J. M. C. Blair
The Pendragon Murders

The third book in the Merlin Investigation series, 2010

ONE

England was at peace, at least superficially, and King Arthur was enjoying his kingship for the first time in memory. “My kingdom is quiet,” he told Merlin, astonished at his own words. “Can you believe it? For once there are no insurrections and the nobles are quiet. No one in England is scheming against me.”

“The barons are always scheming.”

“Always, perhaps. But not now. You are such a killjoy, Merlin. Let me enjoy it while it lasts, will you?”

There were no foreign intrigues for him to concern himself with. Since the deaths of Leodegrance and Leonilla, France had been fragmented and posed no threat to the British. The Byzantine Empire had been distracted by wars on its eastern and northern frontiers; thus preoccupied, Justinian had evidently forgotten his interest in the British Isles. The only foreign concerns arose from Scandinavian raiders who plundered the northeast coast from time to time. But that was a military matter, and a relatively minor one, not a concern of Merlin’s. Britomart had organized defenses and the situation seemed to be well in hand.

Domestically things were even calmer. Arthur’s treacherous wife, Guenevere, was safely imprisoned in the far north of Scotland and showed no signs of hatching any new schemes against her husband’s kingship. Her erstwhile lover and bigamous husband, the French knight Lancelot, was likewise securely held at a nearly inaccessible castle on an island off the Welsh coast. They had had no communication with each other, though they had tried. Although it was a given that they would find a way to make more trouble sooner or later, for the moment they were quiet.

Arthur’s barons, who enjoyed the peace and prosperity of his reign, were showing signs of restlessness; submission to an overlord did not come easily to them, not even to an overlord as beneficent as Arthur. Now and then their discontent erupted into something approaching rebellion, but Arthur, aided by his minister of state, Merlin, and his military commander, Britomart, always managed to quell the unrest without bloodshed. For the moment things were calm even though England was far from unified.

That summer had been long and unusually temperate; when it rained, the rains were warm and nurturing, not cold and sterile. Now signs of autumn were everywhere. Trees turned color and shed their leaves. Unusual numbers of butterflies flitted about the countryside. Small game abounded. The coming winter would not be too hard on the people.

Merlin kept a watchful eye on all of the country. Arthur fretted occasionally about his royal security and the future, but for the most part he was pleasingly content. And Merlin was happy to leave him that way.

But Arthur could never resist goading him. “You worry too much, Merlin. You should learn to relax.”

“Do not be lulled into thinking the world is well, Arthur. You do not worry enough.”

“I wish you could stop being such a fussbudget.”

“It is the fussbudgets and the worrywarts who always see approaching storms first.”

“What storms?” The king was growing testy. “There are no storms. Do you think a swarm of cabbage moths will commit treason? Look around, Merlin. See the pastoral calm, see the beauty. Should we be alarmed by all the glow-worms?”

“There are worms that do not advertise their presence, Arthur. We have encountered enough of them. The seeds of war are always sown in peace. Crime is hatched in tran quility.”

“You don’t drink enough, Merlin. There are times when I wish you did.”

“A lot of good I would be to you, drunk as a knight.”

“A lot of good you are, fretting like an old woman.”

They were at loggerheads, but then, they often were. When something happened, they would focus on it and not on their bickering. Merlin knew that. Arthur seemed not to want to.

“You should try and relax, Merlin.” His assistant Nimue, who lived her life as a boy called Colin, was even more amused than the king by Merlin’s constant watchfulness. “You’re like a vain queen, always expecting a blemish to appear on her pure white skin.”

“More like a physician, Colin, monitoring a healthy body for signs of disease.” He smiled at her, pleased with his simile. “ England is my patient.”

“You must learn to take life easy, Merlin. England is at peace. Enjoy it.” She gestured at the serene landscape outside the tower at Camelot where they lived and worked.

