"The Pendragon Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blair J. M. C.)TWOThere was miscellaneous business for Merlin to finish before they could leave on their trip, minor bits of government business and two seriously ill patients he was reluctant to abandon; but they finally left Camelot on horseback several mornings after Merlin’s interview with Arthur. The autumn weather was bright with sunshine for the first day of the journey. Wildflowers grew everywhere; butterflies flitted cheerfully from plant to plant; young foxes played in the fields. Merlin’s young aides seemed to savor everything in the world. And the festival would be the cream of it all. Merlin himself did not enjoy the weather. “I should have had Arthur provide us with a coach. My hip is aching quite fiercely.” “Why didn’t you?” “Britomart wanted to send a military escort with us, ‘for security.’ It was difficult enough to talk the two of them out of that. A carriage would have made us much too obvious a target for unwanted attention. Or for thieves.” Nimue sounded doubtful. “We’re fairly conspicuous on horseback. But I’m glad you talked them out of that carriage. This weather is too lovely to ride inside.” Petronus added, “England is mostly peaceful. Why would we need security?” “I am afraid you will have to ask Britomart about that. She seems to see threats and menace everywhere.” “It’s her job, Merlin.” “I suppose so. I wish she would take some time off now and then, that is all. The soldiers of the Dover garrison will almost certainly keep track of us and report our doings to her. We will have to remain on our best behavior every moment. Government. I am not at all certain this will be much of a holiday.” “Do we have to stay at the garrison?” “I hope not. But even so…” He made a show of scanning the landscape. “And that is not to mention this visit to Lord Darrowfield. His father did not die for long decades, even though everyone kept expecting him to.” “Are you saying this one may go soon, to make up for it?” Nimue was wry. “We are entitled to some good luck sometime, are we not?” “Don’t be morbid, Merlin.” “Besides,” Petronus added, “might the king not then send you as his envoy to the funeral? We’d get another trip.” He grinned. “In a carriage.” “Keep your attention on the road, Petronus, and be quiet.” Merlin, Nimue and Petronus were accompanied by a pair of armed soldiers. This was at Britomart’s insistence. It was only with difficulty Merlin had talked her out of a full military escort. “You are important agents of the state,” she had claimed. “You must be protected.” “So crucial to the national good that Arthur is sending us to Darrowfield to congratulate a new minor lord on his new minor lordship. How could England go on without us?” “Don’t be difficult, Merlin. I want to send a full squad, but Arthur knew how you’d bristle at that. Be grateful I’m in an accommodating mood.” “Fine, Brit. We are grateful. Does that make you happy?” “There are times I wish you weren’t quite so clever, do you know that?” He was mordant. “You prefer that ‘important agents of the state’ be dull-witted?” “Go to Dover.” She turned her back and stomped away. Happily the soldiers rode unobtrusively behind them. Petronus tried a few times to engage them in conversation, but they seemed as unhappy to be on this journey as Merlin was to have them. The morning was cool but the sun promised warmth as well as brilliant light. Trees were just beginning to take on their autumn colors. Late wildflowers bloomed everywhere, it seemed; some even grew in the highway itself. Wayfarers on the road all seemed happy and content. Nimue leaned close to Petronus and whispered, “We couldn’t have better weather for this trip. But don’t say so to Merlin. He’d only take it as a challenge and try to find some reason why we’d be better off back at Camelot.” An hour after they set out a huge black cloud drifted across the face of the sun, plunging the world into a brief twilight. Petronus said it must be a bad omen for their journey. “A bad omen?” Nimue scolded him. “Haven’t you learned anything at all from Merlin? There is no such thing as an omen. If there are any gods, they are much too kind to grant us a glimpse of what our futures hold.” Merlin had been riding in silence, apparently lost in thought. Now he spoke up. “Too kind, or much too cruel. That would be much more in character for such gods as may exist.” Petronus found this thought chilling. “You always paint everything in the darkest tones possible.” “I have lived a long life in the company of other human beings. The more I see, the darker the world looks to me. Never mind the dark clouds that sometimes hide the sun. It is the dark clouds inside ourselves that should concern you. They are the one great constant in human affairs.” The boy found this line of talk disquieting and decided not to pursue it any further. “I have never been to Darrowfield. To be honest, I haven’t even heard of it. Where is it?” Merlin glanced at Nimue; he wanted no more talking, and he immediately fell back into his pensive silence. It fell to Nimue to play instructor to Petronus. “You know of Salisbury, don’t you? In Wiltshire?” “Yes, of course. I passed