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.”
