J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“Yes.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I told you about him.”

“Memory fails. There has been so much else-”

“A very clever fellow. I met him on that visit to Coventry last month.”

“And you decided to bring him here-to admit him to our court-without consulting anyone.”

“This is not ‘our court.’ It is mine.” Arthur sighed. “Do me a favor and don’t pick at me today. I have too much on my mind. Including this plague of yours from Algiers, it seems. I don’t even know for certain where Algiers is.”

Merlin stood and stared at him.

And Arthur wilted under it. “All right, fine. This plague of ours , then. Is that better?”

“Thank you, Arthur. We do not know, yet, if it really is a plague. I suggest you contact your sheriffs in every part of southeast England and have them send daily reports. If there is an outbreak someplace other than Dover-”

“What can we do?”

For a long moment Merlin said nothing. Then finally, “Hope. That is all.”

“Hope is not a commodity in long supply, in my life.”

“Even so. If I were a superstitious man, I would say pray.”

“Should I summon my sister Morgan to Camelot? Should I have her conduct some kind of public rite? It might reassure people, if nothing else.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “The way she reassured Lord Darrowfield?”

Arthur frowned. “Poor Darrowfield. Tell me what happened.”

“I told you the basic facts.” Merlin shrugged slightly. “We found him and his sons at Stonehenge. Their throats were cut.”

“But surely you investigated. I know you. You could never have resisted.”

“I was on holiday, Arthur, remember? And this disease is a much more urgent matter. Besides, Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff there, took matters into his hands. He seems an able enough man. I did not want to tread on his authority.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “But you know who did it. Or think you do. You always do, Merlin.”

“Not in this case. The obvious suspect would be Lady Darrowfield. There was nothing but unpleasantness between her and her husband. And she would hardly be the first vindictive wife in England.”

Arthur stiffened at this. “Leave Guenevere out of this. Leave her out of everything.”

“Of course. I’m not at all certain I see Lady Darrowfield in that mold, anyway. If it was only her husband who had been killed…” He made a vague gesture. “But the boys were slaughtered as well. She hardly seems like the type of woman to play Medea.”

“Then…?”

He hesitated. “Your sister was there.”

“Morgan?”

“Yes, with her son Mordred in tow. Nominally she was there in preparation for the equinox. But word has it that Darrowfield was flirting with conversion to the Christian religion. And Morgan was none too happy about it.”

“You don’t think she killed him, surely?”

“It would hardly be her first time removing an, er, inconvenient opponent. We both know her history. And she had Mordred there to do her dirty work.”

“He was the only attendant she brought?”

“She had others, but they were at Stonehenge, preparing for the festival there.” He paused uncertainly, then decided to go on. “But they could easily have gotten to Darrowfield Castle to help Mordred with any… business.”

Arthur brooded. “I know Morgan’s bloody reputation. I’ve never quite convinced myself she could be so lethal.”

Merlin hesitated again, but decided to lay out all his suspicions. “She can be. And your father was there with her, Arthur.”

“Uther? England’s famous hero Uther Pendragon?” He laughed. “How badly is he decaying?”

“Rather badly, I’d say. I can’t remember ever seeing anyone more feeble.”

“Good. What on earth was he doing there? He ought to be in a basket on a shelf somewhere. But you’re not suggesting-I mean, he could hardly have been the killer.”

“Hardly. But your family’s history raises, shall we say, so many suspicions.”

“There. You see?” Suddenly Arthur was animated. “You’ve put your finger on precisely why I need to find the right heir. The one who is truly worthy. Thank you for making my point.”

“In the name of everything human, you are relentless, Arthur. People look at your golden hair and call you the Sun King. But you are more like a storm of driving rain and wind.”

“You’re not the first to say so. But you taught me, Merlin. There is no other way to be king.” His smile disappeared. “But do you really mean to say that one of my family must have killed Darrowfield? Are there no other possible suspects?”

“Wherever there is humanity, there are possible suspects. But I was hardly there long enough to know everyone who might have had a motive.”

Suddenly there was a young man at the door, rapping at the lintel impatiently. “How long do you plan to keep me waiting?” Despite his brusque manner he was grinning. He was in his early twenties, to appearances. Short, thin, with unruly black hair and startlingly blue eyes. “I could be off taking care of my geese now.”

For a moment Arthur stiffened; then, seeming to recognize the young man, he relaxed. “John. I’m glad you’re here.”

“You might act like it, then. Cooling my heels out here is hardly the reception I-”

“I’m sorry, John. Really I am.” Arthur seemed to remember himself. “Ah, but the two of you haven’t met. John of Paintonbury, this is my friend and trusted advisor Merlin.”

Merlin gaped, uncertain of the protocol. Slowly he extended a hand. “Arthur tells me you are to be his jester.”

“Satirist,” John corrected him.

“Satirist, then.” Merlin made himself smile as he shook the young man’s hand. “You will be living here at Camelot? On the royal bounty?”

John’s eyes flashed. “You needn’t sound so disapproving. None of this is my idea. I was quite content raising geese. It is a modest living, but an honest one.” A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “Unlike being a wizard.”

“You are suggesting,” Arthur interjected, “that those of us who administer England’s affairs are not earning our livings honestly?”

“My geese, Your Majesty, permit themselves to be fattened. And slaughtered, by those who need their meat the most. Perhaps Camelot’s residents might take a lesson from them.” He frowned. “Of course, fattening themselves-that, they are already doing. Every time I turn a corner, there is a table of cakes.”

“The king is terribly fond of cakes.” Merlin was not amused by the young man. “Yet I have seen him go without them altogether, when he needed to. You might take a lesson from that.”

Arthur grinned and turned to Merlin. “There-you see? He will be perfect.”

Merlin was increasingly put off. And puzzled-it was not in character for Arthur to take such insults with such cordiality. He nodded to John, mock-deferentially. “With all the swords here, and with a slew of hotheaded knights wielding them, I suspect I will be earning an honest living soon enough, investigating a murder.”

“Now, now, Merlin, don’t be so touchy.” Arthur wanted peace between them.

“I am not being touchy, Your Majesty.” When he became formal with the king, he always emphasized titles like Your Majesty with strong irony. “Simply realistic. Your knights are hardly known for self-restraint. Or for having a sense of humor about themselves.”

“John will soon cure them of that.” Arthur put an arm around his new jester’s shoulder. “Won’t you, John?”

“If it pleases the king.” John smiled with unconvincing modesty. “I would do anything in my power to please Your Majesty .” His tone mimicked Merlin’s perfectly.