“While it lasts. Peace never does. Storms brew over calm seas. Wars erupt among nations in harmony. The country is too quiet for my taste. I would feel better if we had a few treasonous dukes to deal with. You and Arthur-” He snorted and left the sentence unfinished.

She put a foot up on the windowsill, gestured at Petronus, the French boy who was Merlin’s other assistant, and said breezily, “We should make a trip to Dover. Petronus and I think it would be fun.”

Merlin was busily heating some glass pellets over an open flame; with one hand he pumped a small bellows and with the other he turned the glass slowly till it was molten and ready to be blown. Without looking up from his work at Nimue, he said, “ Dover? Have you developed a sudden passion for fish?”

The door opened and Simon of York, Arthur’s majordomo, stepped into the room. He was breathing heavily. “Good Lord, Merlin, why don’t you move to a decent part of the castle? Or at least to a lower level of this tower? I exhaust myself every time I come up here.”

“Stay below, then.” Merlin was gruff.

“The king sent me.”

“Then stop grumbling. Or use the lift I installed.”

“That thing? Only a madman would trust it.”

“You could use a little madness, Simon. You spend too much time worrying about protocol. Try concerning yourself with something the rest of us care about.”

Simon bristled. “When my king sends me, I come. He wants you.”

“So help me, if he wants me to give him still another opinion about those bloody portraits of his…”

“He does.”

“Then let him wait. Perhaps he will get bored and find something productive to worry over.”

“Shall I tell him you said so?”

“If you like. Now leave me. I am blowing glass.”

Simon stiffened; he was the very picture of a bureaucrat whose dignity had been offended. “That is your final word?”

“It is. I will join Arthur shortly. Now, go.”

The man turned and left.

After him Merlin shouted, “Ride the lift down. You will enjoy it.”

He stood and listened for a moment; there was no sound of the lift mechanism. Merlin chuckled softly. “Oh, the pleasure I get from needling that fool.”

“There are times when you act like an adolescent boy.” Nimue laughed. “Now about Dover.”

“I have been there more than often enough, thank you.”

“You know perfectly well Dover is not only a fishing town. It’s one of our most important ports. Ships from all over the Mediterranean put in there.”

“Yes, and sailors. And half the whores in England, to keep them happy. I hardly need you to tell me that. Be quiet while I blow these globes.”

Quickly, carefully, he blew the glass into a series of small globes and placed them on a cooling rack. As he was working, one of his pet ravens flew into the room and perched on his shoulder; the bird nuzzled his ear in an attempt to get his attention, but he continued working without missing a beat. Vexed, the bird pecked him lightly, and he shushed it gently. “Be still, Roc.”

Nimue smirked at him. “You expect us to be still but you permit that bird to behave in that unruly way.”

“Human beings are governed by reason-or ought to be. Birds have only their instincts.” Merlin continued his glass blowing.

“You’re changing your tune, Merlin. You never stop complaining about how irrational human beings are.”

“Be quiet.” The operation was completed in a surprisingly short time. When he had set the last of the globes aside to cool, Nimue picked up where she’d left off. “Petronus and I haven’t been anywhere for months, Merlin. I’m feeling stale. And I’d like to take a trip somewhere before winter sets in.”

“There have been reports of raids on the Scottish coast by Norsemen.” He smiled at her ironically. “Would you like to go there? You could gather intelligence.”

“Don’t be difficult about this, Merlin. You know Dover will have a huge autumn market festival in two weeks. People from all over the southeast will be there, and probably visitors from around the Mediterranean, and Petronus and I want to go. And you should come, too. Who knows? We might pick up some interesting news.”

“In Dover? The only news we could possibly pick up there is the price of mackerel.” He turned to look at Petronus and asked him, in inquisitorial tones, “You wish to go there, too?”

The boy had been silent for the longest time, listening, amused, at their exchange. Now he nodded energetically and said in strongly accented English, “I love fairs. The ones at home used to have roundabouts. I love rides.”

“You are too old for that sort of thing.”

“I am not. Besides, if the weather is good, you can see France from Dover. I’m feeling a little bit homesick.”

