J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“I was planning on carrying him home, so that his family could bury him. We should be passing near Paintonbury on our journey.”

“That would be unwise, Arthur. You remember his father. He was one of your fiercest opponents. Avoiding Paintonbury would be wise. Besides, assuming he really did die of the plague, his corpse could possibly infect everyone who comes near it. You could be helping to spread the disease to another part of the country.”

“You honestly think so?”

“I do not know. And that is the problem. There is so little we know. Why has only John been stricken, of all the people here? And why him, at all? He came to us from the west. The plague is raging in the east.

“At the very least, I would like to return to Dover to interview some of the people who have been ill with it but recovered. We could learn so much that way. As things stand, we have no idea how it is transmitted from one person to the next. By touch? Through the air, like malaria? It would be so helpful if we could know.”

Arthur paused. “You think this journey is foolish, don’t you?”

“There are so many ways that we know diseases are transmitted. And none of them involve crystalline skulls. There are times I fear I will never persuade you to reject all these superstitions and approach the nation’s problems with reason. If it actually is the plague that killed John, his corpse could potentially spread the contagion to every town it passes through.”

“If you don’t know how the disease is spread, Merlin, how can you be so certain it has nothing to do with the Stone of Bran?”

Merlin threw his hands up to show his exasperation. “Fine, Arthur. We will go to Wales and bury your rock. Then, when we return, you and I can go over all the reports of mounting deaths in the meantime.”

“Don’t be morbid. This may work. It is the only concrete idea anyone’s come up with. The fact that two of my advisors have proposed it gives it force enough, in my mind.”

“I’m through arguing, Arthur. Let us get this journey over with as quickly as possible. I will leave instructions for the cremation of John’s body with my assistant Colin. Please see that Simon will cooperate with him.”

“Yes, of course.” Arthur’s mood changed suddenly. “Merlin, I have lost another of my sons.”

“The lot of kings and princes…”

“I know. I hoped it would be different.”

“It never is, Arthur. Nothing human ever is.”

The first drops of rain fell. There was a quick shower, then it passed. Arthur glanced up at the sky disapprovingly.

“Simon, give the signal that we are ready to start. Have everyone form into a proper train.”

Simon was about to do so when someone appeared from inside Camelot, shouting loudly, “Dragons! He said there were dragons!” It took Merlin a moment to recognize the shouter. It was mad old King Pellenore.

Merlin sighed, exasperated. To Arthur he said, “It appears your permanent guest has news for us.”

Pellenore rushed across the courtyard to Arthur’s side. “They told me that awful boy jester of yours has died.”

“Sadly, yes. But there is no time to discuss it now, Pellenore. As you can see, we are about to leave.”

“He said there were dragons devouring him. Attacking him. Their flames burned him to death.”

Arthur looked to Merlin. “Say something.”

Merlin laughed. “What would you suggest?”

“Dragons!” Pellenore shouted the alarm so everyone could hear. People began to break their formation, confused. To Arthur and Merlin, Pellenore said, “You see? I’ve been telling you for years they are here. And they pose a very real danger to us all.”

“Pellenore.” Arthur made his voice firm. “Listen to me. John died of the plague. The first case this far inland. Dragons had nothing to do with it.”

“The servants ran into the castle to hide.” The old man was terribly worked up. “They said he was screaming about dragons. He knew what killed him, all right.”

A streak of lightning crossed the sky and more rain began to fall.

“You see?” Pellenore could not have been more distressed. “Their fire is inflaming the very sky!”

“Enough of this.” Arthur was usually patient with the mad king whose castle he had stolen. But he was at the end of his patience. “Pellenore, we have to go. This rain will slow our progress. I promise you we will be on guard for any dragons that may attack us.”

Pellenore started to reply, but Arthur made a signal and the column departed on its progress across the countryside.

The journey was easy enough, or would have been. The rain never turned heavy, and as a result the roads remained easily passable. There were relatively few other travelers, so the column would have made good time except for a persistent mist. It snaked its way in streamers among the trees. It billowed in translucent banks, at times blinding the riders. Arthur ordered the knights with the best vision to lead the way. For three days their progress grew slower and slower.

At night the mist developed into fog. Thick walls of it welled up in the road, slowing progress even more. Worse yet, it made hunting difficult. Simon had ordered sufficient provisions for the journey, but there was an expectation that they would be complimented by freshly caught game. Instead of that, the party relied on stocks of dried venison and salt pork; it was not long before the knights began to grumble.

Villages along the way were fogbound. There was no more fresh meat to be obtained in them than there was in the forest. Inns were low on food. Most of them could not accommodate so large a number of guests anyway. Arthur and his close advisors got rooms. Everyone else was left to camp out.

Late the third night at one inn, over a meager supper of soup and bread, Arthur muttered, “I wish the gods would give us decent weather for this.”

Gildas jumped at the opening he had given him. “Perhaps the One is angry at your repeated blasphemies.”

“Let him send us some fresh beef, then, and the blasphemies will stop.” Merlin grinned.

Arthur got between them and ordered them to stop their bickering.

“I was not bickering,” Merlin said emphatically. “Merely making an idle comment about the weather is enough to get him started.” He pointed at Gildas with his spoon.

“Stop it, both of you.” Arthur used his best command voice. “If you have to engage in this kind of nonsense, do it outside where it won’t bother anyone else.”

Suddenly a young man rushed into the room. Merlin recognized him as one of the knights’ squires; he was not certain which one. The squire bowed deeply to Arthur. “Your Majesty, I am Philip of Manchester, squire to Sir Accolon.”

Arthur stopped eating. “Yes, Philip. What is on your mind?”

“Accolon sent me to report to you, Sire. We have a crisis.”

“Crisis? We’re in the middle of a forest. What kind of crisis can there be?”

“The knights, Your Majesty…”

Arthur wanted to get back to his dinner, such as it was. “Well, what about them?”

“Someone is bothering them, Sire.”

“Bothering them?”

“Throwing things.”

Merlin broke out laughing. “Someone is throwing things at the knights? And that is your idea of a crisis?”

Arthur brushed this aside. “What is being thrown?”

“Stones, sir. And handfuls of mud.”

Again Merlin laughed. “Which knights have been spattered with mud?”

Philip started to answer but Arthur cut him off. “Try and hide your amusement, Merlin. Philip, who is doing this?”

“No one knows, Your Majesty. He throws his missiles, then disappears into the forest.” He looked abashed but added, “The undergrowth is especially thick here.”