J. M. C. Blair_Merlin Investigation_03, page 15
part #3 of Merlin Investigation Series
“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.”
“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.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I know I can be of service to you. Especially if all the knights I hit are typical of your forces.”
Merlin suppressed a chuckle. “You are John’s brother, all right.”
“Peter, will you take Bruce off to the servants?” Arthur looked mildly nonplussed by the boy’s presence. “And Bruce, I would suggest that you keep a low profile for the night. You will find many of the knights are humorless and less than forgiving.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you.”
“Go along now and get scrubbed up.”
“Can I . . . May I have my slingshot back”
“No.”
“But I—Very well, Your Majesty. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Might I stay with you? Join you? Return to Camelot with you?”
Arthur rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea. For either of us.”
“But—”
“I promise to give it some thought. Now go and sleep.”
Pouting slightly, the boy left.
Merlin stared pointedly at Arthur. And Arthur knew immediately what was on his mind. “I told you, Merlin, he is not mine.”
Merlin was skeptical, and it showed. “His brother, but not him?”
“You have grasped it.”
“Arthur—”
“You remember Marmaduke of Paintonbury, surely.”
“Well, I recall the name. And of course there was John. But I am afraid the details—”
“Fat man. Coarse man. During the wars that brought me to the throne, he was one of our bitterest enemies. You must remember that.”
“Something comes back to me. Not much.”
“Why do you think he hated me so ferociously?”
Merlin narrowed his eyes. “His wife?”
“Exactly. John was the product of our . . . union. But it only happened the once. Bruce is Marmaduke’s, all Marmaduke’s.”
Merlin sighed. “If there are any gods, I pray they will rescue England from its noblemen. There can’t be a more irresponsible class of people anywhere.”
At this, Arthur laughed. “Just point anyplace on the map of Europe. You’ll find them. Nobles are human beings, Merlin.”
“I wish you would not remind me.”
“We do what everyone else does. But we do it more . . . vigorously. Power and wealth make that possible.”
“Of course.”
“What concerns me at the moment is that we seem to have drifted into Marmaduke’s territory. All this bloody fog . . . We must have missed a turning or a fork in the road. We need to move on as quickly as this weather will permit.”
“Let us hope Marmaduke has learned to show more temperance than you showed him back in the day. You should post guards on the boy.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? Now that he knows John is dead, he would have no reason to—”
“Can we trust him? He is Marmaduke’s son. His story might be . . .”
“I see your point.”
“And of course he will need protecting from our own men.”
Arthur frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t always take such a dark view of things.”
Merlin shrugged. “The facts of human nature—”
“That’s enough. No guards. If only so I can prove you wrong, for once.”
Late in the night, Merlin was awakened by shouts. A moment later, Arthur woke, too.
They stared at each other across the tent. Merlin said, “Do you suppose . . . ?”
Arthur jumped up and began to dress. “Marmaduke’s men. It must be.”
A moment later, still half undressed, they were outside. There was confusion; knights and servants were running about, carrying torches against the forest blackness, plainly not knowing where the shouts came from. An instant later Accolon’s voice cut through it all. “Here! Over here!”
They took torches and rushed to see what was happening there.
Next to his bedroll, Bruce of Paintonbury was lying on the ground, bleeding horribly. “Help! Murder! Help me! Please!” He was sobbing horribly.
Merlin took charge at once. He ordered men to carry the boy to the king’s tent. Then he rushed to his carriage and got his medical supplies.
Bruce’s arm was nearly severed. Merlin dressed the wound as well as he could and gave the boy a drink of strong wine to help dull the pain. When he was calmer, Merlin asked him, “Who did this? Tell me.”
“A knight. It must have been a knight. I couldn’t really see well, what with the night and the fog, but it must have been a knight.”
Merlin looked skeptical. “Must have been.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Might it not have been one of your father’s men? You are consorting with his enemy, after all.”
“No, sir. They don’t know I’m here.”
“They might have some inkling. Your brother—”
“They don’t know I’m here. Besides, they’re more brutal than that. My head would be lying in the mud. Only Camelot’s knights are so humane as to do this.” With his good arm he gestured at the bandages.
“You are John’s brother, all right . . .”
“You keep saying that.”
Merlin put a hand on his good arm. “You should try and get some sleep now. That will hurt terribly in the morning.”
“I’m used to pain, sir. It’s the way we were raised. Father saw to that.”
“Not like this. Sleep.”
A few moments later Merlin was alone again with Arthur. “The boy thinks it must have been one of our knights.”
Arthur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They were furious at his little . . . should we call them pranks? And they did swear to punish whoever was doing it.”
“Yes, but Arthur, an attack this brutal . . . Our men had him. He would be brought to justice by you. They know that. I can’t help but suspect it was one of Marmaduke’s men.”
“Perhaps they thought I would be too lenient. But why this sudden faith in the integrity of our knights? And would Marmaduke’s men try to kill their own baron’s son?”
“If I remember the character of these outlying tribes, yes, they would do that in a minute.”
“Is it possible the boy did this himself? To give us a reason to keep him with us?”
“Arthur, his arm was nearly off.”
“Of course.” He frowned. “But our men . . . I don’t want to believe it.”
“The knights would be glad to hear you say so.”
