J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“My men will fight on to the last.”

“Surrender, for God’s sake. Use your wits, for once.”

“Never.”

But Bedivere’s men had them outnumbered four to one. The fighting ended quickly. Individual warriors surrendered. The ground was littered with their fallen comrades and dropped swords.

Then, when it was apparent he had lost, Marmaduke dropped his own sword. Puffing heavily he said, “You win. Again. Arthur, King of England.” He made an ironic little bow, then spat.

“Why, Marmaduke, how nice of you to acknowledge my kingship-once more.”

The warlord sulked and said nothing more.

But Arthur was not finished gloating. “Remind me, Marmaduke. My memory is failing me, I’m afraid. Was it this simple to best you, back in the civil war?”

The pyre was roaring with flames by now. Marmaduke fixed his gaze on it and remained silent.

“Come, now, Marmaduke, it was twenty years ago. Not so long, really. Longer for me than for you, at any rate. I have had the burden of government on my shoulders all that time. You have had… what? Mud? You might at least have had a bath sometime in twenty years.”

“You damned, self-styled aristocrats. You romp around the country violating men’s wives and then have the gall to complain to us. ‘Oh, how hard my royal life is. Pity me.’ ” He spat again.

Arthur smiled indulgently, in a way he hoped would be conciliatory. “It was only the once, Marmaduke. And she wanted it. They tell me I was quite a handsome young man.”

“ ‘They tell me I was a handsome young man,’ ” the warlord mimicked. “You make me sick, Arthur. All of you, you’re all alike. Your father was just as bad, in his day. But at least he was content with his own little kingdom. You wanted all of England, and all the women in it.”

Something the fat man said made Merlin’s ears prick up. He stared at Marmaduke fixedly and did not move a muscle.

“What is that about Uther?” he asked.

But before Marmaduke could answer, Lulua, trying to rub the mud off her robes, said to Merlin, “Well? Are you coming for me or not?”

“Be quiet, woman. I am talking to Marmaduke.”

“No, you’re not. Look.”

Two of Bedivere’s men prodded Marmaduke with spears and led him away.

Bedivere approached. Arthur glared at him. “Where the devil have you been?”

The knight was out of breath and puffing. “I’ve been trying to impose some order on this scene, while you stood here taunting that fat idiot Marmaduke.”

Cowed, Arthur said nothing.

“The men who were with you, Arthur-they haven’t been fed since they were captured.”

Arthur rubbed his stomach. “Neither have I, for that matter. Find out where Marmaduke keeps his provisions, and feed us all.”

“And one of the knights has taken sick. Maybe it was the lack of food. That can’t have helped him, at any rate.”

“Which one?”

“Accolon.”

A look of grave concern crossed Arthur’s face, then vanished. He called, “Merlin, come over here.”

Merlin joined them. Arthur asked Bedivere to repeat what he’d said.

“Accolon?” Merlin turned thoughtful. “He is one of-” He caught himself. “He is one of the younger knights. What is wrong with him?”

Bedivere looked away. “Well, Merlin, it looks like… That is, we think it might be…”

“Say it.”

Bedivere looked directly into his eyes, then into Arthur’s. “The plague.”

By early afternoon, calm was beginning to emerge out of the morning’s chaos. Most of Marmaduke’s men had either fled or surrendered, those that weren’t wounded or dead. Bedivere took charge of seeing that all of Arthur’s knights who had been held prisoner were fed.

The fog was finally beginning to dissipate; after so long, it seemed a miracle. But the winds that scattered the mist were cold; they carried the first breath of winter. And though they dissipated the mist, they brought heavy gray storm clouds.

Arthur kept a careful eye on the sky, fearing snow. “The last thing we need,” he whispered to Bedivere. “Our going has been heavy enough already. With an early snowfall… This chill breeze will be hard enough on us. I can taste the ice on it.”

“We’ve brought cloaks and blankets,” Bedivere offered. “And there are trees for firewood. We’ll be fine, Arthur.”

“That isn’t what frightens me.”

“Then…”

“Do you suppose there really are gods? Do you suppose Lulua could be right?”

Bedivere put a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten. Come on.” As they were walking to the cook-fires he added, “Besides, if it gets cold enough for the ground to freeze, it will speed up our progress. Perhaps that is the gods’ gift.”

“Why is everything they do so ambiguous?”

“There is nothing ambiguous about winter, Arthur.”

People whispered that the wind must be Merlin’s doing, and when the rumors reached his ears he grew irritable.

But he dutifully tended to the wounded, cleaning stab wounds, dressing cuts and bruises, applying salves where he thought they would help. One of the squires had a broken leg, and he set the bone and applied splints. Peter assisted him, as best he could, and Merlin instructed Robert in ways to treat the simpler, more routine cases. Neither of them had any real medical training but they both learned quickly. A good many of the knights refused their ministrations, claiming to be men enough to brave out the healing process. Merlin was amused and thought them foolish but said nothing.

Once all of Arthur’s men and their retainers had been cared for, he turned his attention to the remainder of Marmaduke’s people. At one point Arthur asked him how it was going.

“If it is any comfort to you, Arthur, their wounds and injuries are, for the most part, worse than ours. I suppose that is a testament to the skill of Camelot’s fighting men. One or two of them will almost certainly die.”

“But how many of our men are fit to fight?”

“Nearly all of them. Ninety percent of them, at least.”

Arthur dealt personally with Lulua and Marmaduke. He interrogated them as thoroughly as he could, trying to find out whether his sister Morgan was up to something nefarious. The cross-examination proved inconclusive. Lulua refused to say much of anything except to make veiled-and not-so-veiled-threats against Arthur’s kingship. When it was clear they would tell him nothing useful, he ordered Bedivere to have them taken to Camelot under armed guard, to await trial for treason. The most badly wounded of Arthur’s men were to go with them.

“Put Kay in charge of them. It will do him good to get home. Half a dozen mounted knights should be sufficient to guard our corpulent prisoners. I doubt either of them has much fight left.”

“Yes, but we will have to protect our own people against possible hostility.”

Arthur frowned. “You’re right. Consult with Kay, and send whoever you think you need to.”

Bedivere gave a cursory glance at the two prisoners. “We have some of those large packhorses from Scotland. They’ll have to ride those. Ordinary mounts would buckle under their weight in no time.”

“Why burden unsuspecting horses with all that flesh? Let them walk.”

“All the way? Arthur, they’ll never make it.”

He smiled. “I think they will. The exercise will take weight off them. And if they succumb…” He shrugged.

“Leave them to rot in the nearest ditch. But why punish the horses?”

The party left for Camelot soon after.

Of Arthur’s men, the one in the worst condition was Accolon, the young French knight. His skin was covered in bloodred blotches, the largest of which were slowly turning black, and he had a raging fever. Merlin checked on his condition hourly. He was not worsening but not improving either.