Merlin glanced at Nimue; he wanted no more talking, and he immediately fell back into his pensive silence. It fell to Nimue to play instructor to Petronus. “You know of Salisbury, don’t you? In Wiltshire?”
“Yes, of course. I passed through there once, with Lancelot, and I have always wanted to go back. It was on a morning much like this one. I was only a boy then.” He glanced at her nervously, but she refrained from any sarcasm. “We could see Stonehenge in the distance on Salisbury Plain. I would love to go again and see it close-to.”
“Well, you may have the chance. Darrowfield adjoins Salisbury. But I’m afraid you might find that Stonehenge does not live up to your expectations. It is much smaller than it seems from a distance. Up close, it always disappoints.”
“Even so, I would like to see it. Merlin, may we go there to see the monument?”
Merlin roused himself from his daydreams. “Darrowfield Castle is a forbidding sort of place in its own right. You may find it sufficient.”
“Even so. I-”
“We will have to stay at Darrowfield long enough for protocol. After that… I suppose we will have to see. Will the two of you mind the detour to Darrowfield?”
“We’ll be fine, Merlin.”
When they had been riding for a time, Petronus broke their silence yet again. “Have you noticed that we are being followed?”
“Followed?” Merlin roused himself. “Tell the soldiers, quickly.”
Petronus laughed. “Our pursuer is not likely to do much harm. Look.”
He pointed upward and to their left. Above a stand of trees, a black bird circled. “It is one of your ravens, Merlin. It has been following us since we left Camelot.”
They slowed their pace. Merlin shaded his eyes, then cupped his hands and shouted, “Roc!”
The bird circled the trees once more, then flapped directly toward the party of travelers. When it reached them, it perched on Merlin’s shoulder and squawked shrilly. Merlin stroked its head and cooed, “Good boy, Roc. But you should not be here. Go home, now.”
The bird cocked its head and stared at him, clearly puzzled.
“Go home, I said. Go back to Camelot.”
And Roc lifted into the air and flew swiftly back the way they had come. In only a moment he was out of sight.
Nimue had watched it all without saying a word. Now she spoke up. “Do you really wonder why people think you’re a wizard? Only a man with otherworldly powers could do that.”
“Nonsense. Ravens are intelligent birds. It is merely a matter of learning to channel that intelligence in a desirable way.”
“Ravens are scavengers.” Petronus could not manage to keep an unpleasant tone out of his voice. “They eat the dead.”
“They keep the world clean, Petronus. Much as I do, or as I try to. I never knew that you find my pets objectionable.”
“I have never liked birds. They are cold, inhuman creatures.”
“The fact they are so alien, so completely unlike us, is what draws me to them. You will never see a bird commit murder.”
“Birds of prey kill all the time.”
“Yes, but they kill for food. Out of necessity, not greed or jealousy, not ambition, not any of the thousand other petty motives that drive our kind to do mad things.”
“You should get a dog or a cat.”
“And put my ravens at risk? Never.”
As they rode onward, Petronus let his horse lag slightly behind, midway between Merlin and the soldiers. At one point Nimue reined her horse beside his. “Is anything wrong?”
“No. It’s just that sometimes Merlin frightens me. Sometimes he does not seem quite human.”
She glanced forward at their master. “Or more than human, maybe?”
“Do you think he really is a sorcerer?”
“Of course not. Don’t be foolish. If you go spreading word about what happened with Roc, and if you tell it so as to make it seem magical, he will be angry.”
“I wish I had stayed in France. I wish my family had wanted me.”
To Petronus’s surprise, Merlin had heard this. He looked back, over his shoulder, and said in soft, reassuring tones, “Birds never abandon their young. And neither will I.”
There was no more talk for a long time. When eventually they passed by Salisbury Plain and saw Stonehenge lit by the late-afternoon sun, no one said much.
