My father was Belyn, Lord of Llyonesse. My mother was a serving woman in the king's house. I learned early that I would receive nothing from my father's hand and must make my own way in the world.

I was little more than a boy when Myrddin agreed to make me his steward, but I have regretted not one day. Even through those long years of his madness, when I searched the hidden ways of wide Celyddon alone, I desired nothing but to be once more what I had been: servant and companion to Myrddin Emrys, Chief Bard in the Island of the Mighty.

I, Pelleas, prince of Llyonesse, will tell all as I have seen it… And I have seen much indeed.

'Are you certain, Myrddin?' Arthur whispers, anxiously. 'Everyone is watching. What if it will not work?'

'It will, as you say, "work". Just do as I have told you.'

Arthur nods grimly, and steps up to the great keystone where the sword stands, its naked blade stuck fast in the heart of the stone.

The yard is mostly empty now. Those going in to Urbanus' mass have done so. It is cold, the day dwindling towards dusk. A few small snowfiakes drift out of the darkening sky, to fall on the Sagged stone pavement at our feet. Our breath hangs in clouds above our heads.

It is the eve of the Christ Mass, and the lords of Britain have come to Londinium to hold council – as they do nearly every year – to essay who among them might become High King.

Fifteen years have come and gone since the sword was first placed there. Now the once-fine steel is rusted, the stone weathered and stained. But the eagle-carved amethyst in the hilt still glows, its imperial fire undiminished.

Macsen Wledig's sword it is. The Sword of Britain. Emperor Maximus once owned the sword – and Constantine, Constans, Aurelius, and Uther after him, each in his turn High King of Britain.