They retired to a more private part of the castle.

"No one will stumble across us here," Blæk murmured, slipping a key into the lock of a dark wooden door. Bors blinked at it. He was absolutely sure he had never seen this entrance before in his life. And he had grown up in and around this castle.

"My lady, I don't think you should . . . "

"If not her, then no one, Sir Bors. You are only here because she suffers you."

Bors reached out to bang the odd little fellow against the wall - nothing fatal, just a little light concussion to remind him of his manners - but he was astonished to see his hand pass straight through. Or, rather, his target wasn't there any more but stood a few feet further back.

"Bors! Stop it. I trust Blæk."

Seemingly emboldened by the Queen's words, Blæk stepped back to the door, within range of Bors should he wish to repeat the manoeuvre and pushed open the unlocked door.

"Please. The sooner I can share my news, the quicker we can begin to plan . . . retribution."

They followed him into a small room. It was sparsely decorated, with just a few wooden chairs around a table. The edges of the space were clouded in darkness, and it seemed to Bors that if he gazed too long into that void, the blackness looked back at him. It was all very disorienting.

Blæk sat and indicated to Guinevere and Bors to do the same. They did not take him up on his offer.

"Queen Igraine. Speak." Guinevere's voice was level, hiding the emotions that roiled through her mind. There was a pause as the spy ordered his thoughts. When he spoke, his tone was utterly devoid of emotion, as if he was reporting the weather. "It is settled understanding that, following the feast at which King Arthur announced the quest for Caeldfwch, Queen Igraine retired to her room, at which time, either by accident or by design, she fell through her tower window. There has been speculation that the Queen was either in her cups or, perhaps, that the deep trauma following the death of her husband had damaged the balance of her mind."

He stopped speaking and looked at Guinevere expectantly. She was unsure how she was supposed to reply. Bors saved her the trouble. "And what of it? This is hardly news."

Blæk did his odd head cock, so reminiscent of an inquisitive bird, and began again. "Indeed. However, I recently received information that cast doubt on that story and set out to prove or disprove its veracity."

"What information? You mean one of the Grey thinks differently?"

"All in good time, my lady. Firstly, I sought to interrogate the initial assumptions. That the late Queen was inebriated and thus stumbled through her window. The serving girl who waited on the royal table that evening is unusually acute about such things and has a clear memory of how much each member of the royal party at and drank that evening. Incidentally, Sir Bors, for a man of your age and temper, I feel I should recommend you be a touch more circumspect about your consumption of red meat and mead. It would go ill for the realm should you suffer the fate of the last three patriarchs of your household. Vegetables are food, too."

"The Queen, Blæk," Guinevere said, avoiding eye contact with a suddenly very self-conscious Bors who was trying to suck in his considerable gut.

"Of course, my lady. The Queen drank her usual water all night. Not a drop of alcohol past her lips. So much for that aspect of the theory. But, of course, you do not need to be drunk in order to give into despair."

"And you have looked into that?"

"Indeed. I have it on good authority - and have interrogated numerous incidental sources - which are clear that although manifestly in mourning, the Quee was wholly engaged in plotting out the realm's future. Her detailed correspondence makes it clear that she sees herself as having a role to play in the new world order that you and King Arthur were seeking to establish. Just the very morning of her death, she issued a series of instructions for information to be gathered for a number of long-term goals. I submit that these are not the actions of a woman who feels she has nothing left for which to live."

"So she wasn't pissed, and she wasn't suicidal." Bors was finding the atmosphere in the room oppressive and was anxious to get out into the fresh air. He was also smarting from being called fat and wanted to go and hit some recruits until he felt better. "But that doesn't mean she didn't just fall. Look, I liked Igraine, but when you hear hoofbeats, it's usually going to be horses, not men banging the shells of giant nuts together."

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"To be sure, Sir Bors. And that is the final possibility that I have needed to explore most thoroughly. Do you know the last time anyone - let alone a member of the royal family - fell, and by this, I mean without question 'fell' to their death within Tintagel?"

"It must happen all the time. I mean, no, not all the time, but I'm sure it is not that unusual. There was a Saxon captive a few years back. Hansa, I think he was called?" Bors suggested.

"Jumped. Three eyewitnesses." Blæk's answer was instant.

"Lady Morraine?" Bors met Guinevere's confused expression. "Before your time. Long legs, but no tits."

"Helped on her way. She was becoming too friendly with the Queen. Igraine was most displeased."

"Fuck's sake, just tell us what you're hinting at." Bors was sweating now, and it wasn't just the rising heat.

