Very well written and easy to read. Plus I just love CK2, really enjoying reading this. The manure explosion was excellent

Thanks! CK II is right now my favorite game, i rarely see myself playing anything else (and i have a vast backlog in Steam

). Since 1.06 patch, i've seen at least some 5 different assassination events, i guess they are specific to Muslims and Christians, but the manure explosion was the weirdest one i've seen yet.

Originally Posted by Chirurgeon

Continue to do well. I like how you had your character Cadwgan the bewitched actually embrace the rumors. A good tactic to instill fear into your enemies! I might have to get this game

Did you guys ever play lords of the realm?

Yes, he was the first character i had with this name (i'm pretty successful in creating fairly good characters, with nice traits, so, usually they get named "the Great", "the Blessed" and so forth. If i indeed manage to take this AAR to the end of the campaign, you'll see some of these epithets).

In the end, Cadwgan I a more successful character than i expected at first. When the story is more advanced, you'll see that it was during his reign that i laid the foundations of the future empire, so there is much to thank him.

I heartly recommend you pick CK II, it's an amazing game (as most games by Paradox are), you won't regret. And no, i've not played Lords of the Realm, if you mean the game from 1994, that's a bit early for me, in those years i was still learning the alphabet, and had no skills to play an RTS game

.

Right now, i'm already posting a new update. Fortunately, i have this week of vacation, so i hope i can advance thoroughly before i'm required to to go back to work

.

**Latin Knight** · July 03, 2012, 02:16 PM

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn Mathrafal

Chapter 3: The Welsh Crusade

King Cadwgan I of Wales - 1090 A.D.

It has been said that children live off their imagination and fantasies, youths live off their dreams and hopes, adults live off their duties and triumphs, and old men live off their regrets and sorrows.

The years passed after Cadwgan became king, and his own power was solidified all over the land, but that of his dynasty was not. His brothers and nephews had long since died and rotten in the dungeons. His second son, Gruffydd was slain while seeking fame and fortune in the distant kingdom of Alba. His surviving brother, for whom he felt no love, was a drunken slob that ruined his youth with beer and prostitutes, had no legitimate sons, and knew as much of ruling and of commanding armies as a pig.

The priests were too smart to proclaim this before the king, but Cadwgan knew… he was sure that Llywelyn’s death was a divine punishment. God was deeply displeased due to his many sins. Through his life, he had been no pious man, didn’t flinch about getting rid of all those who opposed him, even if it was his own kin. In war, he had destroyed homes and families, sent tender children to a life of slavery, and plundered churches and holy places.

After all his accomplishments, after he had finally fulfilled his dream, his life purpose, it all would be forgotten during his sleepless nights, when the phantoms of the fast came to haunt him.

The light of his life, and the only hope of the realm, was his grandson. Cadwgan the younger, as the maids and courtiers called him, was so close to his father, and King Cadwgan the bewitched grew to love him.

Cadwgan the younger, since he was kid, was already a fearless and adventurous lad, kind and amiable child, loved by all. As he grew, he became remarkable by his temperance, always moderate and sober in drinking and eating, and he was considerate to the poor and gave from his own pocket. Cadwgan made sure that his grandson was always protected by men of his entire trust, for certainly there were people in Cymru who plotted his heir’s death, and ensure as well that the efiddel would grow to be the ideal ruler, an indomitable warlord, a skillfull diplomat and a just lawmaker.

It was in these years that King Cadwgan made a decision that would forever change the destinies of the Mathrafal dynasty. Obviously, in that time he could not have fathomed the consequences of this event, and how they’d shape the centuries to come. Cadwgan, differently from his father Bleddyn, developed a reluctant admiration for the Saxons. Their kingdom was united, not only by the strength of its leaders, but also due to the stern effectiveness of the laws and tribunals, and the intricate organization of the Church, which allowed for a centralized and effective government. Various cities which barely a hundred years before had been razed to the ground by the Danes now flourished as great trading hubs, the fortifications started by Ælfred, named burhs, grew to be formidable fortresses.

Cadwgan a long time ago realized Cymru could not live in its backward isolation. The fortune of his own realm was bound to that of Englaland, and, indeed, to that of all of Britain. The land of the Angles and Saxons was prosperous and wealthy, while his own was poor and retrograde. The future of his kingdom depended on the forging of lasting bonds with Englaland, and so Cadwgan the younger was betrothed to a Saxon noblewoman, Ælfleda, a small girl who had inherited estates and titles in East Engla.

Many of King Cadwgan’s subjects were puzzled when they saw his herculean efforts of diplomacy to make the regents of the girl accept the marriage offer with what they deemed a "barbarian" from beyond the frontier. Ælfleda, despite being titled “duchess of Norfolk” was not rich, her estates comprised swamps and blighted villages, and the troops she could muster were ignominous. It would be better, the councilors vehemently affirmed, if he made alliance with other Welsh nobles, or even Irish or Cornish principalities.

But Cadwgan the Elder knew that Ælfleda’s value lay not on her properties or her armies, but on her lineage, for she was æthel, a member of Saxon royalty, descending from Godwin of Westsexna, whose descendants ruled now Englaland. Cadwgan’s sons with Ælfleda would have royal blood from the noblest Welsh and Saxon lineages.

*****

The year of the Lord of 1090 will be forever be marked in History, for this year witnessed events that would change the world.

Seven years earlier, that is, in 1083 A.D., the greatest bastion of Christendom in the far east, the Greek Empire, whose monarchs ruled from the golden city of Konstantinoúpolis, was in grave peril, as the hordes of the infidels marched against them. Their religious leader, the Khalifah, who proclaims to be the successor of Mahomet, summoned all the followers of the cursed faith to march against the faithful Christians in Asia.

After various setbacks, the desperate ruler of the Greeks, whom they call Basileos, asked the bishop of Rome so that the Christians of Europe would come to his help.

It was then that Pope Alexander II, a pious and gentle man, went to the heart of Francia, and, despaired by the fact that good Christians would spend their lives warring with each other instead of taking arms against the true enemies of the Faith, made a compassionate speech, urging the followers of Christ to go east, battle the Mahometans and retake the holy places in the land of Yerushaláyim.

The news spread through all of Europe like a wildfire. Perhaps not even the Pope himself, when he proclaimed “Deus Vult” could have imagine that thousands of pilgrims, from various places, from Aquitaine to Sachsen (Saxony), from Danmark to Italia, would band together and seek the Holy Land. Those faithful did not even know how to get there, but prayed that God would guide their holy mission.

Cadwgan summoned to his presence some priests who, dressed in rags and dirty sandals, walked through Britain joyfully announcing what they now called “the Crusade”. And the humble priests explained to him, their eyes sparking, and the voices thunderous, as if possessed by the holy grace that is said to bless the saints and martyrs. Awed, Cadwgan asked: “And, is it true what they say? That God will grant remission of all sins of those who participate and peregrinate to the First Temple of the Lord?” and the missionaries happily confirmed.

Thus, Cadoganus of Cambria, as the chroniclers of the First Crusade called him, summoned his bannermen, crossed the Channel to Calais and headed south through the Via Francigena, an ancient pilgrimage route that crossed the territories of the Franks, of the Burgundians and of the Lombards, all the way to Roma itself. From there, with the gleeful blessings of His Holiness, they continued through the mountainous spine of Italia to the Norman castle of Brindisi by the Adriatic, and sailed to the land where the God made himself flesh and walked among men.

We can’t know for sure what were the reasons that made King Cadwgan so readily abandon the daily affairs of the kingdom and march to a distant land that no one in Cymru knew. As most of those that actually went to Yerushaláyim, was he really animated by religious fervor, a burning desire to restore the Faith to the sacred places of Christendom? Did he simply wanted God’s forgiveness for his wrongs? Was he after riches and spoils, for the legends spoke of a mystic and otherworldly realm in that side of the Mediterranean, abundant of wealth and where honey flowed from the ground, as the Bible said?

Whatever the reason, we know that Cadwgan, to guarantee the safety of his heir and preserve his domain intact while he was away, forced his vassals, great and small, to undertake the holiest expedition. The regent was a good man of entire trust, who lacked any kind of evil ambition.

In the middle of 1091 they reached the destination: the coastal fortress of Ashkelon (Ascalon), and quickly his men proved themselves in this new battleground of strange forests and arid hills. They faced the swift cavalry of the Turks, a savage people from the farthest reaches of the world, called Ērān, or, as the Greeks named it, Persia.

In the northern hills, with a combined force of Lombards and Franks, they won a great victory against the Syrians and Arabs, subjects to the king of Misr, which we know as "Ægyptus" in the Bible, the ancient realm of the pharaohs. However, despite the genuine efforts of the crusaders, and the fact that the sparse armies won various victories against the separate hosts of the infidels, the holy expedition was doomed from start.

