Not five days later our feet were pounding onto the planking, and our hands slipping the mooring ropes, loosing those swift ships like hounds eager to meet the charging boar.

We had never fought aboard ship. And the sight of those blue-tinted sails and dark hulls slicing towards us did little to embolden us. But Arthur had taken the lead ship, and he ranged the other ships – commanded by Bors, Cai, Gwalchavad and myself – around him like the divisions of his Cymbrogi. We were a seaborne a/a!

The five new ships formed the sharp spearhead in the centre, moving out like gulls skimming the wavetops. The other ships – thirty in all, with thirty men each – followed in a solid wall behind us.

The Angli had fifty ships. At our sudden appearance, they turned to the south and made for the nearest shore – a wooded headland at the entrance to the Fiorth called Basas for the shallows surrounding it. Basas, an interesting name… it also means death.

The five foremost British ships drove straightway into the exposed flank of the enemy. If the Angli had known how fast were Arthur's ships, I think they would have retreated instead. But they had no way of knowing.

Each of Arthur's five struck an enemy vessel amidships. Bone-shattering, teeth-rattling collision! Screams of men! Deadly lurching and shuddering shock! Our iron-prowed warsteeds splintered the thin hulls of the Angli, crushing them like eggshells. The first five we engaged sank like stones.

We pushed away from the wreckage with our spears while fending off barbarians struggling in the water. The closer ships turned on us and we ducked behind our shields as the cruel axes of the Angli clattered against the hulls. Grappling-hooks of iron snaked through the air, caught, tightened, and drew those same ships to their ruin. With staves and swords and spears, we battled the Angli. Their narrow timbers were soon sluiced with blood.

Hefting spear and swinging sword on the heaving deck of a ship is, as Arthur suggested, not so very different from the back of a plunging horse. The Angli, as abashed at our sudden appearance as by our forceful challenge – the sea was theirs, they were used to running free rein along the coasts – shrank from the attack.

Enemy ships further off made for the shelter of a great rock standing by the towering headland, or law. Din-y-bas, it is called: Fortress of Death. And we immediately saw why it deserved its name.

For the Angli ships, heedless of the danger, drove into the shallows. The rocks waiting just below the surface of the water did their remorseless work. Pierced hulls cracked and men pitched into the water. Great the turmoil, loud the tumult!

Oaths to the hideous, one-eyed devourer, Woden, mingled with screams of anguish. The Angli abandoned their crippled ships and began swimming to shore. Several British ships broke formation and swept towards the pebbled shingle, intent on pursuing the landed invaders. The rest drove steadily on, surrounding the wallowing enemy fleet.

The rearmost Angli – caught between the rocks of Din-y-bas and the seaborne fury of Arthur – dropped sail and, with oars churning, began moving off the rocks. They swung and met Arthur head on. Alas, there were only five British vessels, or we might have made an end of it.

But it was twenty against five. And while we engaged the first five to reach us – sinking two of these outright – the others escaped. They did not even try to help their own, but made for the open sea. Perhaps the closing net of British ships behind Arthur discouraged them, pr perhaps the disaster of their ruined attack had unnerved them. Whatever it was, the barbarians fled.

In all, twelve enemy vessels were sunk and eleven more foundered on the rocks. We counted it a victory, although twenty-eight ships escaped. Arthur did not give chase, because the only British vessels with a hope of catching them were the new ones and out in the open sea those five would easily be out manned. Prudently, the Duke settled for a defensive victory and let the barbarians limp home to lick their wounds.

Ector and Myrddin had watched the battle from the ramparts of Caer Edyn. I say watched, for although Myrddin did not actually see it, Ectorius described what was happening in such detail that Myrddin well knew everything that had taken place.

The two of them were waiting on the new dock when we returned to the shipyard. 'Well done!' shouted Myrddin, thumping his rowan staff on the oak planking of the dock. 'Well done, Pride of Prydein! Long has it been since the warriors of Britain ruled the water marge, but that is changed from this day. Henceforth and to the Day of Doom will Britain reign over Manawyddan's bright realm. Welcome, glorious heroes! Praise and welcome!'

Myrddin's salute was heartening, but his praise was over-eager. For, though we had dealt the foe a staggering blow, they did not return to their home-shore. We learned later that, once out of sight, they simply turned south and sailed down the eastern coast where they were accustomed to finding unprotected bays and estuaries. And where also small barbarian settlements waited to welcome and aid them.

This they did, coming into the mouth of the Twide and running to ground in the dense forests that cover the Celyddon Hills. They hid there and waited while their messengers called forth weapons and warriors from their heathen homeland across the sea.

They waited, nursed then: wounds, and grew strong with the passing months. By midsummer we began receiving reports from Custennin, Lord of Celyddon, of their presence and activity. Arthur listened to the reports and concluded that they had were moving slowly inland up the Dale of Twide to circle in behind us at Caer Edyn.

Arthur increased our forces through the summer. Custennin of Goddeu, my kinsman Ennion of Rheged, Owain of Powys, and Ectorius. Out of kinship and unity of purpose, these had begun calling themselves the Men of the North. There were also several kings from the south: Cador ap Owen Vinddu of Cerniw, Ogryvan of Dolgellau, and Ceredig of Gwynedd with his son Maelgwn, as well as Maglos, Meurig, and Idris. Other nobles and chieftains joined us, too, so our ranks grew as the grain in the fields.

When the last of all these had assembled with us in Caer Edyn, we strapped sharp iron to our hips and helmed ourselves for battle. Cai, Ector, Bors, Gwalchavad and Cador boarded the ships, and we needed every one. As the sails dwindled on Muir Guidan, we mounted our horses and turned our faces towards die Eildon Hills and the dark forests of Celyddon beyond. Then did we ride out, fifteen thousand Britons, to face an enemy sixty thousand strong.

The way the bards have it, the glory was ours for the taking. Well I, Bedwyr, fought in every bloody battle and it is a far different song that I will sing.

Deep in the twisted pathways of black Celyddon the barbarians waited. They had not been idle. Merciful Jesu, they were more than ready for us! Baldulf had once again taken command of the combined foe, and had forced his horde to labour long in preparation for the battle.

They thought to have the dark treacheries of the forest on their side. And they did. But we had Myrddin Emrys on ours.

Myrddin had lived in Celyddon for many and many years, before ever Arthur came. And he knew the hidden trails and byways of that dark wood. Every mound and stream, every valley and overgrown glen, every rock and tree and weed-grown pool was known to him. And, even in his blindness, he could describe those familiar features as closely as the lines of his own face.

Nor was Arthur ignorant of the great forest. He had hunted there often. The hills of Eildon he knew as well as the hills of Dyfed in the south. The ruins of old Trimontium, the Roman fortress on the Twide, and the nearby monastery at Mailros were as much a home to him as Caer Edyn and Caer Melyn.