The weather grew worse and worse. Waves of snow and wind alternated with driving rain. The air turned warmer, then cold again. Roads froze and thawed. Arthur’s party made slow progress on its way to rebury the Stone, then slower, then a bit more rapid. Cloaks were not sufficient against the cold. Every few hours progress halted completely and the men built fires to warm themselves.
Merlin and Peter rode in their carriage, wrapped in blankets. The other carriage, carrying the Stone of Bran, followed just behind them. Since it was lighter, it gained less traction on muddy or icy roads and frequently had to be pushed or pulled past some difficult patch.
For a time a flock of ravens followed the party. Men took it as a bad omen, but when Arthur reminded them of Merlin’s pets, they relaxed somewhat. When Merlin tried calling to the birds, they did not respond. “These are not my birds,” he told Arthur. “They do not respond to the language I use with Roc and the others.”
“Sorcerer.”
Merlin ignored this. “Ravens are naturally scavengers. They are following us for the bits of food we leave behind us.” But after two days, the ravens disappeared.
The journey passed through one tiny village after another. The sight of an approaching army, even a small one, invariably alarmed the residents. They expected to be conquered, pillaged, perhaps put to death. Assurances from Arthur and Bedivere helped calm these fears, but the people never really relaxed till the royal party passed on.
None of them seemed to have any clear idea who Arthur was. Bedivere would explain patiently that he was Arthur, King of all England, but the information meant nothing to them. The concept of England as a unified nation was alien. In a few hamlets the elders had heard of Arthur; in most they had not. Bedivere made certain the men in the party behaved decorously, foraged for their own food, left the women and boys alone.
From time to time Arthur joined Merlin in the carriage. Peter would discreetly exit and find a horse for the short time he needed it.
Merlin’s arthritis was, inevitably, bothering him. “We really must talk to our people about installing more comfortable seats in these conveyances, Arthur.”
Arthur’s eyes twinkled. “Would you rather be riding a horse?”
Merlin snorted. “That is hardly the point.” He paused. “How much farther is it to-what is the name of the place? Grosfalcon? I want to see the Stone reburied and get back to Camelot and comfort.”
“Patience is a virtue, Merlin.”
“Do not needle me, Arthur. I am in pain enough.”
“About those coins we’re having minted…”
The sudden shift of subject made Merlin’s ears prick up. “Yes?”
“Do you see, now, why I think they’re so important?
Why they are not simply a product of royal vanity? Most of the people in England seem to have no idea who their king is. Or that they have a king at all. The coins will help change that, build awareness that England is a nation now, not merely a collection of feuding fiefdoms.”
“Yes, fine, Arthur, but-”
“And the people will know who their king is. A unified system of coinage will help us in our work. When we have to deal with other nations-when we treat with the Byzantine Empire, for instance-we will present a strong, united face. And when in time I name an heir, everyone in England will know him.”
“Of course, Arthur. But how will you persuade the nation to use your coins? Can you imagine Marmaduke, for instance, requiring his subjects to convert to this new monetary system?”
“Marmaduke is on his way to jail.”
“But how many other Marmadukes are there, in how many corners of Britain? How many of them will follow your dictum to use coins with your portrait?”
“They will, in time. You’re my policy advisor, for heaven’s sake. You’re supposed to find ways to implement my policies, not find reasons why they won’t work.”
Merlin shrugged. He wanted to point out that Arthur’s potential heirs were dying at an alarming rate, but it seemed wiser not to raise the issue.
Another messenger from Camelot caught up with the party. Among other missives, he had another letter for Merlin. But this one, surprisingly, was not from Nimue. It was from Merlin’s other assistant, Petronus.
Merlin,
I am writing because I know that you wanted to be informed of events at Camelot. Colin asked me to send you this letter. He wanted me to assure you that everything is under control here and that the news from the surrounding countryside continues favorable.
Ships putting in at our ports carry rumors that this plague has been deliberately spread by the Byzantines. Whether that is true or whether people are being unduly suspicious, we have no way of knowing.
Colin is not writing himself because he is ill. He has developed a severe cold and has spent the last two days in bed. But please do not worry. It is only a cold, nothing more. And Marian of Bath and her son Wayne are tending him.
Your student and assistant,
Petronus
Merlin grew immediately alarmed. He took pen and paper and wrote a response.
Petronus,
Do not under any circumstances permit Marian and Wayne anywhere near Colin. Another messenger is on his way to Camelot with instructions to arrest them on suspicion of murder. If by chance this should reach you before that other messenger does, take this note to Simon at once and see that they are arrested.
Merlin
He had the note countersigned by Arthur himself, so that Simon could not question its authority, then sent it off, with instructions to the rider to rest as little as humanly possible and reach Camelot as rapidly as he could.
Arthur was puzzled by the urgency. “Why should you be so concerned about Colin? No one thinks he is one of my sons.”
“With so many of your… possible successors eliminated, you may have to look elsewhere for the next… ruler. Colin is bright, educated, thoughtful, perceptive. You could do much worse than to name him.”
“I hardly know the boy.”
“That is not the point. It is not merely your bloodline that is under attack. It is the very concept of English stability and continuity. How well did you know John of Paintonbury?”