The king sighed. “Stay here with him, will you? Keep an eye on him.” He lowered his voice. “He was my son’s brother, after all. I . . . I wouldn’t want to see him follow John to the grave.”
“He’s not as much a brat as John was. There is that, at least.”
“Stop it, Merlin. Stay with him tonight.”
In the morning, the forest fog was even more dense. Thick clouds of it surged among the trees. The road, such as it was, was all but invisible. Arthur cursed the autumn weather.
Merlin, as always, was wry. “This is England. The weather is the same in springtime—miserable.”
“I know it. I wish we didn’t have to rebury the Stone.” Merlin started to speak, but Arthur cut him off. “And don’t say I told you so. We have a long way to go yet. Clearly, the fog has led us off our course. Let us hope we don’t actually have to deal with Marmaduke.”
“Marmaduke is hardly the only baron who bristles at your rule.”
“How is young Bruce this morning?”
Merlin shrugged. “I wish I could tell. He slept fairly quietly. But this morning he has no appetite. I can’t even persuade him to take a bit of soup. Some blood has seeped through the bandages. And he says he can’t feel his arm at all.”
“That is not good.”
“No. It is early yet. The attack only happened last night. But I am afraid the signs are not good.”
“Keep an eye on him, will you? I don’t want him to—” He cut off whatever he was going to say. “He can ride in your carriage. Will that be all right?”
“Of course, Arthur. I was going to suggest the same thing. The seat opposite mine is wide enough for him to lie and sleep. Peter and I can ride side by side.”
“That’s good.”
And so they set forth again. Except for the presence of Bruce, everything was as it had been before. Knights grumbled while their servants did the work. Arthur commanded, breezily ignoring the complaints in the ranks. Merlin chatted with Peter or passed the time by reading.
The one thing that did change, for the worse, was the weather. There was constant fog, all day long. Dense banks of it clogged the forest. Thicker streamers of it coiled among the trees. It was impossible to see very far along the road in front of them. A constant drizzle began to fall.
Bruce slept in Merlin’s carriage, but only fitfully. He kept waking every few minutes, complaining of pain in his shoulder. Merlin applied a painkilling salve to his wounds as often as necessary, but it helped only so much. When the carriage hit a bump in the road Bruce would cry out, softly if he was asleep, more loudly if he was awake. His arm was still quite numb.
Merlin and Peter avoided talking about anything too alarming when the boy could hear. But when he was asleep, or when they thought he was asleep, they let their guard down.
“How much worse can this get?” Peter asked, staring out the window.
“This is England, Peter.” Merlin was sanguine. “Our one claim to distinction on the world stage is our atrocious weather.”
“A fine distinction.”
“A humble thing, but our own.” Merlin was wry.
“What worries me most is security. There could be anyone or anything out there in the fog, and we’d never know it till it was too late. Half the Byzantine Empire could be out there, sharpening their spears.”
“Just for us. But do you really think we have to worry so much about external threats?”
Peter scowled. “You mean whoever tried to kill our young companion, here.”
“Precisely. With a murderer—attempted murderer—in our midst, why fret about imaginary armies?”
“His father’s men—”
“Do you really think so? Would not Marmaduke’s men be more likely to try and assassinate Arthur? Why would they go after their own leader’s son?”
“It’s been known to happen, Merlin.”
Slowly, groggily, Bruce opened his eyes. Weakly he announced, “My father’s men hate me. At least the ones who want to take his place. All of them hate me.”
Peter, mildly startled at this, asked him, “Why would they hate a boy like you?”
“I’m next. It’s no more complicated than that.” He closed his eyes again and, to appearances, fell instantly asleep.
Peter looked at Merlin. “Does he mean next in line for leadership, or next to die, do you think?”
Merlin shrugged. “I am a scholar, not a mind reader.”
“To hear people tell it, you’re both.”
Merlin ignored this and looked out at the fog-shrouded landscape. The world was a blank gray. After a few moments, Peter fell asleep, too, lulled by the motion of the carriage. Merlin became lost in his thoughts.
Then suddenly, quite abruptly with a jolt, the carriage stopped. Merlin craned his head out the window to see what the holdup might be. But the fog made it impossible for him to see more than a few mounted riders ahead.
But then a rider appeared out of the fog. It was Sir Kay, driving his horse to gallop back along the line. “Merlin! Merlin, come quickly!”
Merlin opened the carriage door and began to climb down. “I cannot do much of anything quickly, Kay. Blame this bloody arthritis.”
“Come! Let me help you up onto my horse.”
“What is the problem?”
“My squire, Jumonet. He’s been hit.”
Merlin let the knight pull him up just behind him on the mount. “Hit? What on earth do you mean?”
“Hit.” The knight said nothing else but spurred his horse back to a gallop. Merlin held on tightly and watched the puzzled faces as they flew past the rest of the party.
In a short time they were near the front of the line. Kay slowed the horse and turned to the left, and they headed into the woods.
“Will you please tell me what happened? And where we are going?”
“Not far.”
Through the fog a group of men appeared, clustered around something or someone on the ground. Merlin squinted but could not make out much more than that Arthur and Peter were among them. He sniffed the air. “We must be close to a town or a village. There is smoke mixed with the fog.”
“That is what we thought. We sent out scouts to see. Jumonet was one of them.”
They reached the group, and Kay reined the horse to a standstill. “Here we are.”
