Errors on my part here in this rendering aside, pay attention to the last letter. Arthwyr or Arthwys? How easy of a mistake to make.

On to the reconstructions.

As I am including eight reconstructions in a single article, I will only include a brief description of each figure shown, who they were and when they ruled.

Ceneu ap Coel

Son of Coel Hen. Ceneu seems to have continued his father’s work of unifying and refortifying the lands around Hadrian’s wall (you can read about that here), bringing what would become Rheged under Coeling influence as it seems his son Gwrwst, great-grandfather of Urien was established as the first Coeling king of Rheged. Upon his father’s death some time around 440, Ceneu became king. Unlike the figures of his grand-children and great-grandchildren’s generation he does not feature in much poetry, except for one disputed reference in one of the Urien poems. This disputed reference has been used to claim that Ceneu is a back-dated genealogical link stemming from confusing a word for a name. This however is disputed, as Ceneu does become a common name amongst the later Coeling princes, possibly named for this son of Coel. Church tradition has Ceneu abdicating as king and retiring to Wales as a monk, founding the a church known as Llangeneu in modern Clydau. This is a common motif attributed to many figures, and while it is possible, it is not a certainty that this attribution is true.

Ceneu is depicted here with a helmet of the Iatrus type, with a detachable crest, which seems to have been held internally with tabs slotted into small slots in the top of the helmet, then folded over. He wears high-status scale armor, and a sword similar to the Feltwell Spatha.

Mar ap Ceneu

The Son of Ceneu ap Coel, very few references to him exist, and he is seen in the pedigrees under the name Mar and also Maeswig/Masguid Gloff (the lame). From Mar’s descendants we can conclude that he ruled the eastern lands of the Coeling, in what would eventually become Ebrauc, and Elmet, and possibly the Pennines, while his brother Gwrwst ruled the western portion in Rheged. Mar may feature in the Stanzas of the Graves, though the parentage is garbled. We do get a bit more info from an odd and generally untrustworthy place, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Brittaniae, where Geoffrey gives an account of a wicked king Morvidus, who makes battle upon a monster from the Irish sea. This may be wholly invented by Geoffrey, but it may also contain a kernel of folkloric memory of the onset of the Irish invasions that eventually led to the founding to Scottish Dal Riata. With his rule beginning sometime between 460 and 470, he would have been contemporary with Fergus Mor of Dal Riata, and Fergus may be the ‘great beast’ that Morvidus falls in battle to.

Mar is depicted in the reconstruction with an early continental style spangenhelm, simplified scale armor without the upper collar reinforcements, while still bearing uncommon and high-status greaves. He wears a sword of the Kragehul bog type, and carries a Draco, inherited from the Romans.

Llenneac ap Mar

The son of Mar ap Ceneu, Llenneac seems to have been the first king of Elmet. Like his father, there are few references outside of the pedigrees, however Llenneac does get referenced in a song dedicated to his son Guallauc in the book of Taliesin. Outside of this we can speculate however. There is an early figure in Arthuriana seen in Culhwch and Olwen named Llenlleog. Llenlleog is notable for being one of the only figures seen wielding Caledfwlch (Excalibur), killing the giant Diwrnach and his retinue. This incident in Culhwch and Olwen seems to be a reworking of the raid in Preiddeu Annwfn, with Llenlleog a later form of the shadowy Lleminnauc. Lleminawc in turn is probably a combination of the historical Llenneac of Elmet, contemporary with the historical Arthur, and the god Lugh, either borrowed from the Irish directly, or from their shared Proto-Celtic heritage in the form of Lugus, or even directly from the Welsh equivalent Lleu. This combination filtered through the centuries eventually finds it’s way to Breton bards, and then to later Romance writers like Chrétien, leading to Lancelot. You can read more about this here.

Llenneac is seen here with a mix of Roman and local British kit, and the ‘lime-washed’ shield referenced in Y Gododdin.

Guallauc ap Llenneac

The son of Llenneac of Elmet, Guallauc features in both the pedigrees and multiple praise poems from the Brythonic Heroic Age. Gualluac seems to have been quite the rough customer, bringing war to any and everyone in the Hen Ogledd. Fighting in Aeron, in Ebrauc, eventually against his own cousins in Rheged.

You can find more about Guallauc here.

I have chosen to depict Guallauc as a practical man with simple arms and armor, but still with the marks of status, with imported belt fittings and a boar-crested helmet.

Ida of Bernicia

The first king of Anglian Bernicia. With the fading power of the Coeling (Brigantian) High-Kingship, Ida established himself king in 547, ruling for 12 years according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. The ASC also remembers him establishing the fortress of Bamburgh, though this was likely the seat of the earlier Brythonic kings of Bryneich, then known as Din Guarie. Nennius tells us that after the period of Arthur’s reign the Angles “brought over kings from Germany that they might reign over them in Britain, right down to the time in which Ida reigned, who was son of Eobba. He was the first king in Bernicia, that is, in Berneich.” This would seem to imply that Ida’s date is some time after Arthur’s famous victory at Badon. This sits well with the idea of the post-Badon peace, and is in fact reflected in Anglo-Saxon records, as they record no significant credible battles between Aella and Cerdic, with Cerdic’s earliest dates subject to a ‘founding myth’ pattern, with him likely not taking power until the 530s some 30 years after Badon. Ida’s establishment in 547 also makes sense in this context. With Arthur dead at Camlann in 537, and Coeling power weakening, the prior Foederati arrangements held between the Coeling and Cynwydion (Kings of Alt Clut) kings of the north waning, Anglian ascent in the north seemed inevitable.

Ida is depicted here as a warlord of his time. His rich woolen robe with tablet woven hem covers his maille, with an undyed woolen cloak, fastened with a high-status silver brooch, with a sword of continental style with a garnet inlaid pommel.

Fflamddwyn

A mysterious Anglian warlord referenced in the Welsh poem The Battle of Argoed Llwyfain, a song of praise for Urien. Fflamddwyn (‘Flame-Bearer’) demands hostages of the Coeling forces, but is denied by Owain, Owain seemingly then leads the Coeling forces against Fflamddwyn, winning victory. There has been much speculation about who Fflamddwyn was, and it would seem he was an Anglian in Ida’s line, some have even speculated that he was Ida himself, though it is much more likely it was one of Ida’s sons, possibly Theodoric.

Fflamddwyn is depicted here as an Anglian warlord in full war-gear, with a helm and aventail inspired by near-contemporary Vendel helmets, and ornamented shield as seen in the Sutton-Hoo burial.

High-Status Romano-British Woman

Something a little different, a High-Status Noblewoman, wearing a wealthily dyed, but simply cut dress, tablet woven belt and headband, with a lingering Roman palla pinned with an ornate brooch. She wears a imported pectoral cross from the Eastern Roman Empire.

Urien ap Cynfarch

Urien of Rheged, a veritable second-coming of Arthur ruled Rheged for much of the 6th century. Long lived and long ruling, Urien features in numerous poems from Taliesin, as well as the poetry of Llywarch Hen, his cousin. Urien was probably born some time around 520ad, beginning his rule shortly after the battle of Camlann in 537. The young king would continue to ascend in fame and wealth, eventually becoming the preeminent Coeling of his era. Urien seemed to operate as overlord for much of the north, and was feared and respected by all, even Guallauc of Elmet. Urien was most likely the leader opposed to the Gododdin in the raid on Catraeth seen in Y Gododdin, likely the culmination of years of unrest with multiple Coeling princes conspiring against Urien, setting out on the ill-fated raid. Urien is most famous for nearly driving the Angles from Northern Britain, besieging them on Ynys Metcaut (Lindisfarne). The siege however ended when Urien was betrayed by a British king, likely Morcant of Alt Clut (not his cousin Morcant as often supposed).

Urien is depicted here as a the penultimate warlord of his time. Urien and his son Owain are often associated with ravens, so his shield is adorned with a Raven-Triskelion pattern inspired by the Royston Escutcheon that appears as well on his brooch. To emphasize the Romanitas of the Western Coeling I have given Urien Pteruges under the skirt of his maille, as well as the more speculative ‘shoulder-harness’ attached Pteruges over his maille (Pteruges under the maille sleeves just seems silly).

During a Feast celebrating the New Year sometime in the early 6th century, King Arthur and his nobles are interrupted while exchanging gifts by a most unusual figure.

A giant of a man entered the hall, riding a horse, carrying the ‘Mother of all Axes’ and a holly bough. The man’s stature was by far the least remarkable thing about him, as his was green from head to foot. He wore no armour, but his hair, skin, tunic, and hose were all green. The giant is not there for a fight, for he finds that no one amongst Arthur’s court to be a match for him, but instead proposes a friendly Christmas game: The verdant colossus would take a blow with the axe from any man, as long as that man would take the same stroke in a years time. As a reward the man to join in the game would get the enormous axe.

None of Arthur’s men seem keen to join this game, and Arthur himself prepares to step up against the giant, but his young nephew Gawain intercedes and agrees.

Gawain beheads the green giant with a single swing, but much to the surprise of everyone at the feast, the green man picks up his own head, mounts his horse, displays his own head for the court to see, and reminds Gawain of his duty.

Gawain sets out to fulfill his duty the next year. The journey is perilous and fraught with hardship and danger. Gawain distraught from the journey prays intently.

Gawain as if by divine guidance sees a castle and approaches. The Lord greets him and welcomes him to shelter, setting up the Gawain Poet’s rendition of a Temptation Fable.

Bertilak proposes a game of his own to Gawain as he shelters in his castle. Bertilak will go on the hunt each day, and will give Gawain what he has won, and Gawain will likewise give him whatever he has gotten from the castle.

Bertilak’s wife attempts to seduce Gawain, but being the virtuous paragon of chivalry he is, he refuses, and only allows a single kiss. The lord returns with a deer, which he gives to Gawain and Gawain provides the kiss of the Lady to him, not disclosing it came from her. The next day the exchange is a boar for two kisses, and then on the final day a fox and three kisses. The Lady Bertilak had given Gawain a fourth gift however that day, a green and gold sash that would protect him from harm. Knowing this would be useful considering the blow he must take the next day he conceals it from the Lord.

Gawain then sets out for the Green Chapel, which is a cavern in a green mound. The green man awaits sharpening his axe. Gawain bares his neck to receive the dutiful blow. Upon the giant’s swing young Gawain flinches.

The green man swings again, this time at an unflinching Gawain, but the giant stops short, testing the young warrior’s mettle. Gawain angrily mocks the Green Giant.

The Giant swings, and the blow lands causing a slight nick to Gawain’s neck. The Giant is none other than the lord he sheltered with just a day before, who reveals his name is Bertilak. The entire beheading game has been a ruse put in place by Morgan Le Fay. Gawain is ashamed for the use of the sash, which is the cause of the nick in his neck. Bertilak proclaims him blameless, and Gawain returns to Arthur a hero. Arthur’s warriors vow to wear a green sash to remind themselves to remain true.

The story of the green giant with the "Mother of all Axes" is probably influenced by two main sources, one Irish, one part of French Arthuriana.

The idea of a "Beheading Game" becomes a common motif for Celtic tales after the Irish story of Bricriu's Feast became popular during the 8th Century. In this tale the heroes Cúchulainn, Conall Cernach, and Lóegaire Búadach are tasked with a game to cut off a giant's head. Like the later Gawain tale they are then tasked with receiving the same blow. They each cut off the gaint's head, who then picks it up and leaves, but only Cúchulainn stands firm and appears to meet his fate, and is thus declared the winner.

Similar to the Gawain tale, it is a man in disguise, Cú Roí the King of Munster. This motif spreads like wildfire, appearing in numerous tales, such as the Life of Caradoc, a French retelling of possibly earlier Welsh and Breton tales of the famed Caradoc Vreichvras. Caradoc also is subject to the beheading game, with the beheaded being revealed to be Caradoc's father.

The Gawain poet was likely influenced by both of these stories. Another portion of the story that was likely influenced by an earlier Welsh tale is the Temptation Fable, between Gawain and Bertilak's wife.

While the temptation fable is a common motif, the root here may come from the Welsh tale of Pwyll Pendefig Dyfed from the Mabinogi. Pwyll, though transfigured into Arawn, abstains from relations with Arawn's wife, similar to Gawain and the Lady Bertilak.

