Guinevere stood her ground as the Saxon horseman urged his mount up the hill towards her. Her hair, braided tightly, fluttered like a golden banner in the wind, and she held the pose for a second longer than strictly necessary just to ensure anyone watching understood she was not afraid in the slightest.

To be fair, her attacker - a lad barely out of childhood, in all honesty. All awkward limbs and spotty face - was not an especially impressive sight, and she was already upgrading him in her mind for when she would retell the story later. He was a hulking figure, clad in chainmail that glinted with each powerful stride of his steed. The horse, a massive black stallion, thundered across the grassy plain, its hooves tearing up clods of earth. The Saxon's face was a mask of rage, his beard wild, and his blue eyes burning with the fervour of battle. A broad-bladed axe was clutched in his right hand, ready to strike . . .

Okay, she might need to dial it back a bit.

It was enough that she, a lone Princess, was being chased across a desolate moor and had turned to face her pursuer.

No need to overwrite the whole thing.

With a fluidity that spoke of many hours of practice, she turned sidewise to minimise her profile and settled into her stance, feet shoulder-width apart. Memories of an old soldier kicking her legs into their 'proper position' whispered through her mind, and she found herself grinning as she shuffled her feet a touch wider into the stance he had called 'whore fucking a dwarf'.

Funnily enough, she hadn't shared that with her father.

The drumbeat of the approaching hooves gave her a rhythm to further still her mind, allowing her to smoothly go through her work.

Guinevere raised her longbow, which, at six feet tall, stood taller than she did. This size allowed for a full draw, maximising the potential energy stored in its yew limbs. She drew the string, her fingers finding their familiar places.

The size of the bow meant the draw required significant strength, not just in her arms but also in her back and shoulders. Arthur had never liked how well-developed her muscles were. But, as she'd explained, years of rigorous training will do that to you.

What exactly did he expect?

But no. Why would he value that aspect of her? He much preferred his women soft, helpless, and damply grateful.

The bowstring came back smoothly, stopping at her anchor point – the corner of her mouth – ensuring the angle and direction of the shot would remain consistent.

The hoofbeats drew closer, and she matched her breathing to their rise and fall, slowing her heartbeat and settling into the perfect state of mind for what was coming next. She recognised the irony that she was probably calmer right now as death - or worse - rapidly approached than she ever was in the presence of her husband.

No more of that. Once this was over, there would be time to ruminate on the state of her marriage. She had another, more pressing issue before her right now.

Guinevere paused and waited for the precise moment to release – as with so many things, timing was crucial. Too early, and the arrow would miss its mark; too late, and the horseman would close the distance.

Whilst not as skilled as she was with the bow, she had no little ability with the spear she carried on her back. But close-quarter fighting was to be avoided wherever possible.

"Yer strong for a lass, but most men will be stronger. Prick them from distance unless you want them pricking you up close."

Now she thought again of his words, what on earth had her father been doing, allowing a man of Bryntag's demeanour to train his eight-year-old daughter? It was a wonder she'd turned out as well as she had.

Said the Princess, who'd set up a wholly fictional kidnap narrative to make her husband love her again.

Probably best not to pick at that scab right now.

As the Saxon neared, Guinevere calculated the lead necessary to account for the speed of the horse. It was a complex, split-second calculation involving the arrow's trajectory, the horse's pace, and the distance closing between them. Her eyes, long trained to make such judgements quickly, made subtle adjustments to her aim.

With a decisive, almost imperceptible movement, Guinevere released the arrow. It screamed outwards, aimed not just to strike the Saxon but to take him in the head.

It was a ridiculously complicated choice, but she needed to unseat her foe from his horse before he reached her. This seemed the most likely way to achieve that.

With a sound as noiseless as a soft sigh, the shot went through the horseman's left eye, and he toppled from his saddle.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The horse, suddenly free of the weight, shied off to the left, fouling the progress of the second horseman that Guinevere had chosen, by necessity, to ignore.

At the speed they were travelling, the accidental collision led to the other Saxon being unhorsed and - judging by the cracking sound of bones he made as he hit the ground - out of the pursuit.

Guinevere nodded. Pleased with herself. "Two for the price of one arrow. Not bad."

Of course, she was now down to her final arrow.

And there were still three Saxons out there somewhere. But she quite liked those odds.

With a smile on her face, she went back to climbing up the hill, scampering on her hands and knees over the uneven terrain.

If anyone had been able to ask her, she would have told them she was having the time of her life.

