The Lame King’s First Deed

(New Adventures of King Arthur II)

The great hall of Caerleon rang with celebration. Kings and princes from Kernow to Gwynedd had gathered to hail the new Paramount King, Maurice ap Theoderic. Cups rose, oaths of unity were sworn, and voices thundered: they would stand together against the Saxon host gathering in the east. For one night the ancient British kingdoms felt strong.

Yet in a small side chamber, lit by a single oil lamp, only two men spoke. Old King Theoderic, shoulders bent with age, faced his son.

“You have the rank now, Maurice. Power, privilege, honour — all of it. The armies look to you. Twenty thousand Saxon spears are said to be gathering for next summer.”

Maurice stared at the golden torc his father had placed around his neck. It felt heavier than iron. For a heartbeat pride surged — I am Paramount King. I stand where Constantine and Magnus Maximus stood. The blood of Anna runs in my line. Then reality crashed down.

Theoderic continued quietly.

“Your first deed is secret. Lady Imogen, widow of King Guinner, must be escorted to the nunnery at Llanilltud Fawr. She will be kept safe there — leverage against Constantine, should we ever need it. Clydwyn has fallen in love with her. He is the eldest son of Brychan Brycheiniog — a good man, respected in the North. But if he marries her and sires sons, those boys will claim half of Wales. The balance will break.”

Maurice’s hands tightened.

“He fought beside us against the Irish. He is no traitor — only a man in love. And I… I must be the one to end him if he will not see reason. Myself. No assassin.”

Theoderic gripped his son’s wrist.

“Offer him Brittany again. If he refuses, do what must be done for the greater good. Leave the gathering early tonight under the guise of rushing back to your new wife, Queen Onbrawst. Escort Imogen, but stay alert. Clydwyn will try to reach her.”

Maurice said nothing. He was banking on him trying to meet her. 

Inside, turmoil churned like the Usk in flood. Pride and dread tore at him. He had dreamed of leading the British host against the Saxons. Instead, his first act as Paramount King was to kill a royal cousin for the sake of a widow and a fragile peace.

He rose, the lamp flame throwing long shadows across his face.

“It will be done cleanly.”

Maurice left the feast early with a two trusted escorts, claiming urgent need to return to Queen Onbrawst. Lady Imogen rode with them under heavy guard, veiled and silent, heading towards the harbour, where a ship would take her eventually to a nunnery somewhere in Wales.

As expected, and relied on, Clydwyn had slipped from the gathering. Heart full of love, he rode secretly to intercept the party, determined to claim Imogen.

A Murder to Save a Kingdom

The river ran swift and cold where the road forded. When Clydwyn’s horse plunged into the water to cross and reach Imogen, Maurice was already upon him, spear in hand.

He struck first — a thrust aimed at the throat.

Clydwyn was no weakling. He twisted violently, seized the spear shaft, and fought like a cornered wolf. “You would murder me for a woman?” he snarled, blood already on his lips. “For a throne?”

“For the kingdom,” Maurice answered through gritted teeth, grappling him in the churning shallows. “You would tear it apart.”

They crashed together. Fists, elbows, knees. Clydwyn wrenched a heavy river boulder free and smashed it with all his strength against Maurice’s left knee. The crack was sickening. Pain exploded white-hot up Maurice’s leg.

Still Maurice drove forward. His hand closed around Clydwyn’s throat. He held the dying king under the red water until the struggle ceased.

Clydwyn sank beneath the current.

Lady Imogen watched from the bank in horrified silence as Maurice’s men pulled him from the river, leg already swelling badly.

---

Two days later the body was found downstream. Shockwaves tore through the British kingdoms. Messengers carried the grim news: “King Clydwyn murdered. Body hidden by the riverside.”

Maurice limped back to Caerleon, leg bound and aching. The injury would never fully heal. Months later he was known as Lame King Maurice — unable to ride or stand long in the shield-wall.

He took charge of the administration of the realm — charters, alliances, councils — while the rank of Paramount King passed to his son.