This potential melding like many of the later Arthurian tales shares little with the likely historical candidates for Gawain, Gerguan (Gwalchmai) ap Letan of the Gododdin, or possibly Gwrfan ap Llew, a supposed grandson of Cynfarch Oer. It is likely Letan of Gododdin’s pedigree was at some point attached to Cynfarch’s, possibly even done to try and reconcile the genealogies with later ahistorical legends of Arthur. Gerguan ap Letan and has been by proxy connected to the Medraut/Mordred of later legends as a brother. There is a possibility that this extrapolation from later traditions does retain earlier now lost traditions, but it is impossible to say for certain that Gerguan had a brother named Medraut, and that Medraut was in fact the Medraut of the annals. From the Northern context of the earliest bits of Arthuriana, a brother of Gerguan does work Chronologically as an up-and coming rival to the historical Arthur, and knowing the enmity between the Coeling (and by Proxy the Coeling Arthur, Arthwys ap Mar) and the Gododdin you could surmise that Arthur’s fabled opponent at Camlann was a man of Gododdin, but we cannot say for certain of course. Gerguan is first filtered into legend in the guise of Gwrfan Arfwyn, an early warrior of Arthur’s seen in Culhwch and Olwen. Then eventually finding his way into later legends as Gawain. The Historical Gerguan likely stood opposed to the Northern Arthur, Arthwys ap Mar, late in his reign in the Hen Ogledd. This is in fact depicted in the Modena Archivolt, a pre-Galfridian carving depicting the abduction of Guinevere, with Gawain fighting against Caradoc Vreichfras who is fighting on Arthur’s side. It’s very likely that Gerguan even was part of the force that met Arthwys at Camboglanna, leading to Arthwys’ death and the famed entry in the Annales Cambriae.

Like many of the figures that feature in these tales there isn’t much of a trail to follow to figure out why Gawain was the figure featured here, but we can surmise a few things. There are small sprinkles and hints that Gawain may have been at once associated as a ‘Grail knight’ figure, and he even attains the Grail in the middle-German work Diu Crône. This would hint at a lingering popularity, even as others such as Peredur, Lancelot, and Galahad began to take the limelight. There doesn’t seem to be an earlier association with Gawain and the Beheading Game to suggest it was an earlier tradition, but that wouldn’t stop the Gawain Poet from creating what I believe is a synthesis of multiple traditions, with his favorite Arthurian figure (who also happens to have a name that is alliterative with Green) taking the lead role.

You can find “Tales of the Coeling” at the link below

Tales of the Coeling

To celebrate the release I have written a ‘prequel’ of sorts, telling a story of how Coel’s ancestor Urbanus came to possess Caledfwlch.

The tower stood on the headland like a broken tooth, its stones blackened by wind and sea-salt, its summit crowned with the twisted remains of an iron beacon-bowl. Once, when the Empire’s reach was strong, it had watched for sails from Gaul and for smoke rising from the northern watchfires. Now it watched only the grey emptiness of the sea.

Urbanus map Gratianus reined in his horse at the crest of the ridge and looked down at it. The garrison had patched the upper courses with mismatched stone; lichen clung to the walls in green scabs. A generation ago, his father’s cohort had built towers like this all along the coast, a chain of signal lights from the Humber to the Wall. Most were ruins now, their fires cold. This one, he was told, could be saved.

He dismounted, feeling the wind tear at his cloak. The smell of the sea was sharp with rot and iron. From below came the noise of picks and shouted Latin, his men clearing rubble from the tower’s base. They were a mixed lot: a dozen veterans of the Sixth Legion who had refused retirement, a handful of locals pressed into service, and a scattering of Gauls and even Sarmatians whose Latin was thick with foreign grit. The sort of company one found on the edge of Rome.

Urbanus walked the perimeter slowly, running his gloved hand along the pitted masonry. The stones were sound enough. What they lacked was heart. Everything in Britain lacked it these days. Ebrauc’s curia had not paid the men for three months. The dux in the north sent orders but no reinforcements. The Saxons came and went with the tides. And yet here he stood, pretending this lonely tower mattered.

He looked east. The sea rolled beneath a sky the color of beaten lead. A cormorant glided low over the surf, black wings cutting the wind. For a moment, he thought of home, of the vineyards near Verulamium where his mother’s kin still lived, the warmth of the southern sun on limestone walls, and then the thought passed like a ghost. He was Roman still, even here at the end of the world, and Romans built.

He turned to his adjutant, a broad Gaul named Marcus, who waited with a wax tablet.
“Two more wagon-loads of stone before nightfall,” Urbanus said. “From the western slope. The old quarry’s spent.”

Marcus nodded, jotting the order with a stylus dulled by sand.
“The men say that slope’s unlucky,” he said. “There’s a mound there. They call it a king’s grave.”

Urbanus gave a thin smile. “Every hill in Britain’s a king’s grave, Marcus. Find me stone that isn’t haunted, and I’ll bless it myself.”

He mounted again and looked once more at the tower, old, stubborn, still standing against the sea.
He liked it for that.

The rain came for three days without pause, soft and fine as mist, creeping into every joint of the tower. When it lifted, the mortar had turned to pulp, and the upper course had to be laid anew.

Urbanus sent out small groups of men to gather stone from the western slope, the same one Marcus had called unlucky. The tower’s old quarry was long since quarried out, a pit of brine and reeds. The slope at least still showed ribs of limestone where the grass had slipped.

He went with them that morning, more from boredom than mistrust. The air was sharp and clean after the storm; gulls wheeled low, their cries carrying like laughter. The men worked with picks and levers, prying stones loose from the sodden turf. Steam rose from the wet ground, faint and ghostlike.

“Here, sir,” one of the Britons called. He was a young man from the wolds north of Cataractonium, skin freckled from the sea wind. “There’s a hollow under this slab.”

Urbanus dismounted, took the man’s spade, and knelt. The slab was a broad one, flat as a door, with a line of darker earth marking its edge. When they levered it up, a gap opened, not deep, but wide enough to breathe the smell of old wood and soil.

They cleared the hole carefully. The cavity beneath was timber-lined, planked like the belly of a boat. The planks were blackened and soft to the touch, preserved by clay and salt. Along its edges ran a scattering of corroded iron rivets.

Marcus crouched beside him, squinting into the dark.
“A boat,” he said. “By the gods, someone’s buried a ship here.”

Urbanus said nothing. He brushed aside more soil and saw what lay within, the shadow of a man, the remains of armor rusted to a mass, and across his knees a long sword, its blade catching the thin sunlight.

It was not like any of the old spathae that hung in the armory. The hilt was bronze, with a waisted grip unlike any he had seen before. The pommel adorned with a bronze cap in the shape of two beasts, the blade, even through a film of damp earth, shone.

Marcus whistled softly. “He’s not been dead long. Twenty years, maybe less.”

Urbanus nodded. The man’s bones were not yet chalked to dust; scraps of mail still clung to his ribs. Whoever he was, he had been buried in haste, perhaps by his comrades after some sea-fight gone ill. The boat was small, a fisherman’s hull, perhaps, but the care taken spoke of respect, even honor.

He ran a hand along the sword’s length. It was as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertips, the edge straight, the metal faintly patterned like ripples under water. The scabbard, though broken, still bore fittings of bronze, a dragon, wings outstretched, with claws to fasten to a belt.

Urbanus rose, silent for a long moment.
“Cover him again,” he said at last. “We’ll leave the stones. Use the other ridge.”

Marcus looked up, puzzled. “And the sword?”

Urbanus didn’t answer at once. He looked toward the sea, where the tide hissed and retreated over the shingle, the sound like slow breathing.
“It would be a shame to leave such a blade.”

Marcus spat into the dirt. “Best to leave it with him, sir. Bad things come of stealing from graves, even Roman ones.”

Urbanus gave a faint, weary smile. “We build from ruins, Marcus. Every stone we lay was taken from someone’s grave.”

He lifted the sword. The damp earth ran from the blade in ribbons, the bronze hilt slick beneath his glove. For a moment he felt its weight not as a burden but as a question, settling cold against his palm.

When they returned to the tower, the sky was already turning the color of pewter. The wind pressed against them, carrying the scent of salt and rot. Behind them, the mound looked as though it had never been opened.

Winter settled early along the coast. Frost glazed the grass on the headland each morning, and the stones of the tower sweated salt by noon. The sea never changed, always flat, pewter grey, flecked with white where the tide broke against the rocks.

The tower’s garrison numbered fewer than sixty souls. In the morning they drilled on the turf with wooden spears, their breath steaming in the cold. Afterward, they fetched water from the cistern, mended their cloaks, and grumbled about pay that would never arrive. At dusk, they climbed the stairs to watch the sea until night hid it from view.

They were a patchwork of what remained of Rome in Britain:
a veteran from the Sixth who could barely lift his shield; two brothers from the wolds who spoke Latin like a prayer learned by rote; three Pannonians who carved dice from bone; and a handful of Gauls who kept to themselves and sang rough camp songs about warmer shores.
Urbanus knew every face, every cough.

The routine was their wall against despair. Orders from the dux still came, written on scraps of wax and carried by mule, but no one remembered the last time an inspector had ridden this far. They were in truth alone.

On calm nights, they tested the beacon. The old bowl, blackened and split, still held pitch. When lit, its flame flared orange against the sea-mist, and for a heartbeat they could glimpse other fires, faint dots along the coast, answering and fading. Then the smoke thickened, the wind shifted, and the illusion of connection vanished.

Urbanus kept the sword in his chamber, wrapped in a linen officer’s cloak. He had meant to catalogue it, to send it inland when the next supply train passed through, yet each time the chance came he found reason to delay. Perhaps, he told himself, it was the season, the roads were bad, the wagons light. Still, the excuses felt hollow.

Some nights when the wind shook the shutters, he would unwrap it. The blade gleamed like still water, the bronze beasts of the hilt catching the lamplight. He ran a cloth along the steel, careful not to touch the edge. It was still as sharp as the day its old owner died, the sort of blade one forged for kings.

He caught himself staring at the reflection of the lamp on its surface and turned it away, uneasy. A commander needed no charms.

Marcus saw the pattern sooner than he did.
One evening, as they shared a jug of thin wine before the hearth, Marcus said,
“You keep that sword close. Close as a wife.”

Urbanus smiled without warmth. “You mistake care for affection. It’s a tool, nothing more.”

Marcus grunted. “A tool that belongs to the dead, not to us. The sea gave it up once, it may come asking.”

“Superstition,” Urbanus said, and drank. “If I feared every ghost in this country, we’d never build anything.”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe that’s why the ghosts linger, we keep laying our walls on their graves.”

The wind rattled the shutters again, scattering sparks from the fire. Outside, the surf thundered like drums far below the cliff.

When Marcus had gone to his bunk, Urbanus sat a while longer. He thought of his father, Gratianus, who had commanded men on this same coast thirty years before, who had spoken of the empire as though it were a fortress of reason, unshakable. But Rome felt thin now, its voice distant. The sword on his lap was real, bright, unbroken.

He unwrapped it one last time before sleep. The light from the hearth traced pale ripples along the steel. For a moment he thought he saw movement in them, the shimmer of sails, or waves, or perhaps the breath of something older than both.

He covered it quickly and placed it back on his table.
The tower creaked and sighed in the dark like an old ship at sea.

It began with light on the horizon, not dawn, but fire.
The watchman on the parapet shouted down, his voice thin in the wind:
“Beacon to the east, sir! They’re burning early!”

Urbanus was halfway up the stair before the words reached him. The tower’s upper room smelled of pitch and damp. He stepped out onto the parapet and saw it: a single flame burning above the sea-mist, then a second farther along the coast.

He felt the air tighten. “Rouse the men,” he said to Marcus. “We ride now.”

Within the hour they were on the road, fifteen cavalry led by Urbanus, twenty-five men trudging through frozen mud on foot, shields slung across their backs, breath steaming in the pale half-light. The sky was still colorless, the earth stiff underfoot. Behind them, the old tower dwindled against the cliffs, its beacon bowl cold and black.

They followed the ancient coastal road, its paving stones showing through the turf like worn bones. The line moved in silence save for the dull clatter of gear and the rhythmic hiss of the surf to their right.

Marcus rode beside him. “Angles?”

Urbanus nodded. “Aye. The scouts last month saw ships off the Abus. They’ll land in small bands, strip what they can, and vanish.”

Marcus spat into the wind. “Undyed cloaks and axes, carrion wolves.”

“Rome’s wolves once looked the same,” Urbanus said, and that ended the talk.

By midmorning they reached the next headland.
The beacon to the east still burned low, a faint thread of smoke twisting against the wind. The tower’s garrison stood ready on the rampart, their commander, a square, dark-bearded man in dull maille, walked out of the gates as Urbanus and his men approached.

“No attack here,” he said, voice rough from shouting orders. “They passed us by at dawn. Smoke to the south.”

Urbanus nodded. “Then we go together. Leave ten to hold the tower. The rest with us.”

Within moments the small cavalry force had nearly doubled, twenty-five horse, shields slung on flanks, spears resting against their knees. Their combined infantry, forty men on foot followed in loose order along the cliff road, the banners whipping flat in the wind.

The land ahead dropped toward a shallow bay where a second tower stood, squat and old, its walls streaked with soot. Smoke crawled from the beacon bowl. Even at a distance they could see shapes moving around it, Angles, nearly fifty in number, formed in a rough line outside the ditch surrounding the walls, their undyed cloaks whipping like sailcloth in the wind. They had not yet attacked, uncertain whether to risk trying to break the gate or move on.

The defenders within, barely twenty men, stood visible behind the parapet, helmets glinting as they watched the enemy below.

Urbanus studied the field. The ground sloped gently from the inland road toward the tower, with a shallow gully cutting behind it, just enough cover for a flanking charge. He turned to Marcus.

