J. Blair: The Pendragon Murders

He peered at Merlin. “Shall I make you my heir?”

“Horrors, no!”

“You will outlive me, Merlin. Wizards always live to enormous age.”

“Do not be preposterous. Arthur, you are good for years. Decades, most likely.”

“What if my loving wife breaks out of her prison and starts another war against me?”

“You will defeat her. You always have. She never wins.”

“The old Count of Darrowfield never died-until last week.”

“He was eighty-three. And he was one of the dreariest men I have ever known. He may actually have bored himself to death.”

“Even so. His son is succeeding him. His legacy is intact.”

“His son is two decades older than you.” He lowered his voice slightly. “And rumor has always had it he was a bastard.” Suddenly he seemed to realize where the king’s thought was heading. He frowned deeply. “Arthur, what do you have in mind?”

“I must select an heir. England ’s stability depends on it.”

“What a pity you did not marry more wisely. You would have sons now.”

“I have sons. Probably more than I know. But would anyone recognize them as legitimate heirs?”

“Ah yes, the royal prerogative. How many bastards have you fathered?”

“Memory fails. If every country girl or chambermaid who has succumbed to me had given birth, I could be the strongest king in Europe.”

“Or the weakest. Sons have a way of disrespecting their fathers. Look at you and yours.”

“Uther is a foul old bastard. You know perfectly well that he all but disowned me when I was a boy.”

“My point exactly.”

“You think because Uther behaved so horribly toward me, that I would do the same to my boys?”

“It has been known. What about the French knight Accolon? Everyone suspects he is really your son.”

“Accolon is still young. And he is too impulsive to be king, I think.”

“So the rumors are correct? He really is yours? Granted, he is impulsive. But is he ambitious?”

Arthur brushed the question aside. “I want you to give some thought to this idea of succession, Merlin. I’d like to announce that I’m considering it when all the barons gather here for Midwinter Court. There has to be a way of doing it that will not set them at one another’s throats.”

Merlin was wry. “Despite my reputation, I am not really a wizard, remember?”

“There are wizards, Merlin, and then there are wizards. Do it for me.” His mood turned suddenly bright and he pointed to one of the trio of portraits. “This one, then.” Arthur turned to face Merlin. “Support me in this, Merlin. You’ll stand there and pretend not to grasp the most obvious points rather than admit I might have a valid concern. But you are always several thoughts ahead of me and we both know it.”

“Arthur, an heir-”

“And you’ll keep it up for hours on end, if you have to. But this is one time you will not wear me down. Merlin, suppose we build the brilliant new England we both want to see. Suppose we make it as stable as any country in Europe. How long will it last? I have to know who my successor will be. I have to know he will continue our policies. Without that, everything we do is for nothing.”

“Everything, ultimately, is for nothing, Arthur. The philosophers all agree that-”

“Oh dear.” The king put on an air of long-suffering patience. “Not that ‘sad wisdom of the ages’ again. Please, Merlin, anything but that.”

“In the name of everything human, Arthur, think. Suppose you live for another fifty years. Old Darrowfield did. Suppose you choose the wisest, kindest successor in England. Then suppose he goes mad a year after your death. Caligula did. Will you ever know? Will the worms tell you the political gossip?”

“Point taken. But I want to leave a stable England. Guenevere will outlive me, damn her. She’ll do it to spite me, like everything else she does. Can you imagine what this country would be like with a gorgon like her on the throne?” Merlin started to say something but Arthur cut him off, “And don’t remind me that I was the one who chose her.”

“For the sake of your nerves, Arthur, and my sanity, why will you not stop obsessing about Guenevere? She is hardly the only villain in England.”

“She was-is-my wife. Her betrayal never stops hurting. It’s horrible enough when a friend does it. But a wife…”

“It will pass in time, Arthur. Everything does. In the meantime-”

“More philosophy?” Arthur narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yes?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “I would like to leave for a few weeks.”

Suddenly the king broke into a smile. “Leave? To go where?”

“To Dover. My aides want to attend the autumn festival there. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. If you don’t mind making a detour, that is.”

“A detour?” It was Merlin’s turn to be suspicious. “To where?”

“To give our royal condolences to the new Lord Darrowfield.”

“Young Darrowfield?! He’s the biggest bore in England. He makes his father seem charismatic.”

“Even so. Our rulership depends on the goodwill of the barons. He has a great many friends. Tell him we intend to formalize his title at Midwinter Court. Take him presents. A ring or something. Better still, tell him we’ll send him a cohort of servants for his installation feast. He’s invited me, of course, but I have no intention of going. Life is dull enough here at court. But butter him up, and do a good job of it. Another conspiracy is bound to be hatched sooner or later; I want him friendly to us.”

“I was hoping for a vacation, Arthur, not a work outing.”

“And you will have one-as soon as you do this for me.”

Merlin slumped a bit in his chair. “I should have expected something like this. You always smile at me before you unload some nasty obligation on me. Give me two weeks’ holiday, then I’ll take a third for Darrowfield.”

“Do this first. Then go and play for a month, if you like.” He hesitated. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to mention, I’ve decided Camelot should have a court jester. Like every other court in Europe.”

Merlin didn’t blink. “You are promoting one of the knights?”

“For once, Merlin, restrain your sarcastic tongue. He is a young man named John of Paintonbury. I met him on my last tour about the countryside.”

“A bumpkin, Arthur? Do you not think we have enough of those here already?”

“Stop it. He is a bright young man, witty and very verbal. When he gets here, I’d like you to do everything you can to make him comfortable here.”

“A jester. From Paintonbury.” Merlin was deadpan. “As if Darrowfield were not awful enough. Are you certain there is nothing else I can do? Climb to the top of this tower and stand on my head, for instance?”

“It isn’t that bad, Merlin. If nothing else, Darrowfield lays a good table. He has the most skilled chef in the south of England.”

“Really? I’m very fond of good food, and so are Colin and Petronus.”

“I thought you might fancy the idea.”

“Very well, Arthur. Done. But if Darrowfield does not provide some excellent dinners, I will complain to you, not him.”

That was Merlin’s worry. England was at peace. What else did he have to fret about? Yet just over the horizon lurked death.

There was miscellaneous business for Merlin to finish before they could leave on their trip, minor bits of government business and two seriously ill patients he was reluctant to abandon; but they finally left Camelot on horseback several mornings after Merlin’s interview with Arthur. The autumn weather was bright with sunshine for the first day of the journey. Wildflowers grew everywhere; butterflies flitted cheerfully from plant to plant; young foxes played in the fields. Merlin’s young aides seemed to savor everything in the world. And the festival would be the cream of it all.