The Pendragon Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  “But-”

  “When Arthur set out to become King of England and unite the country, he was not a great deal older than you are now. The essence of the challenge facing him was to conquer all the various petty kings and warlords. Uther was one of the first he went to war against.”

  Petronus puckered his lips and whistled softly. “I see.”

  “None of them were pleased to be crushed by Arthur’s superior strategy and forces. That goes without saying. Uther took it harder than most. He had all but disowned Arthur when he was still a boy, you see, on the ground that Arthur was too much a dreamer, unfit to succeed him and assume power in their little fief. So to be bested by his own dream-ridden son in combat… to have been so publicly and humiliatingly wrong about him… You can imagine how he must have felt.”

  Nimue added, “You’ve told us that your relations with your own parents were never close, Petronus. This can’t seem so odd to you.”

  “Yes. But-but surely they ought to have reconciled by now. In the interest of peace, if nothing else. I mean, look at old King Pellenore. Arthur defeated him, too; and took his castle of Camelot for his own seat of power. Yet Pellenore lives at Arthur’s court and supports him.”

  Nimue answered. “Remember, Pellenore is out of his wits. There are people who say that is Arthur’s fault, but for whatever reason-”

  “Yes, Colin, exactly, but Uther is not mad.” Merlin seemed almost lost in reminiscence. “At least not to appearances. He sided with Guenevere and Lancelot in their first war against Arthur. No one has ever been certain why he did it, except out of fatherly venom. But that did not help the cause of family harmony. Now he is old and feeble-virtually an invalid. But Arthur still carries a grudge.”

  “You should mediate between them.” Petronus sounded perfectly grave. “Fathers and sons… I wish I could make peace with my own father.”

  Merlin shrugged. “I have enough duties. And that particular war is, I suspect, unwinnable. Now if you both will excuse me, I would like to take a nap before dinner.”

  He retired to his bed, as did Nimue to hers. Petronus was left on his own, with uncomfortable memories of his home life back in France.

  Two hours later a young serving woman knocked at the door of their suite. “Dinner will be served shortly, your honors.”

  “Thank you.” Nimue yawned and smiled at her. “May we know your name?”

  “Martha, sir.”

  “If you will give us a moment to collect ourselves, you may escort us to the dining hall.”

  Martha curtsied. “Yes, sir. I’ll just wait outside the door here.”

  “Who else will be joining us for dinner?”

  “Only the family. Oh, and Queen Morgan and Prince Mordred and King Uther, sir. Oh-and I almost forgot-his lordship’s new sheriff.”

  She stepped out into the corridor to wait for the three of them to ready themselves. Nimue looked to Merlin. In hushed tones she asked, “Did you hear her? Queen Morgan? Prince Mordred? King Uther? Arthur will not be pleased to hear that they are styling themselves that way.”

  Merlin arranged his robes. “No, he will not. I would have thought Morgan would know better. Arthur has been flirting with the idea of ‘converting’ to Christianity, as they say. This kind of arrogance will hardly help Morgan’s case for the traditional English gods.”

  Petronus looked thoughtful. “Are you serious, Merlin? Arthur, one of the Christians? I grew up in a Christian society. There was intrigue, murder, bloodletting, treachery, hypocrisy…” He wrinkled his nose as if there was a foul smell in the air.

  “Christians are human beings, Petronus, and human beings are corrupt. I have taught you enough history for you to know what Greece and Rome were like, centuries before the man Christ. Besides, I said Arthur has been toying with the idea. Like the emperor Constantine two centuries ago, he sees the advantages of the Christian Church as a unifying, stabilizing force. Bishop Gildas has been making the case quite forcefully.”

  Moments later they joined Martha in the corridor and followed her to the dining hall. Very softly Petronus whispered to Nimue, “What do you know about the rumor that Mordred is Arthur’s son, not merely his nephew? That Arthur and Morgan committed-”

  Despite his whispering, Merlin heard him. He rounded on the boy and said fiercely, “That is not a topic to be broached. Not ever. Not if you wish to remain in Arthur’s service. We can return you to Lancelot, remember; you can serve him in his prison. Or to France.”