through there once, with Lancelot, and I have always wanted to go back. It was on a morning much like this one. I was only a boy then.” He glanced at her nervously, but she refrained from any sarcasm. “We could see Stonehenge in the distance on Salisbury Plain. I would love to go again and see it close-to.” “Well, you may have the chance. Darrowfield adjoins Salisbury. But I’m afraid you might find that Stonehenge does not live up to your expectations. It is much smaller than it seems from a distance. Up close, it always disappoints.” “Even so, I would like to see it. Merlin, may we go there to see the monument?” Merlin roused himself from his daydreams. “Darrowfield Castle is a forbidding sort of place in its own right. You may find it sufficient.” “Even so. I-” “We will have to stay at Darrowfield long enough for protocol. After that… I suppose we will have to see. Will the two of you mind the detour to Darrowfield?” “We’ll be fine, Merlin.” When they had been riding for a time, Petronus broke their silence yet again. “Have you noticed that we are being followed?” “Followed?” Merlin roused himself. “Tell the soldiers, quickly.” Petronus laughed. “Our pursuer is not likely to do much harm. Look.” He pointed upward and to their left. Above a stand of trees, a black bird circled. “It is one of your ravens, Merlin. It has been following us since we left Camelot.” They slowed their pace. Merlin shaded his eyes, then cupped his hands and shouted, “Roc!” The bird circled the trees once more, then flapped directly toward the party of travelers. When it reached them, it perched on Merlin’s shoulder and squawked shrilly. Merlin stroked its head and cooed, “Good boy, Roc. But you should not be here. Go home, now.” The bird cocked its head and stared at him, clearly puzzled. “Go home, I said. Go back to Camelot.” And Roc lifted into the air and flew swiftly back the way they had come. In only a moment he was out of sight. Nimue had watched it all without saying a word. Now she spoke up. “Do you really wonder why people think you’re a wizard? Only a man with otherworldly powers could do that.” “Nonsense. Ravens are intelligent birds. It is merely a matter of learning to channel that intelligence in a desirable way.” “Ravens are scavengers.” Petronus could not manage to keep an unpleasant tone out of his voice. “They eat the dead.” “They keep the world clean, Petronus. Much as I do, or as I try to. I never knew that you find my pets objectionable.” “I have never liked birds. They are cold, inhuman creatures.” “The fact they are so alien, so completely unlike us, is what draws me to them. You will never see a bird commit murder.” “Birds of prey kill all the time.” “Yes, but they kill for food. Out of necessity, not greed or jealousy, not ambition, not any of the thousand other petty motives that drive our kind to do mad things.” “You should get a dog or a cat.” “And put my ravens at risk? Never.” As they rode onward, Petronus let his horse lag slightly behind, midway between Merlin and the soldiers. At one point Nimue reined her horse beside his. “Is anything wrong?” “No. It’s just that sometimes Merlin frightens me. Sometimes he does not seem quite human.” She glanced forward at their master. “Or more than human, maybe?” “Do you think he really is a sorcerer?” “Of course not. Don’t be foolish. If you go spreading word about what happened with Roc, and if you tell it so as to make it seem magical, he will be angry.” “I wish I had stayed in France. I wish my family had wanted me.” To Petronus’s surprise, Merlin had heard this. He looked back, over his shoulder, and said in soft, reassuring tones, “Birds never abandon their young. And neither will I.” There was no more talk for a long time. When eventually they passed by Salisbury Plain and saw Stonehenge lit by the late-afternoon sun, no one said much. The monoliths showed golden in the dying sunlight and cast long shadows. Petronus asked if they might stop and inspect the monument, but Merlin wanted to press on. “Two weeks from today will be the autumn equinox. Strict adherents of the old religion will be here in numbers to celebrate. Arthur’s sister Morgan le Fay will be here, too, most likely, to officiate. We should be returning from Dover about that time, and we may stop here then. It is always quite a spectacle. This fair at Dover which you are so anxious to see will seem like nothing.” “But, sir-” “Not tonight, Petronus, please. My back is aching terribly from this horse. I want to reach the castle and get some rest.” Glumly Petronus rode along. There was very little talk. Nimue whispered to Petronus that she was disappointed, too. “But Merlin never fails us in the end, does he?” It was just after sunset when Darrowfield Castle came into sight. It rose up out of the ground, a massive square tower of black stone. It looked ancient, and Petronus said so. Merlin explained that it had been built less than two generations previously. “By one of those dull, literal-minded warlords England is ridden with,” he added. “He was made a lord by Arthur’s father, Uther, and he immediately went about demonstrating his new magnificence to the countryside.” As they approached, they could see candles or