The Pendragon Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  “Excellent point, Arthur. But if our knights cannot capture one mud-throwing hooligan, what chance will they stand against an armed force led by a determined ruler?”

  Arthur sighed heavily. “There are times when I think I should never have made myself king.”

  Merlin put on his best schoolteacherly manner. “Nevertheless you did it.”

  “Yes,” the king said, a bit sadly. “I suppose I did. All those wars I fought. We fought. All that bloodshed.” Then he found his resolve again. To Philip he said, “Tell the knights to redouble their efforts at catching this… whoever it is.”

  “They won’t like hearing that, Sire.”

  “Well, what the devil do they want to hear? I can’t very well go out and capture this imp for them.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Philip bowed and left. Arthur bit into a piece of bread more fiercely than seemed quite necessary. Merlin held his tongue and ate, too.

  The next morning Accolon, rested and looking fit except for a cut over his eye, approached Merlin.

  “Accolon. You are looking quite fine. Travel agrees with you.”

  “Thank you, Merlin. I wish I were as well rested as you think I look.”

  “Troubled sleep?” He chuckled. “What is bothering your conscience?”

  “Spare me your sarcasm, Merlin.” Accolon had been in England since Arthur took the throne. His English was only mildly inflected with a French accent. “I’d like you to have a word with the king.”

  “Why not talk to him yourself? You are as close to him as any of the knights.”

  Accolon sighed deeply. “What I have to say to him, he doesn’t want to hear.”

  “Oh. And what do you have to say?”

  “It’s about this pest that’s dogging us. Throwing things.” He reached up and rubbed his brow. “That is how I got this cut.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I’m far from the only member of the party who’s suffered an injury. Most of them are minor, granted, but the number of them… Arthur has to do something.”

  “If you can’t catch whoever is doing this, how do you expect Arthur to?”

  Peter of Darrowfield was standing nearby, eavesdropping. He joined them. “How hard can it be to run down one prankster?”

  “We don’t know that it’s only one,” Accolon grumped. “Stones, twigs, blobs of mud, leaves chewed up and soaking with spittle-they seem to come at us from every direction.”

  Merlin clucked his tongue in sympathy and shook his head. “So you think this may be a band of random pranksters?”

  Accolon scowled at the dig. “We don’t know what to think, Merlin. The barons in this territory are not friendly to Arthur. This may be their way of letting us know we’re not welcome.”

  “I see.”

  “Still,” Peter went on, “there can’t be that many of them or you’d have caught a glimpse of them by now. Perhaps you should redouble your efforts.”

  Accolon brushed this aside. “Arthur told Bors this morning that he thinks this is probably just a matter of mischievous boys. He doesn’t want us using too much force.”

  “That’s quite sensible.” Peter was not about to be left out of the conversation. “If they really are just boys, being too hard on them would only antagonize their fathers. That would be the last thing Arthur wants.”

  Again Accolon ignored him. “We don’t want to impale them or behead them or anything. We only want to use a bit more force and tenacity hunting them down-and making them stop this puerile behavior. By whatever means.”

  Merlin rubbed his brow thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll have a word with the king. But let us wait until he is in a generous mood.”

  “When will that be, in this god-awful country?”

  “Patience, Accolon. I will do what I can.”

  And in due course, he did so. Later that night, Arthur was rested and seemingly at peace with himself and the world. Merlin broached the subject. “They are insisting that something be done. You have told them to try and capture the culprit or culprits, but not to hurt him. The knights say that makes no sense. They want action. As usual, they want bloody action.”

  Arthur was breezy. “What do they want me to do?”

  “Give them permission to use force.”

  “I don’t believe that would be advisable, Merlin. This attacker, whoever he is, might well be injured. Or worse.”

  “You know I dislike violent conflict, Arthur. But for goodness’ sake, so a few bumpkins get their ears boxed. What of it?”

  “I am the king of all Britain’s people, bumpkins as well as knights. How can I authorize such a thing?”

