J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“This is all well and good.” Merlin sipped his soup. “But in the name of everything human, what do you want us to do about it?”

Philip blushed. “The knights and the other squires sent me to ask you for instructions. How are we to deal with this?”

“Surely,” Merlin said gravely, “Camelot’s finest knights can mange to catch a trickster.”

“But is it merely a trickster?” Arthur directed the question at no one in particular. “We are moving into unfriendly territory. The local kings and barons here have never really reconciled themselves to the idea of a central government under one man’s rule.”

“Excellent point, Arthur. But if our knights cannot capture one mud-throwing hooligan, what chance will they stand against an armed force led by a determined ruler?”

Arthur sighed heavily. “There are times when I think I should never have made myself king.”

Merlin put on his best schoolteacherly manner. “Nevertheless you did it.”

“Yes,” the king said, a bit sadly. “I suppose I did. All those wars I fought. We fought. All that bloodshed.” Then he found his resolve again. To Philip he said, “Tell the knights to redouble their efforts at catching this… whoever it is.”

“They won’t like hearing that, Sire.”

“Well, what the devil do they want to hear? I can’t very well go out and capture this imp for them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Philip bowed and left. Arthur bit into a piece of bread more fiercely than seemed quite necessary. Merlin held his tongue and ate, too.

The next morning Accolon, rested and looking fit except for a cut over his eye, approached Merlin.

“Accolon. You are looking quite fine. Travel agrees with you.”

“Thank you, Merlin. I wish I were as well rested as you think I look.”

“Troubled sleep?” He chuckled. “What is bothering your conscience?”

“Spare me your sarcasm, Merlin.” Accolon had been in England since Arthur took the throne. His English was only mildly inflected with a French accent. “I’d like you to have a word with the king.”

“Why not talk to him yourself? You are as close to him as any of the knights.”

Accolon sighed deeply. “What I have to say to him, he doesn’t want to hear.”

“Oh. And what do you have to say?”

“It’s about this pest that’s dogging us. Throwing things.” He reached up and rubbed his brow. “That is how I got this cut.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I’m far from the only member of the party who’s suffered an injury. Most of them are minor, granted, but the number of them… Arthur has to do something.”

“If you can’t catch whoever is doing this, how do you expect Arthur to?”

Peter of Darrowfield was standing nearby, eavesdropping. He joined them. “How hard can it be to run down one prankster?”

“We don’t know that it’s only one,” Accolon grumped. “Stones, twigs, blobs of mud, leaves chewed up and soaking with spittle-they seem to come at us from every direction.”

Merlin clucked his tongue in sympathy and shook his head. “So you think this may be a band of random pranksters?”

Accolon scowled at the dig. “We don’t know what to think, Merlin. The barons in this territory are not friendly to Arthur. This may be their way of letting us know we’re not welcome.”

“I see.”

“Still,” Peter went on, “there can’t be that many of them or you’d have caught a glimpse of them by now. Perhaps you should redouble your efforts.”

Accolon brushed this aside. “Arthur told Bors this morning that he thinks this is probably just a matter of mischievous boys. He doesn’t want us using too much force.”

“That’s quite sensible.” Peter was not about to be left out of the conversation. “If they really are just boys, being too hard on them would only antagonize their fathers. That would be the last thing Arthur wants.”

Again Accolon ignored him. “We don’t want to impale them or behead them or anything. We only want to use a bit more force and tenacity hunting them down-and making them stop this puerile behavior. By whatever means.”

Merlin rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll have a word with the king. But let us wait until he is in a generous mood.”

“When will that be, in this god-awful country?”

“Patience, Accolon. I will do what I can.”

And in due course, he did so. Later that night, Arthur was rested and seemingly at peace with himself and the world. Merlin broached the subject. “They are insisting that something be done. You have told them to try and capture the culprit or culprits, but not to hurt him. The knights say that makes no sense. They want action. As usual, they want bloody action.”

Arthur was breezy. “What do they want me to do?”

“Give them permission to use force.”

“I don’t believe that would be advisable, Merlin. This attacker, whoever he is, might well be injured. Or worse.”

“You know I dislike violent conflict, Arthur. But for goodness’ sake, so a few bumpkins get their ears boxed. What of it?”

“I am the king of all Britain’s people, bumpkins as well as knights. How can I authorize such a thing?”

Merlin sighed. “I am the one who is supposed to persuade you to use reason. You are turning the tables on me.”

“Relax, Merlin. You can’t always be reasonable. No one is, not even you.”

“I-”

“I’ve seen that contraption you use to go up into your tower. There is nothing even remotely reasonable about risking your neck to save a few steps.”

“Stop it, Arthur.”

“We’ll be out of this country in another day or two. Suppose our villain-in-hiding is the son of one of the local barons? One whose loyalty to me is shaky? And suppose the knights present the boy’s head to me on a pole? Do you realize how much trouble that could cause?”

Again Merlin sighed. “I suppose I see your point. But your knights are restive. If they decide to take this matter into their own hands… Well, you could find yourself with more than one disloyal vassal.”

“Merlin, I know it.”

“Good. If only you’d been persuaded to bring a larger force… There has to be some way out of this.”

“I can’t think what. Let us trust time to correct the situation.”

And so the journey continued, with the knights grumbling more and more about the indignities these “guerrillas” were subjecting them to. From time to time one of them would get stung by a flying stone or spattered with chewed leaves. At one point Sir Kay was hit in the face with a huge blob of mud. Then Kay went, furious, from one of his comrades to the next, demanding that this affront to the dignity of the Knights of the Round Table be avenged. But most of the others merely laughed in his muddied face. He found his squire Jumonet and had him clean it for him.

Livid, so angry he was almost foaming at the mouth, Kay rode along the column to Arthur. But Arthur held his ground. There was to be no violent retaliation.

The weather worsened; there were storms. Progress was slow. Roads were soaked with rain, which fell relentlessly. Forests were more and more heavily fog shrouded. Merlin’s carriage got mired repeatedly and the knights, already grumbling, made no secret that they were unhappy at having to free it.

Merlin watched the expedition’s mood turn darker and darker. The “guerrillas” threw more and more rocks, sticks, blobs of mud. The knights were talking openly about turning back to Camelot, despite the king’s wishes. Then one evening, at a place between two towns, over bread and venison at the fireside, Merlin broached the subject with Arthur.

“Returning the Stone to Wales may be more of a challenge than you anticipated.”