torches being lit in a few of the windows. “What is this new Lord Darrowfield like?” Nimue asked. “I don’t believe I’ve met him.” “Even duller than his father was.” Merlin did not try to disguise the fact that he was not happy to be there. “A hapless warrior, an inept scholar, a tone-deaf politician… a British lord, in fact.” He smirked. “I would not like to guess how delighted he must be at his father’s death. The old man survived wounds and illnesses that should have put him in his grave years ago. He showed signs of living forever. Now he is out of his son’s hair.” “They never stop, do they?” Nimue narrowed her eyes. “All the intrigues, plots, secret grudges nursed for years… Remember last year when the Duke of Gloucester tried to kill the Duke of Cambridge over a drinking cup? All these supposed noblemen should try living like ordinary people for a change, and scrambling for their livelihoods.” She paused. “How long are you planning to stay here?” “The sooner we can get away, the happier I will be. I have not much been looking forward to this festival at Dover. But now that we are here, Dover has become a paradise in my imagination. I cannot wait till we leave for there.” They reached a line of guards a half mile or so from the castle. Merlin presented letters from Arthur by way of identification. But none of the sentries could read. One of them rode off to the castle for instructions. Merlin and his companions idled till he returned. Petronus got a small chessboard from his luggage, and he and Nimue played; he was annoyed when she beat him in fewer than twenty moves. Their soldiers produced a wineskin and cheese, and they ate and drank happily, evidently pleased to be off the road and free of their protective duties. Finally the rider returned. “Lord Darrowfield extends his warmest welcome to the envoys of King Arthur, and he anticipates your visit with the keenest pleasure. You may ride on at once. This road will take you straight to the castle.” They mounted their horses and proceeded. It took them longer to reach the castle than they’d expected. It was huge, massive, and its great size had fooled them into thinking they were closer to it than they proved to be. Lord Darrowfield himself was waiting for them at the main gate accompanied by a half dozen servants. A thin, pale, unenergetic man in his fifties, he waved listlessly but made himself smile. “Merlin. How splendid of Arthur to send you.” Merlin reined his horse to a stop and dismounted, handing the reins to a servant. “His Majesty sends his deepest condolences on the death of your father. And of course his felicitations on your inheriting the title. He sends you these presents as signs of his favor.” He took three small ceremonial daggers from his saddlebag and handed them to Darrowfield; the handles were inlaid with precious stones. Darrowfield inspected them as if he had no clue what to make of them. His manner suggested that he thought they might be poisoned. Finally he remembered this was a political situation and smiled. “Arthur always knows the right thing to do. You must convey my deep gratitude to him.” “You may do that yourself soon enough. He plans to confer the title on you formally at Midwinter Court. You will become Lord Darrowfield officially in front of all the nobles in England.” Darrowfield blinked. “I already am.” His obtuseness caught Merlin off guard. “Yes, of course you are. But surely you want the recognition of your liege lord and your peers, do you not?” “Oh, yes, of course, of course. But-I have invited Arthur to the feast I’m throwing for myself. Isn’t he coming to that?” Merlin put on a sad expression. “I fear his other duties…” “Oh. Well, perhaps it’s just as well. At any rate, you are more than welcome at Darrowfield.” “Excellent.” He introduced “Colin” and Petronus, and Darrowfield put an arm around his shoulder and ushered them all inside. “I’ve been getting letters from a lot of the other lords, you know. Congratulating me.” “And of course you have a staff of clerks to read them all for you and to compose replies.” Nimue was dry. “Of course. Men who can read are among a baron’s most valuable servants.” “And I’m sure they are very fortunate to be in your service.” Her sarcasm was apparent to Merlin and Petronus but lost on Darrowfield. The interior of the castle was a maze. As plain, square and forthright a structure as it was on the outside, the inside was hopelessly convoluted. Corridors wound and wandered, turning back on themselves, twisting in unexpected directions, crossing one another as if they had been planned by a madman. Petronus made a polite, tactful comment about it. “Even if raiders were to breach your defenses and penetrate the castle, they’d be lost in no time at all.” “I believe that was my grandfather’s plan. He designed the place himself, on the model of some maze in some old myth.” “The labyrinth at Crete? The one where the minotaur was kept?” Nimue was feeling a bit dizzy from all the convolutions. “But surely all these winding, meandering corridors must thwart your guests as well.” Darrowfield was unfazed. “You aren’t the only one to think so. My other guests have said much the same thing.” “You have other guests? Who?” Before