The Duke regarded me with a quizzical look. 'What happened?'

'The Hill Folk have collected the blood debt that was owed them, I expect. We came upon the bodies along the pathways – each one pierced by a Hill Folk arrow and hung up to bleed like carcasses of beef. The bhean sidhe slew hundreds, Bear, but we neither saw nor heard anything of them.'

'You were right to come back,' agreed Arthur. 'Leave the Hill Folk to fight their battle in their own way.'

Of Baldulf we had no sign. For, despite the ghastly grove of corpses I had seen, I did not for a moment consider that he might be dead. Too many had escaped into Celyddon – thousands in all. At least half the barbarian host was still alive to fight again.

A short while later the scouts which the Duke had sent out before dawn returned with the report that Baldulf had fled east to his ships waiting on the coast. As confirmation of this fact they brought with them the Irish king, Fergus, and the tattered remains of his war band. Fergus and his men had been captured making for Abertwide.

British lords and warriors hastened to Arthur's tent to see what the Duke would do. They pressed close about in a tight ring around Arthur. Some shouted and jeered at the Irish, but most remained quiet.

Fergus, his hands bound with leather straps, was hauled forward and made to kneel before Arthur. But the Duke took one look at the pathetic sight and raised the king to his feet. He took the knife from his belt and cut the thongs that bound him. Then, staring him full in the eye, Arthur said, 'If I were in your place I know you would kill me. Do you deny it?'

Fergus knew the northern tongue and answered, 'I do not deny it, lord. I would kill you.'

Then why have you allowed yourself to be brought here like this?'

The Irish king raised his head and with eyes full of defeat and humiliation replied, 'Because I heard that you were a just and merciful man, Duke Arthur.'

'You call me just and merciful, O King. And yet you made war against me. How can this be?'

'I am not lying when I tell you that I am far from wealthy. Once the name Fergus mac Guillomar meant something in the world. But the tribute we must pay to the Bretwalda has bled us dry. Now my lands are poor; my crops fail and my cattle die, and the crops and herds of my people do no better.

'This, and the tribute is never decreased by so much as a kernel of wheat. We starve, lord, for want of grain and meat. Baldulf said he would waive the tribute if I joined him in raiding. He promised much plunder.' Fergus lowered his head in misery. 'Please, lord, if you will not grant mercy to me, grant mercy at least to my warriors, who have done nothing but follow their king.'

Arthur pulled on his chin for a moment and then motioned for me to come near. 'What do you think, Bedwyr?'

'An unlikely tale, it seems to me.'

'But might there be some truth in it?'

I thought for a moment. 'Well,' I said slowly, 'the Irish need little enough encouragement to raid. Even in the best of times they seldom prosper.'

'That is so. What else?'

'The part about paying tribute to Baldulf rings true. It would explain much.'

'I agree. So what do we do with Aim?' the Duke jerked his head towards where Fergus waited.

'Ask Myrddin. He is your Wise Counsellor.'

'I am asking you. What would you do, Bedwyr?'

'I do not know, Artos. Kill him, I suppose. These greedy heathen must know that they cannot make war on Britain and hope to escape without swift and severe punishment. Strength is the only thing they respect.'

Arthur put his hand on my shoulder. 'Your answer is the Soul of Wisdom, brother. A man would be a fool to go against it. And yet that is what I shall do.'

'You mean to let him go?'

'Yes.'

'Then why ask what I think? What difference does it make what I say?'

'I needed to hear it, Bedwyr. That is all. You speak the hard law of war. But there is a higher law we may invoke.'

'Which is?'

'When a man asks for his life, you must give it – even if it were better in your eyes for that man to die.'

He turned away quickly and bade Fergus kneel down before him. The Cymry gathered close around murmured to themselves, speculating on Arthur's decision.

'Do you swear, O King, on pain of death, never to practise war upon Britain again? And will you with whatever oaths you deem binding swear fealty to me, and promise to uphold me and pay me tribute as long as your life endures?'

Fergus glanced up into Arthur's face, and I saw a rare sight – one that is not often seen in this world. I saw hope kindled in a man who knew himself doomed, who had no right to hope at all. This hope was born of mercy. And I could see by looking at the Irish king that Arthur had won a loyal friend for life. Fergus swore his oaths, bound his life to Arthur's, and rose a happy man.

Against all reason, Arthur fed the captives and sent them home – without an escort. There was nothing to prevent them from breaking faith and turning back to raiding the moment they moved from our sight. This caused many in our camp to grumble against Arthur, but when did the complaints of others ever sway the Bear of Britain?

We rested on the wide, grassy lee of the sparkling Twide, taking time, to refresh ourselves and heal our wounds. It remained sunny and warm, and the long northern day stretched soft and golden before us. Arthur spent it with the Cymbrogi, eating and drinking and singing with them. He gifted them with gold rings and armbands, and silver cups for their valour. He gave liberally of his share of the plunder, keeping nothing for himself.

So, after a supper of stewed leeks, roast venison, the coarse camp bread, and cheese, Myrddin Emrys took up his harp. The entire camp gathered on the riverbank, crowding one against another to the edge of the water so that no one could move. None seemed to mind the cramp, so intent were they on the Emrys' song.

Myrddin stood before them on a flat-topped rock, the waters of the Twide swirling below him. Straight and tall he stood before the battle host of Britain, idly strumming the harp, dead eyes downcast, searching among the tales in his vast store for the one he would share tonight. It was ever the same with him; Myrddin would try to fit the song to his listeners, so that it would speak to them a word they could treasure in their souls.

His long fingers played over the harp strings, drawing a melody from the singing heart of the harp as lightly as a maid coaxing a smile from her lover. Then, raising his head, he began the tale. And this is what he sang…

In the First Days of Men, when the dew of creation was still fresh on the earth, Bran the Blessed, son of Llyr, was Icing of Gwynedd and Lloegres and all Ynys Prydein besides. He was as just and fair as the sunlight that falls from heaven, and a better king was not known since kingship began in the Island of the Mighty, and this is the way of it…

One day, as Bran sat on the rock of Harddlech overlooking the sea, accompanied by his kinsmen and such men of rank as ought to surround a very great king, he spied thirteen Irish ships coming to him from over the sea and making for the coast, running before the wind with all the grace and ease of gulls.

Seeing this, Bran bestirred himself and said, 'Friends and kinsmen, I see ships out there boldly approaching our lands. Go you down to meet them and discover what these visitors intend by coming here like this.'

The men of Bran's company equipped themselves and went down to await the Irish ships. 'Lieu smite me,' exclaimed one of the men as the ships came closer, 'if I have ever seen ships as fine as these.' And all agreed that they were handsome ships indeed.

The foremost ship drew ahead of the others and they saw a shield raised on the deck as a sign of peace. The ships then stood off from shore and put out boats filled with strangers who proceeded to land.