“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.”