J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“There is no honor in surrender.”

“Nor in death, Kay.”

Merlin, weighted down by his chains, was having trouble keeping pace with the others. He kept stumbling, and he was stooped by the heavy weight. “Stop complaining, Kay. If anyone here has reason to complain, it is I.”

But Kay was not about to be swayed. “The fact that the king’s chief counselor is here among us, and is so infirm, is one more reason why we should never have given in.”

The lead warrior reined his horse and waited for the captives to catch up to him. “What is all this mumbling?”

“Mumbling. Nothing more.” Arthur tried to use a reasonable tone. “Did you expect us to sing happy songs?”

“Well, stop it.”

“Yes, sir. Uh… may we know who you are?”

The man seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if he was unsure whether to answer this-as if it might be giving something away. Finally he answered, “Robin of Paintonbury. Chief lieutenant to Lord Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”

“I see. It is not quite a pleasure to meet you, Robin.”

Robin laughed, then spit on the ground. “King of the Britons.”

“Tell me, does your master know what he’s bitten off by attacking my party and taking me prisoner?”

“I suppose it makes him King of the Britons, or would if he was enough of a megalomaniac.”

Arthur laughed at this. “My advisor, here, Merlin, is quite infirm. Might you arrange for him to ride, somehow?”

Robin narrowed his eyes. “Merlin? The famous magician?”

Calmly, Arthur said, “The same. I would suggest you not anger him.”

“The man who erected the rocks at Stonehenge with his magic?”

“You have it.”

Merlin was looking less and less comfortable with this. Finally he said, “Arthur, stop.”

Robin laughed. “He doesn’t look like much of a magician to me.”

“If truth be told,” Merlin said to him, “I am not one.”

Skepticism showed in Robin’s face. “Of course not. I would advise you not to try any of your spells while you’re in this territory. We know how to deal with sorcerers here.”

“I am not a-”

“There is no place in Paintonbury for the black arts. Except those of our own priestess.”

“Of course not.” Merlin raised his shackled arms and clanked his chains.

“Let’s get moving. Marmaduke is expecting us.”

The party set out at once but made slow progress. The muddy roads-not much more than wide footpaths, really-ensured that. Robin’s men drove the two carriages; Merlin and the others went on foot, which only served to slow things even more. One of Robin’s soldiers discovered Bruce, sleeping in Merlin’s carriage, and rode up to report to Robin. “You had best come and see this, sir.”

Robin went with him and returned a few minutes later to confront Arthur. “Marmaduke’s son has been made your prisoner?”

Arthur nodded. “Not prisoner. Not exactly. He was wounded, and not by any of our people.”

“By who, then?”

Arthur shrugged. “One of yours, I suppose.”

Robin scowled; he could not have looked less happy. He urged his horse to a gallop and sped up to the front of the column.

Merlin whispered to Arthur, “Bruce may be our trump card.”

“How do you mean?”

“He is Marmaduke’s son. We saved his life. That must count for something with our captors.”

“Don’t count on it, Merlin.”

Another of Robin’s men came speeding past them, spurring his horse to a full gallop. Arthur watched, puzzled. “What on earth can that be about?” He looked over his shoulder, back along the road.

“I think I saw him looking into the other carriage. He must have found the Stone, or at least that gaudy shrine you keep it in.”

Arthur sighed. “I’m beginning to think you were right, Merlin, and we should never have made this journey.”

“I never cease to marvel at how quickly you catch on to things. At the very least, we should never have relied on this plan of yours to separate our forces.”

“Be quiet.”

“We are prisoners of your enemy, and you want quiet.”

“I told you to stop it. We will survive this. Bedivere will be here. My plan-”

“Plans have gone wrong before now, Arthur. Even your plans.”

“This one won’t.”

The party set forth. Four of the raiders surrounded the carriage that carried the Stone, as if they knew they were guarding something precious. Bruce was placed on a makeshift litter, as if it might be dangerous to let him occupy one of the carriages. He slept almost continually, and his sleep was interrupted by moans and crying. Peter was herded into line with the knights. Gildas was hustled into the procession well back of Arthur and Merlin. This pleased Merlin considerably, though he was careful not to say so or let it show. All of Arthur’s people were watched over carefully by Robin’s men.

The train of soldiers and their captives moved quickly, bogged down occasionally by the muddy roads, but generally making good time. Robin kept a careful eye on everything.

Two hours later they arrived at Paintonbury. It was not much of a town, not really much more than a large hamlet. Everywhere was mud. A small stream, not much more than a rivulet, flowed along one side of the town; it was dark brown with mud. Houses were made of mud and wattles. There was only one larger building, built of wood, at the far end of the road. Merlin asked one of his guards what the building was. “Marmaduke lives there,” was all the man would say.

“That is the palace here?”

No response. They kept moving.

A few children, naked or near naked despite the cold damp weather, played in the town’s one road. Most of them were covered with mud. Scrawny, emaciated dogs roamed the street. Hens scratched at the mud. Crows perched in the surrounding trees, keeping a careful watch for anything that might be dropped or discarded. There was not much for them.

Merlin noted that there were no adults in view. He commented on it to Arthur. But just as he finished speaking, a woman ran out of a hut, grabbed two children off the street and pulled them indoors. The children went along numbly, as if they had no spirit to resist. More and more adults, presumably parents, appeared and pulled their children indoors as the raiding party and their prisoners progressed though Paintonbury.

Along the side of the road were men in wooden cages, some of them plainly weak, some dying, some dead. The cages were barely large enough to hold their occupants; there was not even room in them to sit or lie. Under his breath Merlin muttered, “Marmaduke’s justice?”

“I’m afraid so.” Arthur looked away from the nearest cages. “There are times when I look at the human race and despair.”

“You are not Marmaduke, Arthur. You have made such strides toward true justice in Britain.”

Arthur made a vague gesture in the direction of the caged men. “Have I? Just look, Merlin.”

At length one adult did appear who showed no interest in the children but kept his gaze fixed squarely on the approaching party. A man in his late fifties or early sixties, he walked out of a large mud-brick structure and planted himself squarely in the center of the road in front of the warriors. And he was the fattest man Merlin had ever seen. He was wrapped in furs; he had a thick, scraggly beard. On his head was a horned helmet, like the ones Viking warriors wore. A stench came from him. Merlin winced and held his nose. After a moment two more men emerged and planted themselves on either side of him.

Merlin whispered to Arthur, “Who on earth can that be? He must weigh four hundred pounds.”

“Don’t you recognize him? No, he was nowhere near so fat when you saw him last. But he is unmistakable. That,” said Arthur, “is Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”