He had his wish. A moment later, the flint-chip yard was full of people. We were greeted by a man named Bervach, who welcomed us warmly. 'It is not a day for travelling, my lords. Come in by the fire and we will chase the cold from your bones. There is meat on the spit and drink in the skin.'

'We accept your hospitality,' replied Merlin, climbing down from the saddle. 'Your kindness will be repaid.'

The man grinned happily, showing a wide gap between his front teeth. 'Never say it! The Emrys does not pay to sleep beneath the roof of Bervach ap Gevayr.' Despite his words, the man could not help himself; his eyes stole to the bundle behind the saddle and his grin widened.

'Nevertheless, you shall have a reward,' promised Merlin. He winked at me, and I loosened the harp from the saddle and cradled it under my arm as the horses were led away to fodder.

'It is not a day for travelling,' repeated Bervach, as we stooped to enter the low-beamed house. 'The wind on the hills can chill the marrow. Come in, friends, and be welcome.'

Arthur strode to a wide, deep hearth that occupied the whole of one wall. He stood before the hearth and held out his hands, sighing with pleasure as the warmth seeped in.

Bervach watched Arthur for a moment, curiosity glinting in his eyes. 'I feel I should know this one with you,' he said to Merlin, by way of coaxing a name from him. When Merlin did not rise to the bait, he added, 'Yet, I have never set eyes to him before now.'

I saw the quick clash between pride and prudence mirrored in Merlin's glance. He desired to keep Arthur's identity hidden – we were not in our own lands and Arthur still had enemies. And yet Merlin wanted men to know and esteem Arthur, for their respect and devotion would one day be required.

The contest was brief. Pride won.

'Since you ask,' replied Merlin, 'I will tell you who it is that stands before your fire: Arthur ap Aurelius, Duke of Britain.'

Bervach's eyebrows lifted at this knowledge. 'I owned nun a lord the moment I saw him.' He nodded slowly, then with a shrug dismissed Arthur, saying, 'I have heard of this Duke Arthur, though I did not think to see one so young. But come, I stand here between you and the fire. Go now. I will fetch a warming draught.' It was clear who counted with Bervach.

We joined Arthur at the hearth. A rosy fire crackled smartly beneath a long spit, bending beneath the weight of the great haunch roasting there. The aroma of venison filled the single large room. Smoke hung thick, sifting its way out slowly through the heavy reed thatch of the roof. Barley loaves baked in neat rows in a corner of the hearthstone.

In all it was a close and comfortable dwelling, now filling with other families of the settlement, all talking excitedly in hushed voices. As Bervach produced horn cups, the people of the holding continued to crowd in, until the small house could hold no more. And still they came: man, woman, and child; thirty souls in all – the entire settlement.

Women bustled about, bearing vessels of wood and pottery, whispering, working efficiently. They were assembling an impromptu feast in our honour. Clearly, the visit of the Emrys was an event not to be missed. And none, apparently, would.

Bervach ap Gevayr was, for this night at least, the equal of any lord in the Island of the Mighty, for tonight the Emrys slept beneath his roof. What happened this night would be remembered and discussed, and all events following would date from it for years to come. Future generations would be told that on this night the Emrys passed by, and he stayed in this house, ate our food and drank our mead, and slept on this very hearth.

And he sang! Oh, yes, he sang…

Merlin was well aware of the expectations his presence created. Although tired, and desiring nothing but food and sleep, he would please his hosts.

So, after the meal – and it proved as good and satisfying a meal as any we had enjoyed in far richer houses – Merlin motioned to me for his harp. I had tuned it, of course, and brought it out to squeals of delight and sighs of pleasure.

'Were I a king,' declared Merlin loudly, so that all could hear, 'I could not have obtained a better supper. But since I am no king, I must do what I can to reward you.'

'Please, you are our guests. Do not feel you must repay us,' said Bervach, seriously. 'But,' he paused, flashing his gap-toothed smile suddenly, 'if it would please you to ease the hardship of the road in this way, we will bear it for your sake.'

Merlin laughed heartily. 'Once again, I am in your debt. Still, it would please me if you would endure a song – for my sake.'

'Very well, since you insist. But a short song only – nothing of length. We would not want you to tax yourself overmuch on our account.'

Merlin sang The Children of Llyr, a very long and intricate tale of great and haunting beauty. I had heard it twice before – once in Aurelius' war camp, and once in Ban's hall – but never have I heard it sung as Merlin sang it.

The harp spun its shining silver melodies in the still air, and Merlin's voice followed, weaving among them a melody of its own, reciting again the age-old words. The words! Each word, every note and breath sprang to life new-born: bright and fresh as creation, whole, untainted, innocent.

To hear him sing… Oh, to hear him was to witness the birthing of a living thing. The song was alive!

Those crowded beneath Bervach's roof that night heard the work of a true bard, as few ever would. And they were blessed by it, as few are ever blessed in this sorry age.

When the song was finished, and Merlin laid the still-quivering harp aside at last, it was late indeed. But it seemed that the evening had passed in a blink, the little space of time between one heartbeat and the next; it seemed – and I believe in some way it did happen – that while Merlin sang we who heard him were lost to time, having passed through it and beyond to that place where time no longer touches us.

For the duration of the song we breathed the air of a different world wherein is lived a different kind of life, richer, higher, and more complete in every way.

Merlin possessed the gift; it was, I imagine, much like his father's.

'Now I know what men heard when Taliesin sang,' I told him later, when we had a word alone together.

He shook his head firmly, the corners of his mouth bending in a frown. 'Taliesin's gift was as high above mine as the sighted man's vision above that of the wretch born blind. The two are not to be compared.'

Early the next morning, a little before dawn, we took our leave of Bervach and the rest of the holding who had gathered in the yard to watch us away. As we mounted our horses, some of the mothers stepped forward and lifted their small children to Merlin to receive the Emrys' blessing. He gave it with good grace, but it disturbed him.

We made our way through the valley in silence, and on into the lowlands beyond. It was not until we stopped at midday to rest and water the horses and take a small meal ourselves that Merlin would voice what was on his heart.

'This should not be,' he muttered. 'I am no holy man that babes should receive blessing from my hand.'

'Where is the harm?' I asked. 'The people need someone they can look to.'

'Let them look to the High King!' The words were out before he knew it. Arthur winced as if pricked by a thrown knife.

'No… no,' Merlin said quickly, 'I did not mean it. I am sorry, Arthur. It is nothing to do with you.'

'I understand,' said Arthur, but the pain lingered in his pinched expression. 'I am no king, after all.'

Merlin shook his head sadly. 'Oh, the Enemy has set a most subtle trap. There is danger here and we must tread lightly.'

The unhappy spirit of this exchange reigned over the rest of the journey like the dark, wet clouds that hung above our heads – and continued until reaching Ynys AvaJlach.