Arthur stared at the stack of scrolls before him as if they had personally insulted his mother. Which, considering the famously short temper of the late Queen Igraine, they mostly certain would not have dared.


    He picked up the latest one—something about grain tariffs, he thought—and flung it at the wall of his throne room with a growl of frustration. The scroll bounced off the stone and landed limply on the floor, making a sad little crumpling sound that he found, quite frankly, disappointing.


    "If you were seeking to propel that at me, my lord, you truly need to work on your aim," Bl?k said.


    "I need to work on a lot of things! Mostly, and this is crucial, I need to actually be doing some fighting. You know, against Saxons! The whole reason I am supposed to be here! But no, instead of helping to lead that charge, I’m stuck in here for days arguing about what price we should be charging for the wheat we send to Gwent!"


    "Barley, actually," Bl?k said, bending down to pick the scroll up and quickly checking through it. "I believe you approved the wheat tariffs this morning. And may I say, that was a magnificent piece of legislation, my lord."


    “Oh, do fuck off, Bl?k!” Arthur said, shuffling around uncomfortably on the throne.


    The seat of kingship in Tintagel was, in theory, an imposing sight. In reality, though, it was little more than a wooden chair with significant delusions of grandeur. Over centuries, people had added numerous extra carvings, presumably to make it look even more impressive, but they mostly served to dig uncomfortably into his back. And, if recent experience was any guide, there was at least a fifty percent chance of getting another splinter in his arse any second . . .


    Ah, and there it was. Perfect.


    Arthur let his head tip back, staring at the rafters far above him. As a boy, he''d spent countless hours sat here, just next to his father’s knee, watching Uther seemingly command the world from this seat although he was personally chiselled from the bedrock of Britain. He had felt such awe for the power of the throne in those moments . . .


    Of course, that was before he’d truly come to realise that kingship wasn’t just about grand proclamations, screwing Princesses and looking ever-so stern. No, as he was finding out, being the Pendragon was less about all that and far more about listening to increasingly ridiculous disputes over sheep ownership. It involved paperwork, petty arguments, and people who somehow managed to have opinions on everything except what actually mattered.


    And – and Arthur thought this was the key – it was about him being responsible – personally, individually responsible – for keeping back the forthcoming Saxon tide.


    "I should be out there! With my men! Doing what I was born to do."


    "Oh yes, my lord, because nothing says great kingship like personally running into battle and hitting people with a sword. Very majestic. Very manly. The thunder of hooves. The ring of steel on steel. The heroic clash of nations. So stirring. So rousing. And, incidentally, I am afraid to say, so incredibly idiotic."


    "You just don’t understand, Bl?k! I’m not saying that just to boost my glory or ego or doing what I think a warrior should do. You’ve read the same reports as I have. The Saxons are not coming to us as raiding skirmishers anymore; they’re preparing to settle. They may be preparing to come in warbands, but behind them follow their families. And, when they finally arrive, they won’t stop until every scrap of land is theirs. All of these old ways everyone keeps telling me to respect – the king protected in the castle, forts on the hills, warbands riding out for a season before wintering at home—they just won’t hold this time. Every scroll we receive tells us that our holdfasts’ walls are crumbling, and we do not have the resources to keep building them back up. And even if we did, we don’t have enough men to defend every town. Every hillfort we lose will stay lost. And the only chance Britain has of still standing at the end of this year is because men like me will ride out to meet those bastards before they get too dug in! So if I sit here, on my arse, waiting for messengers to tell me what’s happening, then by the time I do act, it’s going to be too late."


    "Which, as I said, is all very noble, my lord,” Bl?k said, “but it does rather fall down on one crucial flaw. Namely, that you are not just one man with a spear. Sure, you are an extremely important man, but you are not an army. And certainly not an unkillable one."


    Arthur’s fingers curled into a fist, causing Bl?k to take a step back and the shadows around the throne room to gather. "Do you have any idea how awful this is for me! My father was the warlord. The Pendragon. Sure, I trained and I fought and I stood in the shield wall to do my part to push the Saxons back. But the decisions, the weight of it—that was all his." He looked up, and Bl?k thought there was something raw in his expression. Something stripped of every last inch of royal arrogance. "But now it’s mine.


    This is not a battle. This is not another meaningless skirmish. This is a war for the existence of Britain itself. And I don’t have the luxury of standing behind my father’s shield anymore!"


    Bl?k was silent for a moment as he tried to remember what Guinevere had said to him to prepare him for just this sort of conversation.


    “There’s going to come a time when it all gets too much for him,” she had said. “He’s going to get all introspective and ‘am I the right man to do this’ about everything. If we’re lucky, it’ll be me or Bors who are around when it happens. But, what with me being, you know—” she gestured at her massive belly “—and Bors needing a couple of naps a day, it’s most likely going to fall on you.”


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “Fall on me to… what?”


    “To pick him up. To talk him around. To, and I cannot stress this enough, to NOT sympathise whatsoever with his whinging.”


    “Right,” Bl?k had said slowly. “And how exactly do I achieve that without getting, you know, horribly executed?”


    “Look, trust me, you’ll see him pacing around, brooding, carrying the weight of Britain on his shoulders, and, no matter how much you try not to, you’ll feel this urge—this mad, noble, utterly doomed urge—to try and be kind to him. But, and here’s the thing, you absolutely must not do that. Do not ever show Arthur an inch of sympathy. Because, if you do, he’ll mistake it for pity. And once he thinks you pity him,  he’ll dig his heels in just to prove he’s fine, even when he very obviously isn’t. And then we’ll all be royally fucked. Because what the British need right now is a very pissed of Arthur.”