“Take the foot in line. Push straight toward their front, shields high. When they fix on you, I’ll strike from the rear.”

Marcus grinned through his beard. “Yes sir.”

Urbanus loosened the wool wrap from his saddle. Inside lay the barrow-sword, its bronze hilt gleaming. He drew it free and felt the balance settle into his hand, light, familiar, inevitable.

He gave the signal.
“Infantry forward! Horse, with me!”

The footmen formed quickly, veterans at the center, younger recruits at the wings, marching down the slope with shields locked, spears angled against the light. Behind them, Urbanus led the cavalry along the ridge and down behind the tower, hooves muffled on wet grass.

The Angles saw the movement too late. Their line shifted, ragged and unsure. A few loosed javelins fell short, thudding into the turf.

Marcus’s line struck first, the impact heavy and grinding. The air filled with the crash of iron rims and the guttural shouts of men. Spears splintered; blades flashed and vanished. The defenders from the tower poured out to join them, adding their weight to the fight.

Urbanus wheeled his horse around the far side of the tower, the wind in his face. He rose in the stirrups and raised the stolen blade.
“Now!” he shouted, and the cavalry crashed into the Anglian flank.

The sound was thunder, hooves striking, shields breaking, men thrown down under the weight of horse and rider. The enemy line folded inward, trapped between horse and foot. In the swirl of dust and salt spray, Urbanus saw their leader: a tall man in a boar-crested helm and a heavy cloak. The chieftain swung a great axe, cutting a horse from under its rider.

Urbanus spurred forward. The man turned, roaring, and the axe came down, wide, terrible.
Urbanus met it with the barrow-sword. The blades rang like a bell struck underwater. Urbanus turned the parry into a downward cut, the spatha sliding along the axe-haft, and in a single motion sheared through the helm and skull beneath it.

The Anglian fell backward without a sound, the sea’s wind catching his cloak as he dropped.
The fight broke then. The raiders, leaderless, scattered toward the beach while those that stood were cut down.

It was over in moments, swift, brutal, final. The ground ran red, and gulls already circled low.

Urbanus reined in among the bodies, chest heaving. The sword’s blade was black to the hilt, yet when he wiped it clean with his cloak, it shone as if newly polished. Its bronze guard gleamed faintly in the weak sunlight, and for an instant the ripples in the steel seemed to move, like water flowing back toward the sea.

By late afternoon, the wind had turned off the sea. The smoke from the burning ships drifted inland, low and blue, carrying the stink of pitch and wet hemp. The tide was going out, leaving the beach strewn with wreckage, broken shields, oars, and the pale shapes of men face-down in the shallows.

Urbanus walked the strand in silence. His horse was lame from the charge, and his arm ached where a spear had grazed his maille, but he scarcely felt it. Around him, the survivors worked without orders, dragging the dead together, setting torches to small piles of dead men. The sound of gulls had replaced the cries of battle.

Marcus found him by a nearby creek, crouched beside the water washing the sword. The blood came away in long, dark ribbons, curling out into the current like smoke.

“She drinks well, that one,” Marcus said quietly. “Perhaps too well.”

Urbanus looked up. His face was streaked with salt and soot, eyes hollow from the cold.
”It wants to cut. It was made for it.”

Marcus gave a tired snort. “Keep her close, then. But if she asks for another soul, make it an enemy’s.”

He walked away, calling to the men to gather the wounded.

Urbanus remained kneeling in the shallows. The sword lay across his knees once more, gleaming faintly in the dying light. He studied it as if seeing it for the first time, the fine ripples along the blade, the twin beasts of the pommel cap. The weapon seemed a relic of some bygone hero, yet it looked newly born.

He remembered the mound on the cliff, the dead man lying in his little boat, hands folded over this very blade. For a moment he imagined that same hand guiding his in the stroke that had cleaved the Anglian’s helm. He felt neither pride nor fear, only recognition.

The sun hung low over the sea, orange as the smith’s iron. He lifted the sword toward it, the bronze and steel catching fire in the light.

In the old tongue his mother had used when she sang him to sleep, the tongue of his ancestor Cinbelin, he whispered the word that had come to him unbidden:
“Caledfwlch.”

Hard Breach.

The sea gave a long sigh against the stones, and the wind fell still.

When he turned back toward the tower, the first star was showing in the pale sky, and smoke rose from the beacon as the men lit it once more. Its flame flickered against the night like a single, stubborn heartbeat, Rome’s last light upon the edge of the world.

Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this you can find “Tales of the Coeling” here: Tales of the Coeling. My “Illustrated Guide to the Hen Ogledd” is still coming soon, and I had hoped to finish it earlier, but such a media-heavy book is a huge undertaking, but I have steadily been chipping away at it. Thank you all for your support and patience. I will send out another post soon to my paid subscribers.

The Wolves of Eidyn

The sun was pale above the valley of the Tribruit, slanting through the late morning mist in spears of gold and white. The river curved like a silver hook below, swollen from the rain, curling westward where the lands of the Gododdin fell away to peat and forest. Across the river, the host of the Coeling waited.

Bran ap Dyfnwal stood at the edge of their makeshift war camp. The standard of his grandfather Garbanion flapped in the wind, a boar worked in red thread upon a field of grey. A voice from his childhood rose unbidden, words his father had once told him. “If the wind forgets your banner, your men will forget their courage.”

The wind blew. The Boar stood defiant.

Bran was seventeen, the oldest of Dyfnwal’s sons. His lorica was new, his father’s second-best maille, fitted for him by his grandfather’s smiths at Ebrauc, and his sword hung low at his hip. The boy was not yet accustomed to wearing it. He was too untested to ride with his grandfather’s teulu, but not too young to witness.

Mist pooled in hollows, rising off the grass like breath. Across from Garbanion’s warband, Bran could see the Angles gathering, shields in tight ranks, long-handled spears bristling like a thicket of pine. Their lord stood before them on a rise. No banner flew. He wore a wolf-skin mantle, ears still on, the brow matted with frost. His beard was thick. It was whispered that he would feast on the hearts of his defeated enemies.

Garwlwyd, they called him.

Bran’s cousin, Arthwys, sat his horse at the head of the Coeling line. His golden helmet, crested with an array of swan feathers and fine lorica of bronze-scales echoed the Roman Dux of years long gone. Caledfwlch hung at his side, a lance of iron and ash in his hand, and his reins and shield in his left. Caledfwlch would stay in its scabbard until their charge broke through the enemy ranks.

Garbanion’s teulu stood behind Arthwys, Two-hundred men, all mounted, all armored. Men of Din Guarie and Caer Ebrauc, noble sons all, born to the saddle. They carried round shields painted with the Christ-Symbol. Their horses were not the squat ponies of the northern hills, but heavy-boned chargers bred of Roman stock for war. You could hear them breathing, even from the ridge.

“They mean to take the ford,” said Hyfaidd, a lean spearman who had fought under Bran’s father before he had been born. “The king of Gododdin hired the Saeson to test us. We’ll break them here and then set out for Din Eidyn.”

Bran did not answer. He was watching Arthwys.

The young prince turned to his men and raised his spear. A horn sounded. Once. Then again.

Then they moved.

Two-Hundred horses surged towards the Saeson host, hooves beating the sodden earth. Bran saw the cavalry form into a wedge behind Arthwys, how the flanks tucked in tight, the way his father had taught him. The Coeling had always fought like this. Not with numbers, but with discipline. With speed, iron and thunder.

The Angles stood their ground, grim behind their tall shields. Bran could hear their guttural cries echoing off the river. Garwlwyd stood still, the wolf-skin streaming behind him. Then he roared.

It was not a man’s roar. It was the howl of something older, of cold woods and blood-moon nights. Three-dozen men surged ahead of the line beside him, bare-chested, wearing only braies and wolf-skins, wielding axes, spears, and swords. They moved like beasts, not men.

“Blaiddgwn,” someone whispered.

Bran felt a chill down his spine.

But it made no difference.

Arthwys and his riders crashed into the crazed warriors, engulfing them, pushing forward into the main Angle host, line buckling at once, shields splintered, men thrown back like straw before the wind. Horses trampled them underfoot. The teulu struck, passing spearpoints and shield with practiced precision, wheeled, and struck again from the flank.

Garwlwyd’s surviving berserkers clambered to their feet and turned for the horsemen, who were now breaking back through the spearmen’s lines. The wolf-pelted warriors howling, biting shields, swinging madly looking to break the oncoming charge. One of the blaiddgwn leapt at a rider, dragging him from the saddle, only for Llenneac to wheel and drive a javelin through the man’s spine.

The valley churned with screams and iron.

From the hill, Bran could see it all. The Angles fell back toward the trees, their line shattered. Garwlwyd stood in the midst of it, axe slick with blood, roaring for a rally. But Arthwys came for him.

There was no poetry in it, no duel under heaven, no flowery speeches. Just a clash of horse and man. Arthwys’ spear skewered shield, maille, and flesh, the blade tearing through the pelt hanging from the big Angle’s back. The wolf-headed lord howled once more, then dropped, lance still in his chest.

Bran watched, mouth dry, heart pounding. The mist had cleared now. The sun struck the river full, gleaming on shield-bosses and wet iron. Then Caledfwlch shined above Arthwys’ head, bright as the sun itself.

A cheer rose from the Teulu, first: “GARMON! GARMON!” … then one man started “ARTHWYS!”

The new chant quickly rose around the Pen-Teulu. The boar still flew on the wind, but the fame of the bear grew.

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I will leave the reevaluation of Cadwallon’s lineage out here, as I have spoken on it before, from what we can glean however, he seems to have spent some time in exile in Ireland, if we are to believe a fragment of a poem directly attributed to Cadwallon from Peniarth MS. 21, from there he sailed for Priestholm, where he set up a temporary base where he was besieged by Edwin. Edwin was ultimately unsuccessful in his attack, and Cadwallon, allied with Penda, won the Battle of Cefn Digoll against him, sending Edwin back to the North. Cadwallon and Penda eventually met Edwin again, this time at the Battle of Hatfield Chase, where Edwin and his son Osfrith were killed. Another son Eadfrith was captured, and later killed by Penda. Cadwallon then began his domination of the North, eventually besieged by Osric of Deira, “In a strong town” (most likely York). The siege was destroyed when Cadwallon “sallied out on a sudden with all his forces, by surprise, and destroyed him [Osric] and all his army.” Bede then leads us into a period of a year where Cadwallon rules as a tyrant, no doubt tainted by political sentiment, though this may refer to a campaign to expunge the territory of Anglian power. During this time Cadwallon supposedly kills Eanfrith the new king of Bernicia while the later had come to negotiate terms of peace. Eanfrith was the son of Aethelfrith, the powerful precursor to Edwin, who drove Edwin into exile when he was only three years old. Eanfrith in turn was exiled when Edwin returned and took power, seemingly with the Picts, this led to his son Talorgan sitting for a time as king of the Picts1. Cadwallon eventually is defeated at the Battle of Heavenfield by Hadrian’s wall by Oswald of Bernicia, Eanfrith’s brother.

I will not spoil ’s upcoming reevaluation of Penda’s lineage, but he is a puzzling figure, with strong alliances with a Brythonic prince such as Cadwallon, and a lineage full of names of uncertain or legendary origin, as well as a notable reference from Brythonic poetry, Marwnad Cynddylan, which does not portray him negatively as one would expect. These uncertain origins lead to exciting possibilities, and I hope you will enjoy ’s article looking at this soon.

Cadwallon and Penda feature in the longest story within my new anthology “Tales of the Coeling”, releasing later this month. “The Rising Flame” follows Cadwallon from his exile to Ireland, all the way to the Battle of Heavenfield, in an action packed short-story towards the end of the anthology.

Britons

Coel Hen, founder of the Coeling dynasty, floruit 410-440, in high-status Roman gear of the era. Coel has often been speculated as the last Dux Britanniarum, though there is not evidence of this other than the fact that the area he ruled was controlled by that position under Rome. You can find more about Coel here:

Arthwys ap Mar, the Northern Arthur, floruit 490-537, in a mix of Roman and insular native influences. You can read more about Arthwys here:

Peredur ab Eliffer, grandson of Arthwys, initial inspiration for the Peredur of the Welsh romances and later Percival, floruit 560-580, in a mix of native and germanic influenced gear. Peredur would eventually with his brothers join a coalition of Britons attacking their cousin Urien at Catraeth. You can read more about him here:

Contrasting with Peredur is his cousin and contemporary Guenddoleu, here seen with his ‘great birds’ known from the triads. Wearing much more Celtic influence gear. You can read more about Guenddoleu here:

Eugein ap Beli of Alt Clut, floruit 620-~655, in mostly native gear. Victor of The Battle of Strathcarron in 642. You can read more about Eugein here:

A low-status warrior of a warlord’s gosgordd. Appropriate for most of the covered kings floruits. He carries a simple axe and a limewashed shield. His only protection beside the shield is a simple iron skullcap.

A member of a Warlords Teulu. Teulu, a word meaning family, in a martial context denotes a Lords household troops, high-status warriors, often mounted on horses, making up the core of a warlords military.

