J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“But-but-why would they have killed Darrowfield and his sons? What possible reason could they have?”

Calmly Merlin pronounced, “We shall know that soon enough.”

A moment later the two knights reappeared, dragging Robert between them. His face showed fear and confusion, and he was struggling, but the knights were much too strong for him.

“No!” he cried. “Why are you doing this?”

The knights ignored his cries and pulled him toward the king and Merlin.

“Merlin, help me!” Robert pled. “Why have they taken me? I haven’t done anything.”

When they reached Merlin and the king, the two of them exchanged glances. Then Merlin turned to the boy. “You know perfectly well.”

“No!”

“What was in the wine you gave us last night?”

“Nothing.” The bewilderment in Robert’s face was plain to see. “Nothing. I swear it.”

Merlin looked to the king again and nodded. Arthur said to the knights, “Get two more knights from our main column. Take him back to Camelot. Guard him carefully. We will want to question him more thoroughly when we get back.”

He went on. “You will almost certainly overtake the party that has Marmaduke and Lulua under guard. I can’t imagine they’re making very good time, not with those lumps. See to it that they’re all placed in very secure cells in the dungeon.”

The knights saluted and turned to go. Robert was still pleading with Merlin, protesting his innocence, as they dragged him off and shackled him. The boy fought, and one of the knights struck him. After that he was quiet.

Only minutes later they were ready to leave on their return to Camelot. Arthur and Merlin watched them depart and quickly disappear behind a curtain of falling snow. Arthur had an air of self-congratulation. “I knew you’d get to the bottom of the killings. You always do. But tell me. Why do you think he did it? What could have possessed him?”

Merlin looked away from him. “Can you really not guess? We have discussed it often enough.”

“Don’t be cryptic, Merlin. I want to know.”

Merlin heaved an enormous sigh. “You want an heir. You have sired a great many potential ones. More, even, than is usual for a nobleman in this country. Does it really surprise you that some of them should resort to murder in hopes of gaining the throne?”

“Heirs? I-no!” Arthur caught him by the arm.

“I make no judgment, Arthur. But it must have occurred to you at some point that so many children, in or out of wedlock, would lead to many problems.”

“That boy is not mine. He cannot be!”

Merlin shrugged. “I cannot imagine you keep track of all the women you have bedded. Robert’s mother, Marian, is one of your servants. You must have had many opportunities to-”

“No! Merlin, I tell you, he is not mine. He and his brother-don’t you think I’d know it if I had fathered twins?”

“Then tell me, Arthur, what other motive could they have had for all this death? Darrowfield and his sons, John and Bruce, Accolon… Even if they were not all your bastards, people thought they were. And what about daughters? How many of them have you sired?”

“Darrowfield was twenty years older than me. There is no way he could possibly be my son. Not even with the help of a sorcerer. No, there must be some other explanation. I want you to find it.”

“I can think of no other. But if Your Majesty wishes it-”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Merlin. Morgan, Marmaduke, Marian and her sons… When I think about it my head spins.”

Merlin turned pensive. “Marmaduke.”

“What about him? You think that he-?”

“No, it is not that, Arthur. There was something he said. Something that resonated with me. But I cannot remember what.”

“You will. You always do.”

“If I could only remember.” He looked at the king. “But for once I think you may be correct about these crimes, Arthur. I fear this is not over yet.”

The weather grew worse and worse. Waves of snow and wind alternated with driving rain. The air turned warmer, then cold again. Roads froze and thawed. Arthur’s party made slow progress on its way to rebury the Stone, then slower, then a bit more rapid. Cloaks were not sufficient against the cold. Every few hours progress halted completely and the men built fires to warm themselves.

Merlin and Peter rode in their carriage, wrapped in blankets. The other carriage, carrying the Stone of Bran, followed just behind them. Since it was lighter, it gained less traction on muddy or icy roads and frequently had to be pushed or pulled past some difficult patch.

For a time a flock of ravens followed the party. Men took it as a bad omen, but when Arthur reminded them of Merlin’s pets, they relaxed somewhat. When Merlin tried calling to the birds, they did not respond. “These are not my birds,” he told Arthur. “They do not respond to the language I use with Roc and the others.”

“Sorcerer.”

Merlin ignored this. “Ravens are naturally scavengers. They are following us for the bits of food we leave behind us.” But after two days, the ravens disappeared.

The journey passed through one tiny village after another. The sight of an approaching army, even a small one, invariably alarmed the residents. They expected to be conquered, pillaged, perhaps put to death. Assurances from Arthur and Bedivere helped calm these fears, but the people never really relaxed till the royal party passed on.

None of them seemed to have any clear idea who Arthur was. Bedivere would explain patiently that he was Arthur, King of all England, but the information meant nothing to them. The concept of England as a unified nation was alien. In a few hamlets the elders had heard of Arthur; in most they had not. Bedivere made certain the men in the party behaved decorously, foraged for their own food, left the women and boys alone.

From time to time Arthur joined Merlin in the carriage. Peter would discreetly exit and find a horse for the short time he needed it.

Merlin’s arthritis was, inevitably, bothering him. “We really must talk to our people about installing more comfortable seats in these conveyances, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes twinkled. “Would you rather be riding a horse?”

Merlin snorted. “That is hardly the point.” He paused. “How much farther is it to-what is the name of the place? Grosfalcon? I want to see the Stone reburied and get back to Camelot and comfort.”

“Patience is a virtue, Merlin.”

“Do not needle me, Arthur. I am in pain enough.”

“About those coins we’re having minted…”

The sudden shift of subject made Merlin’s ears prick up. “Yes?”

“Do you see, now, why I think they’re so important?

Why they are not simply a product of royal vanity? Most of the people in England seem to have no idea who their king is. Or that they have a king at all. The coins will help change that, build awareness that England is a nation now, not merely a collection of feuding fiefdoms.”

“Yes, fine, Arthur, but-”

“And the people will know who their king is. A unified system of coinage will help us in our work. When we have to deal with other nations-when we treat with the Byzantine Empire, for instance-we will present a strong, united face. And when in time I name an heir, everyone in England will know him.”

“Of course, Arthur. But how will you persuade the nation to use your coins? Can you imagine Marmaduke, for instance, requiring his subjects to convert to this new monetary system?”

“Marmaduke is on his way to jail.”

“But how many other Marmadukes are there, in how many corners of Britain? How many of them will follow your dictum to use coins with your portrait?”