*

The plan, such as it was, had started to unravel almost the moment Guinevere was beyond Tintagel's walls. She had refused all offers of support or accompaniment that Igraine had suggested. And, as soon as that clingy wizard had left her alone in the little village, she’d made her excuses to her hosts, returned to bed and made a run for it.

Quite simply, she did not trust any of these Britons to keep their word.

If her plan was going to work, she wanted to ensure all the parts that depended on her went precisely as intended. She would make sure she was where she was supposed to be when the time came, and Igraine and the rest of them could focus their attention on keeping Arthur on track.

Leaving Guinevere on her own.

Exactly how she liked it.

Ironically, though, she'd miscalculated the extent of the turmoil in the land around the castle following the Saxon invasion. She'd barely been travelling a few bells before being forced to abandon most of her baggage when bandits showed far too much interest in a richly dressed lady travelling the road on her own.

And then, two days later, she'd attracted the attention of a band of roving Saxons and needed to take evasive action.

Unfortunately, they had proved oddly committed in their pursuit of her, and this had become an unwelcome distraction that had pretty much destroyed any hope of Operation Rescue Guinevere actually coming off as intended.

Thus, as Guinevere fled uphill away from the last three of a group that had once numbered ten, she had no idea where she was, how she would get back on track, or even if anyone knew things had gone awry.

But she was sure it would all work out okay. One way or another.

*

As night began to fall, she congratulated herself on somehow staying ahead of the remaining Saxons and reaching a copse of wood to hide within. A small voice in the back of her head kept trying to point out this was because they were letting her run herself to exhaustion, but she had no truck with that sort of defeatest thinking.

Guinevere had found a small area where trees grew close together, and the ground was particularly uneven. Exactly the sort of place she had been trained to turn to her advantage.

They'd need to lead their horses through this bit. If it was in a single file, so much the better. To that end, Guinevere chose a narrow path, bordered by two large trees, knowing she could easily lead them through this natural choke point.

Dropping to her knees, she selected a sturdy, flexible sapling that could bend significantly without breaking. She carefully bent it over, using its natural tension as the driving force for her trap.

The technical challenge here was to bend the tree just enough to store ample energy but not so much as to snap it or make it obvious. There was an obvious innuendo to make here, and, not for the first time, she regretted not having anyone around to share it with. She guessed that was why her husband constantly travelled with a large band of friends. She bet Arthur was never short of an appreciative audience for a good 'bending the sapling over' gag.

As a consequence of her musings, she may have whittled the sharpened piece of wood to attach to the sapling with a little more vigour than was strictly necessary.

She then anchored the sapling in its bent position - another wasted opportunity for jolly japery - using a tripwire made from vines she had hastily weaved together.

With that all done, she placed the tripwire across the path and camouflaged it with leaves and debris to ensure it remained hidden from sight.

Finally, Guinevere attached a trigger to the tripwire and set it up in such a way that, when disturbed, it would release the sapling. The engineering behind this was precise; the trigger had to be sensitive enough to activate at the slightest touch, yet stable enough not to go off prematurely.

"That's what she said," she said loudly.

Nope.

It just wasn't the same without an audience.

Her words, though, had the effect of drawing the three Saxons to her, leaving their horses behind to run after her. They were, as she was pleased to note, in single file as intended. Men could be so predictable. She ran through the choke point between the two trees, turned and prepared her bow to fire.

As expected, the leading Saxon stepped on the concealed tripwire. The sapling was released in an instant; its stored energy propelled the spear forward with lethal force and speed. The warrior, caught completely off guard, could not react in time.

Arterial spray filled the air.

The one following behind paused just long enough in horror at the demise of his friend to provide a nicely static and well-lit target for her to place her final arrow in the centre of his chest.

Two down, one to go.

She discarded the bow and reached for her spear.

The remaining Saxon looked at the bodies of his friends and then up at her. He did not look exactly afraid - she doubted he had the imagination - but he could recognise something was not working out exactly as it should.

He was bigger, stronger, better armed and - well - he was a man. His worldview did not really have space for this working out any other way.

And he held on to those convictions right until the moment Guinevere kicked him in the groin and pinged the head of her spear through his throat.

Blowing away a tendril of hair that fell across her face, the Princess efficiently looted the corpses, recovered her own kit and, with a satisfied step of knowing a job well done, carried on her merry way.

As she went, she wondered how Arthur's quest was going.

She presumed he was having as much fun as she was.