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The veracity of the earlier entries within the Pictish Regnal Lists is often called into question.1 As such not much is attempted as far as looking at some of these earlier figures. While care must be taken, I do think it worthwhile to look at some of these figures, and possibly ascertain something about them. One of the most interesting Pictish Kings from this earlier period is Drest Gurthinmoch, who reigned in the late 5th and early 6th centuries. While not much can be said for certain about him, there seem to be some scattered references to the king in other sources.

His epithet Gurthinmoch, seems to derive from Brythonic, and means something akin to “Great-Pig” or “Great-Boar”. It is worth noting here that boar imagery carried a weight of martial symbolism across Celtic cultures — appearing both in personal names and in artistic depictions from northern Britain to Gaul. A warrior likened to a boar was not necessarily mocked, but rather understood as fierce, dangerous, and indomitable. The boar surfaces repeatedly noting particular ferocity: the Irish Táin Bó Cúailnge features boar imagery heavily, and in Y Gododdin, warriors are commonly praised as boars. Archaeology echoes this poetic imagery: boar-crested helmets, like those from Benty Grange in Derbyshire and Wollaston in Northamptonshire, show how the animal was adopted into Germanic as well as Celtic war-gear. The epithet Gurthinmoch, then, would not have been absurd or derogatory, but emblematic of a king who embodied the ferocity and power of the boar.

There is a figure called Gwrthmwl who appears in both the triads and in the Dream of Rhonabwy. He is in the triads called Penhynaf (Chief Elder) of “Pen Rhionydd in the North” and associated with Arthur. Gwrthmwl could conceivably be a corruption of Gwrddmoch, and with this similarity, along with the similarity of locale it is possible that this is a memory of Drest within the Dream of Rhonabwy and the triads, although the suitable candidates for Pen Rhionydd are outside of Pictish lands. The title of Penhynaf could imply that he was an older man. As I have explored before, many of the Pictish kings seem to be of quite advanced age, possibly hinting at a gerontocratic style of high-kingship, meshing well with Gwrthmwl as Drest Gurthinmoch. Drest would seem to be remembered here not as a warlord but as a venerable adviser, his age and status lending him the aura of wisdom. Such a role would explain why his name survived in Arthurian-adjacent tradition, long after the specifics of his reign had faded.

There is another figure that may have more certain roots with this Pictish king however.

Tristan, the eponymous hero of the various romances, known variously as Tristan, or Tristan and Iseult, could in fact have originally been Drest Gurthinmoch as well. Within the triads there is an entry listing the “Chief Swineheards of Britain” one of which is “Drystan son of Tallwch, who kept the swine of March son of Meirchiawn.” March son of Meirchiawn is likely Cynfarch (Cynmarch) ap Meirchion Gul of Rheged. Drest Gurthinmoch rules a generation after a Pictish king named Talorc, curiously close to Tallwch. The association as a swineheard here is interesting considering that we have the figure of Drest with a unique epithet referencing Pigs, who happens to share the same name as this ‘Chief Swineheard’. Between this and being associated in the triad with one of the few candidates for the historical King Mark, Cynfarch Oer of Rheged, there is an interesting case to be made that Drest Gurthinmoch may be the kernel of truth behind Tristan. Indeed, “Drust” or “Drest” is a characteristically Pictish royal name, recurring throughout the lists, and “Drystan” may be nothing more than its Welsh or Breton reflex. This would explain why the Tristan figure seems oddly detached from insular dynasties in the romances — he was, at root, a Pictish king remembered in distorted form.

Speculatively Drest could have been split into two figures, Gwerthmwl Wledig, remembered as an elderly advisor of Arthur, and Drystan or Tristan, first Chief Swineheard of Rheged, then later turned into Romantic Hero. This is interesting as it potentially paints Drest in two contrasting legendary roles — one as aged counsellor, the other as young warrior.

My friend wrote a wonderful thread looking at an instance from the preface to the Hymn of Mugint, and a parallel within The Life of St. Ninian. The preface to The Hymn of Mugint tells that Finnian (Ninian) came to study under Mugint, along with Rioc, Talmach, and others. King Drust of Britain entrusted his daughter Drusticc to Mugint for education. Drusticc fell in love with Rioc, and offered Finnian all of Mugint’s books if he would arrange their union. Finnian, instead, sent Talmach to her in Rioc’s form, and from this encounter Drusticc conceived a son, Lonan of Treoit. Believing Rioc the father, Drusticc accused him, but this was false — Rioc remained chaste.

When Mugint discovered the matter, he was enraged. He ordered a youth to hide in the church and kill the first person to enter, expecting Finnian (who usually arrived first). By divine providence, however, Mugint himself entered first, and he was struck down by the axe. This fulfilled the scriptural saying that a man’s wickedness falls upon his own head. The hymn was composed so that the sin of these events might not bring punishment upon the people.

In The Life of Saint Ninian, chapter 5 tells of a nobleman’s servant girl, beautiful in appearance, who yielded to the lustful pursuit of a young man. When her pregnancy became evident, fearing shame and punishment, she falsely accused a presbyter (a parish priest appointed by Bishop Ninian) of seducing and violating her.

The accusation caused scandal: the innocent priest’s reputation was damaged, the Church was mocked, the good were saddened, and the wicked rejoiced. When the woman’s child was born, she brazenly confronted the presbyter in public, declaring him the father.

At this, Saint Ninian intervened. Summoning the clergy and people, he took the newborn and, filled with the Spirit, commanded the infant to speak the truth. Miraculously, the one-day-old child spoke with a man’s voice, identifying his true father from among the people, and declaring the priest innocent. The crowd was astonished, praising God for the miracle. The false accuser was shamed, the presbyter vindicated, and the community reassured of divine justice.

These two tales obviously stem from the same tradition. As has been pointed out, it would seem that this Drusticc was possibly Drest Gurthinmoch’s daughter. Whithorn, heavily associated with Ninian, is within the influence of the kingdom of Rheged at the time, whose king would have either been Meirchion Gul, or more likely his son Cynfarch Oer. While you can intuit a narrative more in line with the later romances from this, I don’t think it’s necessary, and instead gives weight to the idea of Drest Gurthinmoch as the initial inspiration behind the later Trystan. If so, then the story preserves a rare glimpse of Pictish–Rheged dynastic interaction, crystallized not in chronicles but in the blurred mirror of hagiography and legend.

As my friend also pointed out there also happens to be an anomalous Pictish inscribed stone found at Trusty’s Hill, the remains of a hillfort that was subject to a conflagration so great that the fortress was vitrified. Perhaps a marker of Pictish victory in retaliation for the mishandling of a fostered, or even betrothed, daughter? The fortress shows signs of feasting and high-status metalwork, possibly a sign of its importance, possibly one of Rheged’s main strongholds at the time? The juxtaposition of inscription, feast-debris, and fire makes the site uniquely suggestive, seemingly bearing witness to the same entangled dynastic dramas hinted at in the textual sources.

Drest Gurthinmoch is also notable for having one of the longest reigns of the Pictish monarchs from this early period, supposedly reigning for thirty years. The majority of his reign happens to coincide with the post-Badon generation-long peace. One is tempted to read more into that, that the effects of this may have brought stability even into the far reaches of the north. It is striking to consider that the same lull in Saxon expansion which gave the Brythonic kingdoms room to breathe for a generation may also have secured a long and relatively untroubled rule for a Pictish king remembered as both Warlord and Elder Advisor.

Drest is a compelling figure to delve into, but unfortunately there does not seem to be much more to glean, and making more conclusions would strain speculation far too much. And yet, by tracing the scattered fragments — a king with a swine-epithet, a daughter in scandal, a swineherd-hero in Triads, an elderly counsellor in Arthur’s court, and a tragic lover in medieval romance — one begins to glimpse the outline of how legend itself is made.

My own spin on the Tristan Romance, based partially on the Drusticc narrative, will be featured in my new anthology, releasing next month.

In 54bc Gaius Julius Caesar attempted to invade Britain... again. This time Cassivellaunus was there to oppose him. Caesar began his second invasion with 628 ships, five legions and 2,000 cavalry. He landed unhindered by the Britons this time, and immediately set out to find any military the Britons could muster. The Britons heavily used guerilla attacks, striking with cavalry and fading away. Cassivellaunus meanwhile was raising an Army. A powerful warlord, probably of the Catuvellauni, he had been fighting constantly against his neighbors, most recently defeating the Trinovantes and their king Imanuentius, sending the king’s son Mandubracius into exile.

Caesar’s Commentarii (De Bello Gallico V.11–23) gives the only contemporary account of Cassivellaunus. He emphasizes the Britons’ reliance on chariots, noting some “four thousand” of them in Cassivellaunus’ forces. Archaeology, especially the Arras culture chariot burials in Yorkshire, gives independent weight to this description, showing that such warfare was genuinely part of British military practice.

After some failed skirmishes against the Romans, even being routed in one against a foraging party, Cassivellaunus then determined that a direct approach, regardless of the size of his army was futile. He then led an even larger scale guerilla campaign, eventually meeting the Romans while they were crossing the Thames. The Romans managed to make the difficult crossing, beset by Cassivellaunus’ men and stakes place in the river. Cassivellaunus disbands most of his forces after the crossing, and using his cavalry and chariots continues to harry the Romans until Mandubracius and others came forward after surrendering to Caesar, revealing the location to Cassivellaunus’ strongholds. Cassivellaunus initially held out against the siege, even managing to send messengers to four other kings, who then rallied and attacked the Roman camp on the coast, but were ultimately defeated, with the Romans capturing Lugotorix, a Chieftain of the Cantii. Cassivellaunus ultimately surrendered. Mandubracius was then reestablished as king of the Trinovantes, and Cassivellaunus fades away from history, promising to never take up arms again. Neither Cassivellaunus or Mandubracius’ stories end here though, both secured themselves a place in later Brythonic folklore.

Geoffrey of Monmouth remembers Cassivellaunus as Cassibelanus son of Heli (Beli Mawr, possibly inspired by the historical King Cunobelinus) and spins an exaggerated account of both Cassibelanus' life and Caesar's invasions. One can see little snippets of history gleaming through the fiction though, the stakes in the River Thames remembered, and the death of a Tribune. Mandubracius is replaced with Androgeus, a nephew of Geoffrey's Cassibelanus, with the betrayal more personal in his story. All of this was no doubt taken from Caesar's writings, though heavily retold through Geoffrey's lens of narrative, itself tweaked by Welsh Tradition.

While it has been generally held that Caswallawn as Cassivellaunus appears, is a late addition to Welsh Folklore, supposed heavily influenced by Monmouth's work, and certainly some of the Triads that feature Caswallawn do bear the tell-tale mark of Geoffrey’s work, others do not. I think it could be more likely that Geoffrey was instead inspired by this earlier tradition, and in turn influenced it again himself. Combining this early tradition with the writings of Caesar, Geoffrey created his hybrid narrative, neither wholly Caesar, or wholly Welsh.

Part of this earlier tradition is his appearance as an opportunistic usurper to Bran the Blessed. Caswallawn, using a magical cloak that renders him invisible, kills six of Bran’s seven stewards while the King was away in Ireland. Bran’s son Caradog, the seventh steward upon watching the other stewards cut down by a floating sword dies of despair. Caswallawn usurps Bran’s position as King of Prydain. Manawydan, his nephew goes into hiding out of fear of his uncle. Caswallawn fades away shortly after this and isn't mentioned again in the stories remembered by the Mabinogi. It has been suggested that Manawydan is in fact a memory of Mandubracius. There seems to be fragments of a lost tradition of Caesar and Caswallawn fighting over a woman known as Fflur (literally Flower), possibly even a poetic way of referring to the fight for control of Britain, and seems to be quite old and possibly rather free of Caesar's works, as well as Geoffrey’s.

Cassivellaunus through his brief resistance certainly cemented his place in history, and even exists as part of the template that Geoffrey used for his 'Arthur', a warlord resisting invasion, ultimately betrayed by one of his own.

Let’s start with the news first. Thing’s have been quiet from over here lately, and I apologize for the lack of articles, but the short story did well enough that it stoked something, and I’d like to announce that I will be releasing a short story anthology very soon. In a flurry of creativity and writing I have been able to complete around twelve new short stories, as well as outlining (and somewhat writing) eight others. I find the short story format to be extremely liberating, and I came to the realization that I have basically been doing the background research for something like this for the last few years. Events and chronology and places have already been worked out far in advance, and so filling in the gaps with creative flourishes has been a simple task. I am going to be using a pen name for the first time, as you will see on the cover preview above. This is less because I want to, and more because it is more likely to gain greater traction outside of my normal reach with a more mainstream sounding name. I will continue to write here and on X (Formerly Twitter) as Aurochs and may still go back to Aurochs for this project before I release it.

