J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

Arthur was concerned only mildly. “Soldiers always grumble, Merlin. You know that. Wait till the weather warms up and dries out. Wait till we’re able to hunt for game. Wait till we reach a place with a strong, friendly overlord. The knights will be singing a different tune then.”

Peter was dining with them in the king’s tent. He seemed more concerned than either of them. “But in the meanwhile, Your Majesty…”

“Yes?”

“Suppose we have to rely on these men while they are still so disgruntled?”

“Fair point.” Arthur called for a tankard of ale. “But my knights are made of better stuff than you think. They will go on complaining about this and that. That is their nature. But when it comes to a crisis, you will see them to be loyal.”

“Grudgingly loyal,” Merlin added, “but loyal. In a way, this rock-throwing pest is a blessing.”

Peter was lost. “How do you mean, exactly?”

“Our ‘guerrilla’ will have the full force of their anger directed at him. Their unhappiness with whatever Arthur does will be secondary.”

“Still, it would be better if Britomart was here, or Bedivere. To help keep them in line.”

“Bedivere has his orders. He-”

Just then, there was a commotion outside the inn. Men were shouting raucously. In the middle of it could be heard cheers; from the sound of them they were of victory. Arthur got up and went to the door; Merlin followed. “Can you see what is going on, Arthur?”

“It’s the knights. Naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“They’ve… they’ve… Let’s go and see.”

Peter followed them, and they went out to where the ruckus was happening. Arthur carried a joint of venison and chewed it as they went.

The knights had formed into a loose circle. In the center of it, bound hand and foot and kneeling in the mud, was a young man, not much more than a boy really, in his late teens. His head was bent down; Merlin heard sobs. The first knight they came to was Accolon. Merlin asked him, “One of the guerrillas?”

“The guerrilla, more like. The one we’ve caught, at any rate.”

“There was only one?” Arthur sounded astonished. “All that mischief was done by only one man?”

“Apparently, Sire.”

Arthur pushed his way through the press and came to Sir Kay, who stood imperiously over the prisoner. Just as Arthur reached him, he kicked the young man viciously. “Rocks, is it? Mud, is it? We’ll teach you better than to trifle with the Knights of the Round Table.” Again he kicked the young man, who cried out, louder than before.

“Stop it, Accolon.” Arthur used his sternest command voice. “He’s harmless enough now. There’s no glory in maltreating a helpless boy.”

The knights stepped back from the young man. Slowly he looked up. And he was indeed not much of a man, barely eighteen or so. He was dressed in homespun. His hair was dirty blond and he had blue eyes and freckles. When he saw Arthur a look of alarmed recognition crossed his face and vanished quickly.

Merlin looked him up and down with evident amusement. “So this is our dangerous subversive. Very impressive.”

“He’s only one of them.” Accolon was insistent. “There must be more, still in the woods.”

Merlin took a step toward the boy. “Is that so? Are there more of you?”

The boy looked away diffidently. “No. I’m alone.”

Accolon took hold of his arm and began twisting. “Tell the truth, you little fiend, or I’ll-”

The boy screamed. “I am telling you the truth. There’s only me.”

Accolon twisted his arm again, and again he cried out.

“I think you can stop that now.” Merlin took Accolon’s hand and moved it firmly away. “If he has allies, where are they? Do you think they would stand by and let you torture him?”

The knight shrugged. “Who knows what these villains would do? Let’s find out.” He moved to take the boy’s arm again.

But Arthur got between them. “Not now, Accolon. Let’s give Merlin a chance to interrogate him. You can always use more forceful methods later, if need be.”

Accolon took a step back. A number of the other knights grumbled. Sir Kay stepped forward and caught the young prisoner by his hair. “So it’s mud, is it? You think spattering people with mud is good sport, do you?”

The boy struggled to get free of him. “Let me go! The mud wasn’t meant for you.”

“Then your aim is mighty poor, boy.”

“Let me go!” He fought valiantly, but his captors were too strong for him. Struggling to get free, he bit Kay’s hand and kicked Merlin in the shin. “Get off me, damn you all! Wait till my brother hears about this.”

Sir Accolon joined the fray. “So you’re going to tell your big brother on us, are you?” Gleefully he boxed the boy’s ears.

“Stop it now! All of you!” Arthur’s voice rang. “This won’t get us anywhere. Peter, escort the boy to my tent. Merlin and I will interrogate him there. If we don’t learn what we want to… well, there are other ways of extracting information from prisoners.”

Accolon looked at the boy and grinned. “More emphatic ways.”

Peter took hold of the young prisoner’s collar and escorted him to the king’s tent. Merlin followed, bending to rub his shin as he walked.

“Did he hurt you that badly?” The king walked just behind him.

“Yes, blast him.” They paused outside the tent and Merlin leaned on one of the poles. “But is he the one I should be questioning?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “What the devil do you mean?”

“He knows you. It showed. How?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Merlin.” Merlin’s eyes pierced Arthur. “He’s another one, is he not?”

“Another what? I wish you’d get to the point.”

“And I wish you would. Tell me the truth, Arthur.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. He’s another one of your damned innumerable bastards. Admit it. Do you ever keep your trousers buttoned up?”

Arthur sighed, muttered something incomprehensible and stomped into the pavilion.

The boy had been left alone in a small, sparsely furnished corner. He was seated on a three-legged stool. And he was beginning to look alarmed. Before Arthur could speak, his prisoner said, “You’re the king, aren’t you? King Arthur?”

Arthur glared at him “If you know I’m the king, then you should know enough to stand in my presence till I give you permission to do otherwise.”

“Sorry, Your Majesty.” The boy got to his feet. As he did so, a slingshot fell out of his pocket and onto the floor.

Arthur bent and picked it up. “I take it that is the fearsome weapon with which you’ve been harassing my knights?”

Merlin approached, followed by Peter of Darrowfield. Peter stepped discreetly aside. Merlin, seeing the slingshot in Arthur’s hand, glared at the boy. “Oh, this bloody arthritis.”

The boy said, “Sorry, sir. It’s only a toy.”

Arthur advanced on the boy. “Never mind that. Tell us who you are and why you’ve been hectoring my men.”

“Bruce, my lord. I’m called Bruce.”

“Address the king,” Merlin told the boy, “as Your Majesty, not your lord.”

“Sorry, sir. Your Majesty.”

The king glanced at Merlin, indicating he should go on with the questioning. Merlin wasn’t sure what would work best, authoritative menace or kindly, grandfatherly understanding. The boy didn’t seem especially dangerous, so he decided on the latter. “Now, then, Bruce. His Majesty wants to know what you have been up to, and why.”

“I said, sir. I’m looking for my brother.”

“Of course.” Merlin glanced at Arthur, but the king’s face was impassive. “And you are not looking for the king, here? Whom you know?”