J. Blair: The Pendragon Murders

Peter was a plain-looking man of about forty. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. Finally Merlin said, “You appear to be something of a scholar, Peter. You interest me. Most of the sheriffs in England are bumpkins, to say the least.”

“And corrupt bumpkins, at that.” Peter grinned. “But England under King Arthur is changing. There is a new breed of men engaging in law enforcement. I am far from the only one. Hanibert of London is one of the most brilliant men I know.”

Merlin picked up a goblet, held it out and a servant filled it with wine. He raised it to Peter and sipped. “May England’s criminals beware.”

“It is your influence, sir. Everyone knows how brilliant you have been at solving crimes against Arthur’s majesty. It has inspired some of us, who might otherwise be breeding dust in libraries, to become actively engaged in the detection and solution of crime.”

“It is a promising development, Peter, and I could not be more grateful, nor more flattered, to hear about it.”

“Of course most people still regard us as dull-witted fools. But that will change soon enough.”

“I would not be certain. Reputations, even if they are unearned, do not die easily. Large numbers of people still believe I am a magician, despite the obvious absurdity.”

Freelander, the younger son, chimed in. “They say that Merlin himself created Stonehenge with his mystical powers. He brought the stones to life and ordered them to march to Salisbury and arrange themselves into a circle. Or that it was built by a race of giants, at Merlin’s command. It is so exciting to live so close to it.”

“You see what I mean? Stonehenge has been there on the plain for generations. No, for centuries. It may actually be as old as time itself. Yet the myth persists that a living man constructed it.” Annoyed, Merlin set his wine cup down and turned to face the young man. “Or am I supposed to be immortal as well?” Cowed, the boy fell silent.

Merlin turned back to Peter. “No, I fear that centuries from now, when we are all long dead and buried, the myth of the town sheriff as a cloddish dimwit will still be alive.”

“For once I hope you are mistaken, sir.” Peter held out his own cup for wine.

Then with a sudden flourish Morgan le Fay swept into the room, black robes swirling around her as if the wind might be blowing them. “Cloddish dimwit?” She put on a huge artificial smile. “You are talking about my brother?”

Alarmed by her treasonous wit, Peter drank deeply. “Please, Morgan. We must be respectful of authority.”

“Spoken like a man in a position of authority.” She brushed him aside. “Mordred. Father.” She nodded to each of them. “I was not certain whether to expect you here.”

“Even the old get hungry, Daughter.” Uther’s voice sounded as if speaking might be painful for him.

“So they do.” Lady Darrowfield, who had been oddly quiet in a melancholy way, got to her feet. “I believe everyone is here? Excellent.” She gestured to the servants and they instantly sprang into motion. In a matter of moments the table was spread with a rich feast, ham, roast beef, eel, and an array of vegetables, breads and pastries. Despite all the animation the hostess still looked unhappy. Merlin wondered why. Was there trouble in the new lord’s household?

The guests all tucked into their dinner, which was excellent. Petronus gobbled his food like the teenage boy he was. In only moments all the sweets had been eaten and Lady Darrowfield sent servants to the kitchen for more.

“Now.” She scanned the table and, apparently satisfied that her guests were all eating contentedly, she began her own meal. “What shall be the topic of our dinner conversation?”

The guests all looked at one another but no one replied.

“Shall we discuss family relations among the nobility of England?” She asked the question in a wry tone.

“Miriam, please.” Darrowfield was looking extraordinarily uncomfortable.

But his wife seemed unable to stop herself. “Shall we perhaps discuss the problems created by a lord who rides about his fiefdom, siring bastard children?”

“Miriam! Stop this at once.”

The woman was trembling. “I am not the one who must be told to stop.” She looked at Merlin. “What is the official line at Camelot on this shameful behavior? Does Arthur not expect more integrity from his barons?”

Merlin turned to stone. He looked down at the table, not at Lady Darrowfield. “I fear it is not my place to say.”

Suddenly on the verge of tears, she got to her feet and rushed from the room. Everyone else looked at one another nervously, groping for appropriate comments. Finally Morgan found her voice and complimented Darrowfield on the roast beef. “It is the most succulent I’ve had in months. Isn’t it delicious, Mordred?”

Mordred looked awkwardly away from her and muttered, “Yes, Mother. I mean, yes, Lord Darrowfield.”

For a time there was no more conversation; everyone ate in silence. Then gradually people began to talk again. Conversation was thankfully light. The weather, news from the Continent, reports of energetic jousting matches around the countryside… There was gossip of outbreaks of plague in parts of Europe, but no one knew any details. At one point Lady Darrowfield reappeared at the door of the dining hall, then seemed to reconsider and left quickly. Geoffrey and Freelander kept pumping Merlin with questions about magic and the black arts, much to his annoyance and the amusement of Nimue.

When finally the company dispersed, Merlin paused to ask Darrowfield whether he had arranged for any entertainment to fill the rest of the evening. They walked together through the maze of hallways.

“I beg your indulgence, Merlin. You will perhaps have noticed that this is not the happiest of households. Do you honestly think entertainment of any kind would be appropriate? Please let me apologize for my wife’s childish outburst.”

“Childish? Yes, of course. If there is anything I might do to help the situation…”

“No, no, please don’t give it a thought. It is merely a domestic falling-out, nothing more. It will pass. She never remains angry for long.”

Turning a bend in the winding corridor, Darrowfield walked smack into a wall. He recoiled, and his nose bled. There was a sound of muffled footsteps, retreating away from them along the corridors. Merlin tried to see who it was, but whoever had been there had vanished.

Merlin fumbled through his pockets and found a kerchief. “Here, use this.”

Darrowfield took it and covered his bloody nose with it. It made his voice unpleasantly nasal as he said, “Damn my grandfather and his damned building scheme. We’ve been building castles in England for centuries, good, solid, simple plans. But no, he had to be novel. Damn him.”

Merlin chuckled. “So the unpleasantness in your family extends across generations.”

“Damned right, it does. How would you like to live in a foul rat’s nest like this? No one in his right mind would. But I get to be Lord Darrowfield, so I have to live here. I’d be happier in the country, raising wheat and pigs.”

“If you knew how many times I have seen Arthur in just exactly this mood.”

“He is a wise king, then. Thank you for the kerchief. I’ll have it laundered and returned to you. Can you find your way back to your rooms?”

“I believe so.”

“I’ll say good night, then.” He made a sour face. “Back to my wife. Good night.”

Back at his rooms, Merlin found Morgan waiting for him. She was, to appearances, in a jovial mood. When he entered she did not stand but sat regally, like a queen on her throne. “Merlin. What took you so long? Did you get lost in this absurd labyrinth of a castle?”