Merlin picked up the first globe he’d blown and inspected it. “No flaws. I believe I am getting better.” To Petronus he said, “ Dover attracts-what would the word be?-eccentrics from far and near. You might be shocked at some of the behavior.”

“I am French, remember, not an English prude. Nothing shocks me.” He tried to sound worldly, not quite successfully. “I attended a fair at Mendola once, in the Pyrenees, and there were young women there dressed as boys. I found it very exciting.”

Merlin glanced at Nimue, who was keeping her features carefully neutral. Then to Petronus he said, “You are too young to be excited.”

“Stop saying things like that. I turn sixteen in a few months.”

“A man of the world, then.” Merlin grinned at the boy; Nimue laughed openly.

Petronus sulked. “Why are both of you so determined to think of me as a child? You act as if you were my parents.”

“Heaven forbid.” Nimue had not stopped chuckling. “But Merlin, we really should make this trip. We all need a change. And for once there are no crises demanding our attention. Let’s go.”

He sighed. “I will raise the subject with Arthur. If he consents…”

“Yes?”

“If he consents, I will give it some serious thought.”

“We can bring you around. We always do.”

The bird Roc flapped onto the worktable and scrambled around, pecking at everything it thought might be food.

Suddenly a thought seemed to hit Merlin and he turned to Petronus. “Should you not be in school now?”

The school Merlin had established for the squires and pages at Camelot had grown with remarkable speed. Two teachers had been imported, one each from France and Germany, to take the teaching burden off Merlin and Nimue. The students, required to attend by royal order, grumbled but learned. The knights they served complained to Arthur constantly; books were for clerks and women, not knights and squires. It was a source of constant friction. But over time Arthur had begun to see the advantages of having men who were educated, not just skillful in combat. Camelot would be richer for it.

Petronus sulked again. “We’re doing Sophocles today. I already know his writing-from you.”

“Even so, you should go. Truancy is never a good idea. Run along, now.”

The boy moped. “Yes, maman.”

“And do not be sarcastic. Oh-when you reach the top of the staircase, would you check and see if the water is boiling?”

Nimue chimed in, “I started the fire half an hour ago.”

“Even so. Now will you go, Petronus?”

Petronus jumped to his feet and ran to the door. “I’ll be back after I’ve dazzled the class with my erudition.”

“We’ll wait. It may take a while.”

Petronus left quickly. Once he was gone, Nimue’s mood turned more serious. “That boy is onto me. You heard him.”

“Sooner or later, it was inevitable. Do you not trust him?”

“After what he tried to do to Arthur last year? What do you think?”

“He was under duress. You know that. He has been tireless in helping me.”

“Besides, it isn’t that, Merlin. It’s just that it feels odd, having someone know.”

“Britomart knows. She has for ages.”

“Yes, and I’m always ill at ease around her. Having someone else in on the secret…”

“And his interest is erotic.” Merlin was amused by the situation. “You heard what he said. Women who dress as men excite him. And he likes you older women.” His eyes twinkled. “Imagine, having a youthful admirer at your tender age.”

“Be quiet. I want to go to the fair at Dover.”

“You are relentless, Nimue.”

“That is something else I’ve learned from you.”

From outside the room Petronus called, “Everything is ready, Merlin.”

“Thank you, Petronus. Now get to class.”

He turned back to Nimue. “I don’t know whether to be flattered by what you said. At any rate, if we are to go, I will have to get Arthur’s permission.”

She turned and pushed the window shutter open wide. “It’s going to be a lovely day, Merlin. And a lovely autumn, I think. Let’s not waste it shut up in Camelot.”

“It is too cool for my taste. Besides, the king-”

“You can handle Arthur. You always do.”

“He has this little crisis right now.”

“Is Guenevere on the loose again?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid.” He extinguished the flame he had worked over. “We are planning to issue new coins. He is fretting about which portrait of himself to use on them. He wants to show himself to best advantage.”

