J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“And Hadrian built that wall of his.” Petronus was grateful for the chance to show off his learning.

They spurred their horses to move quickly down the road, and before long they reached the town’s outskirts.

Vendors’ booths began to appear along the road. Nimue bought a little cake from the first baker’s stand they came to, bit into it and made an unpleasant face. “If we do gain international stature, it will not be for our cooking, I presume. How can you ruin something as simple as a poppy seed cake? The reputation of the French as superb pastry chefs is quite secure.”

“It has nothing to do with nationality. The French hold no monopoly on culinary talent.”

“We do.” Petronus sulked defensively. “Everyone knows it.”

“If Arthur is wise in nothing else, he always selects the best cooks. Take Marian of Bath, for example. She could do very well by striking out on her own. Arthur treats her more than well enough to keep her at Camelot.”

Nimue spurred her horse. “Come on. Let’s find our way to the garrison.”

Merlin stiffened. “Garrison? We are on holiday. I want nothing with any scent of government. Let us find a nice warm inn.”

“With the festival in progress, won’t that be expensive?”

He pulled a little purse out of his pocket and jingled it. It was plainly filled with coin. “A gift to us from the king. As I said, he likes to keep his people content. A nice inn with a roaring fire and a good supply of wine will be just the thing.”

Vendors and merchants were in the process of setting up kiosks in every street. Performers-minstrels, troubadours, acrobats, actors-were everywhere. Ordinary people crowded around them and the merchants. Dover was a huge press of people, all of them in a buoyant mood, all of them eating, drinking, singing off-key, applauding the performers… There were visitors who were easily identifiable by their clothing, Turks, Egyptians, North Africans, Byzantines; and others dressed in a more homogeneous European style.

Nimue and Petronus took it all in with relish. They seemed determined to try every kind of food on offer. After a few minutes, the boy disappeared into the crowd. Merlin grumped to Nimue, “Where is he? My hip is beginning to hurt. And the two of you are making yourselves fat. I want to find an inn and rest.”

“This is a festival, Merlin. Eat.”

Petronus rejoined them more exuberant than before. “There are Frenchmen here. I talked with one, and he says this is the liveliest festival he’s ever seen. I am so proud to be an Englishman now.” The boy looked slightly abashed. He lowered his voice. “I am one, am I not?”

A fat merchant pushed his way past them, stepping on Nimue’s foot, and disappeared into the crowd. She glowered after him. “Are you really certain that’s what you want to be?”

“Who do they represent, these Frenchmen you met?” Merlin made his inquiry with a smile. “What part of France do they hail from?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.” Petronus was mildly embarrassed.

“You do not have the makings of an intelligence officer. I wonder if you are really suited to any kind of government service-except possibly the military.”

A look of alarm spread across the boy’s face; he seemed to have no idea he was being kidded. “Please, Merlin, do not give me to the knights. Service with Lancelot was enough to convince me that-”

“I am only joking, Petronus. You have already made yourself so helpful to me.”

Relief showed. “Thank you, sir. Can I buy some more cakes?”

Merlin sighed. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. But I am hungry, too.”

This amused Nimue. “We already have some. Here.” She handed him a bun. “That carefully constructed public image of yours-the wise man impatient with human weakness-always vanishes when your appetites take over, doesn’t it?”

“Be quiet.”

“Look. There’s a nice inn in the next street. Why don’t we try there?”

“Yes. But first I want another cake.”

Nimue was about to make another wisecrack about Merlin’s appetites, but he shot her a warning glance and she kept quiet.

To Merlin’s disappointment, all the inns in Dover were full to capacity. After they tried five of them, he announced, “Not even the king’s gold can open their doors to us. I suppose we will have to stay at the garrison after all.”

Petronus was still eating breads and cakes. “Suppose they’re full up, too?”

“We are high officials of the king. They will have to make room for us. If need be, some of the soldiers can double up.”

“Two soldiers to a bed.” Nimue was wry. “Like ancient Sparta.”

“It may not come to that. There may be sufficient room. Still, I would prefer not to stop there. That will make it too easy for Arthur and Britomart to find me, for whatever crisis may arise this week. But it seems we have no choice.” A passing juggler bumped against him, and he winced in pain, then scowled. “At least the soldiers will be disciplined enough to behave properly.”

“Oh, yes.” She could not hide her amusement. “No place bespeaks manners and decorum like a barracks room.”

“Stop being disagreeable, Colin.”

Petronus was eating his seventh cake. “The commander here is named Captain-Captain-?”

“Commander Larkin. I have met him at court but I do not know him at all well. Colin has corresponded with him a number of times.” He looked at her. “What is your impression of him?”

She shrugged. “Solid. A military officer. A bureaucrat. There has never been the least flash of wit or irony in any of his communiqués, and certainly no imagination. So he is either very discreet or very dull.”

“Splendid.” Petronus wrinkled his nose. “The weather is so gorgeous. Why don’t we sleep out of doors?”

“Are you joking?” Merlin was tart. “If I spend the night on the ground and waken wet with dew, I will be so stiff you will have to carry me home on a litter.”

And so they made their way to the fort. It sat at the edge of one of the cliffs, overlooking the harbor and commanding a magnificent view of the English Channel. Merlin handed Petronus one of his ingenious viewing devices, a set of lenses supported in a wooden tube. “There.” He pointed. “Your homeland, Petronus.”

The boy took the device and held it to his eye. “I can’t honestly see a great deal. It’s a pity you haven’t been able to make these any more powerful.”

“In time, Petronus. Science and knowledge tend to advance slowly.” He stumbled on a small rock and winced with pain. “Like myself.”

In a few minutes they reached the gate of the fort and knocked. A sentry admitted them and asked them to wait there.

As it turned out, Commander Larkin was away on “official business”; Merlin did not bother to inquire what that meant. They were greeted by his lieutenant, an Irish sergeant named Ewan McGovern. “Merlin. We’ve heard so much about you here. And Colin. We all know your names so well. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Merlin introduced Petronus and explained that they needed a place to stay for the duration of the festival.

“I’m afraid we’re rather crowded in here.” Ewan smiled, apparently embarrassed. “But I think we can find you rooms. If you’ll only be patient for a few moments while we rearrange the living quarters…?”

“Of course. Please, take your time. We do not wish to be more of a burden than is avoidable.”

He vanished, then a few minutes later reappeared to install them in a suite of rooms against the back wall of the garrison. A window overlooked cliffs and the Channel; and a huge fire roared in the hearth. Then he proceeded, happily for everyone concerned, to leave them on their own.