When Albion is at its greatest peril, he will rise again from the earth with all his knights, and save us all.

For centuries, time flowed inside the estate as it did outside. Or so it was assumed; no-one went inside its boundaries. The owner was said to be abroad, or dead in a war.

The estate was in a valley, encircled by two moats. The inner was brackish water, overhanging willows with tearful branches, swans and coots. The outer, encircling the estate, began where the rocky, fast-flowing river separated, slowing on the meander into two tributaries of lilypads, waterboatmen and kingfishers. Within the boundary of those tributaries was an island brimming to the edge with wheatfields, and muddy banks where cows were to be seen, sipping the clean water. Crops were harvested, but no-one ever saw the workers.

From the shore were visible the turrets of a castle, or a large folly, among the trees. Those who paid attention swore they never saw smoke at the chimneys.

Brave tourists swam in the chill of the rivers, or rode their rapids in wooden boats and, in later centuries, fibreglass canoes. Leftovers from picnics were eaten by the voles and rats.

There was a bridge onto the island. Its gate was always locked. No-one came in or out.

Until the Sindineiro arrived.

*

To be Sindineiro meant to be an outsider, children starving, dirty and uneducated, homes unplumbed, access to medical care denied. For different reasons, all tolerated this to avoid being microchipped. The chip was an affront, allowing access to society but also controlling it. The start of dystopia. The end of freedom.

They were of all factions: libertarians, Iberian rebels, anarchists, old-school road protestors, new-agers, Buddhists, Luddites, evangelicals.

They came at first secretly, by night and in small groups. Although each had received an invitation from Morcant, no-one came to greet them; they had to be their own hosts. But they were Sindineiro and had the consolation of their beliefs. They formed phalanges within each faction, each phalanx circulating its leader twice a month, at the full and at the dark of the moon. No-one admitted to meeting Morcant, but rumours spread from the clocktower, highest point of the castle, that certain activities were preferred. The rumours were the only higher authority all phalanges accepted without question.

It was not clear whether Morcant was man or woman, or even human.

The arrivals became more frequent and less secret, until a rumour came from the tower that no more would be let in. Heavy of heart, the Phalangistas chose a guard from a rotation of groups, and closed the gate.

More guards came to be needed around the outer moaty edge of the land. Oxen were stolen, crops trampled. The guards sometimes chased off the invaders. Some of the invaders were not so lucky.

One night the placid countryside of Prydein was tormented by a storm so loud, it roused everyone from their beds to watch sheet rain plashing past the arrowslits. Thunder and lightning battled above. Those who ventured into the courtyard saw, through the deluge of water, how the lightning struck, over and over, at the weathervane on the clocktower.

In the morning, the cock on the weathervane was unbent, the sun bright and perfect, and the moat had turned a lurid green. The eldritch storm had spared every tree on Morcant's island, but beyond, ancient oaks cleaved in two made a sharp circle, a natural fence of fallen wood intertwined with itself.

There was no time for conjecture. Rumours came to bring in an early harvest, and the Phalangistas worked without break for three days, cutting and baling deep into the night under floodlights powered by the castle's generator.

After the harvest some youngsters went to swim in the outer moat. The green was a plant they could not identify, choking the water, frondily extending up its banks. Without discussion, no-one swam in the green.

Autumn was near, the apples soft in the orchards, and the Phalangistas had a few days' rest, playing cricket in the castle courtyard.

And then the first tanks came.

They came cross-country, inexorable, ripping a path through the devastated woodlands, tossing aside half-branches and crumbling the decaying wood beneath their tracks. They came from all directions, surrounding the estate, gun turrets turned inwards.

Messages burst from loudhailers: There is a pardon for those who leave this area today. There will be no arrests today. Those who leave will get social housing and a bank account. There will be no arrests today.

The Phalangistas had lived on Morcant's island so long, they had forgotten what it was to be Sindineiro and sinned against. On Morcant's estate there were no first or second class citizens.

Some saw the tanks as an indication that death would come tomorrow, and the next morning there were a few score fewer people on the estate, although no-one had said goodbye.

Morcant allowed them to leave, unmolested.

*

In the morning the messages were repeated, extending the amnesty til noon. No-one accepted the offer.

At noon, the loudhailers stopped, leaving a silence more menacing than any veiled threat.

The autumn day edged to a close. Sunset was chill, with river mist rising. The tanks squatted on the meadows until darkness hid their shapes.

The inhabitants of the estate waited.

*

Three in the morning is a time when those on watch are easily spooked, and those asleep are hard to rouse. At this hour the tanks began their forward movement in the dark.

They rolled across the land, sinking deep into the miry meadow earth, their tracks forming swirling streams. They cracked the branches of willows and crackled across the woody dams of beavers. On they came, a slow charge and deathly, until they reached the water's edge.

What happened next was never quite understood, but Morcant - whatever Morcant was - remembered the prayers of the blue-painted maidens. It was not surprising that the descendants of the ancient woodlands remembered them too.

Time passed, decades in one minute, the green life within the waters growing at high speed. The tanks, edging into the water, found their rubber parts decaying, their metals rusting rapidly. The tank drivers, protected by the ribcage of the vehicles, tried to reverse, but by then it was too late - the rot had washed past them and into the world outside the island.

Cadets were instantly geriatrics, their minds failing, then toppling skeletons from which the flesh rotted before the bones hit the floor. The river life moved into the husks of the tanks, and set up nests in the crannies. Generations of wildlife lived through that night, transforming their habitat.

In the morning, the Phalangistas saw that the army had vanished, leaving only rusted hollows of ancient vehicles, rotted in the river. Beyond, the metalled roads had been eaten by time, the trees grown back across the whole of Prydein to the river's edge.

When they dared leave Morcant's land, the Phalangistas found not another living soul. Only thick forests rich with deer, rabbits, ancient oak and thick conifers. Wild grew the wheat and barley, and the land was free once more.