Below is the current list of short stories, each featuring a Coeling prince (or princess) from the early 5th century, all the way to the early 7th. Dux looks at a young Garbanion, fighting his first battle along with his father Coel. The Relentless Raider features Coel’s daughter (Known as Gwawl to history, but here renamed to Dwywai), and Ceneu and Garbanian putting down a revolt of Cunedda of the Gododdin. Caer Ligualid is a tale of rebuilding featuring Gwrwst ap Ceneu, the founding King of Rheged. A Monster from the Irish Sea features Gwrwst and Mar ap Ceneu, driving away an Irish raid. The Stolen Sword follows Llenneac on a daring covert operation. In The Wolves of Eidyn Bran ap Dyfnwal watches as his cousin Arthwys crushes Anglian Foederati. The Horde is another tale of rebuilding, featuring Einion ap Mor and riches he stumbles across. The Boar’s daughter is a new take on the Tristan and Iseult tale, featuring Cynfarch of Rheged. The Cattle Raid follows a young Pabo ab Arthwys, on an unsanctioned raid against Lleuddun of Gododdin. The Beast of Ynys Mon is my own take on the story of Cath Palug, a monsterous Cat, featuring Ceidio ab Arthwys. Perpetual Winter falls during the volcanic winter of 536-537, with Cynfelyn ab Arthwys preparing for the worst. The Terrible Chieftain features Eliffer ab Arthwys, newly crowned High-King. A Blood Feud features Guenddoleu ap Ceidio at the battle of Arfderydd. The Maid at the Fountain features a young Owain ap Urien, and an unfortunate event. Yr Affalleneu is Myrddin’s hidden musings amongst the Caledonian forest. Catraeth is… well Catraeth. Fear the One-Eyed King is already released, Urien discussing with Owain why Guallauc is allowed to continually terrorize the north. Morfydd is our own Romeo and Juliet with her betrothal and love for Cynon ap Clydno. The Rising Flame is my own take on Alex Woolf’s theory that Cadwallon of Gwynedd was actually Cadwallon Liu, a great-grandson of Pabo ab Arthwys. And the final story, chronologically out of order, is Arthwys, and his victory at Badon.

In this endeavor I have not abandoned my “Illustrated Guide to the Hen Ogledd” which is roughly 80% completed, and I hope to have it released before Christmas still. The illustrations for it are mostly completed, and I am currently making decisions for a map (or series) of maps to be included.

As far as things here on substack. I am steadily chipping away at a major article looking at the Picts, as well as something a little different, an article discussing the pitfalls and problems with researching the historical Arthur, especially when jumping to the conclusion of “It’s this one guy in particular”. More looks at poetry, especially Moliant Cadwallon, and analyzing it in the context of Alex Woolf’s theories, as well as a sweeping broad chronological outline of the Coeling and events in the Hen Ogledd, as well as a ‘wild theories’ kind of article that I have mentioned I was working on earlier this year.

As always thank you all for reading and subscribing, I hope you all enjoy the upcoming projects.

Urien stood silently upon the battlements of Catraeth watching the autumn mist roll low across the hills,the distant sound of hooves echoing. Owain was pacing, the leather of his boots creaking faintly on the stone.

“He’s crossed west again,” Owain said, voice low. “Riders saw Guallauc and his warband passing through our southern road. No message. No banner raised. Do we call that kin?”

Urien exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze not leaving the distant mist. “Aye. And you will treat him as such.”

Owain stiffened. “He pecks kingdoms like a raven pecks at carrion. He shows no deference. We hold the north together in uneasy truce, and he rides unbidden?”

Urien turned, eyes dark. “You speak as though you were not drawn from the same well. Do you forget who he is? Or who we are?”

“I forget nothing,” Owain replied. “But my patience frays. You treat him like a brother, yet he’s barely able to accept any peace.”

“No,” said Urien. “He is not. He was once. Or might have been.”

He turned back to watching the mist. Then he spoke, his voice quieter, older.

“I saw the making of the One-Eyed King.”

Urien's voice was low, steady, but there was iron beneath it—something that had long since cooled, but never been quenched.

“We were seventeen—barely bearded, thumping lance on shield, shouting boasts of glory not yet earned. We were young and foolish and full of fire. I wore your grandfather’s lorica that day. Golden Roman scale, shining like the summer sun, though patched here and there with northern iron. It glimmered even in the sickly sun, as if defying the gloom.”

He paused, eyes far away.

“We rode to Camlann beneath Arthwys himself—the old High King, the Bear, our kin and war-lord. A banner of red and gold streaming over us, snapping in the cold wind. At his right rode Llenneac, shining in silver scale said to be Coel’s own, unblemished even in it’s old age. Two scions of Coel. Brothers.”

Urien pulled away a loose board from the battlements where the old roman walls were repaired with wood, frowning.

“I remember Guallauc well that morning—spirited, sharp-witted, laughing loud and long at my poor horsemanship. Even then he was broad of shoulder, dark-eyed, and already strong as a bull. He wore a silver helm, and from it flew a crest of black feathers, defiant, proud. A dark echo of his father’s white crest beside him, like night marching with day.”

“But then came the fog.”

Urien’s voice thinned, a long silence trailing his words.

“It rolled down from the hills like a living thing—grey and thick and foul-smelling, choking out the sun until the earth was drowned in shadow. The banners disappeared. The shouting dulled to moans. And then the killing began.”

“The battle-din was a nightmare. Spear on shield, iron grinding, horses and men shrieking… at a point we all sound the same. Smoke rose from burning huts near Caer Camlann, and arrows fell like dead leaves. We struck their flank near the riverbank—our cavalry thundered across the shallow river crossing crashing into the host attacking Ceidio’s fortress. Hooves churned frost, blood, and shattered bone. I killed my first man there—some brute from Alt Clut, swinging a chipped axe and howling curses. He came at me like death unshackled. His axe took my horses legs, my spear gone and shield under the dead horse. I leapt to my feet, sword flashing from scabbard as the rest of our Teulu rode through their ranks. The man screamed his kings name as the axe glanced across my lorica and I plunged my sword into his throat.”

He looked down at his hand, as though remembering the weight of that first kill.

“But Llenneac... Llenneac fell like a hero of old. Not cowering, not cornered—but charging, sword high, toward the riverbank where Arthwys stood against Medraut of Gododdin. Llenneac carved a path through man after man, silver scale slick with blood, his white crest torn and trailing like a comet’s tail. He fought on, blade flashing in arcs of fire, and each stroke felled a foe. Ten men? Twenty? But still he pressed on.”

Urien’s eyes burned now with something older than grief—reverence, perhaps.

“He was nearly there. Medraut had driven Arthwys into the riverbend, where the wind cut like knives and the sand was slick with blood. The High King stood beneath the tattered red-gold banner, Caledfwlch broken in hand, the last of his Teulu with him. And Llenneac, his brother, would not let him die alone.”

“But fate cares not, and cold the wind blows.”

Urien’s voice grew cold.

“A nameless man met him as he thundered towards Medraut. No armor. Just rage and battle-lust. I saw the blue-green tattoos on his chest and square shield. The Pict thrust a crude spear—ash-hafted, the head still covered in forge-scale—and struck Llenneac beneath the arm, where even Coel’s silver scale gave no shelter. And that was the end. The hero fell not to a champion, but to some wretch from Pictland.”

“Guallauc saw it—no more than a dozen strides away. He had lost his horse and his helm, waded through the gore teeth bared like a beast. He saw his father fall—collapse without a cry, face-first into the red mud, sword lost beneath him. And something in him shattered.”

Urien’s hand tightened on the edge of the battlements.

“He screamed then—not a name, not a curse—just rage, raw and wordless. And after that, I think, Guallauc forgot who he was. Or perhaps he remembered only the part that would survive.”

He looked up, meeting Owain’s eyes.

“And on the riverbank, Arthwys bled. Medraut’s blade was red, and the golden banner sagged in the dying wind. The High King fell with three of his shield-men about him. I watched Medraut fall to his knees bleeding beside our High-King with what was left of Coel’s sword buried in his chest through maille, tunic, and heart. Medraut took his last breath on that riverbank.”

He looked at Owain.

“Two brothers, two kings—fallen within the same hour. The sisters of Aballava could not save him. The old High-King dead, carried to his final raid on a ship to the otherworld. After that the flame that bound the Coeling scattered into sparks. Some went cold. Others burned wild.”

He stepped closer to Owain, voice barely more than a whisper.

“That was the hour Guallauc lost his eye. No one speaks of it—not even he—but I saw him pull the broken shaft from his face, blood streaming down his cheek. He fought on blind on that side, cleaving men like harvesting grain. When the smoke cleared, he stood with Eliffer’s gosgordd, the right side of his face was blackened, the eye gone. But his sword hand never wavered.”

Urien’s jaw clenched.

“He left that field a man, aye—but not the one he might’ve been. The Guallauc we knew was buried in that mire beside Llenneac. What rose was the One-Eyed King.”

Owain stood still now, the anger cooling from his face.

“That changed him,” Urien said. “Changed all of us. But Guallauc... he became iron, hammered and warped. While I turned to alliances and fortresses”

Owain coughing mockingly.

“Aye boy I raided too, how else to make it through those years? Guallauc was steeped in blood. When the sun failed us and the fields yielded rot—when the summer itself gave no warmth—he endured. He did more than that. He fought. Patrolling the southern border relentlessly. No Saeson warband would enter Elmet. Endless raiding, taking cattle from Lindon, Gododdin, Alt Clut, anyone he could… and it kept our enemies weak.”

“There was no peace after Camlann,” Urien continued. “Only vengeance. And much of it was among our own. Eliffer of Ebrauc—slain by his own brother, Ceidio. Coeling slaying Coeling, crown for crown. Then Guenddoleu, Ceidio’s son, took up his father’s name in fire. But not for feud. He reached to me.”

He looked at Owain.

“I allied with Guenddoleu. Not just for Rheged—but for kinship, for some thread of order. We tried to bind the wounds. Petitioned Eliffer’s sons for peace. Peredur and Gwrgi would have none of it. They waited, bided their time, and attacked at Arfderydd. You saw first hand the weight of a blood feud after you slayed Ida’s whelp. Guallauc and I settled with the twin kings, and again they bided their time and waited. They betrayed us again. Their brother, Madog fled to Gododdin, leading Morcant’s armies as his Pen Teulu, And so the bloodletting continued.”

A long silence.

“You watched as Guallauc broke them at Catraeth. Leading his riders into their camp and almost ending the battle before it started. I saw him take three heads in one pass, sword shining in hand like his father’s. He came to me then, and looked at me with that single fierce eye. Told me what was to come, how Eliffer’s line would end. When the day’s killing was done, he marched on Caer Ebrauc, and drove Gwgon from the fortress, carrying Peredur’s head taunting the boy.”

“And yet,” Owain said, slowly, “you call this man friend?”

“I call him shield,” Urien said. “He is no gentle hand, but his wrath has kept the men of Lindon wary, they dare not cross into Elmet. Ælla is terrified of him, even though he gives us both tribute, and Ida’s ilk think twice before coming south even to steal a few cattle. Not for fear of me, but of him. He is the spear of the Coeling, and every man, from Pictland to Cerniu knows his name.”

Urien stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.

“We are the blood of Coel, Owain. Scattered, cracked, but still bound. You will meet Guallauc again. You will ride beside him, or face him. But if you are wise, you will do the first. Yield pride where you must, and hold the line when it matters. He has spilled the blood of kin before. But only when kin rose against him.”

He looked his son in the eyes.

“Let us not give him cause again.”

I know my normal fare has been scarce of late, as I am working hard on wrapping up the Illustrated Guide so I can get it released before the end of the year. I have completed 55 feature illustrations, with around 20 more to go, along with a section of assorted illustrations at the end of the book that will only be captioned. I will do this for figures that have less that can be said about them, as well as concepts that are self-explanatory, and for things I want to include just because I like them.

The concept for this story has been plaguing my dreams for a month or so. I have tried my hand at fiction before here, but I do not feel that it’s a strong point of mine. I am not a great writer at all in my opinion, but I do get the urge to paint something with words once and a while. Looking at Guallauc’s legacy in the songs of the Bards, though less than say Urien, still gives one a heavy impression of the man. A violent and dangerous raider of a king, an enemy of everyone but Urien it seems. In the late 6th century the Coel’s Kindom of Northern Britain became extremely fractured, and it seems that even amongst those still holding true to their kin were still wary of one another, and it seems those ties were severed as soon as Urien was assassinated. Guallauc did ultimately make war on Urien’s sons, and I get the impression that his motivations probably lie in a grand opportunity to make Elmet the most powerful kingdom of the north, or more nobly (kind of) resentment of Urien’s great influence, entitlement (being that the only Coeling left that was around his age were Pabo’s children), and even more speculatively a sense of duty to maintain his family’s claims, with him the only one to be able to ensure it. We of course can’t project our analysis of personal feelings into the past, but I think it still makes for a fun read.

It’s been a quiet month here, I’ve been busily chipping away at the Illustrated Guide, which you will find two possible versions of the cover above. I have close to forty illustrations completed, and will include previews below for my paid subscribers. I am going to try to release an article this week, but no promises, as the guide is the priority right now. I will also be giving each of my paid subscribers a free e-book version of the guide once it is completed. Thank you all for your patience during this lull in posting.