Many miles away, in the highlands of North Wales, fifteen-year-old Arthur slept soundly. For seven years he had trained under the legendary war-lord Merlin alongside the great heroes Moro, Tegid, Laen, and Gwion Bach. With his fellow pupils — Maelgwn, Caius, and Bedwir — he had mastered arms, horsemanship, warfare, strategy, music, and dance.

Arthur — tall, watchful, and carrying the quiet fire of command — was ready.

The second King Arthur in the royal lineage had begun his reign as Paramount King of the British Kingdom at fifteen years old.

The first deed King Maurice had to do as the new Paramount King of all Wales and the British Kingdom, (including Brittany,) was to deal with a minor King, fallen in love with Lady Imogen, the window of King Guinner of the Cornwell region, who had betrayed the British Kingdom by aligning with Fingar, an Irish prince, who negotiated safe haven on the shores of Cornwell, rest-bite for the Irish having raided, raped and pillaged the seaside villages of Brittany in France. 

The Kings and Princes of Brittany were themselves cousins of the Ancient Welsh royal dynasty going back through history to the Holy Family themselves, Anna, the sister of Mary, mother of Jesus Christ.

Clydwyn, a minor king from North Wales, had fallen in love with Lady Imogene.

The problem was that if Clydwyn and Imogen had children, they could claim the territory of North Wales, and in due course, cause trouble for King Constantine, the more able major King of the day, and far more merciless and slaughterous too.

Clydwyn didn’t take the offer of forgetting all about Lady Imogen and moving to Brittany, to find himself a wife, settle down and keep the ancient British kingdom at peace.

Clydwyn was adamant. Lady Imogen would be his wife.

For the mercy of the Kingdom the Peace must be balanced and Clydwyn was a problem to that balance.

He had to be taken off the chess board, and his first duty of being the new paramount King, Maurice, had to kill Clydwyn. 

Back in ancient Britain the Kings couldn’t rely on paid assassins to take care of national security, they would have had to do it themselves.

Especially the awkward position of killing a well known and respected North Wales royal lineage, Clydwyn was the eldest son of Brychan Brycheiniog of North Wales.

The Kings of Britain had united to discuss the impending threat of the Saxons, who were planning a 20,000 strong army invading the Welsh heartland in the next summer.

King Maurice’s father, King Theoderic, was too old to wage a war and placed the rank of Paramount King to his son, Maurice.

Arthur, Maurice’s son was turning 15, and had spent the last 7 years under the tutorship of Merlin and his merry men, alongside his other peers including other noble and royal boys.

King Maurice assassinated King Clydwyn in a river, during a hunt, designed to cover the assassination.

It didn’t go in Maurice’s favour and Clydwyn fought for his life. Maurice won the day but suffered an injury, a boulder being thrown at his knee,  making him a lame king, unable to lead an army, and consequently passing on the rank of Paramount King to his son Arthur. Aged 15 years old, the second King Arthur in the royal lineage going back to the Holy family themselves.

Story 1: The Lame King’s First Deed

(New Adventures of King Arthur II – inspired by Wilson & Blackett’s framework)

The great hall at Caerleon still smelled of woodsmoke and wet wool from the gathered kings. Maurice ap Tewdrig, newly raised to Paramount King of all Wales and the British realms—including the Breton cousins across the Narrow Sea—stood at the head of the long table. Torches flickered on the ancient Roman walls. His father, old King Theoderic, sat hunched in furs, too frail now to carry the burden.

Maurice’s voice was low but carried like iron:

“Brothers and cousins. The Saxons gather twenty thousand spears for next summer. We have one year to ready ourselves. But before steel meets steel, we must cut out a rot closer to home.”

He spoke of Cornwall. Of King Guinner’s widow, the Lady Imogen—beautiful, proud, and now a dangerous prize. And of Clydwyn, the eldest son of Brychan Brycheiniog, a respected minor king from the North. Clydwyn had openly declared he would take Imogen as wife.

A grey-haired prince from Dyfed muttered, “If Clydwyn’s seed takes root in that woman, their sons will claim half of Wales before a decade passes. Constantine will not tolerate it. Blood will answer blood.”

Maurice nodded. “I offered him Brittany. Good land, strong kin, wives of ancient blood. He refused. He said Imogen would be his, or no one’s.”

