'Bedwyr! You are here.'

'Where should I be when my brother needs me?' Bedwyr grinned, shaking his head. 'Look at you… Duke of Britain, indeed!'

'What is wrong with that?'

'Arthur, the sight of you is earth and sky to me,' replied Bedwyr dryly. 'But if I had been there you would be a king now.'

'How so, brother? Are you Emperor of the West, so that you can play at king-making?'

Both laughed heartily at this exchange and they fell upon one another once more. Then Bedwyr saw us. 'Myrddin! Pelleas!' He hurried to us and hugged us both. 'You have come as well. I had not thought to find you all here. Happy I am to see you. Bright Spirits bear witness, God is wise and good!'

'Hail, Bedwyr! You look a very prince of Rheged,' I told him. It was true. Bedwyr's dark locks were gathered in a thick braid; richly enamelled gold bands glinted at his wrists and arms; his woollen cloak was bright yellow and black, woven in the cunning checked pattern of the north; his soft leather boots painted with serpentine designs reached to his knees. In all, he appeared a Celt of old.

'Pelleas, God be good to you, I have missed you. It has been a long time.' Indeed it had; eight years, in fact.

'How did you come here?' asked Arthur. 'We thought you would wait until the thaw to set out.'

'We have enjoyed the mildest of winters in the north,' Bedwyr replied. 'In consequence, we were forced to stay longer than we might have: Sea Wolves troubled us late into the season, or we might have come in the autumn.' He laughed quickly. 'But I see we have surprised even Myrddin, and that makes the wait worth while!'

'Unexpected, perhaps' Merlin allowed. 'But I count it no surprise to greet one whose company we have so often desired. It is joy itself to see you, Bedwyr.'

Meurig, who had been looking on, approached with torch in hand, beaming his good fortune. 'Let my hall be filled! We will have a feast of friends this glad night.'

And so we did. Of food there was no end, and drink flowed in a ceaseless stream from jar and skin. The hall blazed with pine knot and rushlight, and the hearthfire crackled merrily, casting its ruddy glow all around. Meurig had acquired a harper of some skill, so we did not lack for music. We held forth in song and danced the old step.

The next days were full: hunting, eating and drinking, singing, talking, laughing. Bishop Gwythelyn came from the nearby abbey at Llandaff to bless the merriment and to consecrate Arthur in his new position as protector of Britain. This was done in fine style. I see before me still the image of Arthur kneeling before the good bishop, holding the hem of Gwythelyn's undyed cloak to his lips, while the bishop lays holy hands on him.

It was like that: one moment Arthur was the Duke of Britain, wearing the full honour and responsibility of that title, the next he was the Cymry prince, light-hearted, his laughter easy and free. It was a feast for the soul just to watch him, to be near him.

Sweet Jesu, I cannot remember a happier time. No one enjoyed it more than did Arthur and Bedwyr, who sat together at the board laughing and talking the whole night through. And when the last lights were put out, they still sat head to head, pledging to one another their hopes and dreams for the years ahead.

Each had so much to say to the other, so much lost time to redeem. Arthur and Bedwyr had known one another almost from birth, for Merlin and I had brought Arthur to Tewdrig's stronghold in Dyfed when Arthur was still a babe. Arthur's first years had been spent at Caer Myrddin with King Bleddyn's youngest son, Bedwyr: a slim, graceful boy, as dark as Arthur was fair. Bold shadow to Arthur's bright sun.

The two had become constant friends: golden mead and dark wine poured into the same cup. Every day of those early years they spent together – until separated at the age of seven by the strict necessity of fosterage in different royal houses. Bedwyr had gone to live with King Ennion, his kinsman in Rheged, and Arthur to Ectorius at Caer Edyn. And except for all-too-brief occasions such as Gatherings, or the infrequent royal assembly, they had rarely seen one another. Their friendship had endured long privation, but it had endured.

No one thought ill when the two of them rode out to inspect Arthur's lands one morning and were gone three days. Upon their return Arthur announced that the eastern portion of his lands – these included many deep, hidden valleys – would be given to the breeding of horses, and would be placed under Bedwyr's rule.

They were already thinking far, far ahead, to the day when each horse they could provide would mean one more warrior for Britain.

So, early in that spring the course was set which, for better or worse, would steer the Island of the Mighty through the gathering gale of war. Directly after Pentecost, work began at Caer Melyn. Seven days after Beltane, Cai arrived with the first of Arthur's war band: twenty well-trained young men chosen by Ectorius as the best north of the Wall.

And six days after Lugnasadh, King Morcant decided to test the young Duke's mettle.

Word came to Caer Melyn that Morcant was gathering his warband to ride against Bedegran and Madoc in but the latest clash of that long-standing blood feud. Arthur had only twenty men; counting himself, Cai and Bedwyr there were twenty-three. Hardly a match for Morcant's hundreds.

Nevertheless, Arthur determined that if he allowed Morcant to succeed in cowing him through strength of superior numbers, he might as well give the Sword of Britain to the old scoundrel – and the High Kingship into the bargain.

I was prepared to ride with him, but Merlin counselled against it. 'Stay, Pelleas. There will be other battles where we will be needed more. Let them win this first one on their own. A victory will give them courage and earn them a measure of renown in the land. Besides, I would have Morcant and his like know that Arthur is his own man.'

That this test should come so early was not fortuitous, but Arthur was undaunted. Indeed, he welcomed it. 'That toothless old lion has roared once too often, I tell you,' he said. 'We will go and shear him for a sheep, aye?'

With no more concern, and scarcely more preparation, the warriors rode at once to Morcant's stronghold.

The Belgae are an old, old people whose tribal seat is at Venta Belgarum. Owing to an early peace with Rome, the Belgae established themselves pre-eminent in the region and Uintan Caestir became an important civitas. The Belgae and their city prospered and grew powerful serving the Legions. When the Legions left, the city shrank in upon itself – as all cities did – and the Belgae returned to the land and their former ways. But bits of the city still remained, and it was here that Morcant held his power.

Caer Uintan had once possessed a public forum and a basilica. These had long ago been taken over by the lords of the Belgae for private use: the forum became a palace, the basilica a hall. For all his British blood, Lord Morcant styled himself a ruler of the Roman stamp.

To walk into his palace was to enter again another time, now long past. A time more and more recalled – by those who had never seen it – with impossible grandeur and glory, a great golden age of order, prosperity, peace and learning.

Certainly, Morcant revelled in such belief. He lived surrounded by objects of the past, attended by ranks of servants who maintained for him the semblance of that faded era. He lived like an emperor… but an emperor in exile from his beloved empire.

Like Londinium, Caer Uintan boasted a rampart of stone around its perimeter. In recent years a deep ditch had been dug below the wall to make it higher still. However much it had declined from its former glory, Caer Uintan was still the fortress of a powerful king.