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me?’
    Bedewyr shook his head regretfully.
    The man’s dark eyes darkened further. ‘I have a head wound?’
    Bedewyr nodded and the man’s expression cleared.
    â€˜Then I’m sure I’ll remember soon.’ He fingered the empty scabbard, tracing the inlay with his finger.
    â€˜It’s no good. I almost remembered something then, but now it’s gone.’ He shook himself in irritation, then continued. ‘I see I am without a weapon. I would be indebted to you and your tribe if you could lend me the use of a spare blade.’ The man’s elaborate politeness was both courtly and archaic. It confused Bedewyr further but, though he knew Petronax would have thought him a fool, he unpacked the spare sword he always carried in his pack and gave it to the man. According to the War Duke the new swords, recently forged, were vastly inferior to the ones their ancestors had made. A wise man, who could afford it, carried more than one, as they were apt to break. Bedewyr did not entirely trust the Druid and knew that he could be arming an enemy, that his spare sword could end up sheathed in his own chest, but his sympathy was roused by the man’s confusion and gentle courtesy. When the man clasped the blade in his hand all doubt and uncertainty disappeared from hiseyes. The darkness lessened. Bedewyr, too, was reassured. Surely no wizard would hold a sword with such easy familiarity, as if it was no more than an extension of his arm. The large dog suddenly paused from tending his master’s wound and stood, tense and ready. The stranger tightened his grip on the sword and staggered to his feet. The two of them, dog and man, stared intently at a distant clump of thorn bushes. The man’s face was hard and focused. A small band of Aenglisc raiders were charging towards them.
    Bedewyr reached for his own sword. There seemed no question but that they would have to fight. Fear made his hand shake. It also made him blurt out, ‘If you have no name, I’ll call you Gawain after my brother who died. A man should not die nameless.’
    The young stranger spoke with all the authority of a battle-hardened soldier. ‘We are not going to die, at least not now. Stay away from my sword arm and leave the rest to us!’ He indicated his hound with a slight inclination of his head and flashed Bedewyr a smile of surprising warmth. ‘And thank you, it will be an honour to carry your brother’s name into battle.’
    The dog stood beside ‘Gawain’, something of his master’s certainty evident in his stance. The low growl that issued from its throat had an almost jubilant quality. Gawain reached out and patted his head.
    â€˜I have misplaced your name, old friend, but I havenot forgotten you. You have fought by my side before.’
    The look the war hound gave him was one of pure adoration.
    The Aenglisc were shouting now, the ragged vainglorious shouts of a mob urging each other on. Gawain found himself seeking something in his own mind, an inner habit of calm. He found it. His mind and body unified in a state of total concentration. The world narrowed. There was his sword, his dog, and his enemy. He may not remember his own name, but he remembered who he was. He was a warrior and this undisciplined mob was doomed.

Chapter Four
    Gawain took in several pieces of information at once. The five men charging towards him were not enemies he had fought before – he knew that. They were simply dressed in long rustic tunics and trews. They wore no armour and ran bareheaded so that long dark-blonde hair streamed behind them. Even from several paces away they stank of cask courage. They waved long knives rather than swords in the hope of intimidating him, but he could sense their underlying fear. One of them, a big man built like a blacksmith, wielded an axe, but it was a wood-cutting tool and single-headed, not a war axe. They carried no shields and they did not seem to