But no longer than that, I resolved – a bit late, I admit, for it was not until I saw the sun setting that I realized that my indecision had cost me a day. A pleasant day, it is true, but a day nonetheless.

With the setting sun, King Custennin returned from his errands. He burst into the hall fresh from the saddle, his hair and cloak flying. Ganieda ran to him and he gathered her in his huge arms and spun her round.

It was clear to see that she was everything to him, and why not? As there appeared to be no other lady in that house, Custennin's daughter was his sole delight. Merely seeing her cheered him like a potent draught.

Gwendolau appeared a moment later, dressed in a silken tunic of crimson with a wide black belt. His trousers were blue-and-black checked, as was the cloak gathered over his shoulder and held with a great silver spiral brooch. His tore was silver. In all he looked the prince he was.

Ganieda returned to me as Gwendolau and her father went aside to discuss their business. They spoke for some time together – intense, arms folded, frowning – head-to-head in a corner of the hearth where the boar was roasting and sputtering over the cooking flame.

With the arrival of their lord, men began streaming into the hall. Most of them had been with Custennin, but word had gone out about the feast and there were many from the settlement invited as well. As they came in, the king and his son broke off their discussion and the lord went to greet his guests personally, embracing them heartily. Here is a man, I thought, who knows how to love his friends. What passion must he devote to his enemies?

'It is worse than I thought,' Ganieda confided. 'How do you know this?' I watched the king greeting his guests, jesting, laughing, passing horns of mead from hand to hand – the glad monarch welcoming old friends, he appeared anything but hard pressed for worry.

'I just know,' whispered Ganieda confidentially. 'He said nothing about his errand and went straight to Gwendolau without stopping for his cup. Even now he avoids drink – you see? He passes the horn but never takes a sip. Yes, the news is troubling. There will be a council tonight.'

It was as Ganieda said and, as I concentrated my attention on the scene before me, I, too, sensed the underlying current of anxiety coursing through the hall. Men talked and laughed, but too heartily and too loudly.

What have I come into? I wondered. Why am I here at all?

And I began to think of those who were waiting for me far, far to the south. It was wrong for me to linger here.

But how? I had stayed three years with Hawk Fhain and rarely felt half so much urgency as I felt now. It was different now, however. Now I stayed, I suspected, for a purely selfish reason: I stayed because I wanted to be near Ganieda. Without saying it directly, Ganieda made it clear that she wanted me to stay, too.

Ah, Ganieda, I remember it all too well.

We feasted in Lord Custennin's timber hall, aflame with light and laughter, the smoky smell of roasting meat, bright torches, eyes and jewellery gleaming, gold-rimmed horns circling among the gathered lords of Goddeu, who drank and drank, despite the example of their king, who tasted not a drop. Because of Ganieda's warning, I watched the proceedings with interest, and I was not the only one. Gwendolau watched, too – sober and intense from his seat at the high table.

When the food was finished and the chiefs called for song, Ganieda took up her lyre and sang. I thought it strange – not that she should sing, for her voice was beautiful to hear, but that a man of Custennin's wealth and influence should not have a bard or two. He might easily have kept half-a-dozen to sing his praises and the valour of his warriors.

Her song finished, Ganieda came to where I sat and tugged me by the sleeve, 'Let us go from here.'

'I want to see what is to happen."

'No, it does not concern us. Let us leave.' She meant, of course, that it did not concern me.

'Please,' I said, 'just until I know what will happen. If there is trouble here in the north, men may need to know of it where I am going.'

She nodded and sat down beside me. 'It will not be pleasant.' Her tone was hard as the flagging at our feet.

Almost immediately, Custennin got to his feet and spread out his arms. 'Kinsmen and friends,' he called, 'you have come here tonight to eat and drink at my table, and this is good. It is right for a king to give sustenance to his people, to share with them in times of peace and succour them in times of trouble.' Some of those near him banged on the board with their cups and knife handles, and shouted their approval of the scheme. I noticed that Gwendolau had disappeared from the high table. 'It is also right for a king to deal harshly with his enemies. Our fathers defended their lands and people when threatened. Any man who allows his enemy to run with impudence through his land, killing his people, destroying his crops and goods – that man is not worthy of his name.'

'Hear him! Hear him!' the chiefs cried. 'It is true!' 'And any man who turns against his own is as much an enemy as the Sea Wolf who comes in his war boat.' At this the hall went silent. The fire crackled in the hearth and the rising wind moaned outside. The trap was all but sprung, but the chiefs did not see it yet.

'Loeter!' the king cried. 'Is this not true?' I searched the hall for the one singled out, and found him – it was not difficult, for as soon as the man's name left the lips of his king those around him drew away. 'My lord, it is true,' replied the man called Loeter, a narrow-faced hulk with a belly like a sow. He glanced about him uneasily.

'And Loeter, how do we punish those who practise treachery against their own kinsmen?'

All eyes were on Loeter now, who had begun to sweat. 'We cut them off, lord.'

'We kill them, Loeter, do we not?' 'Yes, lord.'

Custennin nodded gravely and looked to his chiefs. 'You have heard the man speak his punishment out of his own mouth. So be it.'

'What madness is this?' demanded Loeter – on his feet now, his hand on the hilt of his knife. 'Are you accusing me?' 'I do not accuse you, Loeter. You accuse yourself.' 'How so? I have done nothing.'

Custennin glared. 'Nothing? Then tell me whence came the gold on your arm.'

'It is mine,' growled Loeter.

'How came you to wear it?' demanded Custennin. 'Answer me truly.'

'It was a gift to me, lord.'

'A gift it was. Oh, yes, that is true enough: a gift from the Scotti! The same who even now lie encamped within our borders, planning another raid.'

There arose an ugly murmur in the hall. Ganieda tugged at me again. 'Let us leave now.'

But it was too late. Loeter saw the thing going against him and, drunk as he was, decided to try his hand at escape, thinking to call on the aid of his friends. 'Urbgen! Gwys! Come, we will not listen to these lies.' He turned and stepped down from the table and strode to the door of the hall, but he walked alone.

'You bargained with the Scotti; they gave you gold in exchange for silence. Your greed has weakened us all, Loeter. You are no longer fit for the company of honourable men.'

'I gave them nothing!'

'You gave them safe landfall! You gave them shelter where there should be no shelter!' Custennin roared. 'Babes sleep tonight without their mothers, Loeter. Wives weep for their husbands. House timbers smoulder and ashes grow cold where once hearth fires burned. How many more of our people will die because of you?'

'It is not my doing!' screamed the wretch, still edging towards the door.

'Whose then? Loeter, answer me!'

'I am not to blame,' he whined. 'I will not have this on my head.'

'You sold our kinsmen, Loeter. People under my care lie in death's dark hall tonight.' Custennin raised his hand and pointed a long dagger at the guilty man. 'I say that you shall join them, Loeter, and join them you will, or I am no longer king of Goddeu.'