Paid Subscriber Preview Below, These are the raw images before final blending into the print layout.

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One of the first praise-poems to Urien appearing in The Book of Taliesin, commonly referred to as “The Battle of Gwen Ystrad”, heavily associates Urien with Catraeth. Catraeth is best known for the battle that bears it’s name, with that battle being the subject of the well-known poem Y Gododdin. I have lightly touched on John Koch’s theories that Catraeth was in fact not a battle of the Gododdin and the Angles, but instead a mixed force, with a coalition of exiled Coeling princes, the Gododdin, Alt Clut, the Picts, and Angle allies on one side, with Urien of Rheged, Guallauc of Elmet, and their own Angle allies opposing them. This interpretation challenges a number of previously held notions, not just the contenders in battle, but the sphere of influence and power that the Angles maintained at the time, arguably giving them a much smaller slice of the North at this time. When looked at in the context of the events of the 590s, the constant internecine warfare of the waning Brythonic kingdoms of the Hen Ogledd (Old North) would have made the Britons hard pressed to stage an attack upon the kingdoms of the Angles post-Aethefrith. Taking this with internal evidence of the presence of certain historical figures gives us a fairly strong case for the battle taking place in the 580s before the Angles had truly solidified their strangle-hold on the North. The poem “The Battle of Gwen Ystrad” may actually be the battle of Catraeth seen from Urien’s side. Let’s take a stanza-by-stanza look at the Poem.

Taliesin opens with Urien’s men at Catraeth, generally accepted to have been Catterick in North Yorkshire, with Urien likely occupying the old Roman fort of Cataractonium, probably part of the Coeling reoccupation of the Roman fortresses on the way to Hadrian’s wall (as well as the wall itself).1 Urien is here called Wledig, a term with a faded meaning, but may be equivalent to an Over-King or High-King, someone who commands other lords, and is usually reserved for great leaders, notable Arthur and Magnus Maximus. Urien is already famous and powerful, other kings give him tribute, he is a fierce Christian warlord.

The men of Prydyn are likely not Urien’s men, with Prydyn’s meaning shifting from name of the entire island of Britain, to meaning a more localized further north context, possible indicating territories north of the Roman walls. No matter where the try to hide, there is no shelter from Urien’s host.

A Bloody battle at the borders of a kingdom.

The defeated warriors lay their swords in defeat at the victorious Urien’s feet. Though they were united in their purpose, Urien still destroyed them. The interpretation here of Urien as a “grey-haired king” is notable, as this is a testament to Urien’s long reign. In 580 Urien would have been around 60 years old, and we know in the prior decade his son Owain was old enough to act as his Penteulu, speaking with the kings authority to Fflamddwyn before the Battle of Argoed Llwyfain. Urien’s twin sister Efyrddyl was said to have married Eliffer Gosgorddfawr of Ebrauc, making Urien the maternal uncle of the sons of Eliffer, some of which seem to have fought on the side of the Gododdin against their uncle. Eliffer’s floruit of 520-550 would establish that Urien and his sister had to have been born either before, or around the beginning of Eliffer’s floruit, with Efyddyl being a much younger wife.

A further testament to the slaughter induced by Urien.

Urien’s men do not waver, and as the mead is gone too soon, so is joy when battle commences.

Taliesin closes with a refrain common with the poems to Urien.

This is, of course, not the only piece of evidence linking Urien to Catraeth, and gleaning much historicity from battle poems such as this is difficult of course, as much of the imagery is heroic and battle-centric in nature, it’s purpose of course is not to preserve history, but instead to praise Urien, but we can still establish a few things. Urien and his men rode out to meet a force of Prydyn’s men, likely the coalition of warriors that formed the host of the Gododdin, they rode out from Catraeth, and they slaughtered the enemy. Catraeth itself is outside of what territory Rheged is generally assumed to have controlled. Following the death of Eliffer (likely in battle against either Ida of Bernicia at the end of his supposed seven year struggle to solidify power, or alternatively in a dynastic dispute against Eliffer’s own brother Ceidio2) Urien and Guallauc seem to have divided some of Eliffer’s territory of Ebrauc, with Eliffer’s sons either as wards or exiles, leading to a decade long conflict, starting with the Battle of Arfderydd, an attack led by the sons of Eliffer against Ceidio’s son Gwenddoleu3, Urien’s earlier battle of Argoed Llwyfain may commemorate a component of that battle, with Urien meeting the Angle allies of Eliffer’s sons in battle while Gwenddoleu fought Peredur and Gwrgi.

This is why looking at the greater context of what we have, instead of just focusing on a single figure is so important. By taking the Annales Cambriae’s entries, the Triads, Y Gododdin, and Taliesin’s poems to Guallauc and Urien, we can begin to paint a bigger picture than was originally possible, by looking for consistent points and relations across all of these sources.

Urien features in my upcoming book “Auroch’s Illustrated Guide to the Hen Ogledd” which will feature figures spanning 300 years, from the rise of the Post-Roman Brythonic Kingdoms, to their ultimate collapse, and evolution. All of the Coeling with feature, as well as important figures from Alt Clut, the Gododdin, and the Gaels of Dal Riata, Ceredig Wledig, Cynon ap Clydno, and Dyfnwal Hen, Men of the Gododdin, like Letan, Gerguan and Medrawt, Gabran, Aedan, Artuir, all the way to Bridei.

Marwnad Cunedda, or The Death-Song of Cunedda, celebrates the Northern warlord Cunedda, who later tradition attaches to the Gododdin, is an intriguing peek into the Brythonic Heroic Age, and stands as possibly one of the oldest extant Brythonic poems.

John Koch notes a number of points favoring the archaic dating of the poem, and places it as a genuine product of the 5th or 6th century. The poem makes no mention of the Anglo-Saxons, Cunedda's enemies are the Coeling, and the Men of Bryneich (Pre-Anglian Bernicia). The poem, if genuinely archaic gives additional weight to the Coeling as a semi-unified political entity in the North in the early period, as well as giving authenticity to the existence of Coel1 himself.

The poem is one of the most evocative of our extant Death-Songs, naming Cunedda a “Relentless attacker”, and that “chieftain will wear chieftain down to submission” and telling of Cunedda’s power “over the earth, like the sigh of the wind against the ash wood”. “His hounds will look back over his borderland”, and “clothe the rightfully qualified bards”. Cunedda is repeated described as a defensive bulwark “The thick defensive door at the wide breach” and “Merciless, without equal”. Marwnad Cunedda sings the highest praise possible for Cunedda.

While the poem at first glance seems like a standard praise and lament for the dead warlord, a few of the Coeling centric lines give me the notion of a different possibility. One of the first lines mentioning the Coeling appears quite early and states "They will hold fast with the Coeling in a truce of peace". This echoes the tradition of Coel's daughter marrying Cunedda, creating a peace between the two factions. Cunedda's wife is called Gwawl ferch Coel in the Jesus College pedigrees. Gwawl is not a common given name, literally meaning wall. Considering the locale of these figures, this is likely a reference to Hadrian's wall. Perhaps this 'marriage' was a treaty binding Cunedda to the lands north of the wall, and the Coeling south? It's still very possible this was cemented with marriage, but we can only speculate.

The supposed marriage to Coel’s daughter does help us possibly place Cunedda in a rough chronology. He could range from a younger contemporary of Coel, born late in the same rough generation, or belong to Coel’s children’s generation. Coel himself must be dated from his descendants. Working from Coel’s most easily dateable descendants we can establish a rough floruit for Coel from 410-440, which places Cunedda roughly in the middle of the 5th century. You could similarly work backwards from the Kings of Gwynedd, who supposedly descend from this northern Cunedda, however there is some reason to doubt their descent from Cunedda, which we will touch on later. If we look at Maelgwn, a supposed great-grandson of Cunedda, who is generally considered to be born around 500, we can establish a range. Considering an average 30 year generation (less useful for short spans like this, but increasingly better with more generations) Cunedda is placed with a birth around 410, giving him a floruit of 430-460 which considering his relation with Coel would be perfectly acceptable.

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An oft repeated legend claims that a son of Owain Gwynedd, named Madoc, led a voyage to lands across the sea, fleeing from internecine fighting back home. Owain ap Gruffudd, better known as Owain Gwynedd, or Owain Fawr (Owain the Great) is remembered as one of the greatest kings of Gwynedd, ruling from 1137-1170. Owain had a prodigious number of children, but most pedigrees and sources do not actually mention Madoc. Madoc is eventually added as an illegitimate younger son. Madoc’s murky origins unfortunately don’t get us off to a great start.

The first reference we have to Madoc comes from a poem the 15th century Poet Maredudd ap Rhys

This connects Madoc both to a tradition of seafaring and to Owain as a descendant. What it doesn’t do however, is connect Madoc to the Americas. The next reference we find to this Madoc comes from David Powel’s “Historie of Cambria”, a translation and expansion upon Humphrey Llwyds expansions of Caradoc of Llancarfan’s work. While Humprey mention’s Madoc in his work, and provides the initial notion of him sailing to an ‘unknown land’, Powel gives us much more detail and extrapolation Madoc. (passage amended for intelligibility.)

Madoc another of Owen Gwyneth’s sons left the land in contention betwixt his brethren, and prepared ships with men and munition, and sought [adventures] by seas, sailing West, and leaving the coast of Ireland so far north, that he came to a land unknown, where he saw many strange things. This land must needs be some part of that country of which the Spaniards affirm themselves to be the first finders since Hanno’s time; for by reason and order of Cosmographie, this land, to the which Madoc came, must needs be some part of Nova Hispania or Florida. Whereupon it is manifest, that that country was long before by Britons discovered.

He then mentions a return voyage, which Madoc spreads word of this paradise and sets sail again.

And after he had returned home and declared the pleasant and fruitful countries that he had seen without inhabitants ; and upon the contrary part, for what barren and wild ground his brethren and nephews did murder one another he prepared a number of ships, and got with him such men and women as were desirous to live in quietness , and taking leave of his friends took his journey thitherward again . Therefore it is to be presupposed , that he and his people inhabited part of those countries.

Powel’s work is the kernel of the Madoc legend. Powel defends his claims, and states that this is seen in the work of the poet Guten Owain, which is unfortunately for us, lost.

This Madoc arriving in that Western country, unto the which he came, in the year 1170. left most of his people there: and returning back for more of his own nation, acquaintance and friends, to inhabit that fair and large country: went thither again with ten sails, as I find noted by Gutyn Owen. I am of opinion that the land, whereunto he came, was some part of Mexico: the causes which make me to think so be these.

Powel then gives his own reasoning as to why they must have landed in Mexico.

The common report of the inhabitants of that country, which affirm, that their rulers descended from a strange nation, that came thither from a far country: which thing is confessed by Mutezuma king of that country, in his oration made for quieting of his people, at his submission to the king of Castile, Hernando Cortez being then present, which is laid down in the Spanish Chronicles of the conquest of the West Indies.

The British words and names of places, used in that country even to this day, do argue the same as when they talk together, they use this word Gwrando, which is, Hearken or listen. Also they have a certain bird with a white head, which they call Penguin, that is, white head. But the Island of Corroeso, the cape of Bryton, the river of Gwyndor, and the white rock of Pengwyn, which be all Brytish or Welsh words, do manifestly shew that it was that country which Madoc and his people inhabited.

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Reconstruction

Gwenddoleu is seen here wearing a simple tunic, pants and boots, the boots similar to earlier roman Calcei. He wears a belt adorned with a high-status imported bucked of Frankish style, and a penannular brooch common to the period. His war gear seen below features a derivative of late-roman helmets, high status maille armour, a spear based on British finds, and a migration era spatha with a simple hilt with Ivory fittings. Such high-status armour would have been prized, and would have likely been used and reused for a handful of generations. He wears gilded prick spurs mentioned in the poetry of his distant cousin Llywarch Hen.

On to the original sources we have mentioned Gwenddoleu. Presented below without comment.

Bonedd Gwŷr y Gogledd

Gwendoleu & Nud & Chof meibyon Keidyaw m. Arthwys m. Mar m. Keneu m. Coel

Annales Cambriae

The battle of Arfderydd between the sons of Eliffer and Gwenddolau son of Ceidio; in which battle Gwenddolau fell; Merlin went mad

Triads

Three Bull-Protectors of the Island of Britain:

Cynfawr Host-Protector, son of Cynwyd Cynwydion,
and Gwenddolau son of Ceidiaw,
and Urien son of Cynfarch.

Three Faithful War-Bands of the Island of Britain:

The War-Band of Cadwallawn, when they were fettered;
and the War-Band of Gafran son of Aeddan, at the time of his complete disappearance;
and the War-Band of Gwenddolau son of Ceidiaw at Arfderydd, who continued the battle for a fortnight and a month after their lord was slain;
The number of each one of the War-Bands was twenty-one hundred men.

