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It’s the only thing he really disagrees with his priests and monks about. He’d bring back the gladiators if we had any fighting men to spare, which of course we don’t.’
    It was worse than he’d feared. Dan patted Braveheart’s head absently. He wished Ursula were there. She might have come up with something that meant he wouldn’t have to enter that arena of armed men and try to kill the formidable Medraut. He had only ever fought as a beserker or, in his brief period as Gawain, as an amnesiac working on instinct. He still couldn’t understand how, when he’d fought as Gawain, he could have experienced in his own body the blows he’d dealt his enemies. It seemed unbelievable and yet he was sure it was so. He needed Ursula’s calm common sense. Even if she had been unable to find a reason for him not to fight, just her presence would have helped. He felt very alone. He managed somehow to fake a smile for Bedewyr.
    â€˜Thank you, Bedewyr, I would be very grateful if you would be my second. You couldn’t lend me a sword as well could you?’
    â€˜The Duke Arturus will give you each a sword, to make sure there’s no foul play – poison and the like.’
    Bedewyr said it so breezily Dan was quite taken aback. What kind of a world was this?
    The guards guided him towards the lean figure of Arturus, muffled against the morning in a long, richly dyed cloak of emerald green. It was lined with fur and very beautiful but somewhat ineptly patched in places where the fine wool fabric had torn and pulled. His eyes were flint hard and unreadable.
    Medraut already stood before the Duke in his chain mail and elaborately decorated, gem-encrusted, crested helmet. Dan had no armour or weapon of any kind.
    â€˜For this to be a fair fight I will arm you both,’ Arturus began, but Bedewyr interrupted.
    â€˜Excuse me, Duke, but Gawain – I mean, Dan – has no armour. Surely the Count may not fight in his if his opponent has none?’
    â€˜Do you challenge my justice, Bedewyr?’ Arturus did not raise his voice but managed to make it sound subtly threatening.
    Bedewyr flushed. ‘No sir, but—’
    â€˜Your point has been noted but, in Dan, Medraut must fight a hero, while Dan fights a mere man, battle-hardenedveteran though he may be. Be ready.’
    No one it seemed argued with the Duke for long. Dan signalled for Braveheart to stay at Bedewyr’s side, and accepted the sword from Arturus. It was not of the quality of Bright Killer, though fortunately it still had a killing edge as well as a stabbing point. It would have to do. He smiled more genuinely at Bedewyr as he gave him his cloak.
    â€˜He favours his right hand and side but he’s very tricky,’ Bedewyr whispered, and Dan felt the dampness of his own sweat, suddenly cold on his skin. Now that he had regained his memory he knew he had always found his quiet place of inward focus before any major event in his life. When he had been a berserker that place had been red with blood and wildness. Now, it was, as it had always been when he raced or played football in his almost forgotten schooldays, the place where nervousness ended and where concentration began. He could still fight. He had fought as Gawain. The memory of that bloody battle sickened him. He did not want to kill again, but neither did he want to die. He closed his eyes briefly to prepare himself for combat and had an alarming vision of a young man in a soft woollen tunic, lean and well muscled, dark hair bound back in a braid. He opened his eyes in horrified confusion and for an instant he saw the young man’s eyes open; dark eyes, harder than his years suggested. He recognised thevision. It was himself.
    Dan started to sweat, his palms were damp and unless he was careful the hilt of the sword would become slick – he could not afford to lose his grip on his sword, or on reality. Something weird was happening