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“Thank you.” Nimue yawned and smiled at her. “May we know your name?”

“Martha, sir.”

“If you will give us a moment to collect ourselves, you may escort us to the dining hall.”

Martha curtsied. “Yes, sir. I’ll just wait outside the door here.”

“Who else will be joining us for dinner?”

“Only the family. Oh, and Queen Morgan and Prince Mordred and King Uther, sir. Oh-and I almost forgot-his lordship’s new sheriff.”

She stepped out into the corridor to wait for the three of them to ready themselves. Nimue looked to Merlin. In hushed tones she asked, “Did you hear her? Queen Morgan? Prince Mordred? King Uther? Arthur will not be pleased to hear that they are styling themselves that way.”

Merlin arranged his robes. “No, he will not. I would have thought Morgan would know better. Arthur has been flirting with the idea of ‘converting’ to Christianity, as they say. This kind of arrogance will hardly help Morgan’s case for the traditional English gods.”

Petronus looked thoughtful. “Are you serious, Merlin? Arthur, one of the Christians? I grew up in a Christian society. There was intrigue, murder, bloodletting, treachery, hypocrisy…” He wrinkled his nose as if there was a foul smell in the air.

“Christians are human beings, Petronus, and human beings are corrupt. I have taught you enough history for you to know what Greece and Rome were like, centuries before the man Christ. Besides, I said Arthur has been toying with the idea. Like the emperor Constantine two centuries ago, he sees the advantages of the Christian Church as a unifying, stabilizing force. Bishop Gildas has been making the case quite forcefully.”

Moments later they joined Martha in the corridor and followed her to the dining hall. Very softly Petronus whispered to Nimue, “What do you know about the rumor that Mordred is Arthur’s son, not merely his nephew? That Arthur and Morgan committed-”

Despite his whispering, Merlin heard him. He rounded on the boy and said fiercely, “That is not a topic to be broached. Not ever. Not if you wish to remain in Arthur’s service. We can return you to Lancelot, remember; you can serve him in his prison. Or to France.”

Petronus had never seen the old man so angry; he trembled. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“That is not a subject open for discussion. Not ever. Do you understand?” Without another word Merlin turned and resumed following Martha, who gave no sign of having heard what Petronus had said or of understanding Merlin’s anger. But a moment later Merlin softened. He turned back to look at Petronus and told him, “There is a long tradition of kings… taking pleasure where they will. There is even a name for it. People call it ‘royal privilege.’ Arthur is human. But it is not wise policy to remind him of it.”

“But I only asked-”

“Come on. Let us eat.”

Martha moved quickly and with certainty through the winding hallways; her companions were disoriented and kept slowing down. The fact that the corridors were lit quite dimly didn’t help matters.

Finally they reached the dining hall, which, unlike the castle’s other chambers and corridors, and unlike the hallways, was ablaze with light. Scores of candles burned in candelabras; torches blazed along the walls. A dozen servants, all in uniforms bearing the Darrowfield crest, waited around the table, and Martha joined them.

Several guests were already seated at table, Darrowfield himself, a sad-looking woman Nimue thought must be his wife, two boys in their mid-teenage years, and a middle-aged man dressed in the robes of a scholar.

Entering, Merlin made himself the soul of heartiness; there was no trace of his earlier ferocity, and Petronus sighed in relief.

“Good evening, all.” He scanned the table, which was already set with a huge tureen of soup and a number of silver plates.

Darrowfield announced, “I would like to present my good lady wife and my two sons, Geoffrey and Freelander.” The other Darrowfields smiled and uttered brief greetings to their visitors from Camelot.

The older of Darrowfield’s sons, Geoffrey, said languidly, “I’m told that people at Camelot look down at those of us who live about the countryside. That you think of us as provincial.” Like his brother, he was a handsome boy; but Merlin noticed a slight curvature to his back.

“Never!” Merlin feigned shock. “I am certain no one at Camelot holds such an ungracious opinion.”

Just at that instant Mordred entered, leading an elderly man who walked slowly and leaned on his grandson heavily. He was obviously Uther Pendragon. Nimue remarked to herself that even kings must in time come to old age and weakness-those of them that survive long enough. Uther seemed the feeblest man she’d ever seen.

Nimue looked them up and down and decided that Uther must be blind or nearly so, in addition to his more obvious infirmities, and that Mordred was clearly quite fond of him. Introductions were made and Mordred selected a seat and held the chair for his grandfather. Then he took his own seat, which was between Uther and Nimue.

He recognized her with a start. “You are Colin, aren’t you? Merlin’s assistant?”

“Yes, I am. I’m quite flattered that you remember me. We’ve only met the once.”

Mordred smiled. “I like scholarly men.”

“So do I, but-”

Merlin interrupted. “You are looking fit, Prince Mordred.” He leaned on the word princewith the heaviest possible irony.

“Prince? Oh, that. That was mother’s idea, I’m afraid. You mustn’t take it too seriously.”

“I assure you I do not. And I hardly think your uncle the king will do so either.”

The scholarly man at the table had not said a word. Now he spoke up. “So you are that Merlin who is counselor to King Arthur? I am Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff here. Only recently appointed by Lord Darrowfield.” He beamed with pride. “I have known you by reputation for years. To actually meet you is a great joy for me.”

Peter was a plain-looking man of about forty. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. Finally Merlin said, “You appear to be something of a scholar, Peter. You interest me. Most of the sheriffs in England are bumpkins, to say the least.”

“And corrupt bumpkins, at that.” Peter grinned. “But England under King Arthur is changing. There is a new breed of men engaging in law enforcement. I am far from the only one. Hanibert of London is one of the most brilliant men I know.”

Merlin picked up a goblet, held it out and a servant filled it with wine. He raised it to Peter and sipped. “May England’s criminals beware.”

“It is your influence, sir. Everyone knows how brilliant you have been at solving crimes against Arthur’s majesty. It has inspired some of us, who might otherwise be breeding dust in libraries, to become actively engaged in the detection and solution of crime.”

“It is a promising development, Peter, and I could not be more grateful, nor more flattered, to hear about it.”

“Of course most people still regard us as dull-witted fools. But that will change soon enough.”

“I would not be certain. Reputations, even if they are unearned, do not die easily. Large numbers of people still believe I am a magician, despite the obvious absurdity.”

Freelander, the younger son, chimed in. “They say that Merlin himself created Stonehenge with his mystical powers. He brought the stones to life and ordered them to march to Salisbury and arrange themselves into a circle. Or that it was built by a race of giants, at Merlin’s command. It is so exciting to live so close to it.”

“You see what I mean? Stonehenge has been there on the plain for generations. No, for centuries. It may actually be as old as time itself. Yet the myth persists that a living man constructed it.” Annoyed, Merlin set his wine cup down and turned to face the young man. “Or am I supposed to be immortal as well?” Cowed, the boy fell silent.