The Pendragon Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  Overhead there were occasional breaks in the clouds. They grew more and more numerous, more and more frequent, and Merlin realized that Morgan was extemporizing to kill time in hope that the sun itself might become visible.

  Finally a few shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds. Morgan continued her oration. But when the sun began to disappear once again, she ended it quickly and clapped her hands another time. “Let the autumn rites begin.”

  The musicians, who had obviously been rehearsed, formed themselves into a column and began to play a mournful march. Young girls with torches made a column behind them. Morgan, followed by her son, fell into place at the rear. And slowly, stately, the processional advanced into the heart of Stonehenge.

  Merlin, Petronus and Nimue joined the ceremonial march. Petronus was plainly excited by the crowd, the music, the hundreds of flaming torches and the air of solemnity. Nimue’s face reflected casual interest, no more. Merlin leaned close to her and whispered, “Our young friend is almost quivering with expectation. Why aren’t you?”

  “I grew up in Morgan’s household, remember? Back when I was still living as Nimue, not Colin. I have seen her preside over this sort of thing before. When I was a child, it was all very exciting. Now…”

  “Are you trying to imply that Petronus is still a child?”

  “Stop trying to stir up trouble, Merlin.”

  The torches still shone brightly in the half-light. Glowing patterns danced on the monument’s stones as the procession moved in to the heart of the monument. The clouds overhead closed up again; the sun, which they were there to celebrate, was lost completely behind them.

  Then suddenly, abruptly, all forward motion halted. The people at the front of the march broke ranks and began to mill about in the most disorganized manner. There were shouts. The music petered out and stopped.

  Morgan bellowed, “What is the problem up there? Why have you all stopped?” She turned to Mordred and told him to run ahead and see what the problem was.

  Merlin took his two young companions each by the hand. “Let us go and see.”

  The orderly procession was quickly dissolving into a disorganized mob. But Merlin was determined to enter the monument and see what the problem was. He, Nimue and Petronus forced their way through the throng just behind Mordred.

  Inside the stone circle, Mordred stopped and seemed to freeze. Merlin pushed past him.

  The horseshoe of trilithons loomed around them, each formed by a pair of massive stone uprights topped by a stone lintel. The space at the center was empty of people; they were backing away.

  Then he saw what was alarming them. Lashed to the altar stone at the monument’s center were three men. One was prone on the top of the stone; the other two were lashed securely to its sides. A web of leather thongs held them in place.

  The throat of each man was slashed. The altar stone and the earth around it were covered in dried blood.

  And then he recognized them. “In the name of everything human.” The dead men were Lord Darrowfield and his sons.

  FOUR

  “Plague? You can’t be serious, Merlin.” Arthur paced and glared at Merlin. “Yes, of course I got your message from Dover. But I assumed you were joking.”

  “Joking! Arthur, sometimes I feel you don’t know me at all.”

  They were in the king’s study. As always, there was not enough light. The three portraits of Arthur were still there, on their easels. Pacing, Arthur stumbled over one of them. “Simon!” he bellowed. “Get these damned things out of here!”

  “Calm down, Arthur.” Merlin presented his soberest manner. “I am perfectly serious. Do you really think I would joke about such a thing?”

  “Yes, I told you, I got the bloody message.” He rubbed his shin where it had struck the easel. Then he took the letter from the table and shook it at Merlin. “I thought it had to be a joke. Or a mistake. Something brought on by too much wine-or too much whatever-at the festival. So did Britomart.”

  “It is hardly a thing I would joke about. Four men died, all sailors. As near as we were able to determine, their ships had all stopped in Algiers to take on cargo. Arthur, it will spread.”

  Arthur stopped moving about the room and glared at him. “You can’t possibly be certain of that. This is England. No Englishmen have died from this thing, have they?”

  “Do you hold the opinion that the human body in England is different, in some way?”

  “Algerian plague.” He snorted.

