“Owain killed Igraine?”

Guinevere’s voice was shocked. She did not doubt Blæk’s word – he had provided more than enough evidence of the King of Gwent’s culpability in the crime for it to be incontrovertible. But she had liked the kindly old man. Thought he had liked her. She could not imagine the circumstances in which he had casually tossed Igraine through her window.

Blæk cocked his head as if trying to decide whether an answer was required. He appeared to determine it was not just a rhetorical question and that further commentary was needed. "Indeed, Your Majesty. It appears that the removal of his heir at the start of Uther's reign was a wound that has long festered in Owain's heart. Furthermore, I have reports of significant gold leaving to various guilds from which our most recent . . . incidents can be seen to originate. There can be no doubt that he himself tossed Queen Igraine from her tower."

"Motherfucker," Bors breathed. He had liked the Queen. And he liked Owain. He was finding the news challenging to process. "He just threw her out of the window after all these years? Why?"

Guinevere answered for Blæk. "Uther's death. Arthur seeking to become the Pendragon. Isca. Increased pressure from Aurelius. I guess we have never looked weaker. More ripe for assault." She put a hand to her mouth as the logical extension of this thought was reached. "And if he gets his hands on Caeldfwch, we won't even have the advantage of wizardry."

"Arthur won't let that happen," Bors answered confidently. "And he had Lancelot and Morgan with him. Owain won't be able to do anything about them."

Guienevre was not that sure. She thought back to the ease with which Morgan had spoken to the King of Gwent at the feast. The wizard had found him pleasant company, she thought. She wouldn't have any concerns about turning her back on him.

In a den of vipers that contained Beric and Mark, she doubted there would be a moment's suspicion wasted on the kindly grandfather with the twinkle in his eyes and the laugh in his voice.

"A cut is often more dangerous when it comes from a hidden place. Look at Igraine. Decades protecting the realm from the shadows and the moment her defences are down, Owain struck."

There was an uneasy silence.

Blæk had more pressing news, but he was unsure whether it was a polite moment to speak. He was much more comfortable giving his reports in writing—the way Igraine had preferred—than in these in-person meetings.

Paper was much more reliable than people. Easier to read too.

Bors had been watching him. "You have something more on your mind, little man?"

Guinevere turned her bright eyes towards him. "Sir Blæk?"

He swallowed. "Yes, indeed. Whilst I am confident we have now removed all traces of Owain's assassins from within our walls -" there had been five others that he had personally attended to since calling Bors and Guinevere to this meeting -"it strikes me that there is probably more to this. King Owain is aware Arthur and fifty of our men are not standing in defence of Tintagel. He likewise knows both our wizard and," Blæk’s colourless eyes flicked to Bors. "arguably, our greatest warrior are also absent."

"No, that's a fair comment," Bors's face was entirely untroubled. "Lancelot can kick my arse from here to Frankia and back again. I'm not precious about that."

Blæk pressed on as if Bors had not spoken. "He can thus be reasonably confident - unaware of my existence nor that of the Grey - that his very expensive assassins will remove both the Queen and the remaining King's champion."

"All pretty sound assumptions. But what of it? Owain is away on the quest with Arthur."

Blæk blinked as if he was surprised he needed to continue. After a moment of consideration, he realised he was required to. "Why, I merely note that Gwent is in possession of extremely useful information should it be minded to test the walls of Tintagel. And, I am sure I do not need to remind anyone, the largest standing army of any of the British tribes."

Guinevere cursed. "Shit on a brick! Order the gates closed. How many men can we put on the walls?"

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They were all standing now and moving with purpose into the courtyard. Bors was shaking his head. "A handful? More if you let me use competitors." He suddenly grinned. "You know, a proper war game could be just the ticket. Knocks all of this tournament bollocks into a cocked hat. We'll be able to see how much use each of them is in real time!"

Guinevere was not convinced that all the competitors who had turned up for a little light drinking, gambling and some friendly one-on-one fisticuffs would be quite so keen on defending Tintagel against the might of Gwent's spears.

But then there was a blasting of trumpets, and it seemed that theory was about to be tested.

Because the Prince of Gwent had arrived.