he could answer, they turned a corner and came face-to-face with a blank stone wall. Without missing a beat, Darrowfield snapped his fingers and said, “Oh, yes, we should have gone the other way.” “Confounded by your own castle.” Merlin glanced at Nimue and tried not to sound too ironic. “You must feel so very secure here.” “I do.” Darrowfield beamed with pride. They turned another bend in the corridor and came unexpectedly face-to-face with a woman in dark blue robes. Her face, in contrast with her clothing, was pale white; her hair was black as one of Merlin’s ravens and her eyes were brilliant blue. Only a slightly hooked nose detracted from her cold beauty. She stood tall and imperious, glaring at them, as if their mere presence there was a terrible affront. And she held the leashes of two large dogs in her right hand. They were hounds, pure white except for reddish ears. They barked, snarled and strained at their leads, lunging at the newcomers. Merlin recognized the woman at once. Carefully he backed away from the dogs and said, “Morgan le Fay. How interesting to meet you here, of all places. Have you brought your famous chest of poisons, or are you not here for pleasure?” She ignored this, tugged at the leashes, and the dogs calmed down. “Merlin. And what brings you to Darrowfield?” “Diplomatic business. Arthur’s government never rests. You know that.” “Indeed.” Her tone was far from cordial. Darrowfield appeared shaken by her sudden appearance. He worked to recover his composure. “Morgan, I have asked you to keep those beasts outside. There are kennels at the rear of the castle, for my hunting dogs. I’m certain there must be room there for your… pets as well.” “My pets are not used to being kept ‘outside.’ They are descendants of the hounds bred by the first Great Queen of this country.” She stroked the ears of one of them. “Even so. They have a way of unnerving people.” It was clear that by “people” he meant himself. “You will get used to them.” That seemed to settle the matter in her mind. She turned back to the others. “So. You say that my brother Arthur sent you here?” “Of course. He has sent presents to Lord Darrowfield.” He had been speaking to Morgan but turned back to their host and smiled. “Oh-and he will be sending some of his household staff to assist here when you host the other barons to celebrate your elevation. They should be here soon, perhaps even tomorrow. His Majesty has been pleased to send them as well as us.” He remember his official manners. “Not that we require a royal order to visit you, of course.” Darrowfield seemed taken aback by what Merlin had said. “Servants? Cooks? I have my own. Why would Arthur-” “Yes, and I understand they are excellent. But surely they can use help feeding all those additional mouths.” “I suppose.” He sounded doubtful, as if he suspected there might be a veiled insult in Arthur’s gesture. “When, may I ask, are you actually planning the feast for? The autumn equinox is approaching. Will that be the date?” “It will not.” Darrowfield made an unpleasant face. “At each equinox, hordes of intoxicated, religious-minded revelers gather in the neighborhood, drunkenly convinced that that heap of stones out on the plain is mystical or some such. My feast will be in the following week. “Aside from that, I have been thinking of attending the autumn festival at Dover. There will almost certainly be a slave market there. I am planning to increase the height of this castle; extra hands would be most welcome. In fact, it occurs to me that if you are planning on going there, I might attend with you.” Merlin was deadpan. “The festival at Dover? Why, the thought never occurred to us. But could you not ask Morgan, here, to postpone their revels?” He bowed slightly and gestured at her. “She is the high priestess of Britain, after all.” “As high priestess,” Morgan answered for Darrowfield, “I am invested with a great many powers. The ability to postpone the equinox is not among them, I’m afraid.” “I see.” Merlin smiled, pleased at himself for having ruffled her dignity, however slightly. “Might you not simply instruct your followers to remain sober this year, then?” “Our feast is Dionysiac in nature,” she intoned solemnly. “Sobriety would hardly set the proper tone for the manifestation of the god.” “Of course.” He turned back to Darrowfield. “Naturally Arthur’s servants will return to Camelot as soon as your feast is over.” “I hope so.” “Do not worry, Lord Darrowfield, they will not steal any recipes.” Morgan put on a tight grin. “And of course they will do no spying. That would hardly be consonant with the ‘new’ England Arthur is trying to make, would it, Merlin?” Merlin smiled and bowed slightly again without saying a word. “And you have brought your assistants.” Morgan looked Nimue up and down as if she were examining an art forgery, then turned to Petronus and gave him the same treatment. “What an interesting trinity you make.” Merlin was unfazed. “More than merely interesting, I hope. Challenging, perhaps? Provocative?” She brushed it aside and spoke to Darrowfield. “Father is still unwell. Mordred is tending to him. I am not certain either of them will be joining us for dinner. Can