The Crusading forces never formed a cohesive army, there were at least three great hosts that came from Europe: that of the Italians, to which Cadwgan had joined; that of the Franks and Aquitanians; and that of the Germans, Hungarians and Danes, which still marched in Armenia, and had not reached the Holy Land. The Egyptian king, however, summoned his forces from the four corners of his vast domain, and the prince of Persia came as well. Their innumerable hordes, used to fighting in those barren wastes and craggy mountains, with fearsome horses and unquenchable thirst for blood, fell upon the Christians, like Goliath assaulted David, except, this time, the philistine was victorious.

The Cymry and allies had already despaired before the walls of Yerushaláyim, for it was inexpugnable. Not even the greatest and most formidable castle in all of Britain had fortifications so colossal and sturdy, a determined garrison could sustain the sprawling metropolis for months, perhaps years. Only with twenty thousand men they could hope to storm the city, and impatiently expected the arrival of the German crusaders. But the infidels came first, and destroyed the besiegers.

After seeing his men massacred as animals, Cadwgan ran back with what remained from his army to Ashkelon and they shamelessly embarked back home, the hearts heavy as they abandoned the Holy Land to the wretched Saracens. Much later they received the grim news that the Germans had been annihilated, and the Pope, after years passed without significant gains against the unstopable fury of the easterners, called off the Crusade.

Cadwgan the crusader marched all the way back home with the wrecked remnants of the Cymry army. He had yet to cross the Alps in when when his heir came of age, at 16. As his father before him, he hurried to the battlefield and proved himself a skilled warrior, and rapidly gained the love of the domestic army. Ælfleda of Norfolk also came of age, and, due to the contract firmed years ago, Cadwgan ap Llwywelyn and Ælfleda of Godwin married.

As per the laws of both kingdoms, Cadwgan the younger, who was yet landless, went to the court of his wife. Perhaps that had been the intention of his grandfather all long: that his successor would learn the manners and customs of the Saxons, and bring novelties to “modernize” Cymru.

Cadwgan, due to his notable military skills, was made what the Saxons called “Maerscalc” (Marshal), the chief commander of the military forces and was also named “Huscarl”, and the welsh efiddel learned the ways of war of the Saxons, and defeated his wife’s enemies. He was already 18 when the news came that the welsh crusaders had crossed the Channel. King Cadwgan was in Contwarabug (Canterbury) when a herald from Norfolk announced that a male child had been produced from the union between the Mathrafal and Godwin families.

The old king returned home delighted to know that now succession was safe, and in his sleep he sometimes imagined he could hear the faint cries of his grand-grandson.

*****

In 1097 the island of Britain welcomed yet another year of peace, after so many seasons of brutal warfare, foreign invasions and episodes of grave ruin. The Saxon king, Harold III, now a man, was content with spending his days feasting, hunting, wenching, organizing fairs, making pilgrimages and building churches. In Cymru, old King Cadwgan did exactly the same, but, after having seen the greatest cities of the world and fighting in faraway lands, peace felt insupportably boring.

His restless spirit lusted for those sensations, awakened by warfare, that set the blood on fire. That year’s spring was just starting, when a crew of Irish adventures from across the sea assailed a recently built minster in Dyfed. These attacks were not unusual, at all. Even centuries after St. Pádraig converted the savages of Éire to the True Faith, they still remained ferocious beasts who preyed upon every coastal village, from Dyntagel in Kernw to Innse Gall in Pictland. This attack was not particularly vicious: they assaulted a convent, raped and enslaved the hapless nuns, and torched the tall building to the ground. That was usual. Nevertheless, this was exactly the pretext Cadwgan required to launch his next series of military campaigns.

After uniting Wales, the unpeaceful warlord stared hungrily to the great emerald island to the west. Even to the Britons themselves, Éire was an unknown and foreign expanse, a land where the ancestral spirits and fabulous creatures of myth hid in meadows, bogs and caves; where the monoliths and ruins of the elder folk could be found in the rolling green plains; a land where adventurers and freebooters could find fortune and glory. The welsh soldiers were easily enticed to embark in ships with the promises of spoils in the wealthy churches and burghs of Éire, and the prospect of exacting a long due revenge upon the barbarians. For Cadwgan, it was a new ambition that he had fomented in the last years: of uniting the lands of the Irish as he had done with the Cymry. Many had tried before, even the mighty Norse, but all of them failed, and the island still is a patchwork of fiefs and rump domains, each one ruled by a warlord who proclaims himself “Rí”, or King.

He invaded the southern region of Deas-Mhumhain (Desmond). His soldiers torched villages, ravaged the countryside, accepted tributes and assaulted holdings. When the astonished Irish warchiefs surrendered to the Cymry might, they asked why they were being attacked. Cadwgan then would fetch his learned men, who presented various unintelligible documents and intricate and confusing genealogical trees that left clear that the Welsh king had a birthright claim over the entire region (conveniently denominated “kingdom”, but Cadwgan disregarded this name, for any warchief with a couple hundred men could call himself king in Éire). Those claims were obviously fabricated, but, differently from other conquerors who took what they wanted without excuses, Cadwgan always had the preoccupation of giving at least an appearance of legitimacy, even if flimsy, to his conquests.

The Irish had a reputation as indomitable and brave people, who couldn’t live a life divorced from freedom. Cadwgan and his men, then, concluded that the inhabitants of this land they invaded could not be true Irishmen, for they offered minimal resistance. As soon as their fields were burned and the cattle captured, the paltry chiefs surrendered their pathetic forts and implored mercy, offering the nubile daughters as gifts and meagre tributes of silver and copper. By the year’s end, the region belonged to Cymru.

In the next year, they were attacked by the lord of Tuadhmhumhain (Thomond), who entitled himself the sovereign of all southern Éire, which they called “an Mhumhain” (Munster). Now, this was the war Cadwgan was hoping for: this Irish chief, called Brian the Just, was powerful, and brought many brave and hard men to battle with the Cymry.

Different from what the rumors flowing in the welsh ranks suggested, those were not primitives who went to war naked and painted, shrieking wildly with clubs and axes. No, these were disciplined veterans of a millenarian military tradition. After centuries fighting the Danes and Norwegian vikingr, the Irish came to adopt their ways of war, and fought in solid shiedwalls, wielding shortswords and barbed spears.

It was not an easy confrontation, but those very men of Cymru, proud of scars acquired fighting against other Irishmen, against Saxons and Saracens, vanquished the foe after five campaign seasons, and Rí Brian submitted and bowed to his conqueror.

Thus, the King of the Britons had sailed to make himself suzerain over the lords of Deas-Mhumhain, and now Fortuned gave him the greater part of Mhumhain.

Cadwgan made his greatest general, Gruffydd, a man he trusted and loved as a son, the lord of Mhumhain, his official title, in chronicles of the churchmen, was “Dux”, or Duke, in the language of the Franks.

In these years, Cadwgan’s great-grandson, named Llywelyn like his grandfather, had grown and was being educated in the Saxon court of his mother in Gippeswick (Ipswich). The boy could not be considered anything more than a Saxon himself: he had never been to Cymru, and knew nothing about what meant to be welsh. Here we see the beginning of the gradual transformation of the Mathrafal dynasty: born in the heart of Cymru, it would eventually become as Saxon as the family of Godwin.

The dawn of the 12th century saw the disheartening twilight of the first monarch of a united Cymru. In advanced age, Cadwgan the bewitched, the crusader and the conqueror was himself conquered by old age. Infirm, he'd spend his last sane months bedridden and afflicted by gout. Not too long later, his senility became evident, his last sad months being drowned in the incomprehensible fantasies of the loons.

Just as February ended in 1104 A.D., Cadwgan I died, and his grandson, now King Cadwgan II of Cymru, succeeded him in the throne.

Chapter Notes:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

So, here we finish another instalment, hope you guys are enjoying reading it as much as i'm by writing it.

The first crusade called in the game was a failure, that means only small powers such as independent dukes, insignificant kingdoms or republics such as Venice participated. While they sometimes mount an interesting offensive, specially due to the "join larger army" mechanic introduced in the previous patch, the Fatimid Caliphate brings their absurd doomstacks of 20K troops (if you pay atention to the picture of the Crusade, you'll see a 9K enemy army coming from Sinai, while my miser 950 men walk lonely in Palestine.

.

