J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“There are people who think that the fact that you trust this absurd mechanism is a sign of madness.”

“Be quiet, Colin. We must get to Fedora as quickly as possible.”

There were three old women sitting in the hallway outside Fedora’s room, praying over candles, wailing like forlorn banshees, apparently mourning the imminent demise of their friend.

Merlin, accompanied by Nimue, made his way slowly along the corridor. None of the women showed the least sign of noticing them. They gazed into the candle flames and wailed their orisons, to all appearances aware of nothing else.

They even seemed quite unaware of an overpowering stench that filled the hallway. Nimue covered her mouth and nose with her hand. “Goodness, can that actually be from Fedora?”

“The dissolution of the human body is never agreeable, Colin.” Merlin paused for a beat, then moved on. To the first of the women he encountered, he said, “You should not have those candles burning unsheltered. There is too much that could take fire. Tapestries, wood…”

The woman interrupted her show of mourning. “Stone does not burn.” She went immediately back into her wail.

“Camelot is more wood than stone. Every castle is. You could start a blaze that would endanger us all.”

She wailed.

Merlin nudged her with the tip of his boot. “What is that awful smell? How can you stand it? How can you leave Fedora here?”

She looked up at him. “We are following her instructions. We have sacrificed nine black puppies to the Good Goddess for her.”

“In the name of everything human, woman, what good can you possibly think that will do?”

“It is standard practice, Merlin,” Nimue whispered in his ear. “Morgan used to do it whenever someone in her household was seriously ill. She bred black dogs against the eventuality.”

“Fools!” He bellowed it. “Superstitious dolts!”

He pushed past them, moving more quickly than before. Fedora’s room was pitch-dark. The awful odor seemed to billow out of it. He stared into the blackness for a moment and listened. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear breathing. Except for that, the room was pervaded with the eerie stillness of death. Then softly came the sound of her coughing.

He went back to the hall, took one of the candles and went back inside. Then quietly came Fedora’s voice. “No, young man, you may not have my hand.”

Gently, almost whispering, he said, “Fedora, it is I, Merlin.”

“All you lovely young men. I know what you want. But you may not have it.”

He moved to the bedside and put a hand on her arm. “Fedora, it is Merlin.”

“Merlin?” His voice seemed to register with her. “No. Not Merlin. Not at all.”

Her mind had regressed to her far-off youth. It took him a moment to realize. “Tell me about your young men, Fedora.”

“No!” It was almost a hiss. The sharpness of the expletive made her cough again.

“Fedora,” he whispered, “I have come to make love to you.”

“No, not you. Not any of you. My love is for the women here.”

“Yes.” He stroked her arm. “Yes, Fedora. I love you.”

He moved the candle close to her. She was soaked in sweat. Her skin was pale as the candle wax, and her breath smelled of imminent decay. There was blood on her lips; she had coughed it up. Merlin took his kerchief and wiped it away.

Like a serpent gifted with speech she hissed, “None of you! Not one of you! I have seen what you do to your women. You will not defile me. It is them I care for, them I tend.” Suddenly, quite abruptly, she shouted, “Uther Pendragon! All your women! All your sons! What will they benefit you now?”

The stench in the room was growing stronger, or Merlin was succumbing to it. It was coming from under the bed. He looked, and by dim candlelight he saw the bodies of the young dogs, arranged in circle, in a basket. The corpses glistened with moisture. Decay was taking them quickly. He called for Nimue.

She stepped into the room and stood just inside the doorway, outlined faintly by light from the hall, and held her hand over her nose. “Merlin, how can you stand this?”

He gestured under the bed. “Remove them.”

She bent and took the basket, then glanced at Fedora. “She isn’t-is she-?”

“Not yet.” He looked at the dying woman and said almost tenderly, “She told me once that she knows secret things. Let us hope she remembers them in her death throes. And will speak them.”

Nimue looked doubtful. She bent and took the basket with the dogs with one hand. Covering her nose with the other, she left quickly.

Merlin lowered his voice. In a whisper he said, “Fedora, it is I, Uther. I need you.”

“Again?” Eyes closed, she chuckled. “Another one? You are insatiable.”

“You know who the woman is. Who the son is. Tell me their names.”

Fedora opened her eyes wide and without warning spit in his face. She coughed up more blood. “Men! Kings! Your women deserve better than you give them.”

“I know it.”

“You treat them like swine.”

“I know it. I know it. But tell me, Fedora, who is this one? What is her name? What is the name of the child?”

Her hand caught his and squeezed. All the life seemed to leave her body.

Agitatedly he shook her. She must not die. She must not, not till she talked. “Fedora! Wake up! Speak to me.”

Feebly, her eyelids parted. The candle flame seemed not to reflect in them. They were black, dying.

“My new son, Fedora.” He shook her. He whispered. “What is his name?”

So faintly it was almost not a sound but a breath she said the word, “Darrowfield.”

“Darrowfield? Old Lord Darrowfield’s son was really Uther’s?”

Her eyes closed. She repeated the word. “Darrowfield.” There was a violent spasm of coughing, and a great deal more blood came up. It soaked her bed gown and the sheets. And she was still.

Merlin sat staring at her for a long moment. From the hallway came the sound of the women mourning, wailing, as if somehow they knew Fedora had passed on.

So young Lord Darrowfield, his father’s heir, was really the son of Uther, as had long been rumored. He was no mere lord. He was Arthur’s brother. Or had been.

But what did that tell about all the deaths, all the killings?

Then it dawned on him.

In the hallway the women were mourning, wailing, crying. Merlin paused to watch and listen. He had intended to tell them to make arrangement for Fedora’s burial. But it was no use, not in their state. He would tend to it himself.

He saw Nimue returning, at the far end of the hall. They met, and he told her, “Let us go to the refectory. I have not eaten a proper meal in days.”

“How can you eat after…?”

“It might have been me, Nimue. Fedora was twenty years older than I, but it might have been me. One day it will be. A full stomach will remind me that I am still alive.”

They walked to the dining hall without saying much more. It was past dinnertime; there were not many other people. Merlin had a plate of beef and vegetables. Nimue had already eaten, but she sat with him and sipped a goblet of wine. “Did she tell you what you needed to know?”

“I believe so.”

“What was it?”

“She talked about Uther’s sons. The late Lord Darrowfield, the one who died so horribly at Stonehenge, was Arthur’s brother.”

She drank her wine. “That has always been rumored. I mean, I had heard he was a bastard. But Uther…!”

“Yes, Uther. I should have realized long ago that Arthur’s pursuit of women was not unique to him. It was Marmaduke, of all people, who reminded me of that.”

Nimue was wry. “It’s nice to realize that Marmaduke knew anything at all.”