Arthur, with his keen blue eyes and hair of burnished gold, his ready smile and guileless countenance. Wide and heavy of shoulder, long of limb, he towers above other men and, though he does not yet know the power of his stature, he is aware that smaller men become uneasy near him. He is handsomely knit in all; fair to look upon.

The native brashness of the northern hills clings to him still. He is like an untamed colt brought into the company of humankind: curious, wary, eager to discover the source of the strange delights that rouse his senses. He is green and untried, but ripe with the promise of greatness.

When he enters a hall the eye travels naturally to him. Those who hunt with him find themselves contesting who shall ride at his right hand. Already, he draws men to him; that is his birthright.

'Go on, Arthur,' Merlin urges, as Arthur hesitates on the threshold. 'It is time.'

I do not possess a prophet's vision; I cannot see what will be. But, at my master's words, I see once more all that has gone before this moment… see now Arthur as I first saw him.

A near-naked babe, wearing nothing but a short, dirty sark, his long yellow locks well tangled with leaves and bits of straw, he stumbled forth on legs like little stumps, blue eyes merry with infant mischief. In each chubby fist he grasped a half-grown cat.

A mere babe, but he clutched those two grey cats by their necks in his grip and held them dangling above the ground. Hissing, spitting, writhing mad, they scratched at his arms – and Arthur laughed. We stared in wonder at the sight. The mite endured their claws and laughed for all his tiny soul was worth.

It is said that from the mould of the child, the man is cast.

Well, my master and I sat astride our horses, looking on, and this is what we saw: wild young Arthur, alight with life and laughter, indifferent to pain, already master of an impressive strength – and a more impressive will.