J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

“How did you get here ahead of us?” Merlin asked her.

Serenely she replied, “I control the elements. The gods-”

“It is not possible that other rebel barons and their, er, priestesses provided you with safe passage, is it?”

She stiffened. “You are here to rebury the most sacred object in the kingdom. As high priestess, it is most fitting that I be here. It was most impious of you to leave me behind.” A faint smile appeared. “Or to try to.”

Arthur sighed. “Then let us get on with the burying. But I warn you, Morgan, I am going to get to the bottom of all this. If I find evidence that you were complicit with Lulua and Marmaduke-”

“You will not.”

He put on a tight grin. “Time will tell, I suppose. I recall instructing you to remain at Camelot. Yet you are here.”

Morgan shrugged.

“We will take that up later. Meanwhile, let’s find this barn and bury the bloody Stone. I can’t tell you how sorry I am I ever set my knights to find the damned thing.”

Gildas sensed an opening. “The plague, Your Majesty, is-”

“In the name of everything human, Gildas, not now.” Merlin was tired and impatient. He turned to the king. “Another cold wind is kicking up, Arthur. Let us get this done with and get back to Camelot.”

The citizens of Grosfalcon displayed little curiosity as the column proceeded through their village. They went on about their own business, which in most cases appeared to be pleasure. Drinking, gorging themselves with food, lovemaking… Nothing the knights might have done, short of actual violence, could have distracted them from their hedonistic pursuits.

The sight of it made Arthur glum. “So this is what plague does to society. We have never experienced one before, not in my lifetime. There are histories of course, but-”

“Be grateful they aren’t offering any resistance to us.” Bedivere spoke like a military man.

“Seeing any semblance of social-order breakdown is hardly a thing to be grateful for, Bed.”

“Not meeting hostility is.”

A black stallion had been found for Morgan. It was grazing in a field just outside the town, and it had apparently been broken. Or nearly so. Every now and then it snorted and bolted. Morgan, unruffled, manage to calm the animal every time. Arthur had the impression she was whispering something to it. A sidesaddle was found and the mount prepared for her.

But she was unhappy at having to ride. “I am a member of the royal house. I merit a carriage.”

Arthur was sanguine. “When the king himself is riding horseback, it ill becomes his sister to demand any more than that.”

“That fool advisor of yours is in a carriage. I deserve no less.”

“Merlin is old and infirm, Morgan. You know that. Don’t be disagreeable.”

“You should tell that to him. He is not too ‘old and infirm’ to make snide comments.” She scowled and mounted her horse.

In his carriage, Merlin was restless. He complained to Peter. “What on earth is she doing here? How did she get here so rapidly?”

Peter made a slight shrug. “Perhaps she really is a witch.”

Merlin ignored this. “She has a larger network of supporters than we ever realized. Or at any rate a more efficient one.”

“More and more of her people seem to be defecting to this new religion.” Peter seemed amused by it. “I mean, Gildas does seem an improbable leader, but he is making headway in England. Even Lord Darrowfield-”

“Gildas is hardly alone. More and more of his ‘monks,’ as they call themselves, keep showing up in various parts of the country. But the Christians are Morgan’s problem.”

“Then-?”

“I am concerned about Morgan’s connection to Lulua and Marmaduke. If she has been complicit in their treason… If her whole vast network is treasonous…”

“I see what you mean.”

“Arthur’s… what shall I call them?… potential heirs are being eliminated, one by one. Morgan has every reason in the world to want to see that happen. She wants the throne herself, after all. Having Marmaduke and Lulua eliminate her brother for her would have…” He made a vague gesture. “I am getting old, Peter. This is too much for my poor old mind. Lord Darrowfield…”

“Your mind is as sharp as a razor, and you know it. You can quote enormous passages from Plotinus and Plato. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

He sighed. “Thank you, I suppose. But if I am so smart, why can I not understand all these murders? Why can I not find the connection?”

Peter fell pointedly silent and glanced out of the carriage. Morgan was complaining about something, gesticulating wildly at the king, who was ignoring her. Finally he said, “You’re too suspicious, Merlin. Maybe the seeming plague deaths really are deaths from the plague.”

“Nothing human is ever that simple. Or that innocent. That poor boy who died at the mill can hardly have been a victim of the plague. But if he was working for the interests of Morgan and Lulua… and if they were concerned he might not keep silent about it…”

“If is a game for idle scholars, Merlin.”

“Since you only a moment ago told me that is what I am, what is your point?”

Peter laughed. “You are anything but idle. Your mind is more agile than any I have ever known. But I give up. Yes, the plague deaths were not really plague deaths. Does that satisfy you?”

“I have not been satisfied since I became an adult, Peter.”

Peter glanced outside again. In the distance he could see a huge, rambling ruin of a barn. He was grateful of it. “It appears we’ve reached our destination.”

Merlin looked, saw the barn, smiled. “Finally. We can be done with this fool’s errand and get back home.”

“But… I thought Perceval said this area was abandoned. There are people.”

Merlin sighed. “Another complication, I suppose.”

All day the weather had stayed sunny and dry. But more and more clouds built up, so gradually that Arthur was barely aware of them. Then the wind kicked up. He wrapped his cloak about himself as tightly as he could and glanced up at the sky. “Look, Bed. The world never stops working its mischief.”

“We’ll have more rain, Arthur. Or snow, more likely.”

“We have reached our goal. We can bury the Stone soon, then we can get back to Camelot. Back home.”

“You think it won’t be winter there?”

“Be quiet.”

They rounded the base of a low hill, keeping the barn in sight. It was huge, and in ruins. Planks were missing from the walls; the thatched roof was in tatters. Before and around it was a wheat field, or what had been one. The crop had not been harvested; it had all gone to seed. Weeds grew everywhere. At the far side of the barn and stretching off into the distance was what appeared to be a graveyard. Painted wooden grave markers were toppled or listing badly.

Arthur shaded his eyes to see better. “That must be it. It’s larger than I expected. Larger than any barn I’ve ever seen. It could make a good, small castle.”

“With its own cemetery.”

“Get Perceval.”

Bedivere pulled his horse out of the column and headed back. A few moments later he returned with Sir Perceval beside him. They all consulted; Perceval assured them that, yes, this was the ruined barn where he had found the Stone. “The locals call it the Barn of Bran.” He wrinkled his nose. “Peasants.”

Morgan rode to the head of the column. “Well, Arthur, we have arrived. You are prepared to do your sacred duty?”

Just behind her came Gildas. “It appears this is the blasphemous spot, Arthur. Are we ready to rebury the profane stone?”

Arthur looked from one of them to the other, smirking. “We are prepared to rebury it, whether it be sacred or profane. But first it appears we must pass through a local festival of some kind.” He gestured vaguely.