  Simon of York appeared with an assistant. “You are finished with these, Your Majesty?” He indicated the portraits, one of which was now on the floor.

  “Yes, get them out of here. They take up too much room.”

  “As I have been telling you for weeks, Sire.”

  “Don’t you start, too. It’s bad enough that I’ve got him picking at me.” He made a vague gesture in Merlin’s direction. “You know which one I want?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Put the artists to work on it right away. I want those new coins in circulation as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” He hesitated and looked from the king to Merlin and back again. “Is-is everything all right?”

  “No, everything is not all right.” Arthur mocked his conciliatory tone.

  “If I can be of any help, sir…”

  “You can be of help by doing what I asked you to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Simon clapped his hands, and his assistant gathered up the portraits and their stands. “Oh, and Your Majesty?”

  “What? What else?”

  “That jester person is here.” He frowned in obvious disapproval of the “jester person.”

  But Arthur suddenly, unexpectedly broke into an enormous grin. “John of Paintonbury?”

  “I believe that is his name, sir.”

  “Excellent. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.” With that, Simon bowed and he and his assistant left.

  There was a moment’s silence between Merlin and the king. Merlin looked unhappy. Finally he asked, “A jester?”

  “Yes.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I told you about him.”

  “Memory fails. There has been so much else-”

  “A very clever fellow. I met him on that visit to Coventry last month.”

  “And you decided to bring him here-to admit him to our court-without consulting anyone.”

  “This is not ‘our court.’ It is mine.” Arthur sighed. “Do me a favor and don’t pick at me today. I have too much on my mind. Including this plague of yours from Algiers, it seems. I don’t even know for certain where Algiers is.”

  Merlin stood and stared at him.

  And Arthur wilted under it. “All right, fine. This plague of ours, then. Is that better?”

  “Thank you, Arthur. We do not know, yet, if it really is a plague. I suggest you contact your sheriffs in every part of southeast England and have them send daily reports. If there is an outbreak someplace other than Dover-”

  “What can we do?”

  For a long moment Merlin said nothing. Then finally, “Hope. That is all.”

  “Hope is not a commodity in long supply, in my life.”

  “Even so. If I were a superstitious man, I would say pray.”

  “Should I summon my sister Morgan to Camelot? Should I have her conduct some kind of public rite? It might reassure people, if nothing else.”

  Merlin smiled faintly. “The way she reassured Lord Darrowfield?”

  Arthur frowned. “Poor Darrowfield. Tell me what happened.”

  “I told you the basic facts.” Merlin shrugged slightly. “We found him and his sons at Stonehenge. Their throats were cut.”

  “But surely you investigated. I know you. You could never have resisted.”

  “I was on holiday, Arthur, remember? And this disease is a much more urgent matter. Besides, Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff there, took matters into his hands. He seems an able enough man. I did not
want to tread on his authority.”

  Arthur narrowed his eyes. “But you know who did it. Or think you do. You always do, Merlin.”

  “Not in this case. The obvious suspect would be Lady Darrowfield. There was nothing but unpleasantness between her and her husband. And she would hardly be the first vindictive wife in England.”

  Arthur stiffened at this. “Leave Guenevere out of this. Leave her out of everything.”

  “Of course. I’m not at all certain I see Lady Darrowfield in that mold, anyway. If it was only her husband who had been killed…” He made a vague gesture. “But the boys were slaughtered as well. She hardly seems like the type of woman to play Medea.”

  “Then…?”

  He hesitated. “Your sister was there.”

  “Morgan?”

  “Yes, with her son Mordred in tow. Nominally she was there in preparation for the equinox. But word has it that Darrowfield was flirting with conversion to the Christian religion. And Morgan was none too happy about it.”

  “You don’t think she killed him, surely?”

  “It would hardly be her first time removing an, er, inconvenient opponent. We both know her history. And she had Mordred there to do her dirty work.”

