Arthur, Bors and Guinevere remained behind after all the guests had left. The detritus of the feast lay around the hall, and various servants bustled hither and tither to prepare the space for the morning.

Two of Bors's giant wolfhounds lounged by the fire, both too old to be used in a hunt anymore, but, he thought, both deserving of a good night out.

"It went well, I thought?”Guinevere said, stretching upwards to release the kinks in her back. Although she had entirely healed from the wound inflicted on her by Cedic - thanks to Morgan and her Elixiers - she was pushing her training hard. Her body constantly felt like the ocean had tossed her around for a week. And that was without the . . . intense exercise of the evenings.

That thought brought colour to her cheeks, and she glanced over towards Arthur. Intellectually, she understood that his newfound ardour was not just because he was suddenly back in the grip of the flush of their first weeks together. He had, after all, sworn off from making use of the brothels and the serving girls and, for now, seemed to be sticking to it.

Likewise, since his father's unexpected death, the need for an heir had increased tenfold - a hundredfold, really. As much as a mythical quest for a magic sword and continued success on the battlefield against the Saxons, it would be the announcement of her pregnancy that would most securely lead him to the Pendragon’s throne.

Sadly, Nimue had confirmed she remained without a child just this morning.

Bors rumbled a response to her words, dragging her from her sad thoughts. "The other kings haven't made up their minds about how to jump yet. None of them really wants the throne for themselves. There’s too much fighting with Saxons in our future, and no one wants an enemy army arriving on their lands. But not one of them wants to be the first to back him. Having the Qi-killing sword will be the key."

"Morgan scared the life out of them with her new skill." Arthur smiled grimly. Having experienced Drynwyn's fiery embrace firsthand, he did not need to imagine what it would feel like to be hit by that lightning. He rubbed his bald head and stopped once he realised what he was doing.

"Frightened men don't always act the way you expect. Especially not when they are kings used to getting their own way," Guinevere warned. "We'd be wise to ensure she's well protected while all these men are about.”

Bors spat out his mead. "If there's anyone with the wherewithal to put a dent in her day, then that guy should announce his candidacy as Pendragon right now. I'd fucking vote for him. The girl is a force of nature.”

"True, but Aurelius was apparently able to bring down Merlin, and, for all her undoubted strengths, Morgan is certainly not anywhere near his capabilities yet. Guinevere is right; we should remember that she will be a target.”

"Lancelot's with her right now", Guinevere said, then blushed. She honestly did not know why.

“Then there's no power in the world to hurt her." Arthur placed a comforting hand on his wife's wrist.

Bors picked up a half-eaten chicken carcass and threw it to his dogs. They snarled and yipped at each other, but it was mostly for show. They did a decent enough job of ripping it in half and shoving the good equally. "We need to discuss the Marghekyon," he said abruptly.

Arthur nodded. "I know. It just seems disrespectful to those we lost to seek to rebuild so quickly.

"Fuck that!" Bors was never one for sympathy. "We're asking the other kings to put their faith in us, and we've got probably the smallest standing army of the lot and that is before you consider that – even ignoring your Marghekyon – we'd filled Isca with most of our Fyrd’s competent spears. So far, between me, you, Lancelot, and Morgan . . .

Guinevere cleared her throat meaningfully.

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"Sorry, Gwin, everyone knows you've done more than your share. It's the tits, you see, it blinds a man."

"Morgan's got tits, too.” Guinevere raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"Well, kind of. But there's tits,” Bors made a small hand gesture, "and then there's tits,” a more expensive gesture. "And you, quite definitely, have TITS", a much bigger gesture. There appeared to be honking. “With what you're packing behind your breastplate, it's easy to forget you're handy with a spear. Although, as my room is just down the corridor from yours, I can attest that you sound like you know what you're doing with all sorts of weapons and implements. If you know what I'm saying . . .” There was a pause. “I've had far too much to drink, haven't I?"

Arthur took a breath. "You were talking about the army?"

