The two combatants turned to face one another. We formed a hollow ring around them. The rain came down and we stood there silently, waiting for the deadly contest to begin.

Here is the way of it:

Cerdic urges his horse forward and begins trotting around the perimeter of the ring, slowly at first, but gathering pace as he goes. Arthur does likewise, and they circle one another, around and around, circling, circling, taking the measure of one another.

Suddenly Cerdic turns his mount and drives to the centre of the ring. Arthur is not caught, for in the same instant he throws his reins to the side and flies to meet Cerdic head on.

The clash of their meeting rings sharp in our ears. The shock of the blow shakes the ground beneath our feet. Cerdic is thrown back in his saddle. The horses leap away at once. Cerdic circles again. His face is set, intense.

As before, they chase one another round the ring and then turn and fly towards one another at full gallop.

The air is rent with the force of their collision. Swords flash. Arthur sways in the saddle. Cerdic's horse stumbles to its knees and the king topples to the ground.

The Cymbrogi shout with loud acclaim. They think that he has won. But Cerdic is on his feet, his sword before him, his shield ready. His face is grim. Arthur is stronger than he knew.

There is hatred in his eyes still, but now there is also fear.

Arthur quits the saddle and slides lightly to the ground. He advances on Cerdic.

As they close, Cerdic looses a wild cry and throws himself forward, hewing with his sword. Striking, striking, again and again, with the fury of madness. Arthur thrusts his shield before him and is beaten back.

Each blow of Cerdic's sword bites deep into Arthur's shield. The wood splinters, the metal is rent. Now the boss is cleft, and now the rim. Pieces of it fall away.

Arthur!

With a mighty effort Cerdic heaves his sword over his head and slashes down. Arthur's broken shield is split asunder. Cerdic raises his sword once more. It hovers in the air – and falls.

Arthur flings the remains of his shield away. His arm is bloody where Cerdic's sword has bitten through. Cerdic's sword slices the air as it slashes towards Arthur's unprotected chest.

Watch out!

But Arthur is quicker than Cerdic kens. The Sword of Britain flicks out and up, meeting Cerdic's stroke in the air. The sound is that of the hammer striking the anvil.

Cerdic's arm shudders with the force of the blow, and the point of his sword wavers. Arthur leaps upon his foe, beating him down. Cerdic falls back, throwing his sword above his head to ward off the withering blows raining upon him.

'Yield, Cerdic!' cries Arthur, raising Sword of Macsen above his head.

'Never!' shouts Cerdic defiantly. And slashing carelessly with his blade, he catches Arthur on the hip.

With a tremendous groan Arthur brings his weapon down. It falls like lightning from the grey sky. And like lightning it divides the air. Cerdic throws the shield over his head to save his skull. Arthur's blade catches the shield boss squarely in the centre and Cerdic's arm collapses. The shield's iron rim strikes Cerdic on the forehead and he drops like a dead man.

The fight is over.

But there is no cheering. No great cry of acclaim celebrates Arthur's victory. Silence steals over the throng. For we have all seen what Arthur himself does not yet see.

Arthur turns and raises his sword in triumph. And then he sees: the Sword of Britain is shattered.

Arthur brooded over the loss of Macsen's sword. True, he had won Britain – at Cerdic's defeat the rebel lords quickly abandoned the rebellion and made their peace – but that offered less consolation than it might have done. The reason for his distress was simple enough: by losing the Sword of Britain, he felt that he had lost his rightful claim to the throne. This was nonsense, and Merlin told him so. But Arthur heeded him not.

So it was a long winter for him. And for us all.

'This cannot be allowed to continue,' Merlin said in exasperation one day. 'Look at him! He sits there moping like a hound banished from the hearth. If this keeps up, his sour mood will poison the whole realm.'

It was nearing mid-winter and the time of the Christ Mass was close at hand. I pointed this out, and said, 'Perhaps a feast to celebrate the holy day would cheer him.'

'He needs another sword, not a feast.'

'Well, let us get him one then.'

Merlin made to reply, but thought better of it. He paused, holding his head to one side, then all at once burst out, 'Yes! That is exactly what we will do. Bless you, Pelleas. In years to come all Britain will sing your praises!'

All well and good. But two days later I wished I had never opened my mouth.

Freezing mist clung to the hillsides and hung above us as we made our way through the long, meandering glens. The wind remained tight out of the north, thankfully, but that little went straight to the bone and stayed there. The horses plodded through the snow hi the valleys, blowing clouds of vapour from their nostrils. I tucked my hands beneath the saddle pad to keep them warm against the steaming horseflesh. Arthur and Merlin rode ahead, wrapped chin to knee in long, heavy winter cloaks, stiff with cold.

Our only glimpse of daylight the whole miserable day came just before dusk when, as we crested a steep, heathered hill, the clouds parted in the west and we saw the deep red blush of the dying sun.

It was the fourth day and we had travelled little more than half the expected distance. Our spirits were low. But with the light came hope. For in the last rays of the sun we glimpsed a settlement in the valley below. At least we would not be forced to sleep on the ground.

'We will seek shelter there for the night,' said Merlin. 'It is long since I was forced to sing for my supper. This night, of all nights, I hope we do not go hungry.'

I was not worried. I had never known a song of Merlin's to disappoint. 'We will not starve,' I assured him grimly. 'If all else fails, I will sing!'

Arthur laughed and it was the first lifting of our hearts all day.

The clouds closed in again, darkening the glen. The wind stirred, biting cold. We urged our horses to a trot and made for the settlement.

Upon reaching the cluster of stone houses beside the clear-running stream, we were met by a large, black, barking dog. We reined up and waited for the animal's yelps to summon someone and, presently, a brown-braided young girl appeared.

No more than six or seven summers, she threw her arms around the dog's neck and chided it. Tyrannos! Be quiet!'

The beast subsided under the child's insistence, and Merlin, leaning low in the saddle, addressed the girl, saying, 'I give you good day, my child.'

'Who are you?' she asked frankly, eyeing the harp-shaped hump under the leather wrap behind Merlin's saddle. Curious how children always saw that first.

'We are travellers. And we are cold and hungry. Is there room at your hearth this night?'

She did not answer, but spun on her heel and dashed back to the house. I caught her shout as she disappeared behind the ox-hide hanging in the doorway. 'The Emrys! The Emrys is here!'

Merlin shook his head in astonishment. 'Has it come to this?' he wondered. 'Even small children know me by sight.'

'There are not so many harpers hereabouts,' Arthur suggested, indicating the telltale bulge behind Merlin's saddle. 'And there is only one Emrys, after all.'

'Be that as it may, I would rather the whole of the island did not know our every move.'

'Be at peace, Worrier,' replied Arthur good-naturedly. 'It is a harmless thing.' He stretched in the saddle, and eyed the rapidly darkening sky. The rising wind whined on the hilltops – a cold, forlorn sound. 'I wish someone would take an interest in us.'