Peace has returned to Britain but not unity. Some supporters urge Arthur to declare himself Emperor and restore the rule of Rome but he knows this cannot be. The Tyrants do not want a permanent master. What is more, the island has been ruined by years of strife. There are no longer artisans to build, merchants to trade, councillors to restore civic government. He concedes that the Roman remnants of Bath must soon be abandoned for Camulos.

Other divisions are opening among the people. Whilst the peasants hold on to ancient pagan beliefs which are indifferent to human foibles, the Church, the only real survivor of the Roman imperium, proselytises and increases its power. Where Arthur apparently needs no god but himself, Gwenhwyvar is an intolerant Christian who hates the pagan ceremonies invested in Camulos by Arthur’s seer Myrddin. In this uncertain situation Tyrants and warriors begin to look for the main chance. Too late Catumandus perceives the ambition of Medraut, Arthur’s son by his own sister Morgan.

Tolerant of all beliefs and benign even towards base human motives Arthur’s own faith rests in the divinity of Justice which, he believes, should be enshrined throughout Britain. To this end he journeys eastward to the lands held by the Saxons and meets their leaders at the great Roman temple in Camulodunum. Yet as they pass through London Catumandus observes Morgan presiding over sensual Pagan rites in a shrine beside the Thames whilst Gwenhwyvar is making a pilgrimage to the shrine of St Alban.

The Saxons adulate Arthur for he is no ordinary man; their defeat by such a hero only increases their own pride since the battle spilled as much British as Saxon blood. But the feasting, the singing and the exchange of golden gifts will lead nowhere. The Saxons can bide their time on rich land where they can breed. In the meantime the British tribal states remain unchanged as though at Badon their strength had been spent. Britain’s creative power now seem to reside only in its monks and clerics who continue to spread their faith encouraged by Arthur’s Queen. In this she is soon abetted by a valiant warrior from Armorica, the pure minded Galaved., son of her dead passion Lazanleawg.

The great tragedy of the Celtic Britons now unfolds. No force can control the British rulers’ dissensions. Yet the common peoples’ love of Arthur is proved at an ancient ceremony, the Battle of the Trees, held amidst the immemorial stones of Avebury. There he is recognised by all men and women as their Sacred King, the King who will be, the King who dreams, the wisest of the Forest. In verses he must proclaim himself as the life of Britain, the never ending harp string who bathes in starlight, the Bright One before he is mysteriously wounded by the followers of Morgan. For a while he lies as a wounded king in a dream. The helm is taken by Gwenhwyvar, ever loyal to her Lord despite the rift between them. The revolt of Medraut grows into a dreadful civil war but when Arthur returns from his trance to find his Queen slain, he knows he must journey north to break the power of his son. A few days before that goal is achieved in the course of their northern march Catumandus rides for pleasure with Arthur over some wild moors. It is then, when alone with his father that he understands why he has come so far to Britain to be with him. It is a moment of epiphany. He writes:

It was one of those days when the sky does not seem able to make its mind up.  Infinitely high above us was the lightest blue, patterned here and there with delicate spines of white clouds.  Between them and the wild moors were occasional banks of dark clouds which, to the north, where the hills rose in sombre curves, came so low that it was not possible to say where the heavens began or the earth ended.  The inconstant wind came in gusts, blew for a while and suddenly dropped.  Then up it would start again from a different quarter.  I had the feeling that a sublime freedom was all about us, not only on the hills where the bracken  was rustling but right up to the sky where the sun was a flashing shield that sometimes shattered the darkness with long shafts of light pointing straight down to the moors, creating bright patches before abandoning them to gloom.

