As before, by the time we reached the fording, the day was spent. Rather than attempt the crossing in the dark, we made camp and waited to cross the river until morning – hoping against hope that the mist might lift during the night. There were thickets of bramble and furze abounding along the riverside, and the Cymbrogi set about hacking at the roots with their swords, quickly gathering whole bushes into a great heap which Myrddin promptly set alight. The resulting flame burned with a foul black smoke, but the heat and light were welcome nonetheless. We hung our wet clothes over the prickly branches of low-growing gorse and stood basking in the warmth, trying to drive the cold and damp from our bones. Some put their boots on sticks and held them near the flames to dry them.

When the fire died down to a comfortable blaze, we prepared our supper, glad for a hot meal at last. We ate in small huddles of men, hunched over our bowls as if afraid the cold and darkness might try to steal away the little warmth and light we held. Still, it was good to get something hot inside us, and our spirits improved immeasurably – so much so, in fact, that Cai, having finished his meal, set aside his bowl, stood up, and called for a song.

'Are we to allow the dolour of the day to gnaw at our souls until there is nothing left but a sour rind?' He raised his voice as if to challenge a foe. 'Are we to sit shivering before the fire, muttering like old women taking fear at every shadow?'

Several of the older warriors, knowing Cai, answered him in kind. 'Never!' they shouted, rattling their knives against their bowls. 'Never!'

'Are we not the Dragon Flight of Arthur Pendragon?' cried Cai, his arm raised high in the air. 'Are we not True Men of Ynys Prydain?'

'We are!' called the Cymbrogi, more joining in with every shout. 'We are!'

'Well, then,' Cai declared, his broad face glowing with pleasure in the firelight, 'let us defy this ill-favoured night with a song!'

'A song!' the Cymbrogi cried; every man was with him now, shouting for a song to roll aside the gloom and woe.

With that, Cai flung out his arm towards Myrddin, sitting a few paces away. 'Well, Myrddin Emrys? You hear the men. We would have a song to bind vigour to our souls and courage to our hearts.'

'A song, Myrddin! A song!'

To the hearty acclaim of all, the Emrys rose slowly, motioning to Rhys to fetch his harp- He took his place before the fire, and the Cymbrogi crowded in around him. 'If you would hear a tale,' Myrddin began, 'then listen well to what I say: the enemy encircles us and dogs our every step. Therefore, let us take up whatever weapon comes to hand. Tonight we raise a song, tomorrow a prayer – and one day soon a sword. In the darksome days to come, let each man resolve within himself to hold to the light that he has been given.'

So saying, Myrddin reached for the harp Rhys had brought him, and began to pluck the strings. He bent his head and put his cheek against the smooth, polished wood of the instrument, and closed his eyes. In a moment, the seemingly idle strumming became purposeful. Everyone, Arthur included, leaned forward as the Bard of Britain opened his mouth and began to sing.

'When the dew of creation was still on the ground,' Myrddin sang, his voice rising like a graceful bird taking flight, 'a great king arose in the Westerlands, and Manawyddan was his name. So mighty was this king, and of such renown, that all nations held him lord over them and sent their best warriors to his court to pledge their loyalty and serve him at arms. And this is the way of it:

'Manawyddan, fair and true, received the warriors and bade them wait upon him in his hall. When all were gathered there and ready, the noble lord arrayed himself in his fine cloak, took up his rod of kingship, and mounted his throne. He gazed out upon the assembly and thought to himself: A thousand times blessed am I! No man ever wanted better companions. In truth, each man among them could have been king in his own realm had he not chosen to pledge faith with Manawyddan.

'The great king's heart was touched by the glory of his warhost, and so he bade them stay a while with him, that they all might enjoy a feast he would give in their honour. When the feast was prepared, the warriors, noblemen all, came and filled the benches at table, where they were provided with the best food that was ever placed before men of valour from that far-off time to this. What is more, whatever food any warrior preferred – whether the flesh of deer, or pigs, or beef; or the delicate meat of roast fowls, or succulent salmon – he had but to dip his knife into the bowl before him, and that food was provided.

'The warriors were delighted with this wonder, and acclaimed their host with loud approval. So clamorous were they in their praise that Manawyddan was moved to decree another wonder. He ordered golden ale tubs to be set up in all four corners of the hall, and one beside his throne. He then summoned his serving boys to bring drinking bowls of silver and gold to his noble guests, and invited them to plunge their cups into the foaming brew. This they did, and when each man raised bowl to lips, he found the drink he liked best – whether ale, or mead, or wine, or good dark beer.

'When they had drunk the health of their sovereign host, the noble guests accorded such vaunted praise that Manawyddan's great heart swelled to hear it. He pulled his golden tore from around his throat, put aside his fine cloak, and stepped down from his throne to join in the feast, moving from table to table and bench to bench, eating and drinking with his guests, sharing the feast as one of them.

'When hunger's keen edge had been dulled against the bounty of the groaning boards, King Manawyddan called for his bards to regale the company with tales of mighty deeds, songs of love and death, of courage and compassion, of faith and treachery. One after another, the bards appeared, providing a feast for the soul, each one finer and more accomplished than the last.

'The last bard to sing was Kynwyl Truth-Sayer, Chief Bard of Manawyddan, who had just begun the Tale of the Three Prodigious Quaffings when there came a shout from outside the hall; the shout became a cry, and then a keening, beginning loud and growing louder and louder still until it shook the entire stronghold to its deep foundations, and every mortal creature within the stout walls covered his ears and trembled inwardly.

'Then, when the bold company thought they must be undone by the terrible sound, it stopped. The warrior host looked at one another and saw that they were covered in the sweat of fear, for none of them had ever heard a cry like this: tortured beyond endurance, beyond hope.

'Before they could wonder who might have made a cry of such wounding torment, the high-topped doors of the hall burst open and a tremendous wind swept through the hall – a fierce gale like those which rage in the wintry northern seas. The warrior band braved the icy blast and when it had abated at last, they looked and saw a lady standing in their midst. The stranger had the look of a queen, and she was dressed all in grey from crown to heel; her face was hidden beneath a hood of grey, and she had three grey hounds beside her.

'Manawyddan was first to recover his wits. He approached the woman, his hands open and inviting. "I give you good greeting," he said, speaking in a kindly voice. "You are welcome here, though you may find the companionship of women more to your liking. If so, I will summon the maidens of my court, that you may be made comfortable in their presence."

"Think you I have come seeking comfort and pleasure?" the Grey Lady snapped haughtily.

' "I was merely offering you the hospitality of my court," replied Manawyddan. "Unless you tell us, we will never know why you have burst in among us. Was it to put an end to our enjoyment?"