“Ah, the male ego.”

“Women, of course, are all quite modest. At any rate, if he is happy with his final decision, he will be in a good mood. That will be the time to ask him.”

“Do it, then.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Merlin’s study-cum-laboratory was on the top floor of what everyone called, to his annoyance, the Wizard’s Tower. When he reached the landing outside the door he stopped and looked down the stairway; more than a hundred fifty steps wound down to the main floor of the castle.

A steam boiler bubbled busily nearby; above it was an assemblage of wheels, gears and chains. One long chain hung down to ground level, connected directly to the mechanism, so that he could operate it from there. Merlin stopped to check a valve on the boiler. “Yes, perfect.” Then he walked to the spot where a metal chair hung suspended precariously. “Time to go down.” He smiled at Nimue. “Will you start the mechanism for me?”

He moved to the very edge of the stairwell and climbed gingerly into the chair. It swung giddily over the long drop, and he took tight hold of the chains to try to steady it.

“You’re going to kill yourself in that thing someday, Merlin.”

“I am feeling my arthritis today. The stairs would be… Besides, you know perfectly well this is safe if used with due caution.”

“Of course.” She did not try to hide her skepticism.

She pulled a third chain, and slowly the chair descended. Nimue followed along on the steps, chatting with Merlin as they went down. When finally the chair reached the main level, he stood, arranged his robes, stretched and headed off to see Arthur.

“Don’t forget Dover,” she prodded.

“Be careful. No one likes a nagging woman.”

“I am a boy, remember?”

Merlin had built his “lifting machine” from plans by the legendary Hero of Alexandria. His friend Germanicus Genentius, the Byzantine governor of Egypt, had found them in the Library of Alexandria and sent precise copies to Merlin. Everyone at Camelot thought it was a marvel, some for its ingenuity, some for what they took as its folly. Arthur and most of his knights had insisted on taking rides in it, and most of them were duly terrified; one of them, the French knight Sir Accolon, shrieked like a terrified girl.

“I hope,” Merlin had told Arthur dryly, “you will remember where the real courage at Camelot resides-among the scholars and teachers, not the knights.”

“It might do you well to think about the difference between being brave and being foolhardy. You’ll kill yourself in that thing. You’ll fall, or one of the chains will break, or-”

“Then Camelot will enjoy the pageantry of a state funeral.”

“You’re hopeless.” Arthur snorted and stomped away.

And so Merlin made his way to the King’s Tower, the tallest in Camelot.

The halls were, as usual, alive with activity. Servants and knights came and went. Women from the kitchen carried trays of food or packs of fresh provisions. Women carrying fresh linens for the living quarters smiled and greeted him.

At the foot of the King’s Tower he gaped up at the scores of steps and sighed. He wanted to build another lifting machine there but so far Arthur had not been willing to permit it.

The guards at their posts saluted him as he ascended the winding staircase, each of them in turn as Merlin reached their stations on the successive landings, and offered him a helping hand. At the top, quite out of wind, he found Simon of York. Simon grinned at him, plainly enjoying his fatigue. “You made it.”

“Do I not always?”

“Those steps are difficult, Merlin. I tend to come up here first thing every morning and then try and stay the whole day. When I’m lucky, Arthur doesn’t have anything for me to do anywhere else in the castle. You should have that boy of yours come along to help you up.”

“Petronus is in the schoolroom. He has lessons to learn. But I am surprised these stairs give you so much trouble. You are a generation younger than me.”

“My parents are both arthritic. As a result, so am I.” He rubbed his back. “I’m moving them here from Yorkshire, into a little room at the back of Camelot. I’m afraid wolves would get them otherwise. You know how bitter Yorkshire winters can get.”

“Indeed, what could be worse than a wolf from York?” The none-too-subtle barb was lost on Simon, but he narrowed his eyes, plainly suspecting he was the butt of Merlin’s sarcasm.

