Uther pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

"And at what stage did you begin to recognise that none of this had ever really been a good idea?"

Igraine began to shrug, then sensing that was not entirely appropriate to the fairly dire atmosphere in the throne room, dipped further into her deep curtsey. "It would be fair to say, Your Highness, that in retrospect, more detailed planning would have been sensible."

"In retrospect?"

Igraine nodded, frowning at Uther's tone. She accepted that there was probably a certain amount of humble pie that would need to be consumed here. She had, after all, managed to lose track of both the Prince and Princess, as well as their sole remaining wizard and their most competent warrior.

For a realm teetering somewhat on the precipe, she understood that the plan she had endorsed to help bring Arthur back to himself could be considered a little injudicious.

Thus, she could accept that Uther had the right to be a little pissy in public about it.

However, a big fat black line would need to be drawn at extensive humiliation. There were far too many members of the minor nobility in the room for her liking. Speaking of which . . .

"Your Highness, on behalf of the men of Gwent, I offer my sincere condolences for the challenges that once again beset the British people. It would be an immense honour should you allow me to lead my brave countrymen on an immediate rescue mission. No mere Saxon will prevent me from delivering Prince Arthur and Princess Guinevere safely back to you." Gwynllyw's men roared their approval at his words.

Uther studiously ignored the man.

He had been doing a lot of that ever since the arrival of that long streak of piss at Tintagel a few days earlier. News of the near-total annihilation of Arthur's Marghekyon had brought every lunatic with a sword to court to try to get in on the action, and it was becoming a touch wearing.

Despite his irritation, though, Uther understood the impulse. Saxon incursions the length and breadth of the country were increasingly putting pressure on the native, petty kingdoms. Alongside Gwynllyw of Gwent, he also was having to put up with various princelings and would-be warlords from Dyfed, Powys and Gwynned.

It was encouraging that there seemed to be an impulse to throw their lot in with the Britons to meet the growing threat. He just would have preferred to have their support in the form of spears on the battlefield, rather than loud, virile young men hanging around his throne room and propositioning his servants.

He already had a son who fulfilled that criteria nicely.

The tall, earnest-looking man from Gwent might not be the most annoying of those seeking to join Arthur's band, but he seemed the least responsive to rejection.

However, Uther was far more focused on his wife for the moment. It was a rare day indeed that he could actually have something tangible to hold over her, and he intended to exploit this for its maximum enjoyment value.

Truth be told, he was not too concerned about Arthur and the rest.

For all his son's many faults, there were very few scrapes into which the lad could get himself that he could not find a way to escape: that had been true his whole life. He had been - by all accounts - burned to death not that long ago, and he'd walked away from it largely unscathed.

When you threw Bors, Morgan and Guinevere into the mix, he rather pitied whoever had waylaid them. It was likely to be a choice they would come to regret most sincerely.

Nevertheless, he did not need to tell Igraine that. At least not right now. She was looking somewhat flustered. "Retrospect, my dear? We need retrospect to identify that, having encouraged the Prince and Princess of Britain to wander alone around the Saxon-infested countryside, tighter security arrangements would be sensible. It needs hindsight, does it? That seems rather interesting."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Allow the brave men of Gwent the opportunity to cleanse your land, Your Highness! No Saxon shall stand against the might of our blades!"

Uther fixed his eyes on his increasingly red-faced wife, ignoring the loud chorus of cheers from around the room.

Igraine cleared her throat. There would be a reckoning for this little mummer's show. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And Uther would sincerely regret the smug smirk on his face. With great difficulty, she kept her voice neutral. "The Princess Guinevere believed she had a solution to her marital difficulties. We have discussed the importance of assisting Arthur and his wife to reach a more . . . stable relationship. I thought it apt to support her in this. Morgan agreed, and - following discussion - we put in place what I considered to be fairly robust safeguards to avoid any issues. I do not believe it could have been foreseen that the men following Guinevere would be slain nor that those tracking the prince would be accosted by a purple stallion."

"Perhaps. But, of course, we will never know what might have been achieved had the circle of those planning such things been a touch wider. The product of the collective brainpower of three women does not seem to have worked out too well for us, does it?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from those in earshot, and Igraine immediately straightened up. "I do beg your pardon?"

Uther was a veteran of countless battles. He had brought the various warring tribes of Dumnonia under his rule by strength, might and a bloodymindedness that would put a charging boar to shame. He had personally slain ten Champions - including his own brother - in violent duels and had never backed down from any challenge. Few things in this world, or indeed the next, could cause a moment of fear to flutter in his heart.

But he was also not an idiot.

He knew that glint in his wife's eye and recognised that boded ill for his immediate well-being. "What I mean, of course, my dear, is that it may have been sensible to include a wider range of advisors in planning how to ensure this unfortunate outcome was avoided."

"I speak for the men of Gwent when I say we would be honoured to be so included in any such discussions. We have experience in strategic, long-term thinking."

"And, just so I am clear, my lord, is your opinion that those advisors should have been men? To, I don't know, dilute the volume of silly, feminine thinking that has occurred? Was that your point? I'm sorry, I may have misunderstood. Sometimes, my fragile women's ears get quite overwhelmed by all the long words."

"No, what I'm saying is . . . Hang on. Let me gather my thoughts. What I am trying to outline is that, perhaps, you, Guinevere and Morgan might not have been the ideal people to plan out a complex military operation with any number of variables."

"Because we're women?"

"No, it's not that -"

"Because you are worried our periods may all have synched, leading to vapidity and emotional instability?

"Dear gods. No. What I mean is that because you're not, and never have been soldiers, you may have underestimated the challenges."

"The men - and women - of Gwent have a long and proud history of soldiery and would be pleased to offer our expertise in the upcoming rescue mission."

"Will you shut the fuck up!" Both Uther and Igraine bellowed at the tall man at the same time.

Grasping at the distraction to escape his wife's ire, Uther quickly sought to press onwards. "Prince Gwynllyw, my apologies. The stress of the situation, after all."

The tall man smiled back. If he had been offended by the raised voices, he did not show it. "Not at all, my lord."

"My son and his wife are beyond these walls. I would be grateful for your help in bringing them back home."

Gwynllyw's eyes shone with barely restrained fervour. He had a quest! And a quest from King Uther Pendragon, no less! This was a moment for which he had waited his entire life.

The other nobles in the throne room barely got out of his men's way as they stormed through the doors, running to the stables.

Uther shook his head. The fool. If those missing truly needed help, it would take much more than Gwynllyw and his band of merry men to make a difference. Indeed, he doubted he'd see that man alive again. He had better send to King Glwys to let him know the imminent fate of his middle son.

However, if it worked for the men of Gwent . . .

Ignoring the continued frosty glare of his wife, Uther stood and addressed the rest of the court. "Let Prince Gwynllyw be your example. You wish to attach yourself to the court of Tintagel? Well, I shall not be ungrateful to whoever ensures Arthur and Guinevere return to us safely. Our success against the Saxons depends on them being brought home unharmed."

There was a murmur of approval in the room. Uther's generosity concerning his son was legendary. Did not most households in the room care for at least one of Arthur's bastards?

With a little more circumspection than Prince Gwynllyw managed, the room slowly began to empty of people eager to take to the countryside and locate the missing royalty.

Uther moved to follow to see them on their way when a bony finger pocked the middle of his back. "Not so fast, my dear. I do not believe we quite finished our discussion."

Uther Pendragon, the man who single-handedly broke the Saxon shield-wall at Mount Damen, took one look at his wife's face and hurried for the door.