Nimue banked the fire high with twigs and branches, and Byrrhus cooked meat for them. Merlin and Nimue stayed mostly silent, letting Byrrhus and Brit reminisce about old times.

“The stories you used to tell me about serving at Pellenore’s court.” She was uncommonly wistful. “Nothing in the world could have been more romantic.”

“Poor old Pellenore. Is he still alive?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “And he’s quite insane.”

Byrrhus narrowed his eyes. “So are foxes.”

Nimue asked him why he preferred to live in the temple’s ruins. “I mean, the town isn’t much, but at least the houses must be warm and dry.”

“Warm and dry and full of people. I’ve had enough of them. At first I thought it was just court life I’d had my fill of, so I came back here. But everyplace is as foul as court. Bickering, arguing, lying, cheating… the court is the world in small. A sane man can stand only so much.”

When the meat was finished roasting on its spit, they ate, and it was delicious. Byrrhus poured large cups of red wine. At one point a squirrel scampered in and went directly to Byrrhus. He stroked its head and it nestled beside him, quite improbably. But when Nimue reached out to pet it, it ran off in alarm. “You have the taint of human society,” Byrrhus said.

After Byrrhus and Brit had had time to reminisce, Merlin turned the conversation to Pellenore. “None of us knew him back in his good days. What was he like?”

“He was a good king. He believed in justice and fairness and equality. He built a court based on them, and it was quite wonderful till Arthur came along and destroyed it.”

“But-but-” Nimue couldn’t grasp this. “But Arthur is dedicated to those same ideals. We all know it. Camelot is the best place to be.”

“Then why didn’t he simply join himself to Pellenore? Why squash him?”

There was no answer. Merlin interjected, “Was he mad back then, too? You should see him now, galloping about Camelot, chasing phantoms.”

Byrrhus bit pointedly into a cut of beef. “There are monsters at Camelot. And they are real.”

“Nonsense. Arthur is a good king.” Merlin was testy.

“Pellenore…” Byrrhus lapsed into silence for a moment. Then he seemed to find himself. “Losing his lands and his castle-losing everything he had worked so patiently to build-devastated him. That was what unhinged him, if anything really did. He used to talk about killing Arthur and reclaiming it all. He promised that some day he would.”

Merlin exchanged glances with Brit, then with Nimue. “Did you believe him capable of it, Byrrhus? Really capable of it?”

“He lost his bearings, moral, intellectual, political, social… It was so sad to watch.” He looked from one of them to the next. “I don’t know what he was capable of. And I didn’t want to know. That is why I left.”

None of this was what Merlin wanted to hear. In the space of a brief, odd conversation Pellenore went from being an unlikely suspect to a likely one. “What precisely unhinged him? Was it the loss of his lands or the fact that he became a mere vassal of the king?”

“Does it make a difference? None of you is drinking your wine.”

“We had some terrible beer at the inn. The wine wouldn’t go well with it.” Nimue was not at all certain what to believe about Pellenore now. “You know what they say-never mix the grape and the grain.”

From nowhere a strong gust of wind blew through the temple. “The gods.” Byrrhus smiled. “They don’t like me living in their houses and desecrating them with cook fires. I use the temple of Mercury for a privy. Someday they’ll take their revenge on me.”

Brit got to her feet. “You seem to be surviving them well enough.”

“They’ll get me someday. There’s a boy in the village who is a werewolf. They’ll send him for me.”

Like Brit, Merlin and Nimue stood. They thanked him for his hospitality and made excuses about having to go. Brit hugged him and told him, “You’re as strong as Stonehenge.No mere werewolf could hurt you. Be well, Byrrhus.”

A few minutes later they were on their horses and heading back down to London. None of them said much.

But later, by the fire at the inn with more of Robert’s bad beer, they went over their encounter.

“I don’t see any room to doubt that he’s mad.” Merlin sounded glum. “We didn’t learn a thing that’s helpful.”

“I don’t know.” Brit swirled the beer in her cup. “Just because he prefers rodents to human beings… I mean, who wouldn’t?”

“And belief in Mars and Mercury? He’s quite daft, Brit.”

“Byrrhus seemed the most wonderful man possible when I was a girl. Now… But does that mean everything he said must be mad?” Brit avoided looking at Merlin, not wanting to see the answer in his eyes.

Nimue pushed her cup away. “I mean, yes, he believes the Roman gods hate him. But does that necessarily mean what he says about Pellenore is nonsense, too?”

“No. I think…” Merlin suddenly seemed lost in thought. “I think we have to believe that, at least provisionally. Pellenore is a more viable suspect than any of us believed. ”

“Slightly more viable, anyway.” Brit sipped her beer, made a sour face and put it aside. “Even if he wanted to kill Arthur however many years ago, does that necessarily mean he still does? And how does that translate into killing his squires?”

“If he’s mad it might.” Nimue avoided looking at her.

Merlin stood. “I’m spent. Let’s get to sleep. There’s no way to answer these questions. All we know for certain is that we’ll have to watch Pellenore carefully from now on.”

“Arthur won’t like it.”

“Arthur can’t very well tell us who to watch, can he?”

They said their good nights and went to their respective rooms.

There was a large, lively fire in the one Merlin and Nimue were to share. She told him to take the bed; she’d be happy curled up by the hearth. Just before he nodded off, she asked him, “Merlin?”

“Hm?”

“What if Arthur won’t go along with us?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, suppose we learn who did the killings-I mean really learn, beyond any reasonable doubt-and he won’t believe us?”

He sat up in the bed and stared at her. “You have no faith in the king’s wisdom and justice?”

“He’s already expressed skepticism about all of our suspects. ”

“I can’t think about that now. I’m too tired. Tomorrow. We’ll have plenty of time to talk it through on the road to Corfe and Guenevere.”

The next morning there was brilliant sunlight. The three of them had more of Robert’s bad food for breakfast. Britomart wondered aloud whether their meal actually included Caesar’s bones. Merlin settled with Robert and made certain of the directions to Corfe.

Robert’s stable had a leaky roof. The horses were wet and irritable. Brit and Nimue spent some time drying them with cloths and currying them before they set off. While they were at it, Merlin wandered off on his own.

The town was more awake today. People came and went, on this bit of business or that. He tried to engage a few people in conversation, but they were unpleasantly taciturn. What was Londinium’s chief industry? The ground did not seen right for farming. The river might provide transport for trade, but there wasn’t much traffic on it. He wondered why England was so full of mysteries.

When he got back to the inn, Brit and Nimue had saddled and loaded the horses and were waiting for him. They set off on the same road they’d used the day before, the one past the old sacred precinct. In the sunlight the temples appeared even gloomier. There was no sign of Byrrhus.

The packhorses were carrying supplies Robert had procured for them. Brit complained about it. “So we eat still more of that man’s dry meat and sour beer. Why not just dine at the next swamp we come to?”