J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

Morgan smiled a political smile. “Perhaps we might ride along with you, Merlin.”

Alarmed, Merlin said that there was likely to be much more room in the Stone’s transport. “Besides, the king’s orders…”

Morgan stiffened slightly. “I see. Very well, then.” She gestured to Mordred that he should get into the coach; he did so glumly.

Simon put a hand on the boy’s arm, to stop him.

But she was not finished. Looking from Merlin to Simon she said sternly, “It would behoove the two of you to remember who I am. Who we are.”

“Morgan, we know.” Merlin was in no mood to be lectured. Why did she not simply go back inside the castle and let the matter rest? What could she possibly hope to accomplish by needling everyone?

“I am a member of England’s royal house. If something should happen to my brother, I stand next in line to the throne.”

“I would not be too smug about saying so.”

She ignored this. “Even if the barons should bristle at the thought of a woman on the throne…”

“Yes, Morgan?”

“Even so, Arthur has no heir. My son Mordred would then inherit the crown.”

“Such a heavy crown for such a frail boy.” Merlin was suddenly amused at her morbid seriousness.

She glared at him, angry at his insouciance. Simon pointedly stood between the two of them and the carriage door. Morgan tried to push Mordred into the carriage but Simon quite effectively blocked his way. Morgan glared and put a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “Come. We will discuss this with your uncle.” In a moment they were lost in the press of people.

As they left, Merlin whispered to Simon, “She has a point, you know. Despite all her pretentious balderdash, she is next in line for the throne. You would do well to show her a bit more deference.”

“The way you do?” Simon scanned the crowd, watchful for more trouble.

“I have known Morgan almost as long as I have known Arthur. I know her moods and her caprices; I know just how far I can taunt her. And I know that hiding behind my titles would be useless, if she was really angry at me.”

Simon stared at him blankly. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“Only this: When handling a venomous serpent, it is best to use a light touch. And Morgan has more venom than any serpent I know of.”

Peter of Darrowfield came out of the castle, carrying a pack. He joined Merlin and Robert. After bidding them good morning he asked, “Where are our horses?”

“Horses?” Merlin laughed. “With my poor back? I have ridden enough horses to last me till doomsday. We will be riding in this carriage.”

“Ah, I see. If you don’t mind, I’ll get in now. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well.”

“Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

More musicians appeared, playing still another fanfare, this one slow and regal in tone. Arthur emerged from the castle, dressed in his best battle armor and accompanied by Bishop Gildas, who looked more self-satisfied than Merlin had ever seen him, and John of Paintonbury, who looked quite out of his depth.

They walked slowly, deliberately, in accord with the music. Arthur looked neither to his left nor right, but kept his gaze magnificently forward; no Byzantine emperor could have looked more regally aloof.

But it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. John was tottering as he walked; and he was mumbling something to himself. Arthur and Gildas seemed not to notice.

John stumbled but caught himself and kept walking. His complexion flushed. He coughed violently. Then he started waving his arms about wildly and shouting, “The dragons! Keep them way from me!” The sound of his distressed voice carried clearly over the music.

Merlin rushed forward to help the boy. “John! John, what is it? Tell me what is wrong.”

John fell into his arms, and Merlin eased him to the ground. The boy was hot, feverish. Red-black blotches began to appear on his skin. “The dragons!” he cried. “Their fires are devouring me!”

His body gave an enormous shudder and was still. Merlin checked for a pulse and breathing, then looked at Arthur. “He is dead.” His voice held a trace of astonishment.

Arthur’s face was a mask; it might have been made of wax. Slowly, in a tone so low it was barely audible, he asked, “Is it-?”

But before Merlin could respond, someone in the crowd cried out, “Plague! The plague is here!”

People scattered. People rushed about madly, as if mere activity might protect them. Up in Merlin’s tower a dozen ravens took to the air, squawking shrilly. Yet nothing seemed to offset the awful stillness of John’s body.

The mere suggestion of plague seemed almost to have a magical power, or at any rate a superstitious one. People fled into the castle or to the various wooden buildings surrounding it, as if to be in an enclosed space with the plague-infected might be safer than being out of doors with them. In only moments, most of the crowd in the courtyard had vanished; the only ones left were Arthur, Merlin, Nimue, Robert, Peter, Gildas, Morgan and Mordred in the carriage, and a few knights. Peter of Darrowfield stood apart, evidently uncertain whether he should be so forward as to join the king’s inner circle.

Merlin watched the panic with a sort of detached alarm. “This should not be happening,” he said softly.

Arthur’s face was stone. “And so the plague comes to Camelot.”

“No one touch the body.” Merlin spoke much more forcefully than usual for him, even though no one had made a move to touch John’s corpse. “I must conduct an examination as soon as possible.”

“To what point?” Arthur sounded more annoyed than puzzled. “We know what killed him.”

“Even so.”

Morgan smiled out the window of the carriage. “And so, brother, this Cloud-Cuckoo-Land of yours, this nation of justice and brotherhood, comes to its end.” She laughed, long and heartily. “King Arthur.”

“The only thing that has come to an end,” Merlin interjected strongly, “is the life of poor John of Paintonbury.”

“And you think this plague will stop with just him?” She could barely suppress her glee.

“Why do you sound so smug, Morgan? Do you suppose,” Merlin asked her, “the plague will confine itself to obliterating only those people you disapprove of?”

“The plague,” Morgan pronounced, opening the carriage door and stepping down, “was sent by the Good Goddess to punish the sins of Camelot.”

“No!” Bishop Gildas was more vehement than Merlin had ever seen him. “The disease is a punishment for the veneration of a pagan symbol.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Arthur’s voice rang in the near-empty courtyard. “This is no time for your bickering. Merlin, take John’s body away and examine it. Do whatever you think you must. But be quick about it. We must leave as soon as possible.”

“Excellent idea, Arthur. We must be certain what killed him.”

“Surely we know that, at least.” Gildas had not stopped glaring at Morgan.

“When you have finished your examination,” Arthur said, looking from one person to the next as if daring them to stir up trouble, “come back here.”

“You still mean to make this journey, Arthur?”

“Of course. Now more than ever.”

“With only a small armed force?”

“Don’t start.”

Merlin sighed deeply, then instructed Nimue to find servants and a litter for the body. “There is that cloth treated with wax-you know, the material I have been experiment ing with. You will find it in my workshop. Wrap the body in that, and the disease should be contained.”

Nimue ran off to follow his orders.

Arthur looked numb; the morning’s events were beginning to wear him down, and it showed. “You think you can contain the plague with cloth?”