The monoliths showed golden in the dying sunlight and cast long shadows. Petronus asked if they might stop and inspect the monument, but Merlin wanted to press on. “Two weeks from today will be the autumn equinox. Strict adherents of the old religion will be here in numbers to celebrate. Arthur’s sister Morgan le Fay will be here, too, most likely, to officiate. We should be returning from Dover about that time, and we may stop here then. It is always quite a spectacle. This fair at Dover which you are so anxious to see will seem like nothing.”
“But, sir-”
“Not tonight, Petronus, please. My back is aching terribly from this horse. I want to reach the castle and get some rest.”
Glumly Petronus rode along. There was very little talk. Nimue whispered to Petronus that she was disappointed, too. “But Merlin never fails us in the end, does he?”
It was just after sunset when Darrowfield Castle came into sight. It rose up out of the ground, a massive square tower of black stone. It looked ancient, and Petronus said so. Merlin explained that it had been built less than two generations previously. “By one of those dull, literal-minded warlords England is ridden with,” he added. “He was made a lord by Arthur’s father, Uther, and he immediately went about demonstrating his new magnificence to the countryside.” As they approached, they could see candles or torches being lit in a few of the windows.
“What is this new Lord Darrowfield like?” Nimue asked. “I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
“Even duller than his father was.” Merlin did not try to disguise the fact that he was not happy to be there. “A hapless warrior, an inept scholar, a tone-deaf politician… a British lord, in fact.” He smirked. “I would not like to guess how delighted he must be at his father’s death. The old man survived wounds and illnesses that should have put him in his grave years ago. He showed signs of living forever. Now he is out of his son’s hair.”
“They never stop, do they?” Nimue narrowed her eyes. “All the intrigues, plots, secret grudges nursed for years… Remember last year when the Duke of Gloucester tried to kill the Duke of Cambridge over a drinking cup? All these supposed noblemen should try living like ordinary people for a change, and scrambling for their livelihoods.” She paused. “How long are you planning to stay here?”
“The sooner we can get away, the happier I will be. I have not much been looking forward to this festival at Dover. But now that we are here, Dover has become a paradise in my imagination. I cannot wait till we leave for there.”
They reached a line of guards a half mile or so from the castle. Merlin presented letters from Arthur by way of identification. But none of the sentries could read. One of them rode off to the castle for instructions.
Merlin and his companions idled till he returned. Petronus got a small chessboard from his luggage, and he and Nimue played; he was annoyed when she beat him in fewer than twenty moves. Their soldiers produced a wineskin and cheese, and they ate and drank happily, evidently pleased to be off the road and free of their protective duties.
Finally the rider returned. “Lord Darrowfield extends his warmest welcome to the envoys of King Arthur, and he anticipates your visit with the keenest pleasure. You may ride on at once. This road will take you straight to the castle.”
They mounted their horses and proceeded. It took them longer to reach the castle than they’d expected. It was huge, massive, and its great size had fooled them into thinking they were closer to it than they proved to be. Lord Darrowfield himself was waiting for them at the main gate accompanied by a half dozen servants. A thin, pale, unenergetic man in his fifties, he waved listlessly but made himse
lf smile. “Merlin. How splendid of Arthur to send you.”
Merlin reined his horse to a stop and dismounted, handing the reins to a servant. “His Majesty sends his deepest condolences on the death of your father. And of course his felicitations on your inheriting the title. He sends you these presents as signs of his favor.” He took three small ceremonial daggers from his saddlebag and handed them to Darrowfield; the handles were inlaid with precious stones.
Darrowfield inspected them as if he had no clue what to make of them. His manner suggested that he thought they might be poisoned. Finally he remembered this was a political situation and smiled. “Arthur always knows the right thing to do. You must convey my deep gratitude to him.”
“You may do that yourself soon enough. He plans to confer the title on you formally at Midwinter Court. You will become Lord Darrowfield officially in front of all the nobles in England.”
Darrowfield blinked. “I already am.”
His obtuseness caught Merlin off guard. “Yes, of course you are. But surely you want the recognition of your liege lord and your peers, do you not?”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course. But-I have invited Arthur to the feast I’m throwing for myself. Isn’t he coming to that?”
