That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived… and always will.

Arthur, with his keen blue eyes and hair of burnished gold, his ready smile and guileless countenance. Wide and heavy of shoulder, long of limb, he towers above other men and, though he does not yet know the power of his stature, he is aware that smaller men become uneasy near him. He is handsomely knit in all; fair to look upon.

The native brashness of the northern hills clings to him still. He is like an untamed colt brought into the company of humankind: curious, wary, eager to discover the source of the strange delights that rouse his senses. He is green and untried, but ripe with the promise of greatness.

When he enters a hall the eye travels naturally to him. Those who hunt with him find themselves contesting who shall ride at his right hand. Already, he draws men to him; that is his birthright.

'Go on, Arthur,' Merlin urges, as Arthur hesitates on the threshold. 'It is time.'

I do not possess a prophet's vision; I cannot see what will be. But, at my master's words, I see once more all that has gone before this moment… see now Arthur as I first saw him.

A near-naked babe, wearing nothing but a short, dirty sark, his long yellow locks well tangled with leaves and bits of straw, he stumbled forth on legs like little stumps, blue eyes merry with infant mischief. In each chubby fist he grasped a half-grown cat.

A mere babe, but he clutched those two grey cats by their necks in his grip and held them dangling above the ground. Hissing, spitting, writhing mad, they scratched at his arms – and Arthur laughed. We stared in wonder at the sight. The mite endured their claws and laughed for all his tiny soul was worth.

It is said that from the mould of the child, the man is cast.

Well, my master and I sat astride our horses, looking on, and this is what we saw: wild young Arthur, alight with life and laughter, indifferent to pain, already master of an impressive strength – and a more impressive will.

Merlin smiled and raised his hand in declamation, saying, 'Behold, the Bear of Britain!'

Then he shook his head and sighed. 'A wayward cub, look at him. Still, he must be taught, like any young beast. Our work is before us, Pelleas.'

Oh, what a work it was!

The interior of the church blazed with the light of hundreds of candles. Kings and lords knelt on the bare stone floors before the huge altar, heads bowed, while Bishop Urbanus read out the sacred text in a loud, droning voice. Kneeling, those haughty lords appeared the image of humility and reverence. Indeed, that they knelt at all was no small thing.

We entered in silence, Arthur holding the sword in his hand as if it were a live thing that might squirm and bite him; as if it were an offering, and he the penitent, dutifully bringing it to the altar.

Eyes gleaming in the shimmering light, he licked dry lips and advanced to the centre, turned and, with a last look over his shoulder at Merlin, started down the long, pillared aisle to the altar.

As Arthur approached, Urbanus glanced up, saw the young man advancing steadily towards him, and frowned with annoyance. Then he recognized the sword, and froze.

Bowed heads lifted as the bishop stopped reading. The lords beheld the priest's face, then turned as one to see what halted him.

Arthur was simply there in their midst, the sword in his hand.

Their faces! I could almost read their thoughts as their eyes started from their heads: What? The sword! Who is this upstart? Where has he come from? Look at him! A north country savage! Who is he?

See it now: astonishment gives way to anger. Their eyes quicken to rage.

They are on their feet, the mass forgotten. No one speaks. There is only the dry rustle of leather shoes on stone.

It is the silence before the lowering storm.

All at once, the violence breaks: thunder after the lightning's sharp flash.

Voices: questioning, demanding, angry. Hands: grasping, making fists, reaching for knives. Bodies: thrusting forward, crowding in, threatening.

Wonder of wonders, Arthur does not flinch! He grimly holds his ground as the lords of Britain close in around him. I can see his head and shoulders above the rest. He is more perplexed than concerned or frightened.

They are shouting: 'Usurper!' They are demanding his name and lineage. Trickery! they cry. Perfidy! Deceit! They scream like scalded pigs. The holy sanctuary has become a vortex of spite and fear. Arthur stands silent in its centre, unmoved and unmoving. He is an effigy carved hi stone, and the noblemen are writhing dancers.

The hate! The hate is like the heat from an oven. It is the thrust of a spear, the blow of a closed fist. It is the venom of a spitting viper.

I struggle towards Arthur. I do not know how to help him, but I must stand with him. The throng around him is a solid wall. I cannot reach him.

Arthur stands alone in the fury his appearance has created.

Swords are thrust in the air; knives glint. I am certain they will kill the boy. They will see his head on a spike before they bow the knee to him. It was a dreadful mistake to bring him here.

Urbanus, arms above his head, hands waving, shoves close. His face white as death, he is calling for peace, for order. No one hears him. They do not want to hear him. A hand snakes out, and blood spurts from the bishop's nose. Urbanus falls back with a muffled cry.

The crowd closes. 'Kill him! Kill the usurper!" It is a death chant.

Arthur's eyes go grey and hard. His brow lowers. His grip tightens on the hilt of the sword in his hand. It is no longer an offering, it is a weapon once more, and he will use it.

Kill him!… Kill him!… Kill him!

The din is horrific. The mob presses closer.

My sword is ready. Where is Merlin?

Father God! It is all a dreadful mistake. We are dead men.

And then, just as I begin to raise my sword to cleave a path to Arthur's side, there comes a sound like a tempest wind – the blast of a mighty sea gale. Men fall back, suddenly afraid. They cover their heads with their arms and peer into the darkness above. What is it? Is the roof falling? The sky?

The strange sound subsides and they glance at one another in fear and awe. Merlin is there. The Emrys is standing calmly beside Arthur. His hands are empty and upraised, his face stern in the unnatural silence he has created…

It did not end there. In truth, it had not even begun.

'Enough!' Merlin declared, a father speaking to disobedient children. 'There will be no life-taking this holy night.'

The noblemen murmured fearfully, eyeing Merlin with contempt and suspicion. He made them feel small and afraid, and they did not love him for it.

'You have done this!' someone shouted. King Morcant of Belgarum pushed his way through the throng. 'I know you. This is a trick of yours, Enchanter.'

Merlin turned to face the king. The years had done nothing to sweeten Morcant's soul. The hunger for the High Kingship burned in his belly as fiercely as ever. Morcant it was – together with his friends Dunaut and Coledac – who gave Aurelius and Uther such trouble. Dunaut was safely in his grave, his realm ruled by Idris, a young kinsman. Coledac now ruled the rich Iceni lands reclaimed for him from the Saecsens by Aurelius. In consequence, Coledac was of a mind to view Arthur in a kindly light.

But Morcant, more powerful than ever, was still dagger keen for the High Kingship. He did not intend letting it go without a battle. And his son, Cerdic, had learned the lust from his father. Cut of the same cloth, the boy, no older than Arthur, already saw himself adorning the throne.