  Petronus had never seen the old man so angry; he trembled. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “That is not a subject open for discussion. Not ever. Do you understand?” Without another word Merlin turned and resumed following Martha, who gave no sign of having heard what Petronus had said or of understanding Merlin’s anger. But a moment later Merlin softened. He turned back to look at Petronus and told him, “There is a long tradition of kings… taking pleasure where they will. There is even a name for it. People call it ‘royal privilege.’ Arthur is human. But it is not wise policy to remind him of it.”

  “But I only asked-”

  “Come on. Let us eat.”

  Martha moved quickly and with certainty through the winding hallways; her companions were disoriented and kept slowing down. The fact that the corridors were lit quite dimly didn’t help matters.

  Finally they reached the dining hall, which, unlike the castle’s other chambers and corridors, and unlike the hallways, was ablaze with light. Scores of candles burned in candelabras; torches blazed along the walls. A dozen servants, all in uniforms bearing the Darrowfield crest, waited around the table, and Martha joined them.

  Several guests were already seated at table, Darrowfield himself, a sad-looking woman Nimue thought must be his wife, two boys in their mid-teenage years, and a middle-aged man dressed in the robes of a scholar.

  Entering, Merlin made himself the soul of heartiness; there was no trace of his earlier ferocity, and Petronus sighed in relief.

  “Good evening, all.” He scanned the table, which was already set with a huge tureen of soup and a number of silver plates.

  Darrowfield announced, “I would like to present my good lady wife and my two sons, Geoffrey and Freelander.” The other Darrowfields smiled and uttered brief greetings to their visitors from Camelot.

  The older of Darrowfield’s sons, Geoffrey, said languidly, “I’m told that people at Camelot look down at those of us who live about the countryside. That you think of us as provincial.” Like his brother, he was a handsome boy; but Merlin noticed a slight curvature to his back.

  “Never!” Merlin feigned shock. “I am certain no one at Camelot holds such an ungracious opinion.”

  Just at that instant Mordred entered, leading an elderly man who walked slowly and leaned on his grandson heavily. He was obviously Uther Pendragon. Nimue remarked to herself that even kings must in time come to old age and weakness-those of them that survive long enough. Uther seemed the feeblest man she’d ever seen.

  Nimue looked them up and down and decided that Uther must be blind or nearly so, in addition to his more obvious infirmities, and that Mordred was clearly quite fond of him. Introductions were made and Mordred selected a seat and held the chair for his grandfather. Then he took his own seat, which was between Uther and Nimue.

  He recognized her with a start. “You are Colin, aren’t you? Merlin’s assistant?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m quite flattered that you remember me. We’ve only met the once.”

  Mordred smiled. “I like scholarly men.”

  “So do I, but-”

  Merlin interrupted. “You are looking fit, Prince Mordred.” He leaned on the word princewith the heaviest possible irony.

  “Prince? Oh, that. That was mother’s idea, I’m afraid. You mustn’t take it too seriously.”

  “I assure you I do not. And I hardly think your uncle the king will do so either.”

  The scholarly man at the table had not said a word. Now he spoke up. “So y
ou are that Merlin who is counselor to King Arthur? I am Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff here. Only recently appointed by Lord Darrowfield.” He beamed with pride. “I have known you by reputation for years. To actually meet you is a great joy for me.”

  Peter was a plain-looking man of about forty. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. Finally Merlin said, “You appear to be something of a scholar, Peter. You interest me. Most of the sheriffs in England are bumpkins, to say the least.”

  “And corrupt bumpkins, at that.” Peter grinned. “But England under King Arthur is changing. There is a new breed of men engaging in law enforcement. I am far from the only one. Hanibert of London is one of the most brilliant men I know.”

  Merlin picked up a goblet, held it out and a servant filled it with wine. He raised it to Peter and sipped. “May England’s criminals beware.”