"There have been thirteen defenestrations in the last one hundred years. My records go back further, but I thought this period was instructive. Three confirmed suicides. Two drunken mishaps. And eight . . . let us call them 'happy accidents'. There is not a single example of a sober, sane person falling to their death without aid."

"So the odds are against it. That does not make it impossible." Guinevere was not sure where Blæk was going with this.

"Indeed, but we must all agree it makes it an unlikely scenario. And now to the true meat of my report. There is incontrovertible evidence that a hooded figure entered Igraine's chamber around the time of her fall. I have been able to account for the whereabouts of every member of our own staff and the vast majority of the visiting retinues. I am confident that whoever entered the Queen's room did so for the purpose of killing her. However, I cannot narrow down the suspect list any further than that."

Bors was about to explode. "Who are the options? I'll get it from them!"

Blæk shook his head sadly. "I wish it were as simple as that, Sir Bors. The four suspects whose whereabouts I am unable to confirm are the Kings of Gwent, Powys, Dehuebarch and Gwynedd. They were reportedly meeting together to discuss their reaction to Arthur's announcement. However, none of the Grey can find out where, for how long, or when they separated. So, to conclude. Queen Igraine was undoubtedly murdered - why I am as yet unaware - and it was by one of the four kings now on a quest with Queen Guinvere's husband,"

*

Beric of Powys stared into the fire.

He was unaccustomed to life on the road - it had been many years since he had needed to lead his own warband - and was finding it as unappealing as he remembered. The food was execrable, the company worse, and despite his vociferous argument, no whores had been allowed with his party. If he were not wholly committed to keeping Caeldfwch out of that young twat's hand, he would have refused to step outside of his lands.

"My lord wants to speak to you."

Beric's eyes snapped up into the face of one of Mark's litter bearers. She was young, comely and bore all the hallmarks of having just a few more months of . . . service ahead of her. As eager for action as Beric was, even he wouldn't dare dip it in that particular well. Who knew what he would catch?

Biting back his distaste at being summoned by a peer, Beric stood and followed the girl away from his own men and into Mark's enclosure. It irritated him how better prepared for this quest the other kings appeared to be. Mark, in particular, seemed to be especially well-provisioned for taking part in an extended road trip. Beric ran his hand down the canvas of Mark's pavilion - expertly put up by a team of spears the moment they made camp - and shook his head ruefully. Those of Powys had forgotten what it meant to be in the field during the years of tribute flowing into Saxon purses to keep the peace.

Leaving the girl at the entrance, he stepped inside and was surprised to see Corys sprawled on a chair next to Mark. This gave Beric a moment's pause.

"Mark. Corys," he nodded uneasily. He was all for shadowy alliances as long as he was included.

"Beric, thank you for coming." Mark's grossly fat face split into a smile. "And then there were three."

"You're sure of Owain?" Beric said, taking a seat opposite them.

"He's either dead or nearly so. The fact fuck always did like his scouting more than was good for him."

If either Corys or Beric felt it was somewhat hypocritical for Mark to comment on the weight of anyone else - at least Owain could walk under his own steam - now did not seem like the time to share.

"I'm less worried about Owain than I am about Arthur and his pet wizard," Corys added.

"It's the barbarian I am most concerned about." Beric could not lose the image of his men being humbled by that big man from his head.

"It would be fair to say our lives would be an awful lot easier without any of Uther's court in our lives. And that goes for double if the welp gets his hands on Caeldfwch." Mark tried to sit up straighter, and both Corys and Beric worked hard to keep their faces still during that little performance. "I will not accept Arthur as the Pendragon. So I swear."

The other two mouthed the same oath - a mirror of the one they had given a few days earlier in Tintagel. At the time, it had been a booze-soaked boast amongst old acquaintances. But now, in the fae realm and beset at all sides by challenges, the words were taking on a new weight.

"I worry," Corys began, "if we can prevent that from occurring, should Arthur claim the sword?"

"Well," answered Mark, "that would seem to be the crux of the matter." He waved to one of his servants, who slipped outside the tent. "I hope no one would think me presumptuous, but when I heard that dear old Owain had gone missing, I reached out to a few in my party with special skills."

Three hooded men entered the tent and stood before the kings.

Beric did not know why, but something about each of them both chilled and thrilled him at the same time. "What are you suggesting, my lord?"

Mark smiled again, and Corys joined him in that. "I'm not suggesting anything. I am being very clear about what is going to happen. Arthur will fall. His bitch of a wizard will die. And we will put down that mad dog of a bodyguard. After that, we can discuss who we choose as Pendragon amongst ourselves." Mark's grin suggested he had a pretty good idea of how that conversation would go. "But that can come after we bury the upstart."

Beric found himself nodding along. Perhaps expeditions in the woods were not so terrible after all.