Unless I wished to make entrance in the dead of night, the mainland causeway remained my best choice. I held no great hope that Gorlas would welcome me as a brother, but he would receive me and bear my presence for at least as long as it took me to say what was in my mind. He respected me that much, I considered. He owed me that much for that day on the battlefield when we had fought Hengist together.

By dusk, Uther had decamped and withdrawn beyond the hills. Pelleas and I, our survey of the headland completed, mounted our ponies and made our way up the narrow, slate-paved spine of a causeway to the great dome of rock upon which Gorlas had built his caer. The sea washed ceaselessly on one side, and a freshet tumbled noisily on the other – a sheer drop to a sudden and certain death on either hand.

We waited outside the timber gate while the guards fetched their lord, who appeared in a moment – as I said, they had been watching. 'What do you here, Emrys?' Gorlas demanded. The question was a challenge.

'I have come to speak to you, Gorlas.'

'I have no business with Uther.'

'Perhaps not,' I allowed, 'but he has business with you or, more precisely, those who shelter beneath your roof and claim your hospitality.'

'What of that?' the Cornovii chieftain sneered. 'I withhold hospitality from no man who asks it. Those you seek are welcome here as long as they care to stay.'

'If that is the way of it,' I replied easily, 'then I claim the same hospitality for myself and my steward. It is getting dark and night is upon us. We have nowhere else to go.'

To be trapped with his own words made Gorlas furious; that it was so easily done did not improve his disposition. I began to think he would not let us in after all, but honour went deep in Gorlas and he relented in spite of himself.

He unbarred the gate and opened it himself, his face frozen in a grimace of mingled rage and humiliation. 'Enter, my friends,' he muttered through clenched teeth, each word a curse, 'you are welcome here.'

'Our thanks to you, Gorlas,' I replied sincerely, leading my pony through the gate. 'You do yourself no wrong.'

'That remains to be seen,' he huffed, and impatiently ordered the gate closed, lest Uther himself appear to claim hospitality from him.

Tintagel's rock formed a mighty foundation for a sprawling fortress of timber and stone – more stone than timber, since the black rock of the region lay ready to hand, and the timber must be cut and dragged in from forests a fair distance away. This gave the place a cold, harsh appearance; the solid house of a hard man, unused to small comforts, strong of will and principle, and slow to bend.

Tintagel could be a sanctuary, or a prison – its gate keeping in as easily as keeping out. I wondered if Uther understood this.

The high-arched hall rose from the centre of an aimless scattering of smaller buildings: cook houses, granaries, larders and hoardings of various types, smaller sleeping quarters and round houses of stone. Between these buildings a narrow paving of dressed and channelled stone had been put down so that in wet weather – which, so close to the sea, was continual – men and beasts need not flounder in fields of mud.

In all, Tintagel proved a simple, yet impressive, fortress: a fitting seat of power for the king of the Cornovii. Nor was I the first to think so, for the settlement had been occupied for many generations, and, I had no doubt, would continue to serve for many, many more.

'Supper will be laid soon.' Gorlas came puffing up the track behind us as we dismounted. 'Your horses will be cared for.'

He led us into a hall bright with torchlight and a huge fire on the hearth. Dogs and children played in the corners, and a cluster of women occupied the far end of the hall, talking quietly, heads together. I did not see Ygerna among them. Morcant, Dunaut, and Coledac, and their retinues, lolled carelessly at Gorlas' board. Heads turned as we entered and laughter ceased.

Then Morcant was on his feet. 'Look you, my friends, here is that craven Uther's lap dog! Well, Merlin Embries, have you come to sniff after us and run back to your master with the tale?'

'The insult is beneath you, Lord Morcant. I require no respect from you, but at least do not endanger yourself further by speaking ill of the High King.'

'High King?' sneered Morcant. 'High Coward, more like.' Dunaut and Coledac laughed loudly at this.

'You call him coward because he ignores your treason and extends his hands in friendship?'

'Extends his hands in fright!' snorted Coledac, who convulsed himself with laughter. Gorlas, embarrassed by his guests' rudeness, called loudly for the supper to be brought. Servants scurried at his sharp command, and in a few moments baskets and platters of food appeared.

The three lords had been guzzling Gorlas' mead and were not inclined to stop. No doubt their relief at Uther's withdrawal from the field had put them in a celebratory mood, and drink had made them bold. But it was a fool's courage that abetted them.

'There will be trouble,' Pelleas warned, as we took our places at the board. 'Drink will make them surly and they will pick a fight.'

'If it comes to that we will not disappoint them,' I replied. 'They must learn respect for their king. Now is as good a time as any for the teaching.'

'I believe I could think of a better time.' Pelleas scanned the hall, mostly filled now with the lords' escorts – each with a knife in his belt and a sword on his hip. 'If they begin, I do not think even Gorlas could stop it.'

The meal proceeded uneventfully. The three, having turned to their meat, promptly forgot about us. We ate in peace, and were nearly finished when the hide that covered the inner entrance to the hall was pulled aside and Ygerna entered with a few of her women.

She did not look at us – in fact, kept her eyes averted – although she must have known we were there. I think she did not wish to notice me for fear that her secret might be betrayed. But, to me, her distraction spoke with some force.

My heart went out to her. Such a lovely young woman – a bride still, really; I could not see her as a widow, though widow she was – she carried her nobility in every line of her slender form. How rough Gorlas came by a daughter so refined and regal was a mystery.

The meal concluded and Gorlas, keen to avoid trouble, called for his harper. An old man stumbled forward with a well-worn harp and proceeded to sing a long, all-but-unintelligible song about the change of seasons or some such thing. I pitied him. More, I pitied his listeners who likely had never heard a true bard and never would.

At his lord's bidding, the singer began another song, and as all attention was on him, I made opportunity to speak to Ygerna. She was abashed that I should approach her, but, thinking quickly, she jumped up and pulled me to a shadowed corner.

'Please, Lord Emrys,' she cautioned, 'if my father -'

'He will not see us here,' I reassured her, then asked: 'Why? Do you fear him?' -

She bit her lower lip and lowered her head shyly. An utterly feminine gesture of uncertainty and innocence. I loved her for it, remembering another girl long ago. 'No, no -' she began, hesitated, then said, 'but he watches me so closely… Please, I cannot say more.'

'You were a married woman,' I reminded her. 'You need remain under your father's roof no longer.'

‘The High King is dead. Where would I go?' She spoke without guile, and without sorrow. She did not grieve for Aurelius, nor did she pretend to. She had not loved him. In truth, she hardly knew him! She had married him only to please her father.

'There is one, I am thinking, who might be persuaded to take you in.'

She knew well enough who I meant, for she had been thinking of it, too – often and with great anxiety. 'Oh, but I dare not!' she gasped.