An hour later the land had turned to moor. Sprigs of heather grew here and there, but not much else. Toads and snakes slithered out of their way. A guide was waiting to steer them through it; how Arthur had arranged for him, Brit could not fathom. One of the guards’ horses slid into some quicksand, and they all had to work to pull it and its rider out. The man was shaken; Arthur sent him back to Camelot with a companion to take care of him.

Another hour passed. Brit found herself growing impatient, but she knew there was no point trying to get information out of either Arthur or Merlin if they didn’t want to share it. For nearly the entire trip Arthur had said virtually nothing.

Then ahead of them there was a small village, not much more than a hamlet-ten or a dozen tiny shacks on either side of the track, most of them made of mud and twigs. Arthur raised his hand and the party stopped. The guide pointed to one particular hut. Arthur dismounted, walked to its door and knocked.

A woman opened it a crack and looked out. She was in early middle age, and her features reflected her hard life. It was immediately clear she recognized the king. She pulled the door open wide, Arthur went in and she closed it behind him.

The rest of the party dismounted. The guard in charge told them to make themselves comfortable; there was no way of knowing how long the king would be. They had brought food, which he passed around. The guide walked a few paces away from the rest of them and watched them without eating or talking to any of them.

“Merlin, are you going to tell me what this is about?” Brit tore a piece of bread and bit into it aggressively.

“You know as much as I do.”

“Nonsense. I want to know. Please.”

He took a deep breath, seemed to consider the possibilities then sat down on a relatively dry patch of earth. “She was their mother.”

“Oh. And Arthur-?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“I see. I’ve wondered about that. He always seemed so attached to them.”

“The attachment has been severed.”

They ate without saying much more. Finally, Brit said, “So it’s that much more important that we find the killer, then.”

“Yes, Brit.”

“If the killer knew about his sons, somehow… these may have been dynastic murders, intended to do more harm than most people realize.”

“I don’t see how anyone could have known. I didn’t know myself until Arthur told me yesterday. He said Mark had guessed, but Mark and he are close friends.”

“But-but if these killings were a strike at the royal house… I wish we had something definite to go on. No one who might have done it has a verifiable alibi. Mordred told me he went to use the privy then got lost in the unfamiliar corridors. I have no idea whether to believe him. And Lancelot says pretty much the same thing. Pellenore… well, you know, he was being Pellenore, charging around the castle chasing phantoms. I wish I could trust him as much as you seem to. We need to know more.”

“I know it, Brit. But how?” He looked to the woman’s hut; there was still no sign of Arthur. “If only Ganelin had told me what he’d learned from the servants. Or some of it, at least.”

“We’ll have to question them ourselves. There’s no other way.”

“Ganelin had a point. They won’t open up to us the way they did to him.”

“Then we’ll have to force it out of them.”

“No.” His voice took on an uncharacteristically hard edge. “No torture. That is not the kind of land Arthur wants to make.”

“Then how do we-”

“We’ll find a way.”

The hut’s door opened. Arthur came out, followed closely by the woman, who was crying. Her dark features were made worse by grief. He took her by the hand and led her to where the others were waiting. From his saddlebag he got the sable cloak and placed it around her shoulders.

“No, Arthur, please. It doesn’t matter. I’m numb anyway. ”

He wrapped it more tightly around her. “Don’t be foolish. It’s a cold, wet day.” He looked to Merlin and Britomart. “This is Anna, who might have been the mother of kings.”

They said soft hellos to her. She averted her eyes.

“Come, Anna. I chose this horse for you myself. She’s the sweetest, gentlest in my stable.”

“Like me?” Her voice was bitter with her sorrow.

“Please don’t talk like that.” Then he turned to the others. “Anna, this is Merlin, my most trusted advisor, and Britomart, one of my senior military aides.”

It was all so completely unexpected. Uncertain what to say, they made simple greetings to her, trying, not very successfully, to sound friendly and pleased she was with them.

He helped her up then mounted his own horse. “Come on, everyone, let’s get home.”

And so the party returned the way it had come. There was not much more talk on the return trip than there had been on the ride out. At one point Britomart reined her mount next to Anna’s. Anna gaped at her, not seeming to remember their introduction.

“Hello. I’m Brit. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you.” She avoided looking at her.

“You’ve been to Camelot before?”

“No. Never. Arthur wanted to take me. But I don’t belong in a place like that.”

“Just between us,” she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper, “no one does.”

Anna smiled shyly. “I want to see the funeral. I want to see my boys buried. I told him I’m coming home after that.”

There was an awkward silence. Then, “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so many years. He told me he loved me when we first knew each other. He says that he’s never stopped. But he’s the king and I’m a woman from the midland swamps.”

Brit tried to make more conversation, but Anna was badly out of her element and shaken by her grief. Brit determined to make the woman feel as much at home as she could, once they reached Camelot.

At one point on the long ride to the castle, she noticed that Anna had begun to cry again. Was it for her boys, or for what might have been with Arthur, or some combination of the two? There didn’t seem much point in asking.

Late that night, Nimue, Brit and Merlin sat before a roaring fire in his study with more spiced wine. None of them seemed to have any idea how to proceed.

“Where’s Mark? I thought he’d be joining us.” Brit yawned and stretched.

“He’s packing for the journey back to Cornwall.” One of Merlin’s ravens tapped at the window, and Merlin got up to let it in. “He’s done as much as he can here, and he does have his own fiefdom to govern.”

“Does it occur to you,” she asked, “that kingship is now firmly established in England?”

Merlin swirled the wine in his cup. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

“Not so long ago queens ruled here.”

“And you’re saying there are at least two women who would like to see the country revert to that.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Exactly.”

Nimue took a long drink. “But no one likes either Morgan or Guenevere. No one would ever submit to their rule.”

“Suppose they ruled through a puppet at first? A lover or a son?” Brit got up and stretched again. “It’s been a long day. Too long.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me before, Brit.” Nimue looked at Merlin to try and guess what he was thinking. “But you have a good point.”

“We should have thought of it before now. And if one of them learned somehow that the squires were Arthur’s sons and presumptive heirs, it would have given them the motive for… for what happened.”

“I can easily imagine Morgan ruling through Mordred- and Mordred going along. Guenevere and Lancelot-that’s another matter.” Merlin started to drink then seemed to think better of it and put his goblet on the table. “The thought of King Mordred makes my blood run cold. There couldn’t possibly be enough wine to warm it again.” Like Britomart, he yawned. “You’re right, Brit, the day has been too long and too busy. We’ll think more clearly in the morning. But I think we will need to visit our suspects on their home ground. Their guard may be down then.”