GM's Note: Fun in the Anarchy Period

King Uther is dead. God save...whom? Well that's the problem isn't it?
I'm really enjoying how the dynamics of the game have suddenly shifted. With the death of the king all the binds that tied the Kingdom together are unravelling and neighbor is arming against neighbor.
My players requested that I make a map of Salisbury ("like a RISK board") so that they could see who their friends and allies in the county are. I made the above map out of a scanned version of the real one on pg. 62 of King Arthur Pendragon, 5th edition. I quickly made a bunch of random lines to indicate the borders of the various manors. There's no rhyme or reason to the order or size; I really didn't have the time to think about it.
Suddenly story ideas sprung into my head. It also forced me to read the whole section on Salisbury really carefully. What a great resource it turned out to be; along with the generic stats of Young, Average, (etc.) knights in the back of the book, I could pretty much come up with and execute a specific scenario in minutes.

496: Lady Ellen's Progress of Salisbury

Gobrwy the Bard sings:

Ah Merlin, false accused,

be ye still on Brittain's strand?

Though Druid's Ban be abused,

I'll sing two Knights of Salisburyland.

One is Sir Cassius, Tisbury's head,

the other, Sir Loric of Burcombe 'stead.

Both young and brave and knightly new,

each to Ellen their swords sworn true.

The knights did bring their family host,

uncles and brothers, but cousins most,

and flanked the Countess 'round Salisburyland

from manor to tower in carriage grand.

While in the north, near Mildenhall's Towne,

the hosts of Cassius and Loric rode down

a churlish band of Silchester knights

who thought there to covet the Countess' rights.

Oh houses of Tisbury and Burcombe, be praised!

For honor and glory in you have raised

the hearts and tongues of Salisburymen:

"On Cassius! On Loric! Two knights worth ten!"

Ah Merlin, false accused,

be ye still on Britain's strand?

Shouldst this song find thee: Be amused!

For true knights still stalk this Salisburyland.

495 Part 2: The Death of a King

To the Abbot of St Anselmo di Aventino, in the Holy See of Rome, be this lettre take.

God had surely creayted Brittania to test the faith of men. For in oure finest hour He hath taykyn the one hope for His people. Havinge won to gloriouse measyre, with manye Session heathens and Nephilim sent to their respictivve pits in hell, our Grayte Kyng Utherpendragon hath fallen, succuombed to the unmanly art of poisin, and with him taken manye high lords of this land, who wert with him in hall to celebrayte theyr grayte victorye against Satan.

Onlye a handsfull of true cnichts remayne to stayve off the Sessions, and they are olde and wizened beyond use or young and brayzen and foolishe. They will certainlye fall, one by one, to the nexte demon to spawn from the Session shore. Or fall upon themsilves and brayke Gods commandemente and covet their neighbors wives and lands. Eithyr course leads to the destruction of Brittania.

To mayke mattres worse, to the west, wherein lie our best, last hope, we find the Abbot of our Brother House in Carliorn aghast with storyes of Wild Heathyns from Ireland, burnying their way up and down the coasts of Gales. No aid nor quartre can come from the West. Perhaps our onlye hope is the upstarte Idris from Brittainnia the Lesser. But will any Christian knights fallow his banner?

Dear brother Abbot we cannot place our hope in the princes of this realm for they are weak in faith and in arms. Manye houses of God and good works will be lost, I feayre, to the anslaught of Sessions, and for that reason I place in your trust these chests of silver, which by right belong to the Holy Mother Church in Rome, and humbly request that they perhaps secure a small sinecure in your Abbey or supporting lands thereof for me and mine.

God, I fear, hath abbandoned these whyte clift shores.

Your brothyr in Jesus Christ,
The Abbot of St. Albans

A morning Joust

Steam rolled across the grassy field as the morning sun hit the dew soaked parade ground of Tilshead Castle. Standing accused of spying on his host, Sir Cassius of Tisbury stood upon his midnight black charger, waiting to be proven just. Teo, his stead, stamped nervously, anxious to be set loose. Sir Cassius was motionless, in full chainmail, helmet drawn.
A hundred paces away, the famous, Sir Amos, awaited on his grey horse. A noted knight vassel of Sir Hyuel, famed for his prowess on the field of battle. Sir Amos was Lord Hyuel's champion.
In the middle, stood confidently, Sir Hyuel, his faith in Sir Amos well placed after countless battles. Surrounded by his retainers the Lord of Tilshead thought he had the Countess right where he wanted, one of her honor guard standing trial of violating the rite of Hospitality.
Not so confident, the Countess Elaine, with her retinue of ladys stood to Sir Hyuel's right.
Sir Cassius saluted his Countess and with a roar took off towards Sir Amos. Amos and his charger jumped into action with a similar cry. A clash struck as their lances struck, Sir Amos the victor, but only in name. After the first pass Sir Cassius was scraped, but far from hurt.
The second pass came and went quickly, neither knight succeeding in landing a solid blow.
Upon the third and final pass, Sir Cassius looked up to his Lady and knew he must succeed. For him to fail would darken his honor, but far graver would taint the Countess's as well. And in this dark time, a mere hint of such could easily topple the Countess's reign.
Both horses sprung into action and with a cloud of dust and a great clash of steele, the famous, Sir Amos lay unconscious on the parade ground. Sir Cassius had struck a true blow, vindicating him in front all, his Lord giving him strength to be proved true.

496 AD

495 Part 1: Battle of St. Albans

The Battle of St. Albans rages on! Alas, poor Sir Samuel is slain shortly after the lance charge...

A grieving Sir Tremayne fails at composing a spontaneous battlefield poem:

There was a knight named Sir Samuel:
He died! He died!
Earl Roderick said he was sleeping:
He lied! He lied!
Why oh why is my friend dead?
Couldn't that Saxon have hit me instead?

Will the remaining knights survive the last three rounds?