Crusades for Jerusalem are usually the hardest to succeed, specially the first ones, because the Caliphate is too strong. Only if a superpower like the HRE or France decides to enter, they will triumph. I myself captured the Kingdom of Jerusalem many times, but as late as 1180 A.D., its not impossible if you pick the right cards

. However, other common crusade targets, such as Barcelona (after its inevitable conquest by the Muslims), Mauretania or Egypt, are apparently easier to succeed.

About the Jihad for Anatolia against the ERE in the beginning, it also failed horribly, as it's usual: the muslims never suceed in defeating Byzantium. In fact, in this campaign, for the first time since i bought the game, i've seen the Muslims actually defeat them and grab a large piece of Asian land, but that was much later, in 1300s. Until this moment, however, you'll see that Byzantium standing solid as a brick.

Also, about the culture shift my great-grandson experienced, remember this, for it'll be fundamental to the development of the story. In CK II, for those who don't know, culture is an important opinion modifier. Characters with different cultures have the "foreigner" opinion malus, with might be smaller or less depending with they share a same cultural group (ex: Danes and Norwegians dislike each other less, for they belong to the "North Germanic" group, while hate more a Frankish or Italian ruler/vassal, for these belong to the "Latin" group. Relating to the story, Welsh belongs to "Celtic" group, together with Scottish and Irish, while Saxon is "West Germanic", same group of the Flemish

**Chirurgeon** · July 03, 2012, 12:18 PM

Continue to do well. I like how you had your character Cadwgan the bewitched actually embrace the rumors. A good tactic to instill fear into your enemies! I might have to get this game

Did you guys ever play lords of the realm?

**Chirurgeon** · July 03, 2012, 04:22 PM

well i never played the original lords of the realm either. But there was a third installment that was pretty good. You basically conquered the isles one county at a time. I will have to see if it is on steam

**Latin Knight** · July 04, 2012, 11:29 PM

Ok, pals, here we go with another update. I originally intended for this to be shorter, but got carried away. This one i fear is more of a preparation for the next chapter, which should be more action packed. And don't be offended by the walls of text, that's my style, and an addiction of mine, to do careful and detailed research, and i like to set my stories, even if fictional, with feet in historical background.

Cadwgan ap Llywelyn Mathrafal

Chapter 4: of Bears and dogs

King Cadwgan II of Wales - 1102 A.D.

Cadwgan was campaigning in Éire, as he had been for many years, when the news came that his grandfather was dying. He, as one of the leaders of duke Gruffydd’s host, had just captured the settlements in the western shores: An tAonach (Nenagh) and Bun na Raite (Bunratty). He sailed back to his homeland and was crowned in the castle of Mathrafal.

In contrast to his grandfather, Cadwgan II had little patience for politics and wasteful talk. He suffered the various ceremonies associated with the coronation, and haplessly hosted feasts, distributed gifts to the vassals, and they bowed before him and renewed the oaths of vassalage. The succession was relatively tranquil, Cadwgan was already a strong presence in the royal affairs long before his predecessor died, and his reputation an implacable general was known through all of Britain, so the petty nobles (whose power had been curbed by Bleddyn and Cadwgan I) would think thrice before incurring in his wrath.

The only person powerful enough that could perhaps challenge his authority was the welsh duke of Tuadhmhumhain himself. But lord Gruffydd was loyal as a hound, his mind was completely devoid of ideas of betrayal and, if the first king Cadwgan loved Gruffydd as a son, the second one cared for him as if they were blood brothers.

His own heritage was secure as well: his firstborn, Llywelyn, grew strong and healthy, and his girl flourished into beauty and graciousness. By the customs and laws, as the children had been born in English soil, they were to remain to be educated in Norfolk, in the court of their mother. Cadwgan saw no problem in this, he deeply loved his wife Ælfleda, trusted her judgements regarding what was best for his children, and desired his son to be instructed in the Saxon manners as he himself had been.

Before his grandfather became infirm and senile, he was already preparing an expedition to subjugate what was left of an independent southern Éire. The “kingdom” of Oirmhumhain (Ormond). Cadwgan sailed to the emerald island with fresh thousands of reinforcements, many of them youths who had yet to be initiated in warfare. As they used to say, a boy only becomes a man in the day he sheds the blood of his enemies in a shieldwall.

In the eastern coast of Éire, the reaches were under protection of a chieftain whose hall was in Port Láirge (Waterford), the largest city Cadwgan had seen in Éire, and which had been built not by the Irish, but by the Norse, who named it Vethrafjord – two things that spoke much about the country, even their greatest cities were miserable godforsaken hamlets if compared to the settlements of the Saxons that Cadwgan had seen, such as Lunden.

Despite this, Port Láirge proved to have formidable defenses, and a garrison composed of true Irishmen, that is, fearless and haughty. Twice the Welsh attempted to climb the wood palisades and defensive earthwork, overcoming the muddy ditches, but were repelled with sufferable losses. As it was a coastal settlement, starving its inhabitants into surrender could take years, and the Welsh had no resources or aptitude to establish any kind of sea blockade, as some military strategists today claim it would be the solution to the impasse.

After grueling losses and months of siege, Cadwgan’s determination prevailed over that of the citizens. The attackers fought back the repeated sallies of the garrison and collapsed the stockades with battering rams. The township was sacked, and Cadwgan ordered all their ships burned, symbolically representing the end of the prized independence of the citizens. Now, to continue trading, they’d require those embarkations provided by their overlords.

As Gruffydd had proven to be such a loyal vassal, he was rewarded by having his domain was expanded to include Oirmhumhain, with the exception of the principal coastal cities such as Vethrafjord, for those would now pay tributes and taxes directly to the Crown. Thus, the entirety of the ancient kingdom of Mhumhain was annexed to the domain of Cymru.

If times of peace bored his grandfather so much, to Cadwgan those were unbearable torments. He was a very austere man, not given to parties and the typical entertainments of the simple folk. He hardly saw any beauty in the arts, the only activities he enjoyed practicing were martial: equitation, melee tournaments and hunting. He certainly was not pious, did the religious practices as nothing more than royal and personal duties, but held no strong beliefs, and, in fact, didn’t seem to care about afterlife or the salvation of souls.

For him, war was more than a pastime or manner of increasing one’s wealth, no, the battlefield was where he truly felt alive, and the fame and reputation what inspired him to great feats at the head of his armies, not the desire for spoils or lands. One courtier even jested that their king had been born centuries too late, for his soul was that of a willful Viking adventurer, who’d endeavor into unknown seas to faraway lands.

Cadwgan II was content with delegating the “peaceful” affairs (as he called any kind of politics, diplomacies, religious tasks that didn’t involve wielding sword and shield) to trusted men, his chancellor, stewards, castellan, etc, while he still retained the character of the Maerscalc. Most of the campaigning seasons he could be found somewhere in Éire, be it crushing a rebellion, capturing strongholds or raiding the free principalities in central and eastern fractions of the island. These skirmishes, however, soon became uninteresting and his frightened enemies would cease any attempts of resisting his inexorable advance.

He longed for a large-scale campaign, where his skills could be tested by a worthy foe. The golden opportunity came in early 1106 A.D.

Cadwgan’s maintained his father’s network of spies throughout Englaland, and he heard stories about a landless Scottish nobleman, who wandered through the northern courts of Nordanhymbra and Cumbraland, desperately asking for support in his cause to reclaim his lost domain, a peninsula in southwestern end of the vast realm of the Picts named Gallobha (Galloway). His name was Alain mac Cellachán, and he promised riches and swore eternal gratitude and loyalty to all those would join him to reclaim what he deemed his birthright.

The title he claimed was a royal one: the Kingdom of the Isles, called by the Norse who colonized it “Suthreyjar”, and from his seat in Dùn Fris (Dumfries), the descendants of a Norwegian conqueror named Crovan now ruled all the isles, coasts, and peninsulas from the Innse Gall to the north till the Ellan Vannin (Isle of Mann) in the Irish Sea. This dynasty of mixed Gaélic and Norse heritage wielded power through the archipelago with their fleets of longboats, frightful remembrances of the past centuries when the heathens first stepped in the shores of Britain.

The current ruler was Murdoch the Scarred, reputed a ruthless overlord, who oppressed the subjects with iron fist, and and a deceitful and unscrupulous man, who was not above using insidious ploys to achieve his objectives. As the years passed, Murdoch became increasingly upset by the fact that he had failed to father a male heir - and rumors even suggested that he had brutally strangled his previous wife with bare hands when she confessed that what she thought to be a pregnancy was actually a false alarm.

Alain was his brother, and there was never much love between them. Indeed, Alain silently prayed every night that his brother would be stricken by a lighting or have a lethal heart attack, so that he could assume the throne. Murdoch, full of suspicion, tortured Alain’s particular confessor (to whom he spoke everything) until the priest himself confessed before the lord.

