“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.”