On the little island, people are going about their everyday business. With night approaching, mothers call in their children. Men who have livestock return from the fields: the shepherds leaving their sheep to sleep in the grassy meadows next the lake, the cattleman bringing the best of his beasts into the safety of the byre. Women walk briskly, their arms filled with firewood, or trudge beneath the weight of yoked pails of milk. The blacksmith tamps down his forge, taking care no stray ember or spark escapes to kindle a blaze among the dry wood of the palisades or the thick thatch of the roofs. A herding dog slinks around my heels, nervous of my confident stride but drawn to the snuffling sounds from beneath my cloak. I drop my hand to my side, low and still, and he sniffs it, wagging his tale in acceptance of the gesture of friendship. Smoke is already rising from the hole in the roof of the great hall. I can picture well the assembled company, gathered for their evening of talking, and eating, and drinking. It is in these close moments that syrupy words are poured warm and winning into my prince’s ear. It is the oldest, simplest magic: Give a man a bright fire to stare at, a tankard of fresh ale to drink, a place of comfort to take his ease and a bellyful of good meat, and he will listen to the rankest rubbish and think it sweet.

I am, nonetheless, shocked to find no guard at the entrance to my prince’s dwelling. I am able to pass over the threshold without the slightest hindrance. Inside, all is so exactly as I had known it would be it is as if I had experienced a vision of it. A table runs along the far wall, on the other side of the fire, and at it sit Prince Brynach, Princess Wenna, Nesta, Rhodri, Hywel and Siōn. A page pours ale, and fetches meat from the fire. Two soldiers feed logs onto the base of crimson embers. Other warriors and members of the royal household sit and eat in quiet corners, each lost in his or her own world of worries and wishes, with scarcely a glance at their prince, and not one of them noticing an unannounced visitor come standing among them. Until I speak.

‘Must I stand here so long my feet take root before I am acknowledged?’

At the sound of my voice several of Brynach’s men jump startled to their feet, or hurriedly drop their beakers of ale, attempting to make themselves appear worthy of the name guard. One draws his sword in a futile show of strength.

‘Save your blade for another day,’ I tell him. I sweep the room with an angry glare. ‘Had I been minded to harm the prince your actions would have come too late to stop me.’