The hall fell silent. Everyone understood what came next. In the old way, a Paramount King did not hire shadows for such work. He did it himself.

---

Three days later, on the wooded banks of the Usk, the royal hunt gathered. Horns sounded. Dogs bayed. Clydwyn rode at Maurice’s side, laughing, unaware. They had hunted together many times; the younger man still trusted the Paramount King.

They drove a great boar toward the river. When the beast plunged into the fast water, both kings followed on foot, spears ready. The rest of the party was deliberately strung out along the bank.

In the churning shallows, where the noise of the river would swallow cries, Maurice struck.

He drove the spear hard—but Clydwyn was quicker than expected. The North Welsh king twisted, roared, and seized the shaft. Steel flashed. They crashed together in the cold water.

“You would murder me for love?” Clydwyn snarled, blood already in his teeth. “For a woman and a throne?”

“For the kingdom,” Maurice answered, grappling him. “You would tear it apart.”

They fought like wolves. Fists, elbows, knees. Clydwyn smashed a heavy river boulder against Maurice’s left knee with all his failing strength. The crack was sickening. Pain exploded up Maurice’s leg.

Yet Maurice was stronger and more desperate. He wrenched his seax free and drove it under Clydwyn’s ribs, once, twice, holding the dying king close so the river would carry the blood away.

Clydwyn’s eyes widened in betrayal and fury. “The bards… will remember this…”

“They will remember a hunting accident,” Maurice whispered. “Rest, cousin.”

Clydwyn sank beneath the red water.

---

Maurice limped back to the hall that night, leg bound and already swelling. He could not hide the injury from the senior kings. By morning the word had spread: the Paramount King was lame.

In the private chamber, young Arthur—fifteen summers old, tall for his age, with the watchful eyes of one trained seven years by Merlin and the war-band tutors—knelt before his father.

Maurice sat on the carved chair, face pale with pain, and placed his heavy golden torc around Arthur’s neck.

“I cannot lead the host against the Saxons with this leg,” he said quietly. “The war-band will not follow a king who cannot ride or stand in the shield-wall. You are Arthur ap Maurice, second of that name in our line since the days of the Holy Family. The blood of Anna, of Constantine, of Magnus Maximus runs in you. Today the rank of Paramount King passes to you.”

Arthur’s voice was steady, though his hands trembled slightly. “I am ready, Father. But I would rather have you whole at my side.”

Maurice managed a grim smile. “You will have my counsel. And my warning: mercy is a luxury a War King can rarely afford. I killed a good man today for the sake of peace. Remember that when your own hard choices come.”

Outside, the horns sounded again—not for hunting, but to summon the war-leaders. The boy who had been Arthur was now King Arthur II, War King of the Britons, at fifteen.

The legend had begun its second chapter.

---

How does this feel as the opening of your first story? I kept it dramatic but grounded, with dialogue that fits the harsh realities of post-Roman Britain as described in the Wilson & Blackett tradition.

Would you like me to:

• Expand any part (the hall council, the river fight in more detail, Arthur’s first words as king, etc.)?

• Adjust the tone (more mythic, more gritty, longer scenes)?

• Add specific characters (Merlin, other princes, Lady Imogen herself)?

• Move straight to outlining or drafting Story 2?

Just say the word and we’ll keep building. The work of keeping the Original alive continues. ⚔️

Story 1: The Lame King’s First Deed

The chamber was small and private, lit by a single oil lamp. Outside, the wind off the Usk rattled the shutters of Caerleon. Only two men sat at the heavy oak table: old King Theoderic, his shoulders bent with age, and his son Maurice, newly raised to Paramount King of all Wales and the British realms—including the Breton cousins across the sea.

Theoderic’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“You have the rank now, Maurice. Power, privilege, honour—all of it. The armies of every kingdom from Kernow to Gwynedd look to you. The Saxons have been clawing their way onto the eastern shores for years. Twenty thousand spears are said to be gathering for next summer. You must lead them. You must be ready.”

Maurice stared at the golden torc his father had just placed around his own neck. It felt heavier than iron. For a heartbeat he had thrilled at the weight of it—I am Paramount King. I stand where Constantine stood, where Magnus Maximus stood. The blood of Anna herself runs in my line. Then the reality crashed down.

