The song ended in a feral howl, and even before that howl had ended Culhwch had limped out of our shield wall and shaken his spear at the enemy. He derided them as cowards, spat on their lineage and invited them to taste his spear. The enemy watched him, but none moved to take his challenge. They were a tattered, fearsome band, as hardened to killing as we were, though not, maybe, to the war of shield walls. They were the scourings of Britain and Armorica, the brigands, outlaws and masterless men who had flocked to Mordred’s promise of plunder and rape. Minute by minute their ranks swelled as men came down the spit, but the newcomers were footsore and weary, and the narrowing of the spit restricted the number of men who could advance into our spears. They might push us back, but they could not outflank us.

Nor, it seemed, would any come to face Culhwch. He planted himself opposite Mordred, who stood in the centre of the enemy line. ‘You were born of a toad-whore,’ he called to the King, ‘and fathered by a coward. Fight me! I limp! I’m old! I’m bald! But you daren’t face me!’ He spat at Mordred, and still not one of Mordred’s men moved. ‘Children!’ Culhwch jeered at them, then turned his back on the enemy to show his scorn of them.

It was then that a youngster rushed from the enemy ranks. His helmet was too big for his beardless head, his breastplate a poor thing of leather and his shield had a gaping split between two of its boards. He was a young man who needed to kill a champion to find wealth and he ran at Culhwch, screaming hatred, and the rest of Mordred’s men cheered him on.

Culhwch turned back, half crouched, and held his spear towards his enemy’s crotch. The young man raised his own spear, thinking to drive it down over Culhwch’s low shield, then shouted in triumph as he thrust down hard, but his shout turned into a choking scream as Culhwch’s spear flicked up to snatch the youngster’s soul from his open mouth. Culhwch, old in war, stepped back. His own shield had not even been touched. The dying man stumbled, the spear stuck in his throat. He half turned towards Culhwch, then fell. Culhwch kicked his enemy’s spear out of his hand, jerked his own spear free and stabbed down hard into the youngster’s neck. Then he smiled at Mordred’s men. ‘Another?’ he called. No one moved. Culhwch spat at Mordred and walked back to our cheering ranks. He winked at me as he came near. ‘See how it’s done, Derfel?’ he called, ‘watch and learn,’ and the men near me laughed.

Prydwen was floating now, her pale hull shimmering its reflection on the water that was being ruffled by a small western wind. That wind brought us the stench of Mordred’s men; the mingled smells of leather, sweat and mead. Many of the enemy would be drunk, and many would never dare face our blades if they were not drunk. I wondered if the youngster whose mouth and gullet were now black with flies had needed mead-courage to face Culhwch.