  “It is your influence, sir. Everyone knows how brilliant you have been at solving crimes against Arthur’s majesty. It has inspired some of us, who might otherwise be breeding dust in libraries, to become actively engaged in the detection and solution of crime.”

  “It is a promising development, Peter, and I could not be more grateful, nor more flattered, to hear about it.”

  “Of course most people still regard us as dull-witted fools. But that will change soon enough.”

  “I would not be certain. Reputations, even if they are unearned, do not die easily. Large numbers of people still believe I am a magician, despite the obvious absurdity.”

  Freelander, the younger son, chimed in. “They say that Merlin himself created Stonehenge with his mystical powers. He brought the stones to life and ordered them to march to Salisbury and arrange themselves into a circle. Or that it was built by a race of giants, at Merlin’s command. It is so exciting to live so close to it.”

  “You see what I mean? Stonehenge has been there on the plain for generations. No, for centuries. It may actually be as old as time itself. Yet the myth persists that a living man constructed it.” Annoyed, Merlin set his wine cup down and turned to face the young man. “Or am I supposed to be immortal as well?” Cowed, the boy fell silent.

  Merlin turned back to Peter. “No, I fear that centuries from now, when we are all long dead and buried, the myth of the town sheriff as a cloddish dimwit will still be alive.”

  “For once I hope you are mistaken, sir.” Peter held out his own cup for wine.

  Then with a sudden flourish Morgan le Fay swept into the room, black robes swirling around her as if the wind might be blowing them. “Cloddish dimwit?” She put on a huge artificial smile. “You are talking about my brother?”

  Alarmed by her treasonous wit, Peter drank deeply. “Please, Morgan. We must be respectful of authority.”

  “Spoken like a man in a position of authority.” She brushed him aside. “Mordred. Father.” She nodded to each of them. “I was not certain whether to expect you here.”

  “Even the old get hungry, Daughter.” Uther’s voice sounded as if speaking might be painful for him.

  “So they do.” Lady Darrowfield, who had been oddly quiet in a melancholy way, got to her feet. “I believe everyone is here? Excellent.” She gestured to the servants and they instantly sprang into motion. In a matter of moments the table was spread with a rich feast, ham, roast beef, eel, and an array of vegetables, breads and pastries. Despite all the animation the hostess still looked unhappy. Merlin wondered why. Was there trouble in the new lord’s household?

  The guests all tucked into their dinner, which was excellent. Petronus gobbled his food like the teenage boy he was. In only moments all the sweets had been eaten and Lady Darrowfield sent servants to the kitchen for more.

  “Now.” She scanned the table and, apparently satisfied that her guests were all eating contentedly, she began her own meal. “What shall be the topic of our dinner conversation?”

  The guests all looked at one another but no one replied.

  “Shall we discuss family relations among the nobility of England?” She asked the question in a wry tone.

  “Miriam, please.” Darrowfield was looking extraordinarily uncomfortable.

  But his wife seemed unable to stop herself. “Shall we perhaps discuss the problems created by a lord who rides about his fiefdom, siring bastard children?”

  “Miriam! Stop this at once.”

  The woman was trembling. “I am not the one who must be told to stop.” She looked at Merlin. “What is the official line at Camelot on this shameful behavior? Does Arthur not expect more integrity from his barons?”

  Merlin turned to stone. He looked down at the table, not at Lady Darrowfield. “I fear it is not my place to say.”

  Suddenly on the verge of tears, she got to her feet and rushed from the room. Everyone else looked at one another nervously, groping for appropriate comments. Finally Morgan found her voice and complimented Darrowfield on the roast beef. “It is the most succulent I’ve had in months. Isn’t it delicious, Mordred?”

  Mordred looked awkwardly away from her and muttered, “Yes, Mother. I mean, yes, Lord Darrowfield.”

  For a time there was no more conversation; everyone ate in silence. Then gradually people began to talk again. Conversation was thankfully light. The weather, news from the Continent, reports of energetic jousting matches around the countryside… There was gossip of outbreaks of plague in parts of Europe, but no one knew any details. At one point Lady Darrowfield reappeared at the door of the dining hall, then seemed to reconsider and left quickly. Geoffrey and Freelander kept pumping Merlin with questions about magic and the black arts, much to his annoyance and the amusement of Nimue.