you perhaps arrange for their meals to be taken to them?” “Yes, of course.” “By those servants you are so proud of,” Merlin added. The irony was lost on Darrowfield though a slight smile appeared at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. Merlin glanced knowingly at Nimue: so old Uther Pendragon was in residence as well as Morgan’s son Mordred. Nimue took his meaning and winked. Darrowfield called for servants. In quick order a half dozen of them appeared, and he instructed them to get Merlin’s party installed in a suite of guest rooms. “Let us show you how pleasing and efficient Darrowfield hospitality can be,” he told his new guests. “I am certain we will find it quite overwhelming,” Merlin poured on the unction. He was not a government official for nothing. “Returning to Camelot will seem a true hardship.” “Exactly.” Darrowfield gave more orders to the servants, clapped his hands, and at once everyone was in motion or seemed to be. Morgan’s hounds barked and growled. Darrowfield kept clapping his hands together; he seemed to enjoy it; no one could fathom why. “Should we notify Lady Darrowfield that there are new visitors, sir?” one of them asked. “No.” He said it in a firm, flat tone. Merlin found it odd. The lord’s wife ordinarily managed the household. But he was discreet enough to say nothing. When they were alone in their rooms, Petronus asked Merlin about Arthur’s father. “It has never occurred to me before, but I have never seen him, never even heard mention of him. I’d have expected him to reside at Camelot. So I think I took it for granted he was dead.” “As far as Arthur is concerned, he is.” Merlin was offhand. “Look around and make certain no one is eavesdropping, will you?” Petronus got to his feet and began checking behind tapestries. “But they are father and son.” “It would not do to remind either of them of the fact. To say there is bad blood between them would be understating the case.” “But-” “When Arthur set out to become King of England and unite the country, he was not a great deal older than you are now. The essence of the challenge facing him was to conquer all the various petty kings and warlords. Uther was one of the first he went to war against.” Petronus puckered his lips and whistled softly. “I see.” “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? 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. “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.” 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?” “Not at all.” He made himself smile. “I was chatting with our host, that is all.” “Poor Darrowfield. He is not the first lord to have his wife resent his infidelities.” “And he certainly will not be the last. Extramarital copulation is what barons do. I have spoken to Arthur several times about regularizing and regulating the institution of marriage, at least for the nobility. But you know Arthur.” “Yes, believe me, I know him.” She didn’t try to hide her disdain. “Of course. You know as well as anyone his attitude toward casual liaisons.” The dart hit home; Morgan stiffened. “That subject is not open to discussion. I am here to talk about Darrowfield.” Merlin had begun to feel absurd, standing while Morgan sat and acted grand. He found a stool and made himself comfortable. “Darrowfield? There would not seem to be much to say. It is odd, but someone seemed to be following us just now, out in the corridor from the dining hall.” “Perhaps someone could not sleep and wished to be bored into slumber.” Merlin chuckled. “The noblemen of England are all wise and magnificent.” “Of course. About Darrowfield’s religious affiliation.” He narrowed his eyes. “You speak in riddles, Morgan. I know you are a priestess, and cryptic flummery is your job, but really-” “It is rumored that he may convert to Christianity. That must not be permitted. We have lost several barons to this upstart faith already.” “And how would you propose I stop it?” “England has thrived for thousands of years on the worship of the traditional gods. The true gods. We must stop this erosion now.” “I am afraid I cannot help you, Morgan. Even Arthur himself is-” “I am quite aware of it. He has been meeting with that fool Bishop Gildas. It must be stopped.” “I am Arthur’s advisor, not his nanny.” “Do you find there is much difference?” Merlin sighed deeply. “I am so weary of superstition in all its forms. As if it mattered which gods a man sends perfumed smoke to.” “It does. It matters enormously.” “If the barons stop giving you tribute and begin donating it to Gildas…” He grinned at her, and she glared. “Christianity has stabilized half of Europe, Morgan. The tatters of the Roman Empire are beginning to coalesce in a coherent way. Such a vast historical process can hardly be stopped-not even if it were desirable. Progress, or at any rate movement, cannot be stopped. I doubt it can even be slowed by much.” She was stiff. “You will not assist me, then, in preserving sacred England?” “I am afraid I am powerless.” “If you can persuade Arthur-” “Morgan, this is out of my hands. I doubt I could even get Darrowfield to listen to me, much less Arthur.” She got to her feet and struck an imperious pose. “Very well, then. Saving