As it was a warm night, we lit a small fire in the hearth – only enough to cook the barley bannocks which Ganieda would serve to me for our ritual first meal together. In the glimmering firelight, the shepherd's bothy could have been a palace, and the clay bowl in which Ganieda mixed the water and barley meal a chalice of gold. Ganieda might have been the enchantress of the wood, and I the wandering hero entrapped by my love for her.

I sat cross-legged on the bed and watched her deft movements. When the hearthstone was hot enough, she shaped the little cakes and placed them on the stone. We did not speak all the while, it was as if we were no longer ourselves alone; no, we were all the young people who had ever loved and married, joining life to life, the latest in a living chain stretching back countless eons to that first hearth, that first coupling. There were no words for this moment.

The barley cakes cooked quickly, and Ganieda placed them gingerly in the gathered hem of her mantle and brought them to me. I took one, broke it, and fed her with half even as I ate half myself. She chewed solemnly and then turned to lift the cup she had poured out while the bannocks were baking.

I held the cup to her lips while she drank, then drained the warm, sweet wine hi a single gulp. Then the cup clattered to the floor and her arms were around my neck and her lips were on mine and I was tumbling backwards onto the bed, Ganieda's body full upon me, the scent of her silky skin filling my head.

And then there was only the night and our passion and, after, the sweet deep darkness of sleep in one another's arms.

I woke once before morning and heard a light whistle on the breeze. I crept from the bed and looked out of the door to see, outlined in the light of the sinking moon, Gwendolau, astride his horse. He rode at a respectful distance, keeping watch over us through the night.

I slipped back beneath the coverlet and into Ganieda's embrace, and fell asleep once more to the rhythm of my wife's soft breathing in slumber.

Deep in the black heart of Celyddon, with wolves and stags and grunting boars for company, does Myrddin abide. Is he alive or is he dead? God alone knows.

O happy Wolf, look into the fire and tell us what you see.

Ah, the steel men. Yes, I see them, too. All in steel from helm to heel. Big men, fearless men. Bristling with spears like an ash forest. See the knotted muscles of their arms; see the quick, deadly movements of their strong hands; see the fearless thrust of their jaws. They know that this day's light might be their last, but they are not afraid.

That one! See him? Look at the span of his shoulders, Wolf. See how he sits his saddle – as if he was part of the beast he rides. A magnificent man. Cai, yes, that is his name: a name that kindles fear in the heart of the foeman.

Here is another! See him, Wolf? A champion among champions he is. His cloak is blood red and his shield bears the cross of the Christ. His is a name the harpers will sing for a thousand years: Bedwyr, Bright Avenger.

And those two there! Oh, look – have you ever seen such dread purpose, such grim grace? Sons of Thunder. That one is called Gwalchmai, Hawk of May. The other is Gwalchaved, Hawk of Summer. They are twins, one in heart, one in mind, one in action – as alike as two may be and still be two. There is no matching the swiftness of their blades.

Each of these men is worthy of the rank of king; each is a lord in his own land. Who is there to lead such men? Who can be their Battle Lord? Where is the man to be king over kings?

I do not see him, Wolf. I do not see him for a long time yet.

No, these men do not live now, and not for many long years. Their time is not come. We have time yet to find a chieftain for them, Wolf. And we will… we must.

The day after Taliesin's visit – a day, a year, does it matter? – I saw the hermit as he promised. Squatting before my miserable cave, high up hi the mountain, I saw him coming a long way off. He was climbing, following the trickle of my spring as it wends down into the valley to join one of Celyddon's myriad streams.

He came on foot, and slowly, so that I had time to observe him. His cloak was dun, his feet were shod in high boots, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat on his head to keep off the sun. A strange hermit, I thought, to travel in such array.

As he approached, I saw that his steps were purposeful, deliberate. His was not the aimless gait of a wandering wayfarer; he knew his destination – it was this very cave, and him who lived within. He had come to Hart Fell to find Mad Merlin. Find him, he did.

'I give you good greeting, friend,' he called when he saw me watching him.

I waited until he came closer – there was no use in shouting at him. 'Will you sit? There is water if you thirst.'

He stood a moment, looking round. At last his eyes came to rest on me. They were sky blue, and just as cold and empty as the heaven above him. 'I would not shun a cup of water.'

'The spring is there,' I told him, indicating where the water ran from the rock. 'I said nothing about a cup.'

He smiled and went to the spring, bent and sucked in a few mouthfuls of water – enough for appearance' sake, I thought, not enough to satisfy real thirst. And yet he had no water-skin with him.

When he sat down again, he removed his hat and I saw hair as yellow as flax – like that of a Saecsen prince. But his speech was good Briton. 'Tell me, friend, what do you up here?' 'I might ask the same of you,' I grunted by way of answer. 'It is no secret,' he said, laughing. 'I have come to find a man.'

'And have you found him?' 'Yes.'

'How fortunate for you.'

He smiled broadly. 'You are the one they call Merlin Ambrosius – Myrddin, the Emrys. Are you not?'

'Who would call me that?'

'Perhaps you are not aware of the things men are saying about you.'

'Perhaps it does not interest me what men say.'

He laughed again, as if the sound should win me. But the laughter, like the smile, did not touch his eyes. 'Come now, you must be somewhat curious. They are saying you are a king of the Fair Folk, that you are divine. They say you are a mighty warrior, invincible.'

'Do they say also that I am mad?'

'Are you mad?'

'Yes.'

'No madman would speak so rationally,' he assured me. 'Perhaps you only feign madness.'

'Why would any man feign that which is most hateful to him?'

'To make himself seem mad, I suppose,' the wanderer answered thoughtfully.

'Which would be madness itself, would it not?'

The stranger laughed again and instantly I hated the sound.

'Speak plainly now,' I said, challenging him, 'what do you want of me?'

He met my challenge with his empty smile. 'Just to speak with you a little.'

'You have come a long way for nothing, then. I do not wish to speak to anyone.'

'Perhaps you would not mind listening,' he replied, picking up a stick. He scratched in the dirt for a few moments, then looked up at me suddenly and, finding my eyes on him, said, 'I am not without influence in this world. I could do things for you.'

'Do this for me then, if your influence extends so far: go away.'

'I could do great things for you, Myrddin Emrys. Tell me what you want – anything you desire, Myrddin, I will do it, or see that it is done.'

'I have told you what I desire.'

He moved closer. 'Do you know who I am?'

'Should I?'

'Perhaps not, but I know who you are. I know you, Myrddin. You see, I am an Emrys, too.'

At his words, a slow, inexorable dread crept over me. I felt very old and very weak. He reached out to me and his touch was cold as stone. 'I can help you, Myrddin,' he went on. 'Let me help you.'

'I need no one's help. This place is a palace,' I told him, lifting my hand to my barren surroundings. 'I have all I need.'