J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“Hogwash. Other men may not be quite as callous to their wives as Darrowfield, but they all behave like him. I never realized how crass the average lord is till I started living among them as a man myself. You should hear the knights sometime. You and Pellenore are the only male members of the ruling order who don’t regard women as chattel. Or so I thought.”

He hesitated. “Thank you for exempting me.”

“I exempt you, personally. I indict your sex.”

“Sex?” Petronus breezed into the room, toweling his hair. “Did someone mention sex?”

“There-you see?” Nimue was exultant. “That completes the indictment, milord .” She stuck her tongue out at Merlin and walked jauntily out of the room.

“What on earth was that about?” Petronus scratched his head.

“You would never understand, you man, you.”

“But-I-”

“Never mind, Petronus. Do you know how soon breakfast will be served?”

The boy shook his head. “But there are some people to see you.”

“People? What people?”

“From Camelot.”

Merlin was bewildered.

“The servants,” Petronus prompted. “The ones Arthur promised to send.”

“Oh. But what do they want with me? They should be reporting to Lady Darrowfield for their instructions. She runs the household.”

At a loss, Petronus shrugged. “Shall I show them in?”

“I suppose. Slowly, though. I am not awake yet. And the morning has already been too eventful.”

Petronus left and Merlin pulled up a chair. Servants. He would tell them to report to the lady of the castle and get rid of them. He was finding Darrowfield Castle and its inhabitants more and more tedious.

When Petronus returned, he was followed by a woman who looked to be in her late thirties and two teenage boys who looked startlingly alike. He had seen them around Camelot; he was certain of it. But he could not place them.

The woman curtsied to him and introduced herself as Marian of Bath. The boys, she explained, were her twin sons, Robert and Wayne.

Merlin smiled and made himself cordial. “And what can I do for you?”

“The king told us to report to you,” one of the twins explained.

“He wanted you to know we’ve arrived,” said the other. “Actually we arrived last night, but we were told you were engaged.”

“Engaged? Who told you that?”

The boy shrugged. “One of the people here.”

“But you were here last night?”

Both boys nodded.

For a moment there was an awkward silence, as if they were expecting someone to add something to what they’d said. Finally their mother added, “The king’s instructions were rather vague, I’m afraid. What exactly are we to do here?”

“Lord Darrowfield has only recently been elevated to that rank, by the unfortunate death of his father, the old lord. He will shortly host a feast here for a number of his peers, in celebration of his new status. You are to assist the household staff, then return to Camelot. It is as uncomplicated as that.” He narrowed his eyes and peered at the woman. “You work in the kitchen, do you not? I believe you are the cook who makes those heavenly honey cakes Arthur is so fond of.”

She giggled with pleasure at his recognition. “Yes, sir. The king has shown me his favor from time to time.”

“And you boys-you wait tables for us, do you not?”

They nodded but did not smile or give any indication of the kind of enjoyment their mother had displayed.

“Well, all of you, off to Lady Darrowfield now. I haven’t time for any more small talk.”

The boys turned and left quickly, leaving their mother to thank Merlin for his attention. “And… do you know if Lady Darrowfield has an herb garden I may have access to? The secret of my baking is in the herbs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Camelot’s herb garden is so large, so marvelous. I can always find anything I need there. But here…”

“I am sure there must be one. But you will have to ask someone who knows better than I.” It was time to dismiss her. “But I am certain Lord Darrowfield’s feast will be more successful for the contribution you can make.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. Sir.” She followed her sons in an uncertain way, as if she was not certain where she was or what to expect.

“And be careful of this castle,” Merlin called after her. “The corridors can be quite tricky. I have seen Lord Darrowfield himself become disoriented. Have one of his servants show you the way.”

The Darrowfields showed no sign of having reconciled overnight. They studiously avoided looking at or speaking to each other. When on occasion at breakfast their arms brushed against each other, they stiffened like dictators expecting an assassin. The atmosphere in the dining hall was palpably uncomfortable, not to say hostile. Marian of Bath’s sons, who helped serve the meal, seemed baffled by it, and no one bothered to explain.

This continued all day long. Merlin confronted each of the Darrowfields and hinted that it might be wise for them to make up their differences before the other peers arrived; neither would countenance the idea. After a time, he stopped trying. “The king would wish me to make an attempt at bringing harmony,” he told Nimue. “I have made it. They want no part of it.”

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“No longer. I intend to thank Darrowfield for his hospitality, such as it has been, and inform him we will be leaving tomorrow morning. However unpleasant Dover might be, I will find it quite cordial after this place.”

She laughed. “I always enjoy it when your expectations are confounded.”

“I had no expectations, except that this would not be a pleasant place to visit. It is worse than that. Will you find our soldiers and tell them to be ready to leave in the morning?”

“Yes. I think they’re looking forward to Dover, too. It will be a holiday for them.”

“Excellent. I will tell Petronus myself.”

Over dinner that night the lord and lady of the castle threw all discretion to the winds and fought openly, about the same thing as before. Their sons shifted awkwardly and finally made excuses to leave the room. The twins from Camelot, who were again serving the meal, worked quickly and kept as much distance as possible between themselves and their temporary masters. Their mother kept to the kitchen; Merlin wondered whether it was by design.

During a lull in the combat Merlin announced his party’s imminent departure. Darrowfield glared at him. “Why? Do you not like it here?”

“We are on holiday, Lord Darrowfield. All of us are anxious to reach Dover and the festival there.”

Darrowfield frowned and continued questioning them, even turning on Nimue and Petronus. “You told me you weren’t going there.”

“It was your suggestion that gave us the idea.” Merlin lied freely, like the courtier he was.

Darrowfield seemed determined to find some cause to take offense. But Merlin was a more skillful conversational ist, or debater, than that; he salved every objection Darrowfield had.

At one point Lady Darrowfield asked him, “You will not forget your promise to me?”

“Promise?” Darrowfield roared. “What promise? Who do you think you are, making promises to a woman-and another man’s wife?”

“If promises to wives were of any moment to you, husband,” she scolded him, “we would hardly be at this impasse.”

He raised a hand to strike her; the elder of their sons jumped to his feet and caught his arm. Darrowfield stomped angrily out of the room, muttering about “enemies everywhere-even in my own house.”

When the rest of the party finally broke up, no one was in good spirits. But Merlin had his host’s leave to depart.