England falls to me. As it has fallen to many a high priestess in the past. Good night, Merlin.” “We are fortunate to have had you. All of you.” He smiled what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. Then he stood and escorted her to the door. Darrowfield Castle had proved a much more interesting place than he had expected, and a much more turbulent one. Late that night Lady Darrowfield came to Merlin’s rooms. She had evidently been crying, and she was still trying to regain her composure. In her hand she clutched a kerchief. “Lady Darrowfield.” He yawned and frowned at her; the last thing he wanted was to become entangled in his host’s domestic affairs. But she seemed not to notice. “What brings you to my chambers at this awful hour?” “I wanted-I wanted to apologize for my unseemly behavior at dinner. I am so ashamed. I had liked to think I outgrew that sort of tantrum when I was still a girl.” “Everyone suffers weak moments, milady.” “It is not simply a matter of weakness. You have no idea what it’s like, living with someone who says he loves only you, but in fact distributes his love freely, far and wide. Belief- “I can only imagine.” He put a hand on her shoulder and tried to sound as sad and concerned as he could. “But it is not uncommon.” “I mean, I know that copulating with women far and wide is what lords do. All of them, or nearly so. What is the polite term they use? ‘Baronial privilege,’ I believe.” She glanced at him with some mixture of hope and fear in her eyes. “But Merlin, he has been threatening to disinherit my sons and bring some of his bastards to live here as his heirs.” She looked away from him, clearly abashed. “Might you-is there any chance you might ask King Arthur to intervene?” “Arthur?” “Yes. Surely it must be of interest to the crown to see that England’s noble bloodlines are kept as pure as can be.” He wanted to ask her Why? What makes you think they are pure at all? Instead he said softly, “I will mention the matter to him.” “Do I have your promise?” “You do.” The situation was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He yawned an exaggerated yawn, hoping she would take the hint and leave. But she seemed unable to move. “I may consider you a friend, then?” “Yes, of course.” “My boys are good boys. I mean, they are boys, they get into mischief. But they deserve their birthright.” “Of course they do.” “Will you call me Miriam, please? ‘Lady Darrowfield’-that is hardly the way friends address one another.” “Of course. Miriam.” He wanted her gone. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in the domestic troubles of a minor lord. Not able to think of anything else, he yawned again. This time she took the hint. Impulsively she threw her arms around him, squeezed him tightly, then kissed him hard on the cheek. “Good night, Merlin.” “Sleep well, Miriam.” “I will, knowing that you will have Arthur bring my errant husband into line.” She walked off down the corridor quickly, made a wrong turn, stopped and waved to Merlin, then hastened down the correct hallway. Merlin sighed heavily, glad she was gone, and went into his room and crawled into bed. He realized he had forgotten to extinguish the candles and decided not to. Let them burn themselves out. In the morning he told Nimue about the nocturnal visit of Miriam Darrowfield. Petronus was still at his morning bath, which was just as well; a boy that young would be unlikely to grasp the implications of the situation or have anything useful to contribute. Nimue was unsurprised at his account. “You’re right, Merlin. All the barons do it. And every woman in England knows it. Our ‘lords and masters’ expect us to let them have their way with us, then leave. Pity the woman who makes any fuss. And the woman unfortunate enough to conceive a child is left quite on her own. It is understood she is not ever to name the father.” Merlin listened and furrowed his brow. “And so she has had a night of pleasure, same as the man, and it has ended. What has changed for her?” “You assume that the men trouble to give the women full pleasure.” “Full or partial-does it matter?” “Perhaps to the woman. And if she is left with child? No man would marry a woman in such a plight, or at least very few would. Have you never suspected that your and Arthur’s ‘new’ England must look quite different to a woman than it does to a knight, say, or a lord?” “Nature has decreed that-” “That men take vows and then shatter them? That men use women the way they use their horses or their hunting dogs?” Her tone was growing heated. Merlin tried to calm her down. “You must not take this so personally. I told you, Darrowfield is renowned for his dullness. It is hardly fair to judge all men by that uninspiring standard.” “Hogwash. Other men may not be quite as callous to their wives as Darrowfield, but they all behave like him. I never realized how crass the average lord is till I started living among them as a man myself. You should hear the knights sometime. You and Pellenore are the only male members of the ruling order who don’t regard women as chattel. Or so I thought.” He hesitated. “Thank you for exempting me.” “I exempt you, personally. I indict your