‘Then I shall kill you,’ he said, and he clumsily swung his sword at me. I stepped away from the swing, and he stumbled and almost fell as he tried to follow me. He stopped, panting, and stared at me. ‘For the sake of your mother, Derfel,’ he pleaded, ‘would you have me die on the ground like a dog? Can you give me nothing?’ He swung at me again, and this time the effort was too much and he began to sway and I saw there were tears in his eyes and I understood that the manner of his death was no small thing. He willed himself to stay upright and made an immense effort to lift the sword. Fresh blood gleamed at his left side, his eyes were glazing, but he kept his gaze on mine as he took one last step forward and made a feeble lunge at my midriff.

God forgive me, but I thrust the spear forward then. I put all my weight and strength into the blow, and the heavy blade took his falling weight and held him upright even as it shattered his ribs and drove deep into his heart. He gave an enormous shudder and a look of grim determination came to his dying face and I thought for a heartbeat that he wanted to lift the sword for one last blow, but then I saw he was merely making certain that his wounded right hand was fastened tight about his sword’s handle. Then he fell, and he was dead before he struck the ground, but the sword, his battered and bloody sword, was still in his grip. A groan sounded from his men. Some of them were in tears.

‘Derfel?’ Igraine said. ‘Derfel!’

‘Lady?’

‘You were sleeping,’ she accused me.

‘Age, dear Lady,’ I said, ‘mere age.’

‘So Aelle died in the battle,’ she said briskly, ‘and Lancelot?’

‘That comes later,’ I said firmly.

‘Tell me now!’ she insisted.

‘I told you,’ I said, ‘it comes later, and I hate stories that tell their endings before their beginnings.’

For a moment I thought she would protest, but instead she just sighed at my obstinacy and went on with her list of unfinished business. ‘What happened to the Saxon champion, Liofa?’

‘He died,’ I said, ‘very horribly.’

‘Good!’ she said, looking interested. ‘Tell me!’

‘It was a disease, Lady. Something swelled in his groin and he could neither sit nor lie, and even standing was agony. He became thinner and thinner, and finally he died, sweating and shaking. Or so we heard.’

Igraine was indignant. ‘So he wasn’t killed at Mynydd Baddon?’

‘He escaped with Cerdic.’