    “So what would you suggest I do then, my lady, to piss off the king?”


    “You want him to listen to any advice you have for him? You tell him exactly what he doesn’t want to hear. You remind him that he’s got people relying on him and that charging off like a reckless wanker won’t save a single one of us. And if that doesn’t work?” Guinevere had smiled then and shrugged. “Hit him with a blunt object. Not too hard, obviously. Just enough to bring him to his senses.”


    Bl?k had stared at her. “That’s not exactly standard courtly counsel.”


    “No, but with Arthur it will work. Trust me on this.”


    Back in the present, Bl?k took a deep breath and summoned his reserves of ‘tough love.’ "Yes, well. That was all rather heartfelt and impassioned, my lord. Ten out of ten for sincerity. And I would be very moved, truly, if I wasn’t also increasingly concerned that the moment I turn my back, you are going to climb out a window and leg it to the stables. Do I need to enumerate all the reasons why it is a terrible idea for you to take to the field? " Bl?k didn’t dare wait to let the red-faced Arthur answer before pushing on.


    "First, there’s the minor issue of assassins. As in, there’s far too many of them for comfort wandering about right now. Honestly, my lord, they’re like rats. My people wipe one, and two more pop up, and before you know it, we’ve got a whole infestation lurking in the cellars, muttering darkly and oiling their knives. Then there’s the problem of you—namely, that – in case you have forgotten - you are the king, and if the king goes gallivanting off into battle and gets himself skewered, we are left with a corpse, a rather distressing succession crisis, and an alarming amount of very cross thegns."


    Arthur went to speak, but Bl?k held up a finger. "Oh, and let’s not forget your men. The ones who are already out there, preparing to fight bravely in the knowledge that they are protecting you, their glorious, wise, and – crucially -  living monarch. Imagine their faces when you show up in the thick of it, waving a sword and invalidating every single strategy designed to keep you alive. I am sure they will be very grateful."


    Bl?k raised a hand, and the shadows around the room suddenly drew in very quickly around Arthur, stunning him to silence. "No, no. I know that look. That’s your patented ‘I am about to make an impassioned speech about honour and duty’ face. And I’m telling you now— I am sure it will be very inspiring, and I will be very moved, but I will still be tying you to that very ugly chair if I have to."


    There was a pause, during which time Bl?k considered that he may, possibly, have taken things a bit too far. Then Arthur sighed and sat back on the throne. “I didn’t know there’d been that many attempts on my life. How many is it, really?”


    "Three."


    "Three? Well, that doesn’t sound like—"


    "Per hour. Every hour. For almost a fortnight."


    Arthur''s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Well, that is quite terrifying. Do we know where they are coming from?"


    Bl?k’s eyes focused out for a moment as he communed with the Grey. "Everywhere, apparently. Mostly they are in the pay of the Saxons, of course. But the other kingdoms seem to be playing their part in the rollcall. Rival Kings, of course. Some jilted lovers. There was someone who lost a bet waiting outside your bedchamber last week. And that stable boy you made a joke about last Tuesday took things rather badly and put all sorts of prickly things under Llameri’s saddle. Interestingly, there’s been quite a lot of attempts originating from Ireland, actually. Must be something in the air."


    Arthur tried to take all of that in. He simply hated being stuck in this castle. Given a choice, what he really wanted to be doing was training with Lancelot. Lancelot would let him rant away about the unfairness of it all and then challenge him to an arm-wrestling match that would end with something on fire.


    Failing that, he wished he could find a way to spend an afternoon hunting with Bors. But with the old Bors, not the tired, fragile version of the man who Mrs Bors wouldn’t let out of her sight. Hell, on occasion he even found himself missing Morgan. At least she was funny—if in a way that often resulted in explosions or someone needing urgent medical attention.


    Bl?k, on the other hand, was like spending time with an unusually talkative shadow with opinions on trade policy. Arthur was finding it hard to warm to him. But, on this occasion, that didn’t mean he was wrong.


    "Fine," Arthur said at last. "I won''t leave the castle. For now."


    "My lord is very wise," Bl?k said in a tone as if Arthur had just grasped the concept of fire being hot.


    "But I swear, if another tax proposal lands on my desk today, I will go outside, assassins or no assassins."


    "Then I shall instruct the Grey to set up additional patrols."


    Arthur blinked. "Wait, you mean you''d actually let me—?"


    "Of course not," Bl?k said. "But I will at least prepare for the inevitable moment when you decide to ignore me." Guinevere had warned him about that eventuality too . . .


    Arthur picked up another scroll, glanced at it, sighed and threw it at the wall.


    "Truly, my liege, your aim is appalling." Bl?k clasped his hands behind his back. "Shall I have the scribes draft a response to today''s petitions, or would you prefer to tackle them yourself?"


    "Bl?k?"


    "Yes, my liege?"


    "Can you go and find Lancelot?"


    "I''m afraid he is out on patrol."


    "Bors, then."


    "His wife has left standing orders that you are to ‘leave him alone,’ my lord.” Bl?k said. “And I must say that I am much more afraid of her than I am of you.”


    Which was fair comment. "What about my wife? She can’t have gone far. She’s the size of carriage."


    "My mistress is currently testing the efficacy of various alchemical compounds when attached to an arrowhead. Results so far: loud."


    Arthur closed his eyes. "Fine. Then you, Bl?k, are now officially my sparring partner."


    "With respect, my lord, you would kill me within minutes."


    Arthur cracked one eye open. "That''s what makes it appealing."


    "I shall fetch the practice swords, then."


    And that, at least, was something.