  “He was the only attendant she brought?”

  “She had others, but they were at Stonehenge, preparing for the festival there.” He paused uncertainly, then decided to go on. “But they could easily have gotten to Darrowfield Castle to help Mordred with any… business.”

  Arthur brooded. “I know Morgan’s bloody reputation. I’ve never quite convinced myself she could be so lethal.”

  Merlin hesitated again, but decided to lay out all his suspicions. “She can be. And your father was there with her, Arthur.”

  “Uther? England’s famous hero Uther Pendragon?” He laughed. “How badly is he decaying?”

  “Rather badly, I’d say. I can’t remember ever seeing anyone more feeble.”

  “Good. What on earth was he doing there? He ought to be in a basket on a shelf somewhere. But you’re not suggesting-I mean, he could hardly have been the killer.”

  “Hardly. But your family’s history raises, shall we say, so many suspicions.”

  “There. You see?” Suddenly Arthur was animated. “You’ve put your finger on precisely why I need to find the right heir. The one who is truly worthy. Thank you for making my point.”

  “In the name of everything human, you are relentless, Arthur. People look at your golden hair and call you the Sun King. But you are more like a storm of driving rain and wind.”

  “You’re not the first to say so. But you taught me, Merlin. There is no other way to be king.” His smile disappeared. “But do you really mean to say that one of my family must have killed Darrowfield? Are there no other possible suspects?”

  “Wherever there is humanity, there are possible suspects. But I was hardly there long enough to know everyone who might have had a motive.”

  Suddenly there was a young man at the door, rapping at the lintel impatiently. “How long do you plan to keep me waiting?” Despite his brusque manner he was grinning. He was in his early twenties, to appearances. Short, thin, with unruly black hair and startlingly blue eyes. “I couldbe off taking care of my geese now.”

  For a moment Arthur stiffened; then, seeming to recognize the young man, he relaxed. “John. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You might act like it, then. Cooling my heels out here is hardly the reception I-”

  “I’m sorry, John. Really I am.” Arthur seemed to remember himself. “Ah, but the two of you haven’t met. John of Paintonbury, this is my friend and trusted advisor Merlin.”

  Merlin gaped, uncertain of the protocol. Slowly he extended a hand. “Arthur tells me you are to be his jester.”

  “Satirist,” John corrected him.

  “Satirist, then.” Merlin made himself smile as he shook the young man’s hand. “You will be living here at Camelot? On the royal bounty?”

  John’s eyes flashed. “You needn’t sound so disapproving. None of this is my idea. I was quite content raising geese. It is a modest living, but an honest one.” A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “Unlike being a wizard.”

  “You are suggesting,” Arthur interjected, “that those of us who administer England’s affairs are not earning our livings honestly?”

  “My geese, Your Majesty, permit themselves to be fattened. And slaughtered, by those who need their meat the most. Perhaps Camelot’s residents might take a lesson from them.” He frowned. “Of course, fattening themselves-that, they are already doing. Every time I turn a corner, there is a table of cakes.”

  “The king is terribly fond of cakes.” Merlin was not amused by the young man. “Yet I have seen him go without them altogether, when he needed to. You might take a lesson from that.”

  Arthur grinned and turned to Merlin. “There-you see? He will be perfect.”

  Merlin was increasingly put off. And puzzled-it was not in character for Arthur to take such insults with such cordiality. He nodded to John, mock-deferentially. “With all the swords here, and with a slew of hotheaded knights wielding them, I suspect I will be earning an honest living soon enough, investigating a murder.”

  “Now, now, Merlin, don’t be so touchy.” Arthur wanted peace between them.

  “I am not being touchy, Your Majesty.” When he became formal with the king, he always emphasized titles like Your Majestywith strong irony. “Simply realistic. Your knights are hardly known for self-restraint. Or for having a sense of humor about themselves.”

  “John will soon cure them of that.” Arthur put an arm around his new jester’s shoulder. “Won’t you, John?”