  When finally the company dispersed, Merlin paused to ask Darrowfield whether he had arranged for any entertainment to fill the rest of the evening. They walked together through the maze of hallways.

  “I beg your indulgence, Merlin. You will perhaps have noticed that this is not the happiest of households. Do you honestly think entertainment of any kind would be appropriate? Please let me apologize for my wife’s childish outburst.”

  “Childish? Yes, of course. If there is anything I might do to help the situation…”

  “No, no, please don’t give it a thought. It is merely a domestic falling-out, nothing more. It will pass. She never remains angry for long.”

  Turning a bend in the winding corridor, Darrowfield walked smack into a wall. He recoiled, and his nose bled. There was a sound of muffled footsteps, retreating away from them along the corridors. Merlin tried to see who it was, but whoever had been there had vanished.

  Merlin fumbled through his pockets and found a kerchief. “Here, use this.”

  Darrowfield took it and covered his bloody nose with it. It made his voice unpleasantly nasal as he said, “Damn my grandfather and his damned building scheme. We’ve been building castles in England for centuries, good, solid, simple plans. But no, he had to be novel. Damn him.”

  Merlin chuckled. “So the unpleasantness in your family extends across generations.”

  “Damned right, it does. How would you like to live in a foul rat’s nest like this? No one in his right mind would. But I get to be Lord Darrowfield, so I have to live here. I’d be happier in the country, raising wheat and pigs.”

  “If you knew how many times I have seen Arthur in just exactly this mood.”

  “He is a wise king, then. Thank you for the kerchief. I’ll have it laundered and returned to you. Can you find your way back to your rooms?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I’ll say good night, then.” He made a sour face. “Back to my wife. Good night.”

  Back at his rooms, Merlin found Morgan waiting for him. She was, to appearances, in a jovial mood. When he entered she did not stand but sat regally, like a queen on her throne. “Merlin. What took you so long? Did you get lost in this absurd labyrinth of a castle?”

  “Not at all.” He made himself smile. “I was chatting with our host, that is all.”

  “Poor Darrowfield
. He is not the first lord to have his wife resent his infidelities.”

  “And he certainly will not be the last. Extramarital copulation is what barons do. I have spoken to Arthur several times about regularizing and regulating the institution of marriage, at least for the nobility. But you know Arthur.”

  “Yes, believe me, I know him.” She didn’t try to hide her disdain.

  “Of course. You know as well as anyone his attitude toward casual liaisons.”

  The dart hit home; Morgan stiffened. “That subject is not open to discussion. I am here to talk about Darrowfield.”

  Merlin had begun to feel absurd, standing while Morgan sat and acted grand. He found a stool and made himself comfortable. “Darrowfield? There would not seem to be much to say. It is odd, but someone seemed to be following us just now, out in the corridor from the dining hall.”

  “Perhaps someone could not sleep and wished to be bored into slumber.”

  Merlin chuckled. “The noblemen of England are all wise and magnificent.”

  “Of course. About Darrowfield’s religious affiliation.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You speak in riddles, Morgan. I know you are a priestess, and cryptic flummery is your job, but really-”

  “It is rumored that he may convert to Christianity. That must not be permitted. We have lost several barons to this upstart faith already.”

  “And how would you propose I stop it?”

  “England has thrived for thousands of years on the worship of the traditional gods. The true gods. We must stop this erosion now.”

  “I am afraid I cannot help you, Morgan. Even Arthur himself is-”

  “I am quite aware of it. He has been meeting with that fool Bishop Gildas. It must be stopped.”

  “I am Arthur’s advisor, not his nanny.”

  “Do you find there is much difference?”

  Merlin sighed deeply. “I am so weary of superstition in all its forms. As if it mattered which gods a man sends perfumed smoke to.”

  “It does. It matters enormously.”