J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“There is a witch?”

Marmaduke nodded gravely. “Placed here by Morgan le Fay herself.”

Arthur smiled. “It’s nice that you have some respect for my family.”

“The Paintonbury witch knows and understands all that happens here.”

“Oh. Of course.” Merlin smirked. “Ask her, by all means.”

Arthur added, “And while you’re at it, ask her what happens to petty warlords who harm the duly recognized king.”

Again, this was a new and difficult thought for him. “She lives a few miles away. It will take a while.”

Merlin laughed. “Then why is she called the witch of Paintonbury?”

Marmaduke ignored this. “Meantime, Wizard, don’t try any of your magic here. Understand?”

“I would not dream of such a thing.”

“See that you don’t.” He stomped away, evidently confident that he’d told them a thing or two.

Merlin tried the bars of his cage halfheartedly, then turned to the king. “So we have your sister to thank for this.”

“No. Marmaduke.”

“He is her pawn. I have often suspected she is behind half the rebellious barons in England. The ones who are not devoted to your wife, that is. Royal families. You will be the death of us all.”

“If death means I won’t have to listen to you complaining all the time, I hope it comes soon. Why don’t you try and think of a way out of this?”

“I have already done that. I advised you not to make this journey in the first place.”

“Be quiet, Merlin.”

But he was not about to. “And I advised you that this ‘strategy’ of yours was foolish. So did Britomart and Bedivere. If you are not going to listen to your own advisors-”

“For once in your life, Merlin, be still. My plan will work. Why do you think I’m not panicking?”

“Let us hope it works while we are still alive to benefit from it.”

“It will.”

Just then, another group of workers appeared, seemingly from nowhere, dragging another cage into place beside the others. This one was slightly smaller than the ones Arthur and Merlin were in. Arthur asked them, “Who is that for?”

They ignored him and kept working. Once the cage was in place, they tested its bars for solidity. Then they went back to wherever they’d come from.

Merlin had watched them, his curiosity aroused. “Who the devil can that be for? Marmaduke seemed content to let all the rest of our party remain free but unarmed.”

Arthur shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”

And they did. A few minutes later several of Marmaduke’s warriors, swords drawn, approached. Two of them were carrying someone. When they drew near, it became clear who. It was Bruce, Marmaduke’s son.

The boy was half unconscious, and his wounded shoulder was dripping blood. They pushed him into a cage ten feet away from Arthur and Merlin. Like the others, it was not large enough for him to lie down. He held on to the bars to support himself. Drops of blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the ground.

Merlin turned to Arthur. “We are in the hands of barbarians.”

“Englishmen. We have civilized a great part of the country. We can do it here, too.”

“From these cages?”

“We will not be in these cages forever, Merlin.”

Merlin tried to throw up his hands in exasperation, but the cage was too small to allow it.

Marmaduke appeared. He walked to the cage where his son was imprisoned and tried the bars. Evidently they were strong enough to suit him. He smiled and turned his attention to Arthur and Merlin.

“That boy is in serious trouble. His arm was nearly severed.” Merlin’s face was grave. “If you force him to remain in that cage, he will surely die.”

Marmaduke laughed loudly. “What is that to me?”

“He’s your son, for God’s sake.” Arthur found Marmaduke more and more appalling.

“My son? Hah!” Marmaduke had not stopped his roaring laughter. “My late wife’s son, yes. But mine? No more than that other one, that rat who scuttled off to join your court. Why should I care whether a bastard lives or dies?”

“Your wife came to me, Marmaduke, not the other way around. And that was… John was… This boy is not my son.”

“A convenient lie. He went off to join you. He knew.”

Merlin decided to try to inject something more substantial than allegations into this. But he realized there was not much he might say that Marmaduke would believe. “He came looking for his brother. There was no more to it than that. He was hectoring our knights. They wanted him dead.”

“They will get their wish.” Marmaduke turned and stomped away. His stench receded with him.

Merlin turned to Arthur. “You see what your rampant coupling leads to? Even this innocent boy will-”

“I know you disapprove of me, Merlin. Of that part of me, at least. Do not lecture me. These deaths have been… will be… have been terrible enough.” He lowered his head. “We will get out of this, somehow. One of the knights will creep in and free us in the night. Or Bedivere will… I don’t know. But we have not come this far, we have not begun to build our new, just nation, only to die in the mud of Paintonbury.”

Merlin closed his eyes and tried to nod off.

A light rain began to fall and they both slept.

A shriek pierced the night. “Help! Help me! Monsters are devouring me!”

The sound of footsteps receded into the darkness.

Merlin woke with a start. Marmaduke’s men had built huge bonfires. The rain was slowly, inexorably, putting them out.

Arthur stirred in his cage. He yawned. “Damn. Why couldn’t they give me a prison large enough for me to stretch my arms?”

“Marmaduke will stretch your neck soon enough. Will that make up for it?”

“Someday your sarcasm will go too far, Merlin.” Arthur snorted in frustration and turned to see Bruce’s cage. Bruce was slumped, crumpled in the bottom half of his cage, in an awkward heap. Blood from his shoulder had stained the front of his tunic; the flow had stopped, but moist blood still glistened in the light from the fires.

Merlin squinted to see better. There was a small wound in the boy’s throat, and more blood had flowed from it, then dried.

“Look at him.” Merlin could not keep the sadness out of his voice. “Look at him. That wound on his neck is new. It was not there before. When I think what Marmaduke must have done to him…”

Arthur could not take his gaze off the boy. Softly, in a low voice, he asked, “Is he dead, then, do you think?”

“It is not possible to tell from this distance. It appears so. If he were alive, blood would still be flowing.”

“Perhaps there is not enough left to flow.” In a loud whisper Arthur called, “Bruce.”

The boy did not stir.

More loudly, “Bruce!”

“It is no use, Arthur. Even if we could wake him, we can do nothing to help him. Not from these cages.”

Arthur bellowed, “Marmaduke! Robin!”

No one responded, and he called again. A few men looked idly in his direction, then went on with what they were doing. “Come here! Quickly! It’s not for me. It’s for Bruce of Paintonbury. He needs help.”

Slowly, Marmaduke emerged from his house, stopped to warm himself by one of the bonfires, then walked toward them. A handful of his men followed him, carrying torches, looking grim. Marmaduke stopped midway between Arthur’s cage and Bruce’s. “What is the problem?”

“For God’s sake, man, look. You son is dead, or dying.”

Marmaduke spat on the ground, then ambled casually to Bruce’s cage. “Let me have a torch.”

One of his men handed one to him. He leaned down and inspected Bruce’s crumpled from. “For love of all that’s holy.”

He stood upright and took a step toward Arthur, smiling a tight smile. “You did this. You are the cause of it. England is damned.”