  Merlin sighed. “I am the one who is supposed to persuade you to use reason. You are turning the tables on me.”

  “Relax, Merlin. You can’t always be reasonable. No one is, not even you.”

  “I-”

  “I’ve seen that contraption you use to go up into your tower. There is nothing even remotely reasonable about risking your neck to save a few steps.”

  “Stop it, Arthur.”

  “We’ll be out of this country in another day or two. Suppose our villain-in-hiding is the son of one of the local barons? One whose loyalty to me is shaky? And suppose the knights present the boy’s head to me on a pole? Do you realize how much trouble that could cause?”

  Again Merlin sighed. “I suppose I see your point. But your knights are restive. If they decide to take this matter into their own hands… Well, you could find yourself with more than one disloyal vassal.”

  “Merlin, I know it.”

  “Good. If only you’d been persuaded to bring a larger force… There has to be some way out of this.”

  “I can’t think what. Let us trust time to correct the situation.”

  And so the journey continued, with the knights grumbling more and more about the indignities these “guerrillas” were subjecting them to. From time to time one of them would get stung by a flying stone or spattered with chewed leaves. At one point Sir Kay was hit in the face with a huge blob of mud. Then Kay went, furious, from one of his comrades to the next, demanding that this affront to the dignity of the Knights of the Round Table be avenged. But most of the others merely laughed in his muddied face. He found his squire Jumonet and had him clean it for him.

  Livid, so angry he was almost foaming at the mouth, Kay rode along the column to Arthur. But Arthur held his ground. There was to be no violent retaliation.

  The weather worsened; there were storms. Progress was slow. Roads were soaked with rain, which fell relentlessly. Forests were more and more heavily fog shrouded. Merlin’s carriage got mired repeatedly and the knights, already grumbling, made no secret that they were unhappy at having to free it.

  Merlin watched the expedition’s mood turn darker and darker. The “guerrillas” threw more and more rocks, sticks, blobs of mud. The knights were talking openly about turning back to Camelot, despite the king’s wishes. Then one evening, at a place between two towns, over bread and venison at the fireside, Merlin broached the subject with Arthur.

  “Returning the Stone to Wales may be more of a challenge than you anticipated.”

  Arthur was concerned only mildly. “Soldiers always grumble, Merlin. You know that. Wait till the weather warms up and dries out. Wait till we’re able to hunt for game. Wait till we reach a place with a strong, friendly overlord. The knights will be singing a different tune then.”

  Peter was dining with them in the king’s tent. He seemed more concerned than either of them. “But in the meanwhile, Your Majesty…”

  “Yes?”

  “Suppose we have to rely on these men while they are still so disgruntled?”

  “Fair point.” Arthur called for a tankard of ale. “But my knights are made of better stuff than you think. They will go on complaining about this and that. That is their nature. But when it comes to a crisis, you will see them to be loyal.”

  “Grudgingly loyal,” Merlin added, “but loyal. In a way,
this rock-throwing pest is a blessing.”

  Peter was lost. “How do you mean, exactly?”

  “Our ‘guerrilla’ will have the full force of their anger directed at him. Their unhappiness with whatever Arthur does will be secondary.”

  “Still, it would be better if Britomart was here, or Bedivere. To help keep them in line.”

  “Bedivere has his orders. He-”

  Just then, there was a commotion outside the inn. Men were shouting raucously. In the middle of it could be heard cheers; from the sound of them they were of victory. Arthur got up and went to the door; Merlin followed. “Can you see what is going on, Arthur?”

  “It’s the knights. Naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “They’ve… they’ve… Let’s go and see.”

  Peter followed them, and they went out to where the ruckus was happening. Arthur carried a joint of venison and chewed it as they went.

  The knights had formed into a loose circle. In the center of it, bound hand and foot and kneeling in the mud, was a young man, not much more than a boy really, in his late teens. His head was bent down; Merlin heard sobs. The first knight they came to was Accolon. Merlin asked him, “One of the guerrillas?”