sex.” “Sex?” Petronus breezed into the room, toweling his hair. “Did someone mention sex?” “There-you see?” Nimue was exultant. “That completes the indictment, “What on earth was that about?” Petronus scratched his head. “You would never understand, you “But-I-” “Never mind, Petronus. Do you know how soon breakfast will be served?” The boy shook his head. “But there are some people to see you.” “People? What people?” “From Camelot.” Merlin was bewildered. “The servants,” Petronus prompted. “The ones Arthur promised to send.” “Oh. But what do they want with me? They should be reporting to Lady Darrowfield for their instructions. She runs the household.” At a loss, Petronus shrugged. “Shall I show them in?” “I suppose. Slowly, though. I am not awake yet. And the morning has already been too eventful.” Petronus left and Merlin pulled up a chair. Servants. He would tell them to report to the lady of the castle and get rid of them. He was finding Darrowfield Castle and its inhabitants more and more tedious. When Petronus returned, he was followed by a woman who looked to be in her late thirties and two teenage boys who looked startlingly alike. He had seen them around Camelot; he was certain of it. But he could not place them. The woman curtsied to him and introduced herself as Marian of Bath. The boys, she explained, were her twin sons, Robert and Wayne. Merlin smiled and made himself cordial. “And what can I do for you?” “The king told us to report to you,” one of the twins explained. “He wanted you to know we’ve arrived,” said the other. “Actually we arrived last night, but we were told you were engaged.” “Engaged? Who told you that?” The boy shrugged. “One of the people here.” “But you were here last night?” Both boys nodded. For a moment there was an awkward silence, as if they were expecting someone to add something to what they’d said. Finally their mother added, “The king’s instructions were rather vague, I’m afraid. What exactly are we to do here?” “Lord Darrowfield has only recently been elevated to that rank, by the unfortunate death of his father, the old lord. He will shortly host a feast here for a number of his peers, in celebration of his new status. You are to assist the household staff, then return to Camelot. It is as uncomplicated as that.” He narrowed his eyes and peered at the woman. “You work in the kitchen, do you not? I believe you are the cook who makes those heavenly honey cakes Arthur is so fond of.” She giggled with pleasure at his recognition. “Yes, sir. The king has shown me his favor from time to time.” “And you boys-you wait tables for us, do you not?” They nodded but did not smile or give any indication of the kind of enjoyment their mother had displayed. “Well, all of you, off to Lady Darrowfield now. I haven’t time for any more small talk.” The boys turned and left quickly, leaving their mother to thank Merlin for his attention. “And… do you know if Lady Darrowfield has an herb garden I may have access to? The secret of my baking is in the herbs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Camelot’s herb garden is so large, so marvelous. I can always find anything I need there. But here…” “I am sure there must be one. But you will have to ask someone who knows better than I.” It was time to dismiss her. “But I am certain Lord Darrowfield’s feast will be more successful for the contribution you can make.” “Yes, sir. Thank you. Sir.” She followed her sons in an uncertain way, as if she was not certain where she was or what to expect. “And be careful of this castle,” Merlin called after her. “The corridors can be quite tricky. I have seen Lord Darrowfield himself become disoriented. Have one of his servants show you the way.” The Darrowfields showed no sign of having reconciled overnight. They studiously avoided looking at or speaking to each other. When on occasion at breakfast their arms brushed against each other, they stiffened like dictators expecting an assassin. The atmosphere in the dining hall was palpably uncomfortable, not to say hostile. Marian of Bath’s sons, who helped serve the meal, seemed baffled by it, and no one bothered to explain. This continued all day long. Merlin confronted each of the Darrowfields and hinted that it might be wise for them to make up their differences before the other peers arrived; neither would countenance the idea. After a time, he stopped trying. “The king would wish me to make an attempt at bringing harmony,” he told Nimue. “I have made it. They want no part of it.” “How long do we have to stay here?” “No longer. I intend to thank Darrowfield for his hospitality, such as it has been, and inform him we will be leaving tomorrow morning. However unpleasant Dover might be, I will find it quite cordial after this place.” She laughed. “I always enjoy it when your expectations are confounded.” “I had no expectations, except that this would not be a pleasant place to visit. It is worse than that. Will you find our soldiers and tell them to be ready to leave in the morning?” “Yes. I think they’re looking forward to Dover, too. It will be a holiday for them.” “Excellent. I will tell Petronus myself.” Over dinner that night the lord and lady of the castle threw all discretion