Merlin put on a sad expression. “I fear his other duties…”
“Oh. Well, perhaps it’s just as well. At any rate, you are more than welcome at Darrowfield.”
“Excellent.” He introduced “Colin” and Petronus, and Darrowfield put an arm around his shoulder and ushered them all inside. “I’ve been getting letters from a lot of the other lords, you know. Congratulating me.”
“And of course you have a staff of clerks to read them all for you and to compose replies.” Nimue was dry.
“Of course. Men who can read are among a baron’s most valuable servants.”
“And I’m sure they are very fortunate to be in your service.” Her sarcasm was apparent to Merlin and Petronus but lost on Darrowfield.
The interior of the castle was a maze. As plain, square and forthright a structure as it was on the outside, the inside was hopelessly convoluted. Corridors wound and wandered, turning back on themselves, twisting in unexpected directions, crossing one another as if they had been planned by a madman. Petronus made a polite, tactful comment about it. “Even if raiders were to breach your defenses and penetrate the castle, they’d be lost in no time at all.”
“I believe that was my grandfather’s plan. He designed the place himself, on the model of some maze in some old myth.”
“The labyrinth at Crete? The one where the minotaur was kept?” Nimue was feeling a bit dizzy from all the convolutions. “But surely all these winding, meandering corridors must thwart your guests as well.”
Darrowfield was unfazed. “You aren’t the only one to think so. My other guests have said much the same thing.”
“You have other guests? Who?”
Before he could answer, they turned a corner and came face-to-face with a blank stone wall. Without missing a beat, Darrowfield snapped his fingers and said, “Oh, yes, we should have gone the other way.”
“Confounded by your own castle.” Merlin glanced at Nimue and tried not to sound too ironic. “You must feel so very secure here.”
“I do.” Darrowfield beamed with pride.
They turned another bend in the corridor and came unexpectedly face-to-face with a woman in dark blue robes. Her face, in contrast with her clothing, was pale white; her hair was black as one of Merlin’s ravens and her eyes were brilliant blue. Only a slightly hooked nose detracted from her cold beauty. She stood tall and imperious, glaring at them, as if their mere presence there was a terrible affront. And she held the leashes of two large dogs in her right hand. They were hounds, pure white except for reddish ears. They barked, snarled and strained at their leads, lunging at the newcomers.
Merlin recognized the woman at once. Carefully he backed away from the dogs and said, “Morgan le Fay. How interesting to meet you here, of all places. Have you brought your famous chest of poisons, or are you not here for pleasure?”
She ignored this, tugged at the leashes, and the dogs calmed down. “Merlin. And what brings you to Darrowfield?”
“Diplomatic business. Arthur’s government never rests. You know that.”
“Indeed.” Her tone was far from cordial.
Darrowfield appeared shaken by her sudden appearance. He worked to recover his composure. “Morgan, I have asked you to keep those beasts outside. There are kennels at the rear of the castle, for my hunting dogs. I’m certain there must be room there for your… pets as well.”
“My pets are not used to being kept ‘outside.’ They are descendants of the hounds bred by the first Great Queen of this country.” She stroked the ears of one of them.
“Even so. They have a way of unnerving people.” It was clear that by “people” he meant himself.
“You will get used to them.” That seemed to settle the matter in her mind. She turned back to the others. “So. You say that my brother Arthur sent you here?”
“Of course. He has sent presents to Lord Darrowfield.” He had been speaking to Morgan but turned back to their host and smiled. “Oh-and he will be sending some of his household staff to assist here when you host the other barons to celebrate your elevation. They should be here soon, perhaps even tomorrow. His Majesty has been pleased to send them as well as us.” He remember his official manners. “Not that we require a royal order to visit you, of course.”
Darrowfield seemed taken aback by what Merlin had said. “Servants? Cooks? I have my own. Why would Arthur-”
“Yes, and I understand they are excellent. But surely they can use help feeding all those additional mouths.”
