Guinevere would be the first to admit that things may have gone a touch awry.
Gritting her teeth, she shuffled so that her back was pressed against the low wall. Rubbing mud into her face with one hand and piling a bunch of leaves over her legs with the other, she tried to avoid looking too intently at the gaping wound in her thigh.
She’d bound it tightly with strips torn from her dress, and the gushing blood that had made her feel quite light-headed had slowed to a trickle. She hoped that was a testament to discovering unexpected medical prowess rather than the fact she was bleeding out.
It kind of felt odds and evens at this point.
She’d got sloppy.
Her success against those initial Saxons had gone a touch to her head. But it was one thing to waylay some overeager kids on horseback but quite another when running into the rear guard of a whole fucking army.
By rights - and she was clutching at straws here, she knew - she was not sure she could have reasonably anticipated how slowly the Saxon retreat from Tintagel was going. To listen to Bors and that Celt tell it, they’d been picking stragglers off the beaten remains of that fleeing army for weeks.
So, she’d imagined that she’d - give or take the odd game of lethal hide and seek with a few waifs and strays - largely have this part of the world to herself until Arthur figured out the clues and came riding to her ‘rescue’.
Turned out not so much.
She held her breath as a burly, heavily armed man thundered past her, not giving her so much of a second glance.
She kept telling herself that as long as she kept confounding their expectations, she’d be okay. Probably. After all, as her sister was fond of saying, “no one ever became poor betting on the stupidity of men.”
That felt like a decent way to live your life when the worse thing that could happen was your husband somehow figuring out he was eating a slightly healthier cut of vension. It hit a little different when your margin for error was an axe to the forehead.
But, fingers crossed, it had worked for her thus far. When she’d blundered right into the middle of their sentry line, they’d expected her to surrender. So, she’d attacked. When she’d taken a mortal wound, they’d thought she’d fall crying to the floor. So, she slew her attacker and ran for it. And now they were seeking her, the last thing they would anticipate would be for her to double back the way she came.
But there was something about these Saxons wearing wolf cloaks that unnerved her. Another ran past her hiding spot, howling to the moon as he went. She’d seen more subtle hunting parties.
That said, they wouldn’t need much subtlety if they spotted her. She’d left her sword behind in the belly of the first sentry that reached for her and her dagger in the eye of the second.
If push came to shove - excuse the pun - she’d back herself hand-to-hand against most opponents her size. However, as most of the Saxons she’d seen this day looked like they could eat her in one sitting, she felt fisticuffs would be best kept as a last resort.
Timing would be everything.
She needed to work her way back through the sentry line and away. With luck, they would be all too busy looking for her in the other direction.
She was just preparing to stand - and my word standing on this leg, let alone running, was going to suck - when she heard approaching voices and froze.
“You have until I finish my own piss, wizard. Do whatever it is you need to.”
And a horribly mutilated body was thrown at her feet.
Guinevere clamped her teeth down tight on her hand to avoid gasping at the terrible damage that had been inflicted upon the poor man.
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But that wasn’t the worst thing.
That was the fact he was still alive.
*
All alone in her tower high above the rest of Tintagel, Queen Igraine sat in stately silence.
This room, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, was her refuge from the hustle and bustle of court life. It was here that she could forget about her role. And about the interminable struggles at court. And about her husband.
She smiled to imagine how Uther Pendragon would react if he knew that, when she retired to her room, she was not plotting sedition or brewing deadly potions but rather surrendering to the quaint simplicity of sewing.
For Igraine found quiet joy in the rhythm of her needlework.
The iron needle, slender and sharp, was her loyal subject in the realm of fabric and thread. She threaded it with a precision that spoke of years spent mastering this delicate art. The thread itself was a rich hue, contrasting beautifully against the pale linen stretched across her lap.
She was stitching a gift for Guinevere.
The needle plunged again and again through the fabric, reemerging with a consistency that bespoke her focus and discipline. Igraine worked in a pattern, each stitch following the last in perfect succession. The thread twisted and turned, forming intricate shapes and patterns.
Around her, the room was adorned with tapestries and fabrics, showing this had been her escape for years. However, she knew the symbolic importance of her latest creation eclipsed anything that had come before.
Since becoming Queen, the act of sewing had become more than just a pastime; it was a silent language through which she expressed herself. The rhythmic motion of her hands, the steady pull of the thread, and the soft rustle of the fabric were the only sounds that filled the air, creating a symphony.
As she sewed, Igraine’s severe expression softened, revealing a side seldom seen by her subjects. Or her husband. Or, if she was honest, her son.
Her eyes, usually sharp and piercing, now reflected a gentle concentration. The furrow of her brow eased as she navigated the needle, each stitch a tiny victory, a moment of peace.
The fabric gradually transformed. It was as if, with each thread, she was weaving a part of herself into the fabric, a quiet legacy of the woman behind the crown.
This creation was to be a wrap for Guinevere's baby.
Not that there was one yet, of course. But steps were being taken, and she had no doubt they would come to fruition.
They had to.
Although they had not given voice to it, this was to be the Princess's last chance to bear Arthur's child. The realm had become perilously close to disaster in the previous few months, and the need for an heir had become manifest.
Should this elaborate scheme fail, Arthur was to be persuaded to quietly dispose of her. Not that she thought he would take much persuading. There were Convents aplenty in which she could be stowed away if she went willingly and holes in the ground to host her if she did not.
Of course, they would miss Leodegrance's dowry spears, but that was what it was. She had already curated a list of available women to fill the void. Or, she smiled humourlessly, with a void for Arthur to fill.
But no more of that. Such plotting was for the future.
She liked Guinevere. Truthfully, she saw more than a little of herself in that young woman and wished this latest adventure well.
But she would be failing the realm if she did not have an alternative plan. And Queen Igraine had never let the realm down in her life.
She was musing on that when she heard hurried feet thundering up the stone steps of her tower, and she quietly put aside her stitching.
She was facing the door when one of her favourite household guards - Beckwith - burst in.
"My Lady," he stopped to suck in lungfuls of air. She liked Beckwith because he had just enough intelligence to be utterly loyal but not enough to - for example - realise walking up steps and having enough breath to tell the tale was more efficient than running and then needing significant recovery time.
"Take your time. I'm sure the message that has caused you to burst into my private chamber so unexpectedly cannot be that important. Why, I might have been up to anything . . ."
If anything, that worsened the situation as the poor man now had blushing and spluttering to contend with.
Eventually, though, he was in a sufficient state to share the unwelcome news that not only had the men tasked with supporting Arthur, Bors and the Celt lost track of them somewhere near the Enchanted Forest - something about a giant purple horse with a massive cock appearing from nowhere and rogering their own mounts - but the company of prime spearman shadowing the Princess had been found slaughtered a short distance from Tintagel. The name 'Cedric the West Saxon' was being mentioned in dark tones.
"So, to summarise. Rather than the heir to the throne conducting a rigorous but ultimately danger-free quest for his wife, which would bring them closer together, we find ourselves in the situation of having no Arthur, no Guinevere and no fucking idea where either of them is."
Ignoring any potential response from Beckwith, she swept past him and started descending the stairs.
"Where are you going, my Lady?"
"I rather think it is beyond time someone looped my husband into what is occurring. Can I suggest you hang around in case I need someone to heroically save my life?"
Going rather green around the gills, the exhausted young man began retaking the steps.