to the winds and fought openly, about the same thing as before. Their sons shifted awkwardly and finally made excuses to leave the room. The twins from Camelot, who were again serving the meal, worked quickly and kept as much distance as possible between themselves and their temporary masters. Their mother kept to the kitchen; Merlin wondered whether it was by design. During a lull in the combat Merlin announced his party’s imminent departure. Darrowfield glared at him. “Why? Do you not like it here?” “We are on holiday, Lord Darrowfield. All of us are anxious to reach Dover and the festival there.” Darrowfield frowned and continued questioning them, even turning on Nimue and Petronus. “You told me you weren’t going there.” “It was your suggestion that gave us the idea.” Merlin lied freely, like the courtier he was. Darrowfield seemed determined to find some cause to take offense. But Merlin was a more skillful conversational ist, or debater, than that; he salved every objection Darrowfield had. At one point Lady Darrowfield asked him, “You will not forget your promise to me?” “Promise?” Darrowfield roared. “What promise? Who do you think you are, making promises to a woman-and another man’s wife?” “If promises to wives were of any moment to you, husband,” she scolded him, “we would hardly be at this impasse.” He raised a hand to strike her; the elder of their sons jumped to his feet and caught his arm. Darrowfield stomped angrily out of the room, muttering about “enemies everywhere-even in my own house.” When the rest of the party finally broke up, no one was in good spirits. But Merlin had his host’s leave to depart. “I hear you’re leaving.” Mordred encountered Nimue at the entrance to the dining hall, just before breakfast. “I’m afraid we have to. We’re expected at Dover.” She told the convenient lie easily. “The king sent us as his representatives to their festival.” “I envy you. We’ll be here till the equinox, so Mother can preside at the rituals at Stonehenge.” “I imagine I’ll see you there, then. Our companion Petronus wants to see the monument. I can’t imagine why.” She wrinkled her nose in an exaggerated way. “He’s French.” “Listening to our host and hostess fight all the time will be so unpleasant. And there are no signs of them being reconciled-or wanting to.” “Why don’t you come with us?” “Mother wouldn’t approve. She can be so demanding. And she’s angry at Darrowfield. He’s flirting with Christianity, like half the nobles in England. She means to dissuade him. I want to try and maintain the peace, to the extent I can.” “And from what I hear, your mother can be so very vindictive when her demands are ignored. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I pity Darrowfield if he defies her. But at least you’ll survive, Mordred. You’re young.” “So are you. So is Petro-Pet-What is his name again?” “Petronus.” “Well, we should go in and have breakfast.” He smiled a sardonic smile. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.” “Cheer up. Arthur sent his pastry chef. You’ll have the most wonderful cakes while you’re here.” “If Mother doesn’t poison them.” Breakfast was made into an ordeal by the Darrowfields’ stony disagreements. When Merlin began saying his farewells, they both reacted unhappily. Then, when each of them realized the other wanted him to stay, they both made a show of bidding their guests good-bye. Through it all, Morgan sat without saying much; Uther slept at the table; and Mordred sulked. Peter of Darrowfield came to table late and kept yawning. When everyone was finished with breakfast, Merlin, his aides and their soldier-escorts went directly to the stables, saddled their horses and made ready to leave. At the last moment Lord Darrowfield approached Merlin. “I have changed my mind. I should like you to stay.” Merlin forced himself to smile. “May I ask why you have had such a dramatic change of heart?” “Someone has been following me. Like a shadow. I can never see who it is-these damned winding corridors make it impossible. But someone is always there. You are famous for exposing villains. I-” “I am certain it is nothing to be concerned about. Your castle is so easy to become lost in. It could be anyone, for any reason. Just because someone is behind you does not mean you are being threatened. Besides, your new sheriff seems a capable man. I expect he can give you any protection you might need.” “But-” “We must be off to Dover. The king’s business, you know.” Plainly unhappy, Darrowfield bid them good-bye once again. When they finally departed, just after the morning meal, their going seemed to come as a relief to everyone involved, except Lord Darrowfield himself. As he watched them go, a look of increasing concern crossed his features. On the road, Merlin was lost in thought. When Nimue asked what was bothering him, he told her, “There is a line in the Christian holy book which I cannot get out of my mind. ‘A man’s enemies are the men of his own house.’ ” “You mean Lord Darrowfield, don’t you?” “Yes, I suppose I do.” Ruefully he added, “But Darrowfield seems to have enemies enough for three houses. It has all left me so uneasy.” |
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