The first day of the tournament had not passed without incident.

To be fair, it had all started pretty much as expected. Guinevere had welcomed the three hundred and fifty competitors and encouraged them to make themselves at home amongst the host of entertainments, stalls, and merchants who had sprung up in and around the castle.

There was so much of this, in fact, that the road leading into Tintagel had transformed into a bustling market town, filled with the vibrant colours of merchant stalls and the lively chatter of visitors.

"How exactly are we paying for all this?" Guinevere had whispered to Bors as she had toured the various buildings that had, apparently, shot up overnight.

"No fucking idea. Last time I looked at the numbers, it was like they were paying us to be here. But that can't be right, can it?"

Bors had met with Tasko a couple more times since their last, rather fiery conversation. He'd done his best to put the merchant at his ease, but it felt like every time he thought he was making progress, it ended up with the royal treasury being enriched even further.

He eventually resolved to leave the man to his business and hope for the best.

Every type of service was available for those taking part in the Grand Tournament. Just as every decent warrior - or, more importantly, those that considered themselves as such - had scrounged up the money to get themselves portalled to the castle. And anyone who made their living selling wares to men - and women - with swords and spears had followed them.

"Do you not think that this might be getting a little out of hand," asked Guinevere the fifth time she had been offered a dress fitting using a material she'd never heard of. "Not that I'm saying you haven't done an amazing job," she added hastily. "Just that the point was to scare up a new Marghekyon, not create an entire feudal economy on our doorstep."

Bors shrugged. "Gwin, I'm as in the dark as you. But it can't hurt, can it? The lads are saying it's the greatest spectacle the land has ever seen." He paused. "You don't think Arthur will be pissed he missed it, do you?" he asked anxiously.

Guinevere patted his huge forearm reassuringly. "He'll be so proud of you. You've outperformed his wildest expectations."

But even as she said it, Guinevere's mind was whirling. Blæk's information about some of these people currently within shooting distance was not comforting. As soon as it got around that Tasko had spent the coin to have portals opened to Tintagel, the range and variety of possible competitors had gone through the roof. What had been conceived as a way of gathering together all the local British talent still resisting the Saxons seemed to have become a way for anyone with enough ambition and coin to show their prowess.

That was all well and good, but for each competitor, there were usually a few hangers-on. One guy, a Prince from some sundrenched land in the East had even brough his whole retinue.

"You cannot allow that many mailed horsemen within the walls!" Blæk was almost crying when he delivered this update to the queen. "I have nothing whatsoever on them. You must give the Grey time to gather sufficient material!"

"And how would you suggest I do that?" She had snapped, just about remembering that the more harshly she spoke to the man, the harder it was to see him or even recall he was there. More than once in their arguments about the seemingly never-ending flow of strangers through the gatehouse, she had found herself blinking into the dark, wondering what she was doing in the cellars of Tintagel.

"I do not know, my lady. But I cannot promise to keep you safe if you continue to so recklessly allow such freedoms around your person!"

"Queen Igraine was murdered in her bed chamber with you at full alert. Pardon me if I am not agog at your abilities." She'd barely said those words before she was wandering back to Tintagel's courtyard, feeling guilty but not absolutely sure why.

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*

The first event, following Guinevere's welcome, was not of the official ranking bouts. Bors had been clear that they needed to demonstrate the strength of Arthur's kingdom so that they could attract the winners to join them.

"We might need them more than they need us, but we don't need to let them know that. We're riding high on the tales of Uther and Merlin. Arthur's got a decent rep, but we need to burnish that. Especially as he is not here."

Guinevere was not so sure but had gone along with it.

And, thus, the Grand Melee was born.

"Each man can choose to compete, or not, as he wished. There is no prize. There is no gold for the winner. There will be only the satisfaction of being the last man standing. No bladed weapons are allowed. And there are to be no killing blows. The goal is to be on your feet when the rest of the group is sitting on their arses. Nice and simple." Bors boomed out across the crowded field.