Alain’s brother then ordered thugs to murder him in his sleep, but he evaded his would be assassins and for months hid from persecution in an isolated hermitage in the mountains. Wandering season after season through the realm of Alba, using various disguises to avoid suspicion, he secretly sought the help of the Lowland lords, but none of them would hear his plight, dismissing him as a vagabond or impostor.

Exasperated, but determined to see his brother ruined, he didn’t give up, and crossed the border to Englaland, walking to every lordly manor seeking help, each time promising even more fabulous rewards for those who helped him. In fact, the earl of Monkchester (Newcastle upon Tyne) agreed to embrace his cause after he explained that the ancient castle that was his family's seat was erected over a large cave, where a dragon hoarded gold, silver and amber centuries before Roman rule – unfortunately for him, his newfound ally got sick and died, his successor immediately expelled Alain from his manor as if he was a stray dog.

Now, in 1106, Alain appeared before Cadwgan II, who heard his story and, to his delightful surprise, agreed to lead his armies north to depose Murdoch and install him duke.

There were conditions, however, and it was not a share of gold or any spoil. Alain was given a castle to rule in Cymru while he remained an exile, and, in this condition, he’d swear an oath of fealty to King Cadwgan II, become his vassal before men and God. After he had been restored in Gallobha this bond would not dissolve: Alain would govern in the king’s stead, not as a monarch himself, but as an ealdorman.

Alain could not be more satisfied with the terms of the agreement. He didn’t care a bit about the title, king, earl, reeve, he only wanted to govern all those islands of Suthreyjar from Dùn Fries, not because it was particularly rich, beautiful or actually desirable. He proudly wanted to acquire his birthright, to do princely things and, above all, wanted to humiliate his hated relative.

Even if he was to be a vassal, it would be to a distant liege. He found the idea kind of funny, actually, because the lordship of the Isles was nominally under the sovereignty of the King of Alba, or Scotland (as the Saxons called everything north of the firths of Forth and Clyde), but they were de facto independent. The monarchs of Alba since the foundation of the kingdom, ruled from Scoine, in the Scottish Lowlands, and exerted no real power beyond this central powerbase. After the Donnchadh dynasty was deposed, the new ruling party had their seat in Inbhir Nis (Inverness), deep in the Highlands, and barely exerted control over the powerful Lowland nobles, who were kings in everything but the name.

Cadwgan II always prepared for his conflicts, from the most insignificant skirmish to a large scale war, and knowing the terrain was an integral part of waging war. Invaders usually didn’t know about the hostile territory, and would depend on locals to serve as guides and interpreters. This was a great risk to be assumed, for you never knew when the natives were committed to the enemy cause, and could easily guide the invading host to an ambush or through harsh landscapes. The greatest defeat Cadwgan had suffered, when he was 23, happened exactly because his native Irish guides, some poor farm boys, led them straight to a trap. He had gravely threatened the boys to not do this, and, when before hanging them in the next day, it was proud smile of those who die believing in a greater cause, that he knew the locals could never be trusted. Since then, he employed his own Welsh and Saxon scouts beyond the frontier, specially trained for this task, which they did with remarkable expertise.

In early 1108 A.D., King Cadwgan II took the straight Roman road following north at the head of thirty hundred men, a combined force of Welsh, Irish, Saxon and even companies of Norman cavalry (whose superb skills as horsemen were prized in both sides of the Channel, and were hired as mercenaries). As the host advanced through those uneasy mountainous landscapes that once belonged to the ancient brythonic domain of Rheged – which strived in those dark centuries after the departure of the Romans and the arrival of the Germanic invaders – their ranks were bolstered by free-riders and lordless bands.

A very wise man once wrote that there are at least three things that invariably follow the soldiers during war, since time immemorial: prostitutes, for armies provide profit that will never be obtained in the brothels; plagues, for large concentrations of men living in filth attract the foul miasmas of disease; and this despicable scum of knight-errants, men whose allegiances are bound not to oaths, but to the weight of his lord’s purse, and prove to be no better than marauders, looting is a means of living.

Armies naturally attract attention, even more Cadwgan’s host, which marched astonishingly fast and didn’t plunder neither caused any destruction in the countryside, as the military was wont to do. This behavior aroused even more suspicions from the northern lords, who sent heralds and scouts to cautiously observe the movements of the legion when it crossed the territory. Cadwgan eased their fears by explaining that he led his armies further north, to the reaches of the Scots and Picts. When they asked more details, wanting to know who was the poor bastard who’d face a man with such a reputation as that of the Welsh King, he’d refuse to answer, simply claimed that he had an enemy in Alba and he'd see him prostrated by his feet before the year ended.

Obviously, Cadwgan had no expectations that he could march through half of Britain and take his foe by surprise. When he reached the timeworn stronghold of Caer Ligualid (Carlisle) already expected that the news of his advance by would be known as far as the Orkneyinga (Orkney islands). As they passed by the ruined remains of the ancient Roman wall that crossed Englaland from one shore to the other, came to him one of his scouts who had been far inside Scottish territory, covered in dust and mud from feet to hair, and spoke him of the grave rumors that ran from mouth to mouth in the unknown north. The Scottish king himself had summoned his bannermen, and right now reached the Lowlands armed and at the head of his host, numbered in thousands.

Apparently, the Scots panicked, fearing this was a large scale invasion – and, indeed, they had reason to fear a southern attack; less than a decade before the Saxon king, Harold III – nicknamed the “Lionheart” – invaded Cumbraland, which had been incorporated to Alba decades before the Norwegian Invasion of 1066, and successfully wrestled the land from the descendants of the Picts.

As the Welsh host penetrated Scotland, heading westward for Gallobha, King Cadwgan received other messages from various of his agents, and the situation became much clearer. The first report wasn’t entirely correct: the Scottish king, Lulach I mac Maél-Snechtai a Muirebe, indeed had called his entire kingdom to arms, however, not to face the southern threat. In one of those inexplicable coincidences that permeate History, the Scottish royal prince, uneasy with the independent status of this fief he considered a natural part of his realm, declared war against the Lordship of the Isles about a month earlier than King Cadwgan’s arrival, claiming all the domain of Murdoch for the Crown of Alba.

King Cadwgan then sent his heralds through the Scottish Lowlands, formally declaring war upon the malign lord (which he never referred officially as “king”) Murdoch mac Cellachán, to install as ruler of the Isles the just and heroic Alain, who had been deprived of his very birthright but evil schemes.

Alain despaired, as did most of the invading army, for now it was obvious the Welsh and royal Scottish armies would clash – indeed, the crowned noble of the realm, as soon as he became aware of the Welsh presence, changed his course due southwest, and marched to meet them. It didn't took long for the royal envoys arrive with an imperious and menacing ultimatum for Cadwgan to retreat and abandon Pictish lands, “or face perilous consequences”.

As the Welsh became increasingly disheartened – for they expected a quick and easy campaign against some mud-eating barbarian chieftain, now they’d face all the might of the Scottish army – Cadwgan became increasingly excited: he’d finally have his great war to win glory and fame for eternity. He was so sure he could defeat the Scots as he was that the sun would rise in the next morning. Not that he underestimated his foes, he was above this kind of foolish pride, but he had thoroughly studied the ways of war of these proud Gaélic warriors, and had bled against them in Harold III’s northern campaign to conquer Cumbraland. Now, just as the Saxons had subdued them some years earlier, he wanted to put against them the best of what Cymru and Éire had to offer.

His various agents who spent years studying southern Scotland and now knew the land as the palms of their hands served as the army’s eyes. They were safely guided through swamps, crags, mountain passes and dense forests, each day closer to rendezvous with the domestic force, which had an estimated number of forty hundred spears and horses – roughly the same King Cadwgan II commanded.

The espionage was so effective that they learned in fine detail about the intense discord amongst the Scottish nobility. The army, despite having been relatively “modernized” after centuries of contact with the Saxons and Norse, still retained noticeable vestiges of the tribal divisions, which invariably meant intestine conflicts in their ranks. The column marched spread thin and fragmented, as various clans, with their petty feuds and vendettas needed to be set apart, lest they’d set ablaze the entire host with old hates, and slaughter each other to the last man before they met the enemy.

In fact, for many centuries, things were not so different in the military of the Saxons, the Welsh or the Franks, for example, but, in those nations, as the tribal relations eventually gave place to feudal obligations and the authority of the lords grew, the armies generally wouldn’t experience those internal fractures, unless it was something similar to the Crusading army, composed by so different nations and cultures that compromises were hardly reached, but, even then, the authority of the kings and dukes meant a certain degree of order.