“I suppose.” He sounded doubtful, as if he suspected there might be a veiled insult in Arthur’s gesture.
“When, may I ask, are you actually planning the feast for? The autumn equinox is approaching. Will that be the date?”
“It will not.” Darrowfield made an unpleasant face. “At each equinox, hordes of intoxicated, religious-minded revelers gather in the neighborhood, drunkenly convinced that that heap of stones out on the plain is mystical or some such. My feast will be in the following week.
“Aside from that, I have been thinking of attending the autumn festival at Dover. There will almost certainly be a slave market there. I am planning to increase the height of this castle; extra hands would be most welcome. In fact, it occurs to me that if you are planning on going there, I might attend with you.”
Merlin was deadpan. “The festival at Dover? Why, the thought never occurred to us. But could you not ask Morgan, here, to postpone their revels?” He bowed slightly and gestured at her. “She is the high priestess of Britain, after all.”
“As high priestess,” Morgan answered for Darrowfield, “I am invested with a great many powers. The ability to postpone the equinox is not among them, I’m afraid.”
“I see.” Merlin smiled, pleased at himself for having ruffled her dignity, however slightly. “Might you not simply instruct your followers to remain sober this year, then?”
“Our feast is Dionysiac in nature,” she intoned solemnly. “Sobriety would hardly set the proper tone for the manifestation of the god.”
“Of course.” He turned back to Darrowfield. “Naturally Arthur’s servants will return to Camelot as soon as your feast is over.”
“I hope so.”
“Do not worry, Lord Darrowfield, they will not steal any recipes.”
Morgan put on a tight grin. “And of course they will do no spying. That would hardly be consonant with the ‘new’ England Arthur is trying to make, would it, Merlin?”
Merlin smiled and bowed slightly again without saying a word.
“And you have brought your assistants.” Morgan looked Nimue up and down as if she were examining an art forgery, then turned to Petronus and gave him the same treatment. “What an interesting trinity you make.”
Merlin was
unfazed. “More than merely interesting, I hope. Challenging, perhaps? Provocative?”
She brushed it aside and spoke to Darrowfield. “Father is still unwell. Mordred is tending to him. I am not certain either of them will be joining us for dinner. Can you perhaps arrange for their meals to be taken to them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“By those servants you are so proud of,” Merlin added. The irony was lost on Darrowfield though a slight smile appeared at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. Merlin glanced knowingly at Nimue: so old Uther Pendragon was in residence as well as Morgan’s son Mordred. Nimue took his meaning and winked.
Darrowfield called for servants. In quick order a half dozen of them appeared, and he instructed them to get Merlin’s party installed in a suite of guest rooms. “Let us show you how pleasing and efficient Darrowfield hospitality can be,” he told his new guests.
“I am certain we will find it quite overwhelming,” Merlin poured on the unction. He was not a government official for nothing. “Returning to Camelot will seem a true hardship.”
“Exactly.” Darrowfield gave more orders to the servants, clapped his hands, and at once everyone was in motion or seemed to be. Morgan’s hounds barked and growled. Darrowfield kept clapping his hands together; he seemed to enjoy it; no one could fathom why.
“Should we notify Lady Darrowfield that there are new visitors, sir?” one of them asked.
“No.” He said it in a firm, flat tone.
Merlin found it odd. The lord’s wife ordinarily managed the household. But he was discreet enough to say nothing.
When they were alone in their rooms, Petronus asked Merlin about Arthur’s father. “It has never occurred to me before, but I have never seen him, never even heard mention of him. I’d have expected him to reside at Camelot. So I think I took it for granted he was dead.”
“As far as Arthur is concerned, he is.” Merlin was offhand. “Look around and make certain no one is eavesdropping, will you?”
Petronus got to his feet and began checking behind tapestries. “But they are father and son.”
“It would not do to remind either of them of the fact. To say there is bad blood between them would be understating the case.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 3
