This was not going to be a lowkey quest.

It turned out that when you put five kings on the road, a certain degree of pomp and circumstance came with it, which was targeted at generating attention. If we had any hopes of starting this journey on the down low, the number of trumpets, banners, musicians and general hangers would thwart that.

I couldn't help but feel this would be less of a road trip and more of a very slow-moving rolling invasion.

By agreement, each king was allowed to bring fifty troops with them to ensure their safety – but it seemed that this didn’t cover anyone whose purpose was ‘miscellaneous.’ There were several suspiciously buff and attentive ‘servants’ in each king’s retinue as to make me think not everyone was studiously following the agreement

That made it pretty hard to swallow when there had been a little light to and fro about me joining Arthur's contingent. But Lancelot had lazily drawn his sword and yawned, and those worries appeared to evaporate. Although, that decision did seem to encourage a growth in tall, bearded cooks and cleaners with poorly hidden swords, so it wasn’t all gravy.

"Besides," as Beric had added charmlessly, "as soon as one of us has the sword, she'll be as useless as a newborn kitten."

"There is a lot of water to flow under the bridge before then, girlfriend. Might be wise to make sure you don't drown yourself in it."

"My lord! " Beric turned to Arthur, appealing, "Can you not control your tame magician? I will not continue to suffer her threats and slanders."

Arthur stared at him blankly. If possible, the grimness of his expression had increased since the loss of his parents. The silence stretched out until the King of Powys took a hesitant step back, running into the rather solid chest of Lancelot, who had come up behind him.

"To clarify, happy l am. Pretty hair did not threaten you.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I, however, will chop you up into teeny tiny pieces if you ever speak unrespectfully to her again." He turned his head to eyeball the men whose arses he had whipped in the duel back in Tintagel. "Fifty men, the stretch may well be. But this barbarian could never count too well."

"Prince Arthur!" Beric's tone was scandalised.

" King." If Lancelot was going to play this game, I was damned if I wasn't going all in. I let a little flicker of lightning play at my fingers.

"What?" he snapped back at me.

“Pardon," Lancelot said, drawing his sword a few inches more.

I always loved that guy." You will address my lord as ‘King’. While he may yet to be acclaimed as the Pendragon for reasons only panty-wetters like you can understand, he is still King of Dumnonia and will be treated as such by you. I can tattoo that on your forehead if you like?" For shits and giggles, I tried to hit him up with a suggestion that he really, really needed the toilet. Other than a brief frown, nothing really changed in Beric's demeanour.

"My apologies, King Arthur. It will take some getting used to. Your father was a great man who was much respected across the land. Whereas you are . . .”

I hit him with everything had and was delighted to see a small puddle begin to form at his feet.

Arthur looked down and then up to the shocked-looking man. "Panty-wetter indeed," he said, just loud enough for everyone in the area to hear. Beric was bundled away by his men.

I was aware of eyes fixed on me and turned to see Mark and Corys whispering towards the back of the group. That felt less than ideal.

I'm not sure how helpful making one of the key allies we need against the Saxons urinate himself in public truly was.

"He won't know it was me. He's an older guy; these things must happen all the time."

The different factions had, finally, drawn themselves together outside Tintagel's walls. On the other side of the bridge, which had been recently so vigorously defended against the Saxons, Bors and Guinevere rode hallway across to see us go.

"Surprised to see you staying behind, old man!" Owain called back good-naturedly.

"Ah, you know how it is. You've been on one quest for a legendary blade; you've been on them all. Besides, think there are enough swinging dicks on this expedition without needing me around to make you feel all inadequate!”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Guinevere's horse trotted forward a few more steps. "We wish you well in your quest. Our gates stand open to welcome you on your triumphant return."

"From what I hear, getting her gate open is a task beyond Uther’s boy.”

There was an outraged hum as all in Arthur's party sought out the speaker. But other than smirks and disguised laughter, we didn't catch who was now living on borrowed time.

Guinevere sat taller, ignoring the noises off. “We wish you good hunting, and may the bearer of Caeldfwch rise on to rule these lands."

The gathered host drew their blades and signalled back at her. There were no further comments about the cheap seats.

And then they were returning to the castle, and we were underway.

*

Guinevere returned to her room before letting the humiliation of the shout from the gate reach her face. She knew this was how she was perceived, as an icy maiden who had driven her husband to find his relief elsewhere.

The impression was not eased when so many of Arthur's bastards kept showing up. It hardly took complex, deductive reasoning to suggest the reason why the succession remained unsettled rested on her shoulders.