In the case of the Scots, as they learned, Lulach was not particularly a loved liege, not because of his character, but of his lineage and origins. His dynasty, whose seat was in the heart of the savage Highlands, was seen as a family of foreign goat-humping savages by the lowlanders from Gobharaidh (Gowrie) and Lodainn (Lothian), who claimed descent from ancient “Caledonian” heroes (as they liked to name in the chronicles), and it had ascended to power by usurping the throne from the established House of Dhonnchaidh.

Aware of all this, King Cadwgan II responded to the rival king's messengers that he'd not turn back. He claimed Gallobha and the Suthreyjar, and if the Scots tried to oppose his advance against Alain's despicable sibling, they would face perilous consequences. With grim glances, the Scottish heralds silently nodded and rode back with the response. That meant the Crowns of Cymru and Alba were hereafter hostile, disputing the legitimate claim over Murdoch's fief.

At the head of his men, mounted in his wild Frankish warhorse, the mail and helmet shining in the pale sun, Cadwgan II sang, his thunderous voice remembering the soldiers of those tales of valor and boldness, as he laid down his trap to enrapture the advancing Scottish army. He’d overcome them as the hunter subjugates the bear, and then he'd get rid of that rabid dog named Murdoch.

**Chirurgeon** · July 05, 2012, 11:40 AM

Wow! I'm gonna have to sit down and read this after I update my own aar

**Latin Knight** · July 05, 2012, 01:25 PM

Originally Posted by Chirurgeon

Wow! I'm gonna have to sit down and read this after I update my own aar

That's how i like! And i'm sure not going to make your life easier, Chirurgeon, as the following chapter (almost as big as this one) is coming within the hour!

I just wish those 186 viewers i counted until now would bother commenting (and perhaps giving some beautiful rep

). Now i'm more accostumed to the "mechanics" of AAR threads. Sometimes people lurk for pages and pages before posting a single reply (as i myself did many times, including in your own "An Orc in Skyrim"

)

**Latin Knight** · July 05, 2012, 01:55 PM

Cadwgan ap Llywelyn Mathrafal

Chapter 5: And where the Welsh make a desert they call it peace

King Cadwgan II – 1108 A.D.

Cadwgan had the information that the enemy forces comprising the rearguard were dangerously detached from the main regiments. The Welsh king found his desired battlefield in a jagged landscape, with craggy hills and expanses of dense pine forests, which effectively concealed his moving column from the enemy scouts.

The King had previously divided his force in two halves: one was to remain south, purposefully causing great devastation. They were to hold the attention of the opposing army, which hurried against them as they saw the skies darkened by the black columns of smoke and ash, and the ravages fields and blazing villages. The other half, led by King Cadwgan, went north through alternate routes, hidden by the mountains and woodlands they flanked the enemy force and found themselves right in their backs, ready to break their spine.

When the rearguard battalions became distanced enough from the central ones, the composite Welsh, Irish and Saxon army fell upon them like devils with an unquenchable thirst for blood during a dark night when the moon was thin. The Scots stood no chance. They were burdened by the baggage train, the heads heavy with days of constant drinking and hangovers, many of them weren’t even armored. Only the fast reaction of some experienced leaders prevented an absolute massacre, but, by dawn the Scots had been routed from the field with serious casualties.

Lulach was taken completely by surprise, as were all Scots, and ran to support the rearguard, but the best he could do was rallying the fragmented groups. It took him most of the day to bring the entire force to where the battle had taken place, a ghastly landscape of disheartening moans of the wounded, torn banners and flags, grass and rocks painted red with blood. The aggressors were nowhere to be found, and the massed footsteps indicated they had already vanished deep in the dark woods from whence they had come

The Welsh host now joyfully and loudly sang as they marched back to rejoin the other fraction of the army. A week later the royal Scottish and Welsh army finally met. A white flag came from the first ones, so King Cadwgan II and his retinue and generals rode to parley with Lulach I a Muirebe who called himself King of the Scots, riding with a flag that represented the cross of St. Andreas.

And they talked for two days, the Scottish king tried in vain to assert superiority, but he was dialoguing with a military leader who had maneuvered his troops miles deep in unknown hostile territory and lashed their spine like a wolf gnaws a rabbit. In fact, the Scottish king himself was not even remotely an imposing figure, despite the fact that he now wore the royal military dress, the finest mail, polished helmet-crown and a jeweled great sword, Lulach had the reputation of a church man, who spent his days not on the field hunting or in the halls feasting, but in the altar praying. His devotion was admired by the clergy and the common folk, but was openly despised by the warlike nobility. Now, the tension was heavy in the Scottish side, as the generals spat that their commander should be with his knees on the ground before the altar, praying for the victory, instead of leading the host.

King Cadwgan knew he was in position of superiority, and proclaimed his terms as if he had already completely defeated the enemy. The truth was that, despite his remarkable victory, the Scottish army was still formidable and, now, had been reorganized. The numbers were roughly matching, and they met in a flat grassland, where no side had terrain advantage. If they formed the shieldwalls and clashed, the result was uncertain.

That, however, was not what Cadwgan II and Lulach I thought. Just as the Welsh monarch was sure of the victory, the Highlander smelled defeat. He had been there in the fields of Cumbraland, when his father Maél-Snechtai still wore the crown, and remembered as if it had happened a day before: the complete destruction of the Scots before the mighty Anglo-Saxon lion. To the chagrin of the Scottish dukes and earls, Lulach bowed to Cadwgan’s demands, tacitly recognizing Alain’s claim upon the Lordship of the Isles, timidly asking for Cadwgan to return the spoils and release the prisoners of the last battle, which he did, not as if it was a demand he was complying with, but a magnanimous favor. It was almost anticlimactic, for the Welsh had come expecting an epic conflict, but now the Scots packed their things to leave, doubly defeated.

Babbling about a rebellion in the northeast, the Scottish king hurriedly left, talking of the day of reckoning, when the slain of the bloodied field would be avenged.

Victorious Cadwgan now marched against Murdoch. The craven warlord who named himself “king of the Isles” refused to meet the invaders in open battle, as the Welsh desired, but resorted to scorching his own realm so that his adversary couldn’t replenish supplies. King Cadwgan advanced through a barren and blighted wasteland, Alain proudly proclaimed to every villager and peasant that he was the rightful lord. Not that the simple folk gave a damn about what tyrant ruled them or which side had the legitimate claim, Welsh or Scottish, it didn’t matter. Both would raze their homes, ravage the fields or workshops in which they had worked their entire lives, rape their women and murder their sons. Only the dead have seen the end of war.

Murdoch despaired when Cadwgan continued to advance to Dùn Fries. His guerrilla tactics were of no use: the Welsh had been fighting the Irish for decades now, and no people in the world knew better of this kind of warfare than the cursed Irish dogs.

When the Welsh army invested against Dùn Fries and conquered the important fort of Dùn Stafhainis (Dunstaffnage) capital of the region of Carraigh (Carrick), Murdoch forsake the mainland to his opponent. Escaping capture only due to the speed of his horse, with a few retainers he went to the coast, sailing through fierce storms to the isle of Skyth (Skye), where he proceeded to call every levy from the various islands, and implored help from the Norwegians in Orkneyjar and Lyothahús (Lewis), but no help came. Murdoch was doomed, but refused to concede defeat. He’d resist to the bitter end, even if he had to spend the rest of his miserable existence hopping from one island to another.

Fortunately for him, the Welsh, even years after their adventures in Ireland, had yet to become a people who relished endeavoring the roaring seas like the Scandinavians. They were bound to the soil. So, at Alain’s instigation, Cadwgan reluctantly agreed to send amphibious expeditions to take Ellan Vannin and assault Ílea (Isle of Islay).

Thus, Alain was created Earl of the Isles, vassal of the King of Wales. He effectively gave laws to the mainlanders and the Manx, was nominally in control of the isles closest to Britain, but Airergaídel (Argyll) and the rest of the archipelago remained under sovereignty of the “King of the Isles”. This was but the first episode in a series of future interventions in Scotland. From this year onwards, the fates of Caledonia and of the Mathrafal were interconnected.

The next various years, however, passed without the Welsh putting their feet in the soil of the northern country. Again Cadwgan’s vikingr spirit turned to Éire, and he professed loudly the ambition of becoming “Ard Rí na hÉireann”, High King of Ireland, as Brian Borúma before him.

In 1116 A.D. he subjugated Cathán of Osraíge (Ossory), a wild woman who led armies proclaiming to be descendant of Buaidheach (Boudica). Men feared her, for she was supposedly a fay, sometimes called Nemain, who commanded vengeful spirits and enchanted men to do her bidding.

