The feeling of wearing clean, linen togs is one that is unfamiliar to me, as is the feeling of running a hand through my hair without hitting a snag. It is a new day. I am washed, well rested, my stomach is full, and my vigor is renewed.

Soon, Arianwen and I are at her brother's villa on the opposite side of Ehangwen, nearer to Geraint's house. I am ashamed to have escaped the three rhyfelwyr who had shown me such kindness and mercy back in Caer Gai. I owe them a great deal, and I mean to repay their kindness as soon as I have earned a name for myself.

Gawain Gwalltafwyn is unlike many of the other rhyfelwyr of Camelot. Though draped in a silver, silken robe and gracious in manner, he has a rougher edge to him. His long, sand-colored hair falls about his shoulders, unbound, and his long moustache is braided and anchored down by two, tiny gold bands. He is not of the Roman-British pedigree claimed by many of the clean-shaven Bwrdd Crwn whose speech has been smoothed by a Latin adze. Gawain and his sister are of the northern wilds, where I imagine "Camelot comforts" are hard to come by.

Unlike Morcant, Gawain's courtesy does not betray any prejudices he may have toward me. He is the perfect host, and he allows his sister to answer all questions in her own time. The silver-haired princess chooses her words very deliberately, explaining who I am and my purpose. I begin to realize that my mother and Brother Cybi went to a lot of trouble to keep me ignorant of the art of war and arms. I knew of Lord Cai and Arthur only because they were supposedly Christian kings, worthy of sainthood by the monks' reasoning.

Gawain strokes his moustache thoughtfully, meditating only for a moment before a waggish grin appears. "The Red Knight is a tyrant who deserves to be knocked from his horse." The Lord of the Gododdin is now slowly strolling about the room. "Melwas is too cowardly to claim High Kingship, but expects all other kings of these isles to pay him tribute, Arthur included. I suspect he hasn't yet received his tribute, or why be here in Camelot and not in Glastenning?"

Arianwen does not share the surprise that must be obvious in my expression. She remains cool, as though she fully expected to win his support.

Gawain turns suddenly to consider me once again. "But are you the one to tilt with him?"

Before I can answer him, Arianwen makes an answer for me: "Who else?"

---

The sky is clear over the wide field called Dyffryn Prawf Llym. The air is cool, and our breath appears in billowing plumes of steam. It is here that I have declared my challenge to the Red Knight. Gawain stands nearby, inconspicuously trying to get me to accept his sword. He gives up when the number of spectators increases, and he disappears into the eager, blood-thirsty throng. I am satisfied with the bag of javelins strapped to my shoulder, just under a warm, shaggy, rust-colored mantle of Gododdin cow's hide.

Arianwen, dressed in her boy's livery, leads the mounted Red Knight of Glastenning to the meadow. Claiming to be my servant, she has presented herself to Melwas on my behalf and extended my challenge. Now they have arrived together, from his red and gold pavilion, to meet me here. Behind him, on a handsome, opaline palfrey, rides his lady. It is the mysterious woman who yesterday gave her ring to me, which now rests in a bag on my belt. She has no expression of fear or distress. Anyone might say that she is confident her lord will win. My experience in her pavilion leads me to believe otherwise. I believe that she has seen the outcome of this duel.

Melwas is glorious in his red and gold, scaled hauberk. Emblazoned upon his armored chest is a fiery red dragon, matching the wind-stocking pennant his attendant now holds aloft. Over his shoulders is draped his famous blood-red mantle, fringed with gold knotwork and secured at his heart by a brooch... By the King of the Iddewon! The symbol upon his brooch matches the angular spiral branded into my own chest. A grim, gold helm of what can only be faery craftsmanship engulfs his head, casting his face in shadow. Only his fiery eyes are visible in the void. With red, leather gauntlets, he holds the reins of his black charger in one hand and a great, gleaming sword in the other. His sword is said to have belonged to Macsen Wledig, himself, and it is a brilliant feat of smithcraft.

Arianwen, still looking like a lad in my service, returns to my side. "I may have told a slight falsehood," she utters quietly from the corner of her mouth.

"So, Peredur Paladr Hir is it?" the Red Knight begins, seething with anger and spitting with every word. "Arthur has sent his champion to challenge me?"

My breath catches in my burning throat. "You told him Arthur sent me?" I whisper loudly to Arianwen.

"I had to," she answers matter-of-factly. "He wouldn't accept your challenge otherwise."

"I hope your High King understands that he has invited war," Melwas continues, now screaming with rage. "Today your head will be delivered to him on a pike! Tomorrow I shall have the lords of Caer Gloyw, Luitcoyt, Cerniw, and Glywysing at his doorstep. The blood of his precious Bwrdd Crwn will run in the streets! Camelot's ladies will be enslaved! Every home will be burned to the ground, and I shall sell its wasteland to the Gewissæ!"

I search the crowd for Gawain, suspecting that he would not abide such threats but he is nowhere to be found. When next I look at the Red Knight, he is accepting a spear from his attendant and preparing to charge. The thick sinews of his horse are flexed and ready to gallop, bursts of steam fire from his nostrils, and he shakes his head, whipping his raven mane to and fro like a mad thing.

---

Gwalltafwyn - hair like rain
Dyffryn Prawf Llym - Meadow of Ordeal
Iddewon - Jews
Macsen Wledig - Maximus Clemens, 4th-century Roman Emperor and hero to the British
Gewissæ - a kingdom of West Saxons