Arthur went ahead of me for a while always choosing a path that led upward; we left the milder land behind and came to a place where there was not a tree but only russet heather.  At our approach, speckled grouse scuttered frantically or rose in sudden flight.  Then we descended abruptly to a lower, boulder strewn area, whose vegetation though thin was full of variety. We had entered a miniature world happily existing in a landscape where all else was enormity.  Sometimes we skirted black ponds that might have been deep or shallow but were always forbidding.  Water hens splattered through them among the spiny reeds, fearing us for hunters.  In some places the ground was soggy; my horse sensed the danger and pulled back whinneying angrily unless he was the one to choose the way.  I did not even try to keep up with Arthur.  Horses responded to him as men did; unerringly he took the right way.  Then I saw him in front of me watching me coming.  His horse was standing proudly on a crag, as rigid as its rider, just to show that it could play at statues as well as any human.

By now I had the feeling we were up here in the north of Britain for no other reason than pleasure.  Arthur said, "People travel to see the wonders of Egypt and Hellas and visit holy places, but I wonder if the day will ever come when they travel just to be in wild haunts like this."  It was an odd idea and made me laugh.  "Why not?"  he asked.  "Don't you love it here?  No one in sight.  Listen.  Did you hear?  A curlew.  So melancholy."

"Yes.  Though I can't tell a curlew from a duck."

"Then why shouldn't others come?  Hundreds of them."

"If there were hundreds there'd be no point in us coming."

"You're so literal Cadfan.  No wonder you don't have any time for gods."  Arthur's horse gave me a pitying look and off we went again at a gallop.  It was quite a time before we stopped - in a strange sheltered bowl.  At the far end the greenest grass surrounded a placid pool like an emerald torque.  By the time I got there Arthur was already swimming though the day was far from warm.  There was no way out; I had to dive in after him and was panic stricken as I found myself going down and down into the icy water.  My legs began to stiffen with cramp; I fought wildly to get to the surface and must have looked blue when I emerged at last.  Arthur was reclining on a rock.  I made for it and was pulled aboard.  "That was a stupid thing to do.  Never dive into a mountain pool.  The deep water's the danger.  I thought the white woman down there had wrapped her legs around you.  What a lovely death."

"You might have come down to rescue me."

"Why should I do that?  I'm comfortable here.  No.  If she wanted you, she'd have taken you - whatever I did about it.  Anyway she's spewed you up.  She didn't fancy you.  Listen.  The curlew again.  Come.  Let's swim again."

We swam about for a while.  The water was cold even near the surface and after I got out my skin tingled as we lay in the sun on a smooth rock.  And then, quite unexpectedly, in that remote place to which I had never come before nor ever would return, I experienced an extraordinary longing that was in itself a form of bliss:  ah, to stay here with Arthur beside this pool, in this sunlight, this peace, this freedom, for ever and ever.  For I knew then that I had arrived after a very long journey at a still point, a centre that was simple yet full of mystery, and that my real self would never quit this place.  The rest of my existence was the dream.  Even Angharad's gentle love for me, my tender love for my children and my strangely unflinching passion for Conyn, faded away while this brief hour of wholeness ran its course.  So could it matter very much to me if tomorrow Arthur and I and all the flower of Britain passed away?  At last I had found what I had been seeking and wanted nothing more.  I had found Arthur and what he was and is, for against the insentient universe he stands secure.  Thus, without grasping at it, I had reached the peak of such happiness as men may have.  This was why I had left Egypt, why I had travelled thousands of miles to spend half a lifetime in Britain.  Everything had been for this moment of joy lying near my father by a pool with no one about us, with no one knowing we were here.  I turned on my side to look at him, so much older than when I had first seen him.  I stretched out my hand and rested it over his heart.  His eyes were open but he made no movement.  I sensed the rhythm of his blood surging; I felt his chest rising and falling; I saw the clouds raging; I heard his voice speak my name; I heard the cry of the curlew and, as though no years lay between now and long ago, I relived the ecstasy I had once sensed in the plea of a flute over the light filled Ionian Sea; I felt Arthur's hand upon me, his lips touching my cheek; I saw a boundless ocean in his eyes and I knew, I knew that he and all these wondrous things flowed on in me.  This was the plenitude of the only love my heart desired.

The rest of Catumandus’ story is of Arthur’s final battle , his wounding at the hand of Medraut whom he slays and of his last mysterious journey. The tragedy of Arthur is done but not his glory.