The next year, he broke the forces of Conchobar Ua Máil Sechlainn, king of Mide (Meath), made him bow before him and then defeated other powerful chiefs and annexed all Laighin (Leinster) to the Crown of Cymru.

By 1121 A.D., Cymru had become the undisputed power in Éire, and King Cadwgan II had unmade kings and wiped out many hosts, now ruling over half of the island, from the southern peninsulas to Droichead Átha (Drogheda) in the eastern coast. Obviously, the Welsh didn’t have absolute control over all these lands, mostly ruling from the fortified citadels and developed coastal settlements, such as Corcaigh (Cork) and the great city of Duibhlinn (Dublin).

The vast hinterland sees little change after the fallout of warfare subsides; the small chiefs simply bow to the new overlords, pay the due tribute and life continues as it had always been. Kings change like the seasons of the year, but the tribes and the customs remain, just like the ancestral monoliths that dot the land, witnessing the revolutions of the royalty and the fall and rise of the great lords with their typical disregard – and continue to tile the soil, to fatten the cattle and weave clothes.

For the great native lords, those who had lost everything, this was the dawn of a new era in Éire. An era of Welsh hegemony; this proud and warlike people, descending from the ancient Britons, just like the Romans and the Angles and Saxons in Albion, arrived less than a century earlier as plunderers, and now established themselves as the dominant power. The natives resisted conquest with grim determination, but the resolve of men such as Cadwgan I and II, Gruffydd and others shattered their will and surrendered them to vassalage.

This new age was heralded by Cadwgan’s symbolic ceremony of coronation in the sacred hill of Teamhair (Tara), not far from Duibhlinn, where ruins of the elder people stand still, and where the Cymry monarch was crowned Ard Rí na hÉireann.

In this year, thus, High King Cadwgan of Éire and Cymru, exalted among men, became rightfully known as “the Great”.

*****

Before the year finished, however, Alain of the Isles died of pneumonia, having fathered no children. Murdoch, in all those years had the hatred against Cadwgan fester like a cancer, returned to Gallobha and raised the levies, then proclaimed independence and war against Cymru. This time he prepared for a long war, refortified the holdings, trained his soldiers, hired mercenaries, and sent raiding fleets to torch every coastal city in the Welsh domain in both sides of the Irish Sea.

Cleverly he flirted with the Scottish Crown, suggesting that he could swear fealty to a lord who came to help him against his enemies, thus was the nature of the suzerain-vassal relationship. Nevertheless, as much as Lulach I, who still reigned in Inbhir Niss, desired to incorporate the Kingdom of the Isles, would not provide help.

Not that he feared King Cadwgan; no, after so many years, fear had given place to a fiery hatred for the humiliation that would haunt him to his deathbed. But Lulach had more pressing concerns: subjugating the powerful Lowlander lords of Lodainn, who raised their banners in rebellion – indeed, it would seem that, from the pious and devoted man he was in youth, Lulach aged consumed by bitter hatred and spite, and would be remembered in History as a bloodthirsty tyrant, whose symbols of authority were the impaled heads of rebels and bandits on the roadsides and town squares.

Murdoch realized he was alone and doomed when King Cadwgan the Great marched fast all the way from Powys, at the head of a host five thousand strong. His trump card was his sea fleet, but the various months of raids were unsuccessful in obtaining significant gains. Also, to Murdoch’s despair, after decades, the Welsh had become experienced in siege warfare, and brought terrible Frankish engines to demolish the walls and palisades of his fortified places. Just like the first time, Murdoch saw himself defeated in the mainland when his main castles were taken and tried to escape again. After Lulach finished with the rebels, he’d come to rescue him, so he’d simply have to hide and bid his time on one of the various islands.

This time, however, this wouldn’t happen. His unloyal bodyguard betrayed him; during his sleep, they kidnapped their liege and brought him before King Cadwgan in chains. The Welsh King humiliated him one last time, proclaiming that he could be merciful and spare his life if Murdoch kissed his feet and implored mercy. Murdoch the Scarred could be called many things: deceitful, tyrant, cruel, and despicable. But, to be fair, he had some shred of dignity of which he was very proud of, and spat in the king’s face in response.

He was not executed, as many – specially his own subjects – clamored for. He’d spend the rest of his days rotting in a dungeon, sharing food with vermin and murmuring terrible curses against Cadwgan and those he loved.

At least one of these curses would be fulfilled, as Cadwgan discovered in late 1123 A.D., when Ælfleda, his beloved wife and mother of his five children died, aged 48. His firstborn, Llywelyn, now a man of 29 years and father of a boy named Eadmund, left Cymru to assume his mother’s titles and estates as Duke of Norfolk, the most powerful man in East Engla.

King Cadwgan II always loved war, and only felt truly alive when he held the sword in hand and heard the song of steel and the music of the war horn. But, when Ælfleda passed away, he realized he’d lost the one true purpose of his life, and things would never be the same. Indeed, after the apogee, by logic, what comes next is the decline. After Murdoch was defeated, King Cadwgan II would still rule for 8 more years, but those were dark years.

*****

In 1125 A.D. Pope Silverius II called all the faithful peoples to march a second time to the Holy Land and wrestle it from the Muslim infidels. There would not be, however, a second Cadoganus rex Cambriae to muster the forces of Cymru and lead them to the Orient. Cadwgan ignored the call – as did many great kings of Europe, for the memory of the first failed Crusade was still alive in many hearts. The Welsh king was now old, his days of battle were past, for the terrible gout impeded he to even mount a horse.

In 1127 A.D., his tormented days became even more miserable as he learned that his sons waged a violent war in southern Englaland. His beloved twin boys, Rhydderc and Hywel, who were princes in Suthseaxa (Sussex) led warbands to depose their elder brother Llywelyn as the lord of East Engla. The duke of Norfolk himself wiped out their forces and captured one of his brothers. Just as Cadwgan I had done with his rebellious siblings, Llywelyn threw him in a dark cell to rot, where he'd spend the rest of his miserable life. The other brother returned to his fief in Suthseaxa in shame and disgrace, and would spend the next decades in brooding hatred, plotting Llywelyn's downfall.

Even if Cadwgan somehow wanted to intervene and stop this senseless quarrel among his descendants, he’d be force to turn his attention to Éire.

A charismatic and powerful Irish warlord, using the fake name of Finn mac Cumail (a mythological Irish hero), managed to rally a formidable and trained host against the so-called Welsh oppressors. They sacked Duibhlinn, destroyed entire villages and manors of those considered partisans of the invaders, and stormed various Welsh holdings in the island. This uprising was characterized by a remarkable brutality, of biblical proportions. The disturbing tales spread through all of Britain and Francia: of priests and nuns butchered like pigs; of churches desecrated and torched with with dozens of people locked inside; of "colaborators" being fed to bears and starving dogs; and, the most dreadful of these stories: of the pregnant wives of Welsh and Saxon husbands who had their unborn babies ripped from the womb and stoned.

While the occupying force remained strong in the south, Finn’s rapid and unexpected triumphs inspired many independent princes of the north to join his cause and bolster his forces with hardened warriors. This was King Cadwgan’s last, the most difficult and arguably bloodiest campaign. After two years of ravages and bloodshed, with the hostilities continuing even during the winter months, the Irish rebellion was definitely crushed in 1129 A.D. Like Spartacus' rebels in Antiquity, King Cadwgan ordered all prisoners mercilessly executed: they were disemboweled alive in public squares, and their corpses hanged by the roadsides and gate walls.

In august 1131 A.D. King Cadwgan II the Great passed away, the embrace of death blissfully ending his twilight years of worldly suffering.

Notes:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**Chirurgeon** · July 05, 2012, 04:23 PM

Originally Posted by Latin Knight

That's how i like! And i'm sure not going to make your life easier, Chirurgeon, as the following chapter (almost as big as this one) is coming within the hour!

I just wish those 186 viewers i counted until now would bother commenting (and perhaps giving some beautiful rep

). Now i'm more accostumed to the "mechanics" of AAR threads. Sometimes people lurk for pages and pages before posting a single reply (as i myself did many times, including in your own "An Orc in Skyrim"

)

I know what you mean. 68 posts from other people in six months. Although a lot of people are reading it. I guess its the same way with authors. They sell a million books but only hear from a handful of people. I know I haven't emailed George RR Martin but I love his work. A view is like someone buying your book

And that I am very happy about. And speaking of that you better comment on my AAR soon mister

**Latin Knight** · July 05, 2012, 08:21 PM

Originally Posted by Chirurgeon

I know what you mean. 68 posts from other people in six months. Although a lot of people are reading it. I guess its the same way with authors. They sell a million books but only hear from a handful of people. I know I haven't emailed George RR Martin but I love his work. A view is like someone buying your book

And that I am very happy about. And speaking of that you better comment on my AAR soon mister

Yes, after some time i just counted by the number of views... just hoping that every "view" corresponds equally to "read everything, loved it"

.