  “If it pleases the king.” John smiled with unconvincing modesty. “I would do anything in my power to please Your Majesty.” His tone mimicked Merlin’s perfectly.

  “Yes. Of course you would.” Merlin put on a tight smile. “As would we all. Now if you will excuse me, Arthur, there is a national crisis brewing. Or would you prefer that I remain here and listen to your new court comedian as he babbles more affronts?”

  “There will be plenty of time for that, Merlin. John will be here permanently, remember?”

  “Thank you for reminding me.” To John he said, “You should be careful, young man. There is always the danger that living with geese may have turned you into one.”

  John laughed at him. “Honk, honk.”

  Exasperated, Merlin turned to go. “If you want me, Arthur, I will be in my tower.”

  Every day for the next week dispatches arrived from Captain Larkin at Dover, who had returned from his trip and was grappling with the situation there. Slowly, most of the town’s citizens had returned. There had been several more deaths, all in the same manner as the first ones-rapid onset of symptoms, followed by stillness. Additionally, three more people had been stricken with the disease and then recovered almost as quickly as they had fallen ill. A low-grade fever seemed to be spreading through the town, as well. To date, none of the garrison’s soldiers had been stricken, but that seemed only a matter of time.

  Merlin wrote back as frequently as he received the letters. He requested Larkin to gather as much information as he could about the victims-occupations, families, any contact they may have had with the visiting mariners. He advised that their close friends and relatives be watched carefully. And he asked for detailed accounts from the three survivors of what they had experienced, their feelings, and any possible contacts they may have had with the foreigners.

  On the tenth day the missive from Dover was signed by Sergeant Ewan. Captain Larkin had fallen ill in the same way as the others and died soon after. He was the first man of the garrison to be afflicted, and Merlin conjectured that he may have contracted the infection elsewhere. “He must have passed among a great many people on his travels, some of them infected.”

  Merlin consulted with Arthur and Britomart and arranged for Ewan to be appointed temporary commander of the fort. His di
spatches continued, sometimes two or even three per day. The disease was spreading slowly but quite inexorably through the town. Reports began to reach Camelot of deaths in the surrounding countryside as well.

  Then further reports, sent by local officials, arrived from nearby towns and villages. Two people had died at Folke stone. A whole family of pig farmers expired at Frogham. And there were unconfirmed reports of people dying of a mysterious disease at Sandwich and even Canterbury. The reports of what killed them, and descriptions of the disease’s progress, never varied. The officials at Canterbury were quite perplexed; but they had heard rumors of a mysterious disease, possibly the plague, at Dover. Did Camelot have any reliable information, they asked, about what it was? Merlin wrote and told them there was no definite information about the nature of the disease, while admitting it was spreading. “There is no cause for panic,” he assured them. “You may trust that Camelot will keep you posted as the situation develops.”

  “Marian, Robert, Wayne.”

  The three of them had returned from Darrowfield Castle. Merlin met with them in a small room at Camelot. It was seldom used and sparsely furnished; there were only a few chairs, nothing else. No tapestries hung on the walls, so the room was drafty. Marian of Bath and her sons were seated, waiting for Merlin.

  “You asked to see us, sir.” Marian looked uncomfortable but stood as he entered the chamber. Her twin sons were expressionless.

  “Yes. Please relax, all of you. I hope your time at Darrowfield Castle was not unpleasant-given the awful events there, I mean.”

  “It was fine, sir.” She was plainly nervous. “There never was a party or celebration, as you might guess. But Lady Darrowfield wanted us to stay and help provide for the mourners at the funeral. There were not many of them, sir.” She looked uncomfortable saying it. “I don’t think he was well liked.”

  Marian’s twin sons were seated just behind her, side by side, quite close to each other. Their expressions were completely vacant; they stared at Merlin without any evident interest or engagement. He found them slightly disconcerting.