J. Blair: The Pendragon Murders

“None of them were pleased to be crushed by Arthur’s superior strategy and forces. That goes without saying. Uther took it harder than most. He had all but disowned Arthur when he was still a boy, you see, on the ground that Arthur was too much a dreamer, unfit to succeed him and assume power in their little fief. So to be bested by his own dream-ridden son in combat… to have been so publicly and humiliatingly wrong about him… You can imagine how he must have felt.”

Nimue added, “You’ve told us that your relations with your own parents were never close, Petronus. This can’t seem so odd to you.”

“Yes. But-but surely they ought to have reconciled by now. In the interest of peace, if nothing else. I mean, look at old King Pellenore. Arthur defeated him, too; and took his castle of Camelot for his own seat of power. Yet Pellenore lives at Arthur’s court and supports him.”

Nimue answered. “Remember, Pellenore is out of his wits. There are people who say that is Arthur’s fault, but for whatever reason-”

“Yes, Colin, exactly, but Uther is not mad.” Merlin seemed almost lost in reminiscence. “At least not to appearances. He sided with Guenevere and Lancelot in their first war against Arthur. No one has ever been certain why he did it, except out of fatherly venom. But that did not help the cause of family harmony. Now he is old and feeble-virtually an invalid. But Arthur still carries a grudge.”

“You should mediate between them.” Petronus sounded perfectly grave. “Fathers and sons… I wish I could make peace with my own father.”

Merlin shrugged. “I have enough duties. And that particular war is, I suspect, unwinnable. Now if you both will excuse me, I would like to take a nap before dinner.”

He retired to his bed, as did Nimue to hers. Petronus was left on his own, with uncomfortable memories of his home life back in France.

Two hours later a young serving woman knocked at the door of their suite. “Dinner will be served shortly, your honors.”

“Thank you.” Nimue yawned and smiled at her. “May we know your name?”

“Martha, sir.”

“If you will give us a moment to collect ourselves, you may escort us to the dining hall.”

Martha curtsied. “Yes, sir. I’ll just wait outside the door here.”

“Who else will be joining us for dinner?”

“Only the family. Oh, and Queen Morgan and Prince Mordred and King Uther, sir. Oh-and I almost forgot-his lordship’s new sheriff.”

She stepped out into the corridor to wait for the three of them to ready themselves. Nimue looked to Merlin. In hushed tones she asked, “Did you hear her? Queen Morgan? Prince Mordred? King Uther? Arthur will not be pleased to hear that they are styling themselves that way.”

Merlin arranged his robes. “No, he will not. I would have thought Morgan would know better. Arthur has been flirting with the idea of ‘converting’ to Christianity, as they say. This kind of arrogance will hardly help Morgan’s case for the traditional English gods.”

Petronus looked thoughtful. “Are you serious, Merlin? Arthur, one of the Christians? I grew up in a Christian society. There was intrigue, murder, bloodletting, treachery, hypocrisy…” He wrinkled his nose as if there was a foul smell in the air.

“Christians are human beings, Petronus, and human beings are corrupt. I have taught you enough history for you to know what Greece and Rome were like, centuries before the man Christ. Besides, I said Arthur has been toying with the idea. Like the emperor Constantine two centuries ago, he sees the advantages of the Christian Church as a unifying, stabilizing force. Bishop Gildas has been making the case quite forcefully.”

Moments later they joined Martha in the corridor and followed her to the dining hall. Very softly Petronus whispered to Nimue, “What do you know about the rumor that Mordred is Arthur’s son, not merely his nephew? That Arthur and Morgan committed-”

Despite his whispering, Merlin heard him. He rounded on the boy and said fiercely, “That is not a topic to be broached. Not ever. Not if you wish to remain in Arthur’s service. We can return you to Lancelot, remember; you can serve him in his prison. Or to France.”

Petronus had never seen the old man so angry; he trembled. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“That is not a subject open for discussion. Not ever . Do you understand?” Without another word Merlin turned and resumed following Martha, who gave no sign of having heard what Petronus had said or of understanding Merlin’s anger. But a moment later Merlin softened. He turned back to look at Petronus and told him, “There is a long tradition of kings… taking pleasure where they will. There is even a name for it. People call it ‘royal privilege.’ Arthur is human. But it is not wise policy to remind him of it.”

“But I only asked-”

“Come on. Let us eat.”

Martha moved quickly and with certainty through the winding hallways; her companions were disoriented and kept slowing down. The fact that the corridors were lit quite dimly didn’t help matters.

Finally they reached the dining hall, which, unlike the castle’s other chambers and corridors, and unlike the hallways, was ablaze with light. Scores of candles burned in candelabras; torches blazed along the walls. A dozen servants, all in uniforms bearing the Darrowfield crest, waited around the table, and Martha joined them.

Several guests were already seated at table, Darrowfield himself, a sad-looking woman Nimue thought must be his wife, two boys in their mid-teenage years, and a middle-aged man dressed in the robes of a scholar.

Entering, Merlin made himself the soul of heartiness; there was no trace of his earlier ferocity, and Petronus sighed in relief.

“Good evening, all.” He scanned the table, which was already set with a huge tureen of soup and a number of silver plates.

Darrowfield announced, “I would like to present my good lady wife and my two sons, Geoffrey and Freelander.” The other Darrowfields smiled and uttered brief greetings to their visitors from Camelot.

The older of Darrowfield’s sons, Geoffrey, said languidly, “I’m told that people at Camelot look down at those of us who live about the countryside. That you think of us as provincial.” Like his brother, he was a handsome boy; but Merlin noticed a slight curvature to his back.

“Never!” Merlin feigned shock. “I am certain no one at Camelot holds such an ungracious opinion.”

Just at that instant Mordred entered, leading an elderly man who walked slowly and leaned on his grandson heavily. He was obviously Uther Pendragon. Nimue remarked to herself that even kings must in time come to old age and weakness-those of them that survive long enough. Uther seemed the feeblest man she’d ever seen.

Nimue looked them up and down and decided that Uther must be blind or nearly so, in addition to his more obvious infirmities, and that Mordred was clearly quite fond of him. Introductions were made and Mordred selected a seat and held the chair for his grandfather. Then he took his own seat, which was between Uther and Nimue.

He recognized her with a start. “You are Colin, aren’t you? Merlin’s assistant?”

“Yes, I am. I’m quite flattered that you remember me. We’ve only met the once.”

Mordred smiled. “I like scholarly men.”

“So do I, but-”

Merlin interrupted. “You are looking fit, Prince Mordred.” He leaned on the word princewith the heaviest possible irony.

“Prince? Oh, that. That was mother’s idea, I’m afraid. You mustn’t take it too seriously.”

“I assure you I do not. And I hardly think your uncle the king will do so either.”

The scholarly man at the table had not said a word. Now he spoke up. “So you are that Merlin who is counselor to King Arthur? I am Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff here. Only recently appointed by Lord Darrowfield.” He beamed with pride. “I have known you by reputation for years. To actually meet you is a great joy for me.”