*

Just over a mile north of Tintagel is a small but perfectly formed valley into which the waterfall of Saint Nectan's Glen spills. The very high stone walls here have given it the name of Rocky Valley to those who knew where to find it, which not many people did.

Ever since the feast on the eve of the quest for Caeldfwch, several hundred men of Gwent had found - as Cedric's Saxons had a few months earlier - that Rocky Valley was a pretty decent place for a hidden force to hide in easy marching distance from Tintagel.

Each man who lay in wait for the orders to attack felt pretty good about their chances of success in taking the castle. Although they had heard what Arthur and Morgan had done to the besieging Saxons - and none of them was too anxious to repeat the experience - the certain absence of these two from the forthcoming conflict was very much welcomed.

Concerns had been raised about trying to take the gates from Sir Bors, who—if rumour was to be believed—had pretty much single-handedly held the narrow strip of land that joined the island on which the castle stood with the mainland. However, their orders also made clear that both Bors and the new Queen would be well in their graves by then.

All things being equal, therefore, there was every prospect that one of the last great strongholds of the Britons would soon be flying the flag of Gwent.

Maelgwn ap Owain, the youngest son of the King of Gwent, strapped and restrapped his gauntlets nervously. "And we're confident the gates will be open when we arrive?"

The cold, dead eyes of Iorwerth, his father's chief advisor, rolled once again. "I said so, didn't I? There are more assassins at that damned tournament than there can be competitors. Your father has left nothing to chance. It is the fourteenth day since they rode out on that damned quest. It's time for the attack."

Maelgwyn was not sure. He didn't like this plan. He didn't like the idea of sneaking into another man's castle when he was off on a holy quest. He didn't like the use of assassins to kill that man's wife. And he didn't like skulking here with an army hoping to conquer a country by stealth.

He thought it was the kind of underhand deception that was likely to catch on.

"Your brother would have had any qualms about his orders," Iorwerth added as if reading Maelgwyn's mind. "He could be relied upon to get his hands appropriately dirty."

Maelgwyn was too young to remember Kael properly. What he had heard about his brother in the intervening years since his . . . accident made him think whoever had brought that short, vicious life to an end via violent means had probably done the world a favour. "I do not have any 'qualms', Iorwerth. I just wonder about the advisability of publicly stabbing an ally in the back. It is the sort of thing that may make our other friends feel a touch less staunch in our support of us."

"Your father has long been clear that Dumnonia is an ally in name only. They murdered our country's heir, and this reckoning has been a long time coming. You are required to do your duty."

Maelgwyn ignored the older man. He had always been thus, so anxious to get redress for all manner of slights. Iorwerth may have his father's ear, but he had few other friends at court.

The prince drew his sword and looked over the rows of men who had formed up. Gwent was the workhorse of the remaining British kingdoms. Dumnonia might have the cultivator and the military geniuses, Powys had the mineral wealth, Gwynedd had the tactical position, and Dehuebarch had the links overseas, but Gwent had a big population. This meant lots and lots of raids for supplies by spearmen who quickly became veterans or became dead.

It made what they were about to do feel so distasteful to Maelgwyn.

He should make a speech. The prince knew he should. If he had been preparing for an assault that was this important anywhere else in Britain, he would have spoken of the joy of battle. In trusting to your shield mate. Of honouring the name of your father.

But none of that felt appropriate today. Instead, he signalled the men to begin their approach up the hill towards Tintagel.

*

The first thing that suggested to Maelgwyn that his father's plan may have come undone was when he saw the gates of Tintagel barred to his approach.

Actually, that was the second thing.

The first thing was the sight of Bors' giant arse mooning him from the battlements. "This is the closest you are going to get to breaching these walls, you fuckers. Enjoy the smell!"

Iorwerth was beside him, wafting away the terrible stench that appeared to have enveloped the army. "What on earth is that?"

Maelgwyn redid the strap of his gauntlet. "I believe he has just farted in our general direction. Tell me, Iorwerth, is not that man supposed to be dead?"

"From the smell of that, he just might be."

"The best-laid plans, eh? Order the men to set up camp. We won't be sleeping behind those walls today."

As he stalked away, Maelfwyn offered up a little prayer. "Father, I hope you know what you are doing."