Or between her legs, she assumed.

Nimue, the minor cultivator her father had dispatched with her when her wedding was agreed, smiled at her from above her knitting. She had known this wrinkled old woman for as long as she’d been alive, and she had been tasked with identifying the moment Guinevere fell pregnant.

Leodegrance, her father, had promised Uther ten thousand spears the second the news that his daughter was pregnant was confirmed, and—to a certain extent—that expectation had kept the Saxons from pressing the issue against Dunmonia too closely.

But the years had rolled by, and Nimue’s sad little shake of the head had become as much part of her morning routine as washing her face. After so much time and with such little success, she and Arthur stopped trying – the Prince moving into his own bed chamber in recent years – and then, soon after, they were not even speaking.

Much less . . .

Guinevere had hoped that the thawing of their relationship might bring about a change of luck, but thus far, despite some rigorous and thorough assaults on her gates, it did seem somewhat that the fortress remained resolutely unbreached.

A noise from behind her spun her around, twin daggers already drawn from their holsters at her wrists.

“My lady!” a nondescript man in grey stood there, arms raised in surrender. “My apologies; I did not mean to startle you.”

“How did you get in here?”

The man looked around him as if unsure how to answer. “You are the queen!”

She restored one of the daggers to its hiding place and crossed the room to slam into the man, pinning his back to the wall. Her forearm rested against his throat, and the dagger pressed into his side. “If my question had been ‘who am I?’ then that would have been an acceptable answer. However,” she roughly pulled him off the wall and then slammed him back against it, "as I wanted to know how you entered my room, your response leaves me unsatisfied.”

The bland man was reddening under the pressure of her grip around his throat. He tried and failed to croak out an answer.

Nimue made a soft tsk noise from her corner of the room. The sort of noise she had made countless other times over the years. Such as when Guinevere refused to tidy her room or perhaps was caught sneaking out of a window at night. The queen instinctively released her hold.

The man sucked in air, the colour fading from his cheeks to leave him – what appeared to be – his natural pale, off-milk complexion. “My apologies, my lady. We have clearly got off on the wrong foot. I should have presented myself to you in a more formal way, but the late queen had ever a preference for quiet solitude when we spoke. It was my foolish assessment that you would seek to continue that tradition. May this be my solitary misstep in your service.”

“That was a lot of words.” Guinevere released the man and pointed at an empty chair. “Why don’t we try this again? Who are you?

The man sat, casually crossing his legs. She realised he wasn’t quite wearing grey: it was a patterned material that helped him blend into the background. The deconstructed shapes helped him vanish into the dark wood, much as he had in the shadows in the corner of the room.

“My name is really of no consequence, my lady.”

“Humour me.”

“The late queen was never much concerned with such things. She was happy –“

“Well, she’s not too happy anymore, is she? She’s fucking dead, and I don’t have conversations with strange men that break into my chamber without knowing their names.” Guinevere did not shout, but her voice had a tightness that brooked no dissent.

“Blæk, my lady. I am known as Blæk.”

“Well then, Sir Blæk,” his eyes popped for a second at the uncalled-for honorific, but he was wise enough not to interrupt, “am I to assume you served my late mother-in-law?”

The unassuming man – she kept having to glance at his face to remind herself what he looked like – nodded. “Indeed. We of the Grey have forever served the Queen of Dumnonia. My own father was honoured to have acted for King Uther’s mother on more than one occasion. He was very proud when I went into the family business, as it were.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still a little unclear. What was it you did for Queen Igraine? Or, perhaps more pertinently, what are the ‘Grey’?”

“Everything, my lady.”

Guinevere growled in frustration and tapped the dagger against her thighs. “Blæk, it has been a long and tiring day. My parents-in-law are both dead. My husband has left on a damned fool idealistic crusade for a magic sword. Four kings – and who knows how many men – have had a good laugh at my fertility issues. No matter how often and in what position I fuck my husband, that particular issue doesn’t seem to be going away. And now I am having the most frustrating conversation I have ever had since trying to engage Nimue in a talk about the birds and the bees. Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are the Grey?”

Blæk cocked his head, not unlike a bird, and then his eyes twinkled. “We are spies, my lady. We are assassins. We are the hidden dagger behind the curtain. The king may have his knights, but the queen has her rogues. We are yours to command and will die in your service.”

Guinevere paused for a moment, then sat back, a wide grin spreading on her face.

“Interesting, Sir Blæk. I find my day is improving.”