Three Men who performed the Three Fortunate Assassinations:

Gall son of Dysgyfdawd who slew the Two Birds of Gwenddolau. And they had a yoke of gold on them. Two corpses of the Cymry they ate for their dinner, and two for their supper;
And Ysgafnell son of Dysgyfdawd, who slew Edelfled king of Lloegr;
And Diffydell son of Dysgyfdawd who slew Gwrgi Garwlwyd ('Rough Grey'). That Gwrgi used to make a corpse of one of the Cymry every day, and two on each Saturday so as not to slay on Sunday.

Three Horses who carried the Three Horse-Burdens:

Black Moro, horse of Elidir Mwynfawr, who carried on his back seven and a half people from Penllech in the North to Penllech in Môn. These were the seven people: Elidir Mwynfawr, and Eurgain his wife, daughter of Maelgwn Gwynedd, and Gwyn Good Companion, and Gwyn Good Distributor, and Mynach Naomon his counsellor, and Prydelaw the Cupbearer, his butler, and Silver Staff his servant, and Gelbeinevin his cook, who swam with his two hands to the horse's crupper - and that was the half-person.
Corvan, horse of the sons of Eliffer, bore the second Horse-Burden: he carried on his back Gwrgi and Peredur and Dunawd the Stout and Cynfelyn the Leprous, to look upon the battle-fog of (the host of) Gwenddolau (in) Arfderydd. (And no one overtook him but Dinogad son of Cynan Garwyn, upon Swift Roan, and he won censure and dishonour from then till this day.)
Heith, horse of the sons of Gwerthmwl Wledig, bore the third Horse-Burden: he carried Gweir and Gleis and Archanad up the hill of Maelawr in Ceredigion to avenge their father.

Poetry

Hoianau from the Black Book of Carmarthen, attributed to Myrddin.

I saw Gwenddoleu in the track of the kings,
Collecting booty from every border;
Now indeed he lies still under the brown earth;
The chief of the kings of the north, of greatest generosity.

Afallenneu from the Black Book of Carmarthen, attributed to Myrddin.

After Gwenddoleu no one shall honour me,
No diversions attend me, No fair women visit me.
Though at Arderydd I wore a golden torque
The swan-white woman despises me now.

The Dialogue of Gwyn ap Nudd and Gwyddno Garanhir from the Black Book of Carmarthen, attributed to Myrddin.

I have been in the place where was killed Gwendoleu,
The son of Ceidio, the pillar of songs,
When the ravens screamed over blood.

Dialogue Between Myrddin and his sister, Gwenddydd from the Red Book of Hergest.

As Gwenddoleu was slain in the bloodshed of Arderydd.

Peniarth MS. 60

The Gwyddbwll of Gwnddolef ap Keidio: Gold board, silver [men]; they would play by themselves.

Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Vita Merlini

Meanwhile it happened that a strife arose
between several of the chiefs of the kingdom,
and throughout the cities they wasted the innocent people with fierce war.
Peredur, king of the North Welsh, waged war
on Gwenddoleu, who ruled the realm of Scotland;
and already the day fixed for the battle was at hand,
and the leaders were ready in the field, and the troops were fighting,
falling on both sides in a miserable slaughter.

Peirian Faban

Weeping is not joyful, nor is it best.
Myrddin says: great is the sorrow
For the death of my brothers and Gwenddoleu.
Llywelyn, Gwgawn, best of the generous,

When the fierce battle would be fought,
when there would be joyous death, when there would be a broken shoulder,
when there would be heart’s blood before he would be put to flight.
Because of the memory of Gwenddolau and his companions,
woe to me for my death—how slowly it comes.

Englynion y Clyweid

Have you heard what Gwendoleu sings,
while in the valleys?
A tree in another wood is his.

Excerpt from the work of Robert Vaughan.

It chanced that the shepherds of Rhydderch and Aeddan aforesaied, by the instigation of the Devil, fell out for no other cause than a lark's nest; who, having beaten one another to the efussion of their blood, at last acquainted their lords of the whole strife, and they presently engaged themselves in the quarrel, entering into open hostility with such eagerness and hatred that having mustered their forces and committed some outrages, they appointed a day and place to try the matter by dint of sword; and Aeddan fearign to be too weak to encounter Rhydderch, drew to his side Gwenddoleu the son of Ceidiaw of the tribe of Coel Godeboc, a very powerful prince, and they, joining their forces, met Rhydderch at a place called Arderydd, where upon the first encounter Gwenddoleu was slain, and with him Llywelyn, Gwgawn, Einiawn, and Rhiwallawn, the sons of Morfryn, Merlin caledonius's bretheren; and in the end after a great slaughter on both sides, Rhydderch obtained the victory, and Aeddan fled the country.

What to make of all of this?

Our hard historical sources (which I consider the pedigrees and the Annals) give us some certainties, his ancestry, and his death. A scion of Coel’s dynasty that dominated Northern Britain in the 5th and 6th centuries, dying in battle against his own cousins in 573 at Arfderydd according to the annals. Peredur and Gwrgi, the sons of Eliffer, Gwenddoleu’s uncle, made war upon him. Other traditions lump other figures into this battle, such as Rhydderch Hael of Alt Clut, and Áedán mac Gabráin of Dál Riata. This death and his ancestry (at least as the son of Ceidio) are consistent through most sources, and are almost certainly genuine. Through placename evidence we can conclude that Gwenddoleu ruled the area surrounding modern Arthuret, with nearby Carwinley being descended from Caer Wenddoleu, Gwenddoleu’s Fortress. This expansion of Coeling territory North of the wall is significant. Coeling territory in the first few generations seemed centered around Hadrian’s wall and the lands immediately south. This expansion during the early 6th century is an oddity. When many kingdoms were on the backfoot, shrinking in territory and fracturing within, the territory of the Coeling was expanding, not only around Carwinley, but also further north around modern Kelso, that was earlier known as the kingdom of Calchfynydd. These kingdoms first appear attached to individuals in the mid to late 6th century, when it is highly unlikely they carved the territory out on their own, especially as Anglian power began gaining a foothold in Northern Britain starting in 547 under Ida of Bernicia. The establishment of these kingdoms likely belongs in the generation preceding them, in the twilight of Arthwys of Ebrauc’s reign. This extension of power hints at the influence of the Brigantian High-Kingship held by Arthwys, Garbanian, Mar, and Coel.

Eliffer, Ceidio, and the Roots of Arfderydd.

A big question that rears it’s head is, why do the sons of Eliffer attack their own Cousin? The answer may lay in a small snippet in later Arthuriana, and a conflict between Gwenddoleu’s father and Eliffer. Both Ceidio and Eliffer are almost certainly sons of Arthwys. Ceidio is always given as a son of Arthwys but Eliffer is given a different pedigree, descending from Gwrwst Ledlum, which would shift Eliffer back a generation. Not only is this chronologically unsatisfactory, it also can be easily explained. In the pedigrees for Alt Clut there is Elidir son of Gwrwst son of Dyfnwal Hen. A copyist may have taken it upon himself to ‘correct’ the ancestry, and assumed that Gwrwst ap Dyfnwal and Gwrwst ap Ceneu were the same person, and thus Elidir Mwynfawr and Eliffer Gosgorddfawr were the same person. In earlier works the two names are seemingly considered completely different, but eventually were conflated. Evidence for this can be seen in my article on Eliffer. The evidence points to Eliffer as a son of Arthwys being the correct interpretation. Ceidio himself may be the historical nugget behind the foster-brother of Arthur Cai Hir, later known as Sir Kay. There is a curious instance where Cai is responsible for the death of Llachau (one of Arthur’s sons). Llachau is possibly a distant memory of Eliffer himself. If this narrative is a folklorised piece of history this may give us a reason behind the battle of Arfderydd/Arthuret. If Cai/Ceidio indeed killed Eliffer/Llacheu, possible in a dispute over who would be high king, this paints Arfderydd in a much more interesting context. Not a petty battle over territory, or a lark’s nest, but a blood feud, and the start of a civil war amongst the Coeling that culminates in the Battle of Catraeth, commemorated in Y Gododdin. My good friend and fellow Hen Ogledd scholar has surmised that Gwenddoleu and Urien may have been allied, and that Urien’s battle of Argoed Llyfain is in fact another component of the battle of Arfderydd. This begins to give us a broader view of the political sides forming around this period. Gwenddoleu, Urien, and Guallauc of Elmet (all related), and The sons of Eliffer, Peredur, Gwrgi, Madog?2, Cynfelyn, and Dunod (also all related). This civil war directly contributed to Anglian dominance in the North, and no doubt made the emergence of Northumbria possible, with the considerable power formerly held by the Coeling Hegemony fracture. If we are to trust the triads, Gwenddoleu alone was able to bring to bear a host of 2100 men, a massive force for the period, if the other Coeling had similar capabilities the Brigantian High-Kingship would likely be able to bring many times that to war, making them a very difficult opponent for the early Anglian kingdoms, as well as their Brythonic, Pictish, and Dal Riatan neighbors to the north. A fractured Coeling hegemony slowly waned on the periphery, and became mostly3 irrelevant after Catraeth.

We see that Gwenddoleu features heavily in the poetry attributed to Myrddin. From the Myrddin poetry we can see that Myrddin was in service to Gwenddoleu, possibly as a trusted advisor and Bard. He places Gwenddoleu as one of the chief princes of the north, a generous gold-giver and raider, and capable of withstanding raids himself (Thus remembered as one of the ‘Bull Protectors of Britain). Myrddin himself says he wore a high-status ‘Golden Torc’ at Arfderydd. He is included as the owner of one of the magical Thirteen Treasures of Britain, a Gwyddbwll board made of Gold with Silver pieces that could play itself, once again reiterating his power and influence. Robert Vaughan a later writer notes that he was ‘a very powerful prince’.

The most curious reference to Gwenddoleu comes in the triad “Three Men who performed the Three Fortunate Assassinations”

Gall son of Dysgyfdawd who slew the Two Birds of Gwenddolau. And they had a yoke of gold on them. Two corpses of the Cymry they ate for their dinner, and two for their supper;

We see the them of Gold trapping repeated here, once again indicating the richness of Gwenddoleu, but the object of the assassinations is not Gwenddoleu himself, but two monstrous man-eating Birds. This has been interpreted as a holdout of earlier human-sacrifice, with Gwenddoleu as a pagan holdout against his predominantly Christian (possibly pseudo-Christian) cousins. There is unfortunately little evidence to verify these claims, and there may be an alternative interpretation. Owain and the kings of Rheged are often associated with Ravens and are later assigned a medieval Heraldic device featuring Ravens, and in fact, later tradition makes these literal Ravens who attack Arthur’s warriors while Owain and Arthur are playing Gwyddbwll. This could just be folkloric fantasy or a memory of Owain’s warriors being poetically likened to Ravens. This gives the possibility that Gwenddoleu’s birds were actually trusted warlords or part of his Teulu (household troops). This triad does not paint Gwenddoleu in the noble light seen in the Myrddin poetry and may hint at a division of views between the factions of Coeling that is held over into later periods, but just like with the pagan interpretation this is just speculation.

Gwenddoleu is almost universally accepted as a historical person, but even with that acceptance we know almost nothing of his life. We can only estimate when he was born, and guess at his reputation and influence. This is a great example of the mere crumbs we have to work with when it comes to most figures from the Brythonic Heroic Age. Gwenddoleu’s ultimate role helps show us how the downward spiral began for many of the Brythonic Kingdoms, often not falling prey to foreign incursion, but from strings of protracted infighting.

What I believe to be one of the earliest ‘weavings’ of historical fact into a legendary framework is Taliesin’s ‘Preiddeu Annfwn”1 which would seem to be a retelling of Arthur’s final battle and death at the Battle of Camlann.

This poem is full of deeper references to the ancient mythic corpus that an often thin veneer of Christianity sits over. The composer of Preiddeu Annwfn, Taliesin, was no doubt a Christian, however, he was an extremely learned man and knew much of the lore of ages past. The poem references Gwair, a figure who is likely related to Gwydion from the Mabinogi, a figure with many deep mythic connotations. Taliesin draws upon the ancient Bronze cauldrons so important to his Celtic forbears, wonderfully wrought prized possessions, giving what is essentially the first ‘Grail-Quest’ among Arthuriana, simultaneously inspiring a folkloric retelling of Preiddeu Annfwn in the incident with Diwrnach in the later tale, Culhwch and Olwen. As such the Grail may have deep roots surpassing Arthuriana. If Preiddeu Annfwn is indeed a ‘Marwnad Arthur’ Death-Song of Arthur, then that implies that the Cauldron-myth poetically interspersed is certainly older than learned Taliesin, dating to well before the 6th century. Diwrnach’s Cauldron appears in the list of the ‘Thirteen Treasures of Britain’ under the variation of the name Dyrnwch. The Cauldron itself has often been linked to ancient Celtic cauldrons like the famous Gundestrup cauldron, a work of fine silver. Though the Cauldron was found in Denmark, the metalwork itself seems to be of Thracian origin, with the artistic motifs being distinctly Celtic.

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LLEN ARTHUR

1. Peniarth MS. 51: Arthur’s mantle.

Peniarth MS. 60: The first was Arthyr’s mantle. Unseen [was he] who might be under it, and he would see everybody.