Your Skyrim AAR is going very well! I had trouble installing mods (strange, i usually don't have any problems in modding games), but your list is plentiful, your experience must be different (and more enjoyable, of course) than vanilla, which is all i played. Also, you seem to be one of this rare species of AARstists that actually goes thoroughly in the stories

**Latin Knight** · July 08, 2012, 05:32 PM

Llywelyn Cadwganson Mathrafal

Chapter 6: Things we do for love

King Llywelyn I - 1131 A.D.

Llywelyn I was crowned Brenin y Brythoniaid – King of the Britons – and Ard Rí na hÉireann – High King of Éire in October, the day of the feast of St. Ignatios.

At the time, he was married to an older Centish noblewoman named Ælgifu. She was from a wealthy family with various properties in Cent, and his late mother had arranged the marriage when he was young. There was never great love between them, but they produced three children, his heir, Eadmund, and two daughters.

Llywelyn’s first act as a king was repudiating his wife. The arbitrariness insulted not a few nobles and churchmen, specially the Saxons, for she was much respected woman in their society, and he lacked reason to do such: despite approaching old age, Ælgifu had given him healthy children, who’d inherit her estates. To diminish the humiliation, the austere heiress wisely retired to a convent.

Rumors circulated that Llywelyn was infatuated with one of his courtiers, his step-mother, in fact. Ælflaed was a beautiful and young princess. Above all, she was a member of royalty, daughter of the late King Harold III of Godwin dynasty, bane of the Norwegians and the Normans. While she wasn’t heiress to any property, not even a small farmstead, her hand was accepted in marriage by King Cadwgan II not long after his first wife (of similar name) died.

The rumors were confirmed when Llywelyn married Ælflaed, and the courtiers secretly mocked the ceremony, recalling that the wife was already mother to a boy, Cadwgan’s son, called Gwydir. That meant this poor kid’s mother was now married to his own half-brother!

In early 1132 A.D. the newlywed woman was pregnant, and, by November, gave birth to a son. She would have agreed if Llywelyn put a Welsh name, but, to her surprise, he chose an Anglisc name: Godwin. Their son’s name would be a perpetual remembrance of the royal Anglo-Saxon blood that coursed through his veins, whose lineage traced back to Æthelred, who was King of Westseaxna, brother and predecessor of Ælfred the Great.

*****

King Wealtheof, Harold III’s youngest son, was never expected to rule. His elder half-brother, aetheling Oswine, died suddenly of infection, when his father still lived and reigned. It was his only male child from his wife, a German princess, daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor.

Thus, Harold would die without heirs, and regreted that such an epoch of prosperity and welfare to his kingdom would come to an end by dynastic strife. The old Saxon lion had another son, who was, however, a bastard, resultant from an affair he had with the daughter of the thane of Toteham. Soon after Oswine was buried, the King made a decree legitimizing the bastard child. Tales affirm that he, in utter desperation, even sent missionaries to the Pope, giving him splendid gifts, so the Holy Father himself would sanction the deed by an official Church document – for its written in the Deuteronomy that the bastards, being cursed fruits of the deplored sin of adultery, shall not enter the congregation of the Lord, nor his descendants, till the tenth generation.

And when the old Saxon lion died, the purified bastard Wealtheof who had seen only 10 winters became the king, without any immediate opposition. Nevertheless, the boy grew in a hostile environment, since early age gravely traumatized by the absence of a father figure (for Harold saw his heir for the first time only a couple months before his passing); and became a plaything in the throne games, involving corrupt bishops, ambitious courtiers and power-hungry aristocrats. The most malevolent influence upon him – who manipulated the child-king like a puppeteer to her own personal benefit – was his mother, Eadgyth, the same woman who came to be infamously known as the “She-wolf of Englaland”.

In the end, fate would not give chance to the poor kid, cursed since his sinful birth. Destiny, indeed, would favor the Mathrafal.

Indeed, Wealtheof was not the only king under influence of a close person, and also a woman. This one female, Queen Ælflaeda of Cymru, had a great ambition, and patiently infused it inside her own husband’s mind. As the months passed, what began as dissimulated suggestions became explicit exhortations: Ælflaeda desired to rule Englaland, as her father before her, and that meant her bastard half-brother Wealtheof would be deposed. This, in turn, meant strife. The realm would break apart in two factions: those who'd support the bastard king, and those who'd support the princess' claim.

Harold III had only one legitimate son, Oswine, Llywelyn’s childhood friend (for they grew tutored by the same ward in the royal school of Wintanceastre). The aetheling of Englaland and the efiddel of Cymru were fond of each other as siblings. Oswine’s sudden death was a shock to Llywelyn as much as to Harold III, one could say.

Now, if the bastard Wealtheof died, Ælflaeda’s eldest and childless sister would assume, that meaning that she, Llywelyn’s wife, was the third in the succession line. Thus, she wanted her husband to press her claim to the throne. They'd depose Wealtheof and then could easily lock Ælflaeda’s sisters (who, by the same right as her, had a claim to the crown) in convents.

Llywelyn’s consciousness and heart were torn apart, and no one would comprehend his torment. He deeply loved his wife, as he had loved no woman before, and desired to fulfill her wishes and also the elevation of his own family. Yet, he respected too deeply the memory of Harold III, and that of his brother Oswine with whom he did not share the blood. Usurpation was shunned in every society since time immemorial. If Llywelyn was defeated, History would remember him only as the evil Welsh king who tried to depose the rightful king of Englaland – yes, Wealtheof was born a bastard, but now was recognized as legitimate by the laws of men and of God.

“Nevertheless, if you win…” whispered Ælflaeda in his ear, if there were angels, would their voice sound as sweet as that of his wife? “...If you win, my beloved husband, our son Godwin will become not only the King of Wēalas, of Irland, but also of Ænglaland. He’ll be Brytenwealda, and when people speak the name Godwin, they’ll remember of our firstborn, so great will be his feats, and earl Godwine of Weastseaxna and all those with the name will be but footnotes in History”.

Eventually, Ælflaeda’s exhortations ensnared Llywelyn’s heart and mind, and he began to confound his wife’s desires and ambitions with his own. In New Year’s Eve 1132 A.D., Llywelyn kneeled before the altar in his private chapel in the castle of Mathrafal, prayed, and made vows. He stared the stained glass depicting the ascension of Christ, and implored, just as the Lord had made the descendants of Jacob the rulers of Canaan, that Godwin and his descendants were made the rulers of Englaland, and swore that he’d make the temples of God in Cymru the most splendid ones, in all of Christendom if his heart's desire was fulfilled.

*****

Llywelyn spend of the next year secretly preparing his war. He’s not raise troops yet, but rewarded veterans, drilled the inexperienced recruits, fortificated his castles and burhs, and commanded the building of more ships for the fledging sea fleet. From Cymru alone he calculated that he could muster, at the lowest, two thousand spears, and the double being the most optimistic number. From Éire, he could raise, at best, fifteen hundred, or perhaps two thousand, but he preferred to imagine the lowest numbers, as to be prepared for the direst scenarios. Notwithstanding the absolute numbers, the greater part of it would be composed of levies, which the Saxons called “fyrd”. Supposing all Wealtheof’s vassals honored their oath of vassalage and provided troops, Llywelyn had no doubts that he’d be grossly outnumbered, perhaps three or even four times more. And, in what concerned the warrior aristocracy, those men whose profession was war, Llywelyn was genuinely impressed by the martial vigor and boldness of the Welsh and Irish men-at-arms. Yet, he seriously doubted if they would be a match to the best of the Saxon warriors, and remembered with fright the Housecarls, the king's own champions, which comprised his bodyguard, whose reputation as fearsome warriors was known through all of Europe.

He groaned, angrily, in his private room, where he, alone, analyzed a rather detailed map of Britain, which some Saxon priests adapted from a map draw by an ancient cartographer, centuries before Christ. One could just look the sizes of the countries, Cymru and Englaland, to know that the first could easily fit as a province of the latter. No, the armies of his own domain would not suffice, he’d need to enlist the help of the Saxon nobility and foreign potentates.