His first deed as Paramount King was not to muster the war-bands or speak to the assembled princes.

It was to kill a cousin.

“Clydwyn,” Maurice said quietly, the name tasting like ash. “Eldest son of Brychan Brycheiniog. A good man. Respected in the North. He has simply… fallen in love with the wrong widow. Lady Imogen of Cornwall. Guinner’s wife. If he marries her and sires sons, those boys will claim half of Wales before they are grown. Constantine will not allow it. The balance will break. Blood will answer blood.”

Theoderic nodded once, eyes hard. “Offer him Brittany again. Land, kin, peace. If he refuses…”

Maurice’s hands tightened on the table edge.

“I know what must be done, Father. But he is royal blood. He fought beside us against the Irish raiders. He is no traitor—only a man in love. And I… I must be the one to end him. Myself. No assassin. No shadow in the night. A Paramount King does not buy such mercy.”

The old king reached across and gripped his son’s wrist.

“The greater good has always demanded hard coin, Maurice. You wanted this rank. Now it asks its price on your very first day.”

Maurice said nothing. Inside, the turmoil churned like the Usk in flood. Pride and dread fought in his chest. He had dreamed of leading the British host, of riding at the head of the war-band with the torc gleaming, of driving the Saxons back into the sea. Instead his first act as king was fratricide in all but name—killing a cousin for the sake of a widow and a fragile peace.

He rose slowly, the lamp flame throwing long shadows across his face.

“I will see it done cleanly. During the hunt, tomorrow, by the river.”

Kings and Princes celebrating the gathering of all the kingdoms, agreeing to unite in war against the invading Saxons, all under a new Paramount King, King Maurice AP King Theroderic,

Clydwyn predictably slipped from the hunting party, secretly planning to meet up with Lady Imogen, to spend time with each other.

Maurice followed and struck with a spear to Clydwyns throat. Clydwyn defended himself by throwing a boulder at Maurice.

The boulder hit Maurice’s knee and caused a lifelong injury that left him lame, and unable to lead an army against the invading Saxons.

King Maurice took charge of the administrative side of running a Kingdom, while his young son, just out of school under the tutorship of Merlin and his merry men.

Merlin, himself a legendary war lord of his day, lived in insolation in North Wales with other great war heroes of their day, Moro, Tegid, Laen, Gwion Bach, taught Arthur and a group of his peers, other princes and nobles, the use of arms, horsemanship, warfare, strategy, music and dance.

Arthur’s fellow pupils were Maelgwn, Caius and Bedwir.

A Murder to Save a Kingdom

The river ran swift and cold. The royal hunt had been arranged with care—only a handful of trusted men, and they had been told to cover for Maurice. Clydwyn lost the party, and Maurice followed unseen from afar.

When the horse plunged into the water, Maurice was soon upon Clydwyn with a spear in hand. 

Maurice struck first.

Clydwyn was no weakling. He twisted, seized the spear, and fought like a cornered wolf. “You would murder me for a woman?” he snarled, blood already on his lips. “For a throne?”

“For the kingdom,” Maurice answered through gritted teeth, grappling him in the churning shallows. “You would tear it apart.”

They crashed together. Fists, elbows, knees. Clydwyn wrenched a heavy river boulder free and smashed it against Maurice’s left knee with all his dying strength. It was months later that the limb established itself, and soon labelled the Lame King Maurice, the rank of Paramount King would have to go to his son, Arthur.

Clydwyn sank beneath the red water, Maurice’s hand around his throat.

Two days later his body was found, and it sent shockwaves through the ancient British Kingdom. The news pamphlet read, “King Murdered. Body hidden by the river side.”

Maurice limped back to Caerleon that night, leg bound and already achning badly. By morning Maurice knew: the new Paramount King was lame.

Many miles away in the highlands of North Wales, fifteen-year-old Arthur—tall, watchful, seven years trained by Merlin and the war tutors—slept soundly safe in his knowledge that he was ready and able to change history forever.

The second King Arthur had begun his reign as the Paramount King of the British Kingdom, at fifteen.