From the most readily available (and later) versions the emendation “yng Nghernyw” is added, clarifying ‘In Cornwall’. This I would suspect is an attempt by the writers to place Arthur where common knowledge said he was at the time, influenced by post-Galfridian sentiment. Much like Bromwich, Breeze and others have concluded, the earliest Arthur seems to belong to a Northern context instead. I have taken this a step further of course in my research, and believe it may be the Coeling Prince Arthwys ap Mar who was the kernel of truth behind the later Arthur. This later Arthur morphs into a high-medieval amalgam of many different figures however. Arthur’s mantle is later described in The Dream of Rhonabwy as “a mantle of ribbed brocaded silk. And he spread the mantle in front of Arthur, and an apple of red gold at each of its corners”

KLEDDE RHYDDERCH HAEL

2. Peniarth MS. 51: The sword of Rhydderch the Generous.

Peniarth MS. 60: Dyrwyn, the sword of Rhydderch the Generous: If anybody but himself drew it, it would burst into fire from its cross to its point.

Dyrnwyn is the first obviously northern treasure. A magic sword whose name means ‘White-Hilt’. Rhydderch was king of Alt Clut in the mid to late 6th century, descended from Ceredig Wledig, who is the Coroticus Saint Patrick chastised in a letter, lamenting that his warbands were “fellow citizens of the devils” and “glutting themselves with the blood of innocent Christians”. Rhydderch himself features in “Vita Sancti Columbae” and heavily in “Life of St Kentigern” as St. Kentigern’s patron.

MWYS GWYDDNO

3. Peniarth MS. 51: The Hamper of Gwyddno.

Peniarth MS. 60: The Hamper of Gwyddno Garanhir (Longshank): The food of a man would go into it; the food of a hundred men would be got from it.

The earliest version gives no epithet for Gwyddno, and probably represents Gwyddno the father of Elffin mentioned in Bonedd Gwŷr y Gogledd in Dyfnwal Hen’s line, making him a cousin of Rhydderch. Eventually he is equated with the semi-legendary Gwyddno Garanhir, both in the pedigrees and seen here in the Thirteen Treasures. These later legends associate him with the coast of Meirionnydd and Ceredigion, though “Porth Wyddno in the North” mentioned in the triads strengthens the earlier northern association. This is also an example of a fairly common scenario of transplanting figures from the Hen Ogledd to more familiar territory in Wales.

KORN BRAN

4. Peniarth MS. 51: The Horn of Brân.

Peniarth MS. 60: The Horn of Brân the Miser: The drink wished for would be found in it.

Brân is somewhat harder to place, but a few sources associate him with the north. Bonedd Yr Arwyr calls him “Bran Galad or Gogledd”. He is further associated with the northern figure Brân ab Ymellyrn, in the pedigree Kynan ap Bran Galed ap Emellyr ap Kynwyd Kynwydion recorded by Gruffudd Hiraethog, making him a grandson of Cynwyd ap Cynfelyn ab Arthwys. It is possible that Bran ap Dyfnwal Moelmud, a distant cousin could be the same as Brân the Miser, however the association with Bran ap Ymellyrn seems stronger.

KAR MORGAN MWYNVAWR

5. Peniarth MS. 51: The Car of Morgan the Wealthy.

Peniarth MS. 60: ...[missing]... Where he wished he would be.

The segment naming and partially elaborating here is missing, however almost all other manuscripts agree on the following

Morgan the Wealthy or Morgan Mwynfawr is also an example that is often misattributed as a southern figur. In this case, it is easy to explain why. Iolo Morganwg attributed the epither Mwynfawr on Morgan ab Athrwys of Gwent, which as Batrum points out has little authority. Much of Iolo’s manuscripts are known forgeries, and Iolo took liberties with associating figures who were less known to him with more familiar places, often close to where he in particular lived. This misattribution has lead to Morgan ab Athrwys often being given the epithet Mwynfawr erroneously, and has even been repeated by academics misled unknowingly. Morgan Mwynfawr is more easily identified with Morgan ap Tudwal, a brother of Rhydderch Hael as given in the Hanesyn Hen pedigrees. It is likely that this is the Morcant that is responsible for the assassination of Urien Rheged, as well as the Morken seen in The Life of St. Kentigern. Morgan may be the same man as Mynyddog Mwynfawr the Chieftain of the Gododdin ruling during the infamous Battle of Catraeth c. 580. My friend has pointed out in his work that Morgan/Morken likely had a disease similar to gout, being associated with a Carriage of some kind makes even more sense.

KYLLYLL LLAWFRODEDD

6. Peniarth MS. 51: The Knife of Llawvrodedd.

Peniarth MS. 60: The Knife of Llawfrodedd the Horseman (which) would serve the twenty four men at the table.

Llawvrodedd is harder to place, but not impossible. He appears both in The Dream of Rhonabwy and Culhwch and Olwen, but these give no real geographical information, and because of their late nature it is uncertain as to whether any would be genuine or not. The triads however do tell us that he tended the herd of Nudd Hael, a cousin of Rhydderch placing him within Alt Clut’s influence.

Chronological Considerations

Interestingly almost all of these figures belong to the later half of the 6th century, except for Arthur, and almost all of these men have some association with the Kingdom of Alt Clut, with Rhydderch, Morgan, Gwyddno, and Lawfrodedd having clear associations to it. Bran though it seems at first glance would appear to be a Coeling, however there is some contention whether Cynwyd Cynwydion is Cynfelyn ab Arthwys’ son or in fact Cynwyd the father of Dyfnwal Hen, which would instead associate him with Alt Clut as well. Part two features a more scattered chronology, as well as two figures of dubious historicity. Stay tuned for that article later this week!

While working on the new book and working out which figures I was going to include I came across some interesting possibilities for how interconnected Dál Riata was with their Brythonic neighbors. Within the new book “Auroch’s Illustrated Guide to the Hen Ogledd” I wanted to include not just important men from the period, but women and places as well. There is unfortunately a dearth of information on most of the women of the Hen Ogledd, with most information being gleaned from local tradition, but in the case of Maithgemma, daughter of Áedán mac Gabráin of Dál Riata, the small bit of information is quite illuminating on the state of early Dál Riata.

Links between the British and Irish during the 5th and 6th century are relatively common, with many marriages being arranged both directions. Arthwys ap Mar’s wife Cywair was supposedly an Irish princess, and the Irish invasions of Dyfed are quite well known. Dál Riata began to stretch it’s influence into modern Scotland during the late 5th century, with it’s foothold generally held to have been established by Fergus Mor mac Eirc. Part of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s work Historia Regum Britanniae remembers and chronologically out of place incident involving Morvidus, a figure likely based on the Coeling king of Ebrauc in the late 5th century Mor ap Ceneu, in which Morvidus is slain by a monster from the Irish sea. This may be a folk memory of Fergus establishing his foothold in Britain. The enmity between Dal Riata and the Britons did not seemingly last long however. Fergus’ grandson Gabrán is given in De Situ Brenchaniac as one of the many kings married to daughters of Brychan Brycheiniog. While the chronology is not quite right for Gabrán to be a contemporary of a daughter of Brychan, as with many of the claimed marriages, there is a somewhat easier to iron out chronology based on the fact that Brychan himself had a son with the same name, who is remembered as Brychan of Mannan/Mannia/Manaw (various manuscripts list it differently). Skene suggested that there may have been a northern Brycheiniog, somewhere around the territory of Manaw Gododdin, and remembered in the modern placename Brechin, Forfarshire (though it is considerably more north than what it traditionally considered Manaw Gododdin). Whether this northern Brychan was an actual son of Brychan Brycheiniog, or just another man lumped into Brychan’s family, it would make more sense for this northern Brychan to be the father of Gabrán’s wife, Lluan. There has been doubt shed on the veracity of the entries in Plant Brychan and the works related to it, with many pointing out a possible progression and clarification over time adding information to match what scribes thought the manuscripts were trying to say, thus eventually relating the ‘Haidani’ seen in the earliest versions with Áedán falsely. This is of course a possibility, but it also eschews the very logical step that the copyists adding information may have been privy to documents and traditions that are now lost. The first Brychan, is generally held to have been Irish himself, though he seems to have been quickly assimilated, taking Brythonic wives, and as it stands there is little evidence of an Irish origin. Regardless of whether either theory is correct, I do think this holds a genuine tradition that Gabrán married a Brythonic princess. Whether she was Lluan ferch Brychan we cannot say, but with the persistence of Dál Riata as a political entity carving territory from the fearsome Picts, as well as being allowed to exist by the powerful Brythonic kingdoms to the south it makes a degree of sense that there may have been some political protection afforded to Dál Riata by such a marriage.

Áedán’s daughter Maithgemma gives further evidence to this. She is said to be the niece of an unnamed Brythonic king by St. Laserian, with her mother theorized to be a sister of the king of Alt Clut. As I have demonstrated before, there seems to have been a High-Kingship centered around Alt Clut, with descendants of Dyfnwal Hen heavily woven into the kingships of both the Picts and Gododdin. This High-Kingship or coalition of sorts acted as a rival to that of their southern neighbors the Coeling, remembered in Y Gododdin as “"In hosts, in hordes, they fought for the land, With Godebawg's sons, savage folk."” Godebawgg being one of Coel Hen’s epithets, meaning ‘Shelterer’ or ‘Protector’ similar to the name Vortipor, a king of Dyfed in the early 6th century. If Áedán had a Brythonic mother himself, Maithgemma would potentially be 3/4 Brythonic. It may be that Áedán’s son Artuir was similarly Brythonic as well, potentially explaining his Brythonic name. Artuir probably ruled the Picts for a short time under the name Gartnait, and as I have demonstrated before descendants of Dyfnwal of Alt Clut also ruled the Picts, and it is possible that a son of half-Pictish princess may have had claim to the high-kingship of the Picts.

Gabrán and Áedán both show up in a corrupted pedigree as a grandson and son of Dyfnwal Hen respectively. This pedigree is highly suspect, as it gives Dyfnwal descent from Maxen Wledic, Magnus Maximus, the usurper emperor of Rome in the late 4th century. There was a common trend of ascribing descent from Magnus to many rulers, and this seems to be an attempt at that. Gabrán and Áedán appearing out of order makes it even more suspect, but may be a genuine recollection of an intermarriage into Dyfnwal’s line, or of them operating as Foederati or a client of Alt Clut during the late 6th century. At some point however, Brythonic sentiment towards the Scoti Kings of Alt Clut changed, and both Gabrán and Áedán carry the epither Wradoc or Bradoc, ‘Traitor’. This change is noted in the triads:

The poem Peiryan Vaban similarly records soured relations between Alt Clut and Dál Riata.

This sudden change is quite jarring. Áedán supposedly participated in the Battle of Arfderydd in 573, just before becoming King, falling out with Rhydderch over a ‘lark’s nest’, claimed to be a quarrel started by herdsmen of the respective kings. Áedán supposedly sought refuge with the Coeling prince, Gwenddoleu ap Ceidio, who ruled the territory around Arfderydd, who was possibly a client of Urien of Rheged at the time. Urien’s battle of Argoed Llwyfain is probably a second component of Arfderydd, with Urien fighting a contingent of Angles allied with Rhydderch, Peredur and Gwrgi. This tradition may mark Arfderydd as the turning point that made Áedán a ‘Traitor’. Áedán then fights a number of little attested battles in the 580s and 590s, seemingly unsupported by ether Picts or Britons, raiding Orkney early in that decade, then the Isle of Man. The Battle of Miathi in the mid 590s (probably 595, if Artuir is the Garnait of the Pictish regnal lists) proved disastrous, with his elder sons Artuir and Echoid Find falling in battle there. Áedán was eventually defeated by Aethelfrith of Bernicia at The Battle of Degsastan seemingly unsupported by either the Picts or the Britons. Áedán disappears after this defeat, and later dies in 608 five years after the battle.

Dál Riata continued to exist after Áedán, with the old enmity sown with Alt Clut continuing into the 7th century, with Áedán’s grandson Domnall Brecc taking power in 629. Domnall’s sons seem to represent a continued weaving of Dál Riata into the High-Kingship of the Picts, with two men who seem to be his sons consecutively holding the position in the 650s, just before Bridei ap Beli. Domnall fell in battle against Eugein ap Beli, king of Alt Clut at The Battle of Strathcarron in 642. Domnall’s death may have played a part in paving the way for Eugein’s younger brother Bridei to become King of the Picts. Further relationships and Gaelicising of the Picts happened over the ensuing centuries, leading to a merging of the Kingships of Dál Riata and the Picts, leading to the creation of the Kingdom of Alba under the house of Alpin with Cináed mac Ailpín being king of both kingdoms, and his grandson Domnall mac Causantín being the first ruler to be called ‘rí Alban’.

What we can glean of the intermarriage and relationships held between Dál Riata and Alt Clut during the mid 6th century help strengthen the idea of a second central power in the Hen Ogledd, opposite of the Coeling High-Kingship, sometimes allied with Coeling kings, sometimes antagonistic towards them.