His first attempt of forging a secret alliance was with what anyone supposed were the Welsh’s natural allies, the Cornish. In that time, these Celtic peoples were vaguely aware of the linguistic and ethnic connection, and also with that people who inhabited the northwestern peninsula the Romans called “Armorica”, and now named “Breizh” (Bretagne). It was certain the Cornish hated the Saxons as much as the Cymry did, and bitterly sang about the old days, when heroes such as Rywgtwm (Riothamus), of Uthyr Bendragon, Arthwr Amheradyr, slaughtered the Germanic invaders. Even if the staunch people of Kernw didn’t side with him for actually believing in his cause, they would be convinced to join his war if given the right incentives: specially, the opportunity of wreaking havoc against their abhorred Englisc foes.

His son Eadmund, from the first marriage with Ælgifu, had just come of age, so Llywelyn entrusted him with a dangerous task, from which the success of the campaign might depend upon: he was to cross the Channel and, in utmost secret, offer gifts and make promises to the lords of Breizh, convincing them to join his forces, and scour northern Francia to muster mercenaries. In Normandie, Anjou and Vlaanderen (Flanders) proliferated a notable race of warriors: landless younger sons of large families, who’d inherit no titles, and sold their military service in exchange for estates and riches. They had military training, were fierce soldiers and knew how to fight mounted in the Frankish way. There were stories of those valiant adventurers that grouped in wandering companies and went in search of profit as far as Italia or even Rhōmanía, where they serve the Basileus of Konstantinoúpolis.

Llywelyn took extreme caution in picking the right men to serve as envoys, for this convenient network of alliances, like the web of a spider, must be weaved in complete secret. He feared not only that one of his men could fail him, but also that one of the prospective allies would find more profitable to sell the information to the Crown of Englaland, which would ruin the enterprise in its infancy. In the end, as the Roman writers loved to say, Fortune had sided with the Mathrafal, for efiddel Eadmund’s efforts were successful.

Naturally, the speedy and disorganized amassing of a sizable host, almost two thousand strong, composed of Bretons, Normans and Franks near St. Brieuc attracted attention and aroused suspicion among the Frankish lords (some brigades were even formed by Flemish, who came all the way from Vlaanderen hurriedly to join the expedition, when they heard of the promise of bounty).

But, to all those who demanded explanation (including the hired mercenaries themselves, with exception of the high-rank leaders, who were aware of the extent of the operation), the story was always the same: the army had been assembled at request of the Welsh king to wage one of his many wars, probably in Éire. Not that they seemed to know or care much about distant Cymru or Éire. Eadmund frowned when one Frankish count inquired about the health of his liege, and thought it was Cadwgan II who reigned yet, the same who had become famous due to his bold invasion of Scotland. In fact, to Eadmund's displeasure, many Franks seemed to confuse both kings named Cadwgan into one person, whom they called Cadoganus Cambrianensis, who fought in the First Crusade, as if he somehow could be alive, aged 100 years and waging war.

Now that Llywelyn had enlarged his army with foreign mercenaries, he sought the help of the Saxon aristocracy. At first he considered trying to bring West Saxon nobles to his cause, but quickly discarded the idea, wisely advised by his closest councilors, who remembered him that the Englisc Crown’s demesne was Westseaxna since the reign of Ælfred. Just as Wealtheof had a royal title, he also accumulated titles of ealdorman, having direct control over all the expanse from Hantumscir (Hampshire) and Bearrocscir (Berkshire) to Defnascir (Devon).

In East Engla, Llywelyn could depend upon a few allies, those who were friends of his mother’s family, but he disdainfully recalled that most Englisc lords from the eastern side of the kingdom would certainly choose the king’s party. For not only they had much to lose if Llywelyn was defeated, but also had much to win if Wealtheof was victorious, because the Welsh potentate was also the most powerful magnate in the region, envied by many. His destruction would mean that his mother’s vast proprieties he inherited would be confiscated by the Crown and probably distributed among those loyal Englisc vassals.

In the lands that comprised the old kingdom of Myrce (Mercia), he also had scant hopes of alliance. The southern and western fractions – from Gleawcestre to Heortfordscīr (Hertfordshire) would almost certainly defect to the royalist side. The lords of the Y Mers enjoyed a peculiar independence in relation to the central government in Wintancestre, this region was not, in ancient times, a de iure part of Englaland. Thus, they’d not fight for Wealtheof believing to be fulfilling any oaths of vassalage, but simply because of their implacable hatred for the Welsh. These two peoples, Saxon and Cymry living in the frontier hated one another with a secular passion. Almost every warring season in the past six centuries they have been at conflict, savage and malign vendettas, raids, devastation and pillage. The theft of a dozen cattle-heads by some indigent Welsh farmers sparked retaliation of the Saxon soldiers, which, in turn, demanded an immediate and violent response from the other side, and thus the vicious cycle of bloodshed continued for hundreds of years.

Now, the northern half of Myrce pertained to the domain of the most powerful man in Englaland, a Saxon aristocrat who ruled over more shires, fiefs and burhs than the King himself. It was Eanhere, who was referred by his primary title, ealdorman of Nordahymbra. But he, through marriage, inheritance and sheer military power, directly controlled or had under his vassalage almost a full third of the island of Britain, from the great fortress of Bebbanburgh (Bamburgh) all the way to Weirwick (Warwick).

Llywelyn made careful probing. The northerners were deeply dissatisfied with what they deemed as “detached and unconcerned southern government”. The memories of the great devastation brought by the Norwegians were still alive, if not in the flesh of the veterans of this conflict (as most of them had already died, by now), in the depressing landscape, and bitterly remembered how King Harold II Godwinson, who called himself "King of the Anglecynn", forsake the northern peoples to face the Norse on their own, choosing to retreat to the southern reaches.

As the elders recalled to the younger generations the tales of the idealized past centuries, when the north was independent - comprised by the free kingdoms of Beornice (Bernicia) and Derenrice (Deira) - a new threat came from the far north, after the Norwegians left. The Scottish barbarians from Pictland for centuries ravaged the border regions, but recently their attacks had become more vicious, bolder and more organized. They now actively sought to assail castles, and those less defensible ones they captured were razed to the ground. Entire villages were torched, and churches plundered.

In fact, as the northern lords suspected, this was a policy sponsored by the Crown of Alba itself. The Scots, as if desiring to avenge the recent streak of humiliations at the hands of Saxon and Welsh warlords, retaliated by transforming the north into a smoldering blight. It were no longer the wild savages of old doing raids, but battle hardened Scottish men-at-arms, commanded by undaunted and experienced knights, seeking plunder and fame. And, yet, no help came from the south.

The latest affront of the southern Saxons that deeply offended the northern aristocracy happened when Harold III the Lionheart retook Cumbraland from the Scottish dominion, and, instead of distributing the lands as rewards to the northern vassals – as they legitimately expected – he preferred to give the best and most profitable estates to his own vassals of Westseaxna, leaving only barren fiefs to the boreal princes. Llywelyn, then, counted upon their help, which was fundamental to the success of the campaign.

To Llywelyn’s frustration, however, ealdorman Eanhere and the other northern potentates (his close relatives) only provided vague promises of friendship and they reached no substantial agreements. As Llywelyn mobilized his entire domains to wage war, no movements were observed in the north. Eanhere and the other lords apparently would patiently await to see the scales of the balance tipping in favor of one party, and only then they’d move to support the winning faction, nor before, nor later.

Thus, Llywelyn would resort to few allies and doubtful loyalty from his own subjects, both Irish and Cymry, who saw him as a dandy foreigner, and had no particular interest in risking their lives through the hardships of warfare to what they understood would merely increase Llywelyn’s stance among the Saxon nobility. Also, his father and his great-grandfather, Cadwgan I and II, were accomplished military leaders at early age, while the current King, older than 30 years, had barely seen war, and never led troops in a large-scale one such as the one he’d start.

The dice was cast. As soon as spring came, in 1134 A.D., King Llywelyn I declared war on Englaland.

Notes:

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**Gandalfus** · July 05, 2012, 01:45 PM

Awesome!

**Radzeer** · July 08, 2012, 06:02 PM

I just started to scan through this, and it is absolutely marvelous! I'm still at the beginning of the story, but I'll catch up tonight.
Have some rep until then, you deserve it!

**Latin Knight** · July 09, 2012, 06:00 PM

Originally Posted by Radzeer

I just started to scan through this, and it is absolutely marvelous! I'm still at the beginning of the story, but I'll catch up tonight.
Have some rep until then, you deserve it!

Glad you liked it, friend! I was secretly hoping you'd show up anytime

. Fortunately, that's not much to catch up (i guess).

**Chirurgeon** · July 09, 2012, 07:09 PM

Wow I am loving the political intrigue in this AAR!. You have a great talent sir and keep it up!

Thread: Crusader Kings II AAR - The Crimson Dragon of Britain - Hiatus

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Crusader Kings II AAR - The Crimson Dragon of Britain - Hiatus

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