J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

There were in fact a half dozen people in the field between the cemetery and the barn. They had set up kiosks and were selling things. Little flags and banners that waved in the wind, little pictures of the god Bran, miniature skulls carved out of local stone, strings of prayer beads. Two of the stands were vending food and beverages.

Merlin took it all in. “What the devil can this be?”

Arthur was equally puzzled. He dismounted and approached one of the kiosks and signaled Bed to follow. It was manned by a stout, middle-aged fellow dressed in peasant homespun. Seeing Arthur approaching, he smiled. “Afternoon, guv’nor.”

Bedivere stiffened. “This personage is no mere governor, my good man. He is Arthur, your king.”

The man laughed. “As you say. What can I do for you?”

“First, you can tell us who you are.”

“Duck. Richard Duck. At your service, sirs. What can I do for you?” He gestured at his goods. “Little soapstone replicas of the authentic skull of the god Bran? Guaranteed genuine, sirs. And blessed by the god himself.”

Arthur glanced around. Nearly everyone in sight had stopped moving and was watching these armored newcomers. He turned to Richard. “For a beginning, you can tell us what’s going on here. Is this some sort of fair?”

“No, sir. This is business as always.”

“Business?”

Richard seemed mildly astonished. “Do you not know where you are, sirs? This is one of the holiest places in all England.”

“I had heard rumors to that effect, yes. But surely the Stone of Bran has been dug up and taken to Camelot. There are no relics here.”

“The ground itself is holy, sir, made so by the Stone of Bran. Or at least that’s what people want to believe. They come from all over the country to see this place. It is more productive for us than farming crops.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “This is how we make our living. Ever since that knight dug up the Stone here-”

“Sir Perceval.”

“Yes, him. Ever since he dug up the stone, living here has become quite lucrative. I, for instance, have all these relics of the Great God Bran.” He gestured at several tables in his stand. They were covered with tiny polished stones, pictures of the god and various other objects not easily identifiable. “You want to buy one, don’t you?” Undisguised avarice showed in his face. “You and all your men?”

Bedivere spoke up. “We do not. How recently did you manufacture these ‘relics’?”

Richard feigned shock. “ ‘Manufacture’? These articles are genuine, sir. I swear it. It is all these others”-he made a sweeping gesture to take in the other kiosks-“who counterfeit the holy objects they sell.”

“Of course.”

The other vendors were slowly getting over their shock at the arrival of this small army, or over their fear that the knights meant trouble. One by one they left their kiosks. Carrying goods, they approached the men. It was clear from their manner they smelled sales. Some of the knights met them with interest; others tried their best to ignore them.

Morgan, seeing it all, stiffened. “Bedivere, tell these people who I am.”

Bedivere looked to Arthur, who nodded. Bed announced, “This lady is Morgan le Fay, the high priestess of England.”

Richard smiled a wide smile. “Then you would certainly like to buy a holy relic, wouldn’t you, ma’am?”

“I would not. How dare you all profane this holy place with”-she wrinkled her nose-“commerce.”

“Profane, ma’am? This is our living. People come from miles around to see the barn where the god’s skull was interred. We’re planning to renovate it, you spruce it up a bit, so we can charge people a fee to go inside. Do you think he gave us this gift only to take it away?”

“This is the resting place of the god.” Morgan made herself sound ominous and imposing.

Gildas could not resist. “Or a part of him.”

Morgan glared at him.

Richard went on as if she’d said nothing. “Do you think Bran wants us to starve?”

The three of them started bickering, with Morgan arguing for the sacred nature of the place, Gildas arguing the opposite and Richard interjecting occasional comments about his livelihood.

Arthur was enjoying it, but after a few moments he ordered them all to be silent and sent Bedivere back along the column to disperse the other Bran merchants.

Just then the first few drops of rain fell. Arthur glanced at the sky. “Perceval, what is that barn like? Is there enough of a roof to keep us dry?”

Perceval shrugged. “A few of us, I suppose, Sire.”

“Then let’s get moving. I’m not in a mood for more rain.”

The vendors watched glumly as their prospects reformed their column and made for the barn.

Inside, the Barn of Bran was cavernous. Shafts of light penetrated through holes in the roof, but the place was gloomy nonetheless; Arthur ordered torches. There were wooden stalls for horses or other livestock; much of the wood was rotten, and there was no sign any animals had been kept there for years. A broken wagon wheel leaned against one wall. Coils of rope, all of them badly frayed, filled the corners. Rotting wooden planks made up the floor; many of them were missing, and dirt, or mud, showed. Everything was in ruins, and it was all covered in a thick layer of dust. Rainwater dripped through the holes in the roof.

There was room enough for Arthur, Merlin, Peter, Gildas, Morgan and the most important knights. The lesser knights, the squires and the servants were to camp outside, in the overgrown field. Bedivere offered to stay outside with them.

Once inside, Gildas made a comment to the effect that a sacred place should be more presentable, Morgan started to argue with him, and Arthur hushed them both. Then he called Perceval. “Is this place as you remember it?”

“Yes, Arthur. Perhaps a bit more run-down, but quite recognizable.”

“Whatever possessed you to dig for the Stone in a place like this?”

The knight shrugged. “I had tried dozens of places that were more promising. I was on the verge of giving up my quest and going back to Camelot when I heard tell of the Barn of Bran, and so…” He shrugged again.

“And where was it buried?”

Perceval pointed. “Back there, in the last stall.”

Merlin chimed in. “The Great God Bran has rather odd architectural taste, hasn’t he? You should see the tombs of the gods in Egypt. Magnificent structures. Limestone and rose-red granite. They tower above-”

“That’s enough, Merlin. Perceval, get to work reburying the thing, will you? Let us hope it brings an end to the plague.”

“Let us hope,” Merlin said to Peter at the bottom of his breath, rubbing his arthritic shoulder, “that it brings an end to this damn fool mission. I want to get home to Camelot and my ravens and my soft dry bed.”

Morgan insisted that there had to be a ceremony for the reinterment. Gildas countered that there should be none but an exorcism of the demons he was certain were lurking. When Arthur asked Merlin for his opinion on the matter, he complained about the leaking roof. The king finally decided that any benefit a ceremony might confer would be more than offset by the constant bickering. He forbade Morgan to pray over the stone skull or Gildas to celebrate its disposal.

After everyone had eaten dinner, after dark, Arthur summoned Morgan to his presence. Merlin was at his side. Torches brightened the barn’s gloom. Morgan was in a pleasant humor. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Brother. The Stone of Bran is too important not to be prayed over by the king and the high priestess when it is reburied.”

“That is already done, Morgan.” Merlin offered the news cheerfully. “The Stone is in the ground.”