Silence greeted the announcement. There were lots of furtive glances as over three hundred warriors tried to work out whether it would be to their advantage or not to take part or if it would be more politic to wait for their own specialism.

Grand Melees were tricky. You could be an absolute legend and be tripped up by a farmboy with a stave - your reputation dented forever. Likewise, there was no better way to get your name known than to be amongst the last few standing.

"Are you taking part?" a voice shouted from the throng.

Bors had smiled. "I might. Arthur charged me with keeping you all honest. I'm forbidden from taking part in the other events," Guinevere had put her foot down there, "so I figured this was a good way of seeing who's the real deal."

And that sealed it. There weren't many in the crowd who didn't dream of joining the Marghekyon of King Arthur - and those who didn't had a very different reason for their presence at Tintagel. To help with that, Bors had come up with the best way of identifying those who would be open for recruitment and those who had the sort of purpose that a certain non-descript man would be wise to keep an eye on.

"Make a note of who withdraws," he had said to Guinevere, slipping out of his best tunic and walking down from the speaking platform Tasko had arranged to be built.

Most of those below him began doing the same, divesting themselves of any swords or knives and passing off their various finery to servants. In no more than a few minutes, around two hundred men and not a few women stood in the centre of the courtyard, looking nervous.

Guinevere stood aloft, waiting for those who did not seek an opportunity for hand-to-hand combat to withdraw. Then she dropped the white handkerchief she was holding high, and the Grand Tournament of King Arthur began.

With a full-on, drag-out brawl.

*

It felt good to be actually doing something, Bors thought, throwing a small man with extremely ginger hair into a group of fighters. He wasn't cut out for administration. And he certainly did not have the talent for the kind of espionage Guinevere indulged in. What he was good at, though, was punching people in the face until they passed out.

The melee had been going for a good few minutes, and there was already a decent amount of space building up around him, which made sense. No one really wanted to test themselves against the big man, especially while there were still too many bodies about for people to notice.

Fighting Sir Bors was the sort of thing you wanted an audience for.

There were a few people he'd noted himself already. A tall, thin, wiry guy was holding his own over in the far corner. Parsifal, he thought he remembered the man introducing himself as. He didn't have Bors' brute strength, but by the gods, was he fast.

Bors nodded appreciatively as he caught a haymaker from a big Germanic-looking motherfucker, twisted it away from his body and kicked the guy in the head. Yep. That'll get the job done.

There were similar little pockets of studied belligerence that caught his attention. A squat, ugly man from the mountains of Gwent - Acanor, he thought - was just soaking up punishment as if he were being tickled.

Three guys were whaling on him, and it didn't seem to be making an ounce of an impression. His kind of dude.

And there was almost the complete opposite - a pale, slight lad who couldn't be more than sixteen. The boy seemed almost impossible to pin down. As Bors watched, idly backhanding a charging Frank away, the boy repeatedly dodged any and all attempts to grapple with him. He was jabbing out quick little punches and kicks, which seemed to cause far more damage to their recipients than was credible. Galahad, Bors thought he was called.

The numbers still stood in the middle of the Melee were drastically reduced. The rules were quite simple. You were still in until you were dropped to the floor, and large numbers of crawling men were getting away as fast as they could.

When there were just twenty of them left - all of those he had noted as likely lads were still yp and kicking, he was pleased to see - they took a pause to allow the fallen time and space to withdraw. They also had a chance to get some mead on board.

"Well then. Here's a group of arse kickers and name takers," he grinned at a series of blooded faces and bruised bodies. "Whose up for the next go?"

He cracked his knuckles and headed straight for Acanor - he was interested to see whether he could do anything to the resilient fucker - when something else took his attention.

A flurry of crossbow bolts from the window of one of the towers hit his square in the chest.

He barely heard Guinevere's screams before the blackness claimed him.