We still trained our young spearmen. We marched them through the snow, hardening their muscles to fight the Saxon. On the days when the snow fell hard and the wind whirled the flakes thick about the snow-crusted gables of the village’s small houses, I had the men make their shields out of willow boards that were covered with leather. I was making a warband, but as I watched them work I feared for them, wondering how many would live to see the summer sun.

A message came from Arthur just before the solstice. At Dun Caric we were busy preparing the great feast that would last all through the week of the sun’s death when Bishop Emrys arrived. He rode a horse with hoofs swathed in leather and was escorted by six of Arthur’s spearmen. The Bishop told us he had stayed in Gwent, arguing with Meurig, while Arthur had gone on to Demetia. ‘King Meurig has not utterly refused to help us,’ the Bishop told us, shivering beside the fire where he had made a space for himself by pushing two of our dogs aside. He held his plump, red-chapped hands towards the flames. ‘But his conditions for that help are, I fear, unacceptable.’ He sneezed. ‘Dear Lady, you are most kind,’ he said to Ceinwyn who had brought him a horn of warmed mead.

‘What conditions?’ I asked.

Emrys shook his head sadly. ‘He wants Dumnonia’s throne, Lord.’

‘He wants what?’ I exploded.

Emrys held up a plump, chapped hand to still my anger. ‘He says that Mordred is unfit to rule, that Arthur is unwilling to rule, and that Dumnonia needs a Christian king. He offers himself.’

‘Bastard,’ I said. ‘The treacherous, lily-livered little bastard.’

‘Arthur can’t accept, of course,’ Emrys said, ‘his oath to Uther ensures that.’ He sipped the mead and sighed appreciatively. ‘So good to be warm again.’

‘So unless we give Meurig the kingdom,’ I said angrily, ‘he won’t help us?’

‘So he says. He insists God will protect Gwent and that, unless we acclaim him king, we must defend Dumnonia by ourselves.’

I walked to the hall door, pulled aside the leather curtain and stared at the snow that was heaped high on the points of our wooden palisade. ‘Did you talk to his father?’ I asked Emrys.

‘I did see Tewdric,’ the Bishop said. ‘I went with Agricola, who sends you his best wishes.’

Agricola had been King Tewdric’s warlord, a great warrior who fought in Roman armour and with a chill ferocity. But Agricola was an old man now, and Tewdric, his master, had given up the throne and shaved his head into a priest’s tonsure, thus yielding the power to his son. ‘Is Agricola well?’ I asked Emrys.

‘Old, but vigorous. He agrees with us, of course, but...’ Emrys shrugged. ‘When Tewdric abdicated his throne, he gave up his power. He says he cannot change his son’s mind.’