  “The guerrilla, more like. The one we’ve caught, at any rate.”

  “There was only one?” Arthur sounded astonished. “All that mischief was done by only one man?”

  “Apparently, Sire.”

  Arthur pushed his way through the press and came to Sir Kay, who stood imperiously over the prisoner. Just as Arthur reached him, he kicked the young man viciously. “Rocks, is it? Mud, is it? We’ll teach you better than to trifle with the Knights of the Round Table.” Again he kicked the young man, who cried out, louder than before.

  “Stop it, Accolon.” Arthur used his sternest command voice. “He’s harmless enough now. There’s no glory in maltreating a helpless boy.”

  The knights stepped back from the young man. Slowly he looked up. And he was indeed not much of a man, barely eighteen or so. He was dressed in homespun. His hair was dirty blond and he had blue eyes and freckles. When he saw Arthur a look of alarmed recognition crossed his face and vanished quickly.

  Merlin looked him up and down with evident amusement. “So this is our dangerous subversive. Very impressive.”

  “He’s only one of them.” Accolon was insistent. “There must be more, still in the woods.”

  Merlin took a step toward the boy. “Is that so? Are there more of you?”

  The boy looked away diffidently. “No. I’m alone.”

  Accolon took hold of his arm and began twisting. “Tell the truth, you little fiend, or I’ll-”

  The boy screamed. “I am telling you the truth. There’s only me.”

  Accolon twisted his arm again, and again he cried out.

  “I think you can stop that now.” Merlin took Accolon’s hand and moved it firmly away. “If he has allies, where are they? Do you think they would stand by and let you torture him?”

  The knight shrugged. “Who knows what these villains would do? Let’s find out.” He moved to take the boy’s arm again.

  But Arthur got between them. “Not now, Accolon. Let’s give Merlin a chance to interrogate him. You can always use more forceful methods later, if need be.”

  Accolon took a step back. A number of the other knights grumbled. Sir Kay stepped forward and caught the young prisoner by his hair. “So it’s mud, is it? You think spattering people with mud is good sport, do you?”

  The boy struggled to get free of him. “Let me go! The mud wasn’t meant for you.”

  “Then your aim is mighty poor, boy.”

  “Let me go!” He fought valiantly, but his captors were too strong for him. Struggling to get free, he bit Kay’s hand and kicked Merlin in the shin. “Get off me, damn you all! Wait till my brother hears about this.”

  Sir Accolon joined the fray. “So you’re going to tell your big brother on us, are you?” Gleefully he boxed the boy’s ears.

  “Stop it now! All of you!” Arthur’s voice rang. “This won’t get us anywhere. Peter, escort the boy to my tent. Merlin and I will interrogate him there. If we don’t learn what we want to… well, there are other ways of extracting information from prisoners.”

  Accolon looked at the boy and grinned. “More emphatic ways.”

  Peter took hold of the young prisoner’s collar and escorted him to the king’s tent. Merlin followed, bending to rub his shin as he walked.

  “Did he hurt you that badly?” The king walked just behind him.

  “Yes, blast him.” They paused outside the tent and Merlin leaned on one of the poles. “But is he the one I should be questioning?”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “He knows you. It showed. How?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Merlin.” Merlin’s eyes pierced Arthur. “He’s another one, is he not?”

  “Another what? I wish you’d get to the point.”

  “And I wish you would. Tell me the truth, Arthur.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. He’s another one of your damned innumerable bastards. Admit it. Do you ever keep your trousers buttoned up?”

  Arthur sighed, muttered something incomprehensible and stomped into the pavilion.

  The boy had been left alone in a small, sparsely furnished corner. He was seated on a three-legged stool. And he was beginning to look alarmed. Before Arthur could speak, his prisoner said, “You’re the king, aren’t you? King Arthur?”

  Arthur glared at him “If you know I’m the king, then you should know enough to stand in my presence till I give you permission to do otherwise.”

