It is the silence before the lowering storm.

All at once, the violence breaks: thunder after the lightning's sharp flash.

Voices: questioning, demanding, angry. Hands: grasping, making fists, reaching for knives. Bodies: thrusting forward, crowding in, threatening.

Wonder of wonders, Arthur does not flinch! He grimly holds his ground as the lords of Britain close in around him. I can see his head and shoulders above the rest. He is more perplexed than concerned or frightened.

They are shouting: 'Usurper!' They are demanding his name and lineage. Trickery! they cry. Perfidy! Deceit! They scream like scalded pigs. The holy sanctuary has become a vortex of spite and fear. Arthur stands silent in its centre, unmoved and unmoving. He is an effigy carved hi stone, and the noblemen are writhing dancers.

The hate! The hate is like the heat from an oven. It is the thrust of a spear, the blow of a closed fist. It is the venom of a spitting viper.

I struggle towards Arthur. I do not know how to help him, but I must stand with him. The throng around him is a solid wall. I cannot reach him.

Arthur stands alone in the fury his appearance has created.

Swords are thrust in the air; knives glint. I am certain they will kill the boy. They will see his head on a spike before they bow the knee to him. It was a dreadful mistake to bring him here.

Urbanus, arms above his head, hands waving, shoves close. His face white as death, he is calling for peace, for order. No one hears him. They do not want to hear him. A hand snakes out, and blood spurts from the bishop's nose. Urbanus falls back with a muffled cry.

The crowd closes. 'Kill him! Kill the usurper!" It is a death chant.

Arthur's eyes go grey and hard. His brow lowers. His grip tightens on the hilt of the sword in his hand. It is no longer an offering, it is a weapon once more, and he will use it.

Kill him!… Kill him!… Kill him!