Bors gasped that conversational life-jacket like a drowning man. "Basically, we're punching massively above our weight. And that’s fine when we're facing the odd war band here and there. But numbers will tell eventually. We need to be able to put three or four times the men in the field than we are at the moment to be comfortable with winning. At least without all of us lot being there and picking up the slack.”

"What do you suggest?" "

"A tournament”

“I'm about to go on a quest, I can't hold a tournament at the same time!"

"We divide our resources." Bors blushed as both Guinevere and Arthur looked his way. “So, this is Mrs Bors's idea, not mine." The big man rolled his shoulders. He hadn't been looking forward to this discussion. It's why he'd been drinking so much. "When you go off on your quest, I think you should leave me here to run a tourney. Nothing grand, Just a 'your country needs you' sort of thing. I'll grab the likeliest of the lads and then train them up. See if I can get us a reasonably solid shield wall for next time we need to kick some ass—Saxon or otherwise.”

Arthur was frowning. “No. I need you on the quest for Caldefwich."

“Mate, you really don't. Lancelot is a fucking menace. Most of the time, I can tell he's holding back because he's trying not to make me look bad. On my best day, I can't carry that guy's water." Bors stroked his beard, which Arthur was shocked to see had streaks of white in it. "If I thought you needed me, I'd be there instantly. But I fear we’re not too far away from me starting to be an active hindrance."

Arthur sat back and took a deep breath. After the disaster of the battle against Cedric - following the shambles at Isca - the last thing he could imagine was going into battle without his oldest friend. He would rather face down a Saxon host unarmed than do so without the big man at his shield arm.

And yet . . .

He looked at the two, old dogs in front of the fire.

Both had years ahead of him, but perhaps the days of being at the forefront of the hunt were behind them. And the big man was right; Lancelot was the incarnation of death in a scrap.

"You'll never be a hindrance," Arthur's voice, when it came, was soft. “But I see the merit in what you say. If I can't have you on my side, I can think of nothing better than for you to build up our forces. Lancelot, Morgan, and I will pursue Caldefwich."

Guinevere’s eyes widened. "You would leave me behind, my lord?"

Arthur smiled back. “I would have you assist Bors in the creation of his tournament. Without casting aspersions as to his motivational qualities, I cannot help but think we need some . . . some ‘tits’ to encourage people to give of their best." He made the same massive gesture Bors had earlier. "But seriously, it would do well for everyone to recognise you as a ruler in my stead when l am not here!."

Guinevere scowled but could say little to disagree with his assessment. It would not be brilliant tactical planning for her to be gallivanting around the woods without the succession being assured. But, on the other hand, it would be pretty hard to change that situation without being in the same place at the same time . . .

There was, though, a second bittersweet emotion about the quest: Lancelot would be going with Arthur. She was both sad not to have the company of that disarmingly honest man and yet . . . well, she was also a little relieved. A bit of space in that quarter would certainly not be amiss.

"I hear what you are saying." She looked up at Bors and winked. "Me and you then, big boy. You think we can run a tournament to sort the men out from the boys?".

"With your magnificent assets on display, Gwin, I am sure we will be able to make men out of the shyest boys." He licked his lips. "I really am very drunk, indeed. Mrs Bors is going to have my guts for garters. And not the sexy sort, either!”

They laughed and prepared to go their separate ways when a messenger, face white, ran into the feasting hall.

"Sirrah, what ails you?" Bors was quick to stand and intercept the man. None of his supposed infirmities of age showed in stopping the messenger before he got more than a few steps into the room.

The two spoke for a few moments out of Arthur and Guinevere's earshot. Then the big man reeled back, his face a mask of grief.

"What is it? “Arthur was on his feet.

Bors shook his head, as is mute, and pushed the messenger forward. The young man's eyes were wide.

"The Queen, my Lord." The messenger paused, seeking to collect himself, then started again. "The Queen, my lord. She's dead.”