  “Sorry, Your Majesty.” The boy got to his feet. As he did so, a slingshot fell out of his pocket and onto the floor.

  Arthur bent and picked it up. “I take it that is the fearsome weapon with which you’ve been harassing my knights?”

  Merlin approached, followed by Peter of Darrowfield. Peter stepped discreetly aside. Merlin, seeing the slingshot in Arthur’s hand, glared at the boy. “Oh, this bloody arthritis.”

  The boy said, “Sorry, sir. It’s only a toy.”

  Arthur advanced on the boy. “Never mind that. Tell us who you are and why you’ve been hectoring my men.”

  “Bruce, my lord. I’m called Bruce.”

  “Address the king,” Merlin told the boy, “as Your Majesty, not your lord.”

  “Sorry, sir. Your Majesty.”

  The king glanced at Merlin, indicating he should go on with the questioning. Merlin wasn’t sure what would work best, authoritative menace or kindly, grandfatherly understanding. The boy didn’t seem especially dangerous, so he decided on the latter. “Now, then, Bruce. His Majesty wants to know what you have been up to, and why.”

  “I said, sir. I’m looking for my brother.”

  “Of course.” Merlin glanced at Arthur, but the king’s face was impassive. “And you are not looking for the king, here? Whom you know?”

  “Know?” Bewilderment showed in Bruce’s features. “I’ve heard his name often enough, yes. And heard him described. But know him?”

  “Tell me the truth, boy.”

  “I am, sir. I’ve never seen the k-His Majesty before.”

  “Never?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You have been in touch with him by letter, then.”

  “No, sir.” The boy was quite lost, and it showed. “Never.” Merlin looked skeptical, or perhaps unhappy. He turned to Arthur, who was smiling smugly.

  “And why,” Arthur asked the boy, “have you been following us and shooting things?”

  “Like I said, sir-Your Majesty-my brother. I thought he might be traveling with you. I knew, or rather I had heard, that this was a royal party. I was hoping he might be with you.”

  Arthur’s face was a blank. “Your brother.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. John.”

&n
bsp; “John?”

  “John of Paintonbury, Your Majesty.”

  For the first time, Arthur registered something like emotion-genuine surprise. “You are the brother of John of Paintonbury?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I see.”

  “When he left home, he told me you had invited him to join your court. In some important position, he said. Father was furious. So when I heard you were making a progress through our land, I-”

  “Your land?!” Merlin almost shouted it. “Who are you? I mean, who are your people?”

  The boy averted his eyes. “Our father is baron of these lands, sir. Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”

  Arthur looked at Merlin and said in a lowered voice, “One of the more troublesome barons.”

  “Arthur, I remember.” He turned back to Bruce. “Young man, I am afraid I have bad news for you.” He found a skin of wine and poured a cup. “Here. You will need this.”

  Uncertainly, Bruce took the cup. “Bad news, sir?”

  “I regret to tell you that your brother is dead. He died of the plague, just as we were setting out from Camelot.”

  “Dead, sir?” Bruce took a long drink. “The plague?”

  Arthur told him, “I’m afraid so.”

  “But-”

  “He was a fine young man,” Arthur went on. “With a good mind. In time he would have been a valued member of our retinue. But-but if it was John you were looking for, why were you harassing the rest of us?”

  “I’m sorry about that, sir. I mistook the others for him. The fog, you see. John and I had always… Well, we had always teased each other. Playfully, you understand. I didn’t realize he was…” The boy’s face was twisted; he had obviously loved his brother. He took up the wine cup and drained it. “I was only playing.”

  Peter had listened to all of this in silence. Finally he spoke up. “You must return to your father now, young man. We are on a quest.”

  “Please, Your Majesty, may I not join you? I could take John’s place. Our father is…” He let the sentence die unfinished. “Please, may I join you?”

  “I’ll have to think about that. You may spend the night here in our camp. I’ll have some of the servants make a bath for you. You’re covered with mud.”