Merlin was slowly getting his wind back. Before Simon could decide how to react, he gestured at the king’s suite of rooms. “How is he today, Simon?”

“Still worried about which profile to use. It’s been a week, Merlin, and that is all he thinks about. We’ve gotten virtually nothing accomplished. Can’t you prod him to make a decision?”

“Just be happy things are so calm for the moment. And that he is not drinking. Is anyone with him?”

Simon shook his head. “Go in. He’s in the study, with those confounded portraits.”

Arthur’s study was large but simply furnished. There was a table and four wooden chairs, a few low stools, tapestries on the walls to kill drafts and enough torches to light the room but not terribly well. On stands were three large portraits of Arthur, one in left profile, one in right and one full face. The king stood before one of them, looking serious, rubbing his chin, when he noticed his advisor. “Merlin. Good morning. I think I like this one the best.”

“You said that yesterday, Arthur. Then five minutes later you preferred another one.” He smiled. “Good morning.”

“This is an important decision. I want to make the right impression.”

“Most of your subjects have never seen you and never will.”

“Exactly the point. I want them to know me, at least to the extent they can through a portrait.”

“A miniature portrait. On a coin.” Merlin sat down and arranged his robes. “I keep trying to learn how the Romans managed such excellent portraiture on their currency, but there is nothing about it in any of the libraries. But why worry about it? You could issue coins with a hunchbacked dwarf on them and it would hardly matter.”

“Now you know that isn’t true. My image must inspire confidence.”

“Then use a portrait of Emperor Justinian.”

Arthur snorted. “You think I’m being vain and foolish. I know that. But a king has a right to a certain amount of vanity.”

“A king has a right to rule, not to dither. Besides, this business of kings having some sort of inherent rights is an idea left over from ancient Egypt -a culture you always scoff at. I am not at all certain it has a place in the modern world. You are king because you made yourself king, because you fought for it. Excalibur gives you such rights as you have.” He sighed. “Simon is complaining. I know you think he is a fussy old woman, and if it comes down to it, I suppose he is, but he says you are neglecting your other duties. The kingdom is grinding to a halt, it seems.”

“We’ve had this kind of discussion too many times. Villains have swords, too. If we are to have order, there must be something higher we’re answerable to. The Christian Church is promoting the idea that kings rule by divine right.”

“Bosh. If you are going to listen to that fool of a bishop, Gildas, I will not be responsible for what happens.”

“Is this Merlin speaking? The architect of our new England, land of justice and equality? Do you really wish all of that to rest on nothing but my sword?”

“This is Merlin the pragmatist. Julius Caesar married Cleopatra because the Egyptian religion said that divinity rested in her. By marrying her, he acquired that divinity, that so-called divine right to rule. And Europe has been saddled with it ever since.” He looked down at the floor. “You married Guenevere.”

“Perhaps he loved her. They say Cleopatra was quite a beauty, Merlin. A fabulous woman. Legendary.”

“Have you ever seen the coins she minted? Some of them still circulate in Egypt, believe it or not. She was plain, even matronly. But her legend trumps that, it seems.”

Arthur grinned. “Then the image on a monarch’s coins does matter after all. Is that what you’re admitting?” He paused. “I’ve asked some of the knights which one to use. Sir Kay prefers the middle one. So does his squire, Jumonet.”

“So you are letting squires advise you now?” Merlin sighed deeply. “I surrender. You are a handsome man, Arthur. Any of those three would make a striking impression on a penny, if that is what you want. For heaven’s sake choose one.”

Arthur walked from one of the portraits to the next. His tone turned unexpectedly somber. “I find myself,” he said heavily, “thinking about my legacy. Do you know what I found last week?” He pointed to his temple. “A gray hair.”

“Shocking. A silver hair among all those bright golden ones. You must be on your last legs.”

“I’m serious, Merlin. How will I be remembered? Who will succeed me?”

“You are still in your thirties, Arthur.”

“My late thirties.”

“Even so. Talk like this is wildly premature.”

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.