“Point taken. But-”
“I am not suggesting that you actually should adopt Colin as your heir, mind you. There would be too many… complications. But you have littered the country with children, Arthur. Whether you did it to spite Guenevere or simply because you are a robust young man is irrelevant. Colin has reached a position of some authority at Camelot. He is being trained by me-by your chief advisor-and has assumed a great deal of responsibility. How could anyone not suspect…” He let the thought trail off, unfinished. Nimue had become like a daughter to him. The thought that Arthur’s indiscretions might have put her life at risk was too awful for him to think about. “Let us hope one or the other of our messengers reaches home before anything terrible happens.”
Arthur fell silent. After a moment of quiet thought, he uttered softly one word. “Daughters.”
“I beg your pardon, Arthur?”
“Nothing. Just a passing thought. I ought to get back to my horse and the head of the column. The knights there are carrying banners that announce me. I ought to be there.” And he left the carriage quickly.
But the next afternoon he picked up the theme again.
A ferocious wind had been blowing, but at least the constant rain and snow had let up. Arthur and Bedivere rode side by side at the front of the column. Suddenly out of some bushes ran a young woman. She was in her late teens or perhaps her early twenties. She had blond hair and flashing blue eyes. And she was completely naked. On seeing the approaching knights, she darted back into the underbrush.
Arthur shouted, “After her!” Two men detached themselves from the column and spurred their horses into the dense brush. A moment later they returned, holding her between them. She was fighting like a cornered bobcat.
Seeing how many knights there were, she quieted. Staring directly at Arthur she asked, “Which one?”
Arthur had no idea what she meant. “I beg your pardon, young woman? I am Arthur, King of all England.”
Unexpectedly she stood up tall and proud. “Never mind all that. Which one of you wants me first?”
Arthur and Bedivere exchanged puzzled glances. Bedivere told her, “You are under some misapprehension, miss. We are not here as raiders or conquerors. This man is your king.”
She laughed. “I want you, too. All of you, or as many as it takes to wear me out. Come on. Let’s get at it. There are enough of you that this will take all day and all night.” She turned back to the bushes where they had taken her. “Tom, come on out. There are a lot of them, and from the looks of them some of them will want you, not me.”
A young man, about her age and blond like her, stuck his head out timidly.
“Come on, Tom, hop to it. There are some nice ones, too.”
Tom stepped forward out of the bushes. He was her age or perhaps a bit older. Like his companion he was quite naked.
Arthur turned to the nearest of his servants. “Get them some blankets and some boots. It is far too cold for… for that state.” He turned to the woman. “Who are you? What are you called?”
“Gillian.”
“And what place is this, Gillian?”
“It is called Treasel.”
He exchanged glances with Bedivere. “Those damned old maps of ours.” To Gillian he said, “We are seeking a place called Grosfalcon. Is it nearby?”
“About ten miles. Just past Smalfalcon. Come on, what are you waiting for? Get that armor off and let’s get to it.”
“I’m afraid that is out of the question. I am-suppose there should be a child?”
“None of us will live that long. The plague is coming.”
“But-”
“We will be dead soon enough. Are we going to get down to some lovemaking or aren’t we?”
“No, we are not.”
“Then let us go, so we can get back to it. It’s your loss, King.”
The man Tom had been standing just behind her. He pulled the blanket more tightly around himself. “We were making love.”
“So we gathered. In this awful weather? You’ll catch pneumonia or worse.”
Tom shrugged. “It doesn’t make any difference, does it?”
Puzzled, Arthur told him, “No, I suppose it doesn’t. You say this road will take us to Grosfalcon?”
Gillian nodded. “Just stay on it. If you don’t want me-” She winked at Tom. “If you don’t want us, there will be plenty of others there.”
Arthur was more and more bewildered by their manner. “We have told you, we’re not a conquering force. We-”
Tom pushed his hand inside Gillian’s blanket and began to fondle her. She laughed and they both ran off into the undergrowth.
One of the knights made to follow them but Arthur told him to leave them alone. The column resumed its forward progress. “At least we know we’re on the right road.” He called for Perceval to join them. “Does any of this territory look familiar?”
“No, Majesty. I approached it from the south when I found the Stone. But I did hear of a nearby town called Smalfalcon.”
Bedivere was working with the maps. “There doesn’t seem to be any indication of it.”
“Grosfalcon isn’t much of a place. Smalfalcon must be even smaller.”
“Excellent deduction.”
Perceval kept an eye on the bushes, hoping for another glimpse of the lovers. But there was no sign of them. “It can’t be much more than a few old farms. Grosfalcon is not much bigger than that.”
Once the party was moving again, Arthur rejoined Merlin in his carriage. “You heard about that young couple we found?”
Merlin smiled. “The copulating couple, yes. Word filtered back along the column before they were out of sight.”
“Strange thing. She was a good-looking girl. Downright pretty. The type of woman I’ve always found attractive. And her invitation could not have been much bolder. But I had no sexual thoughts at all.”
“Perhaps you could become a Christian monk.”
“Stop it. All I kept thinking was, ‘My bastard children-I’ve made too many of them already.’ ”
“Perhaps there would not have been a child, Arthur. These country women are very good at that sort of thing.”
“There was no temptation at all, Merlin. None.” He seemed astonished to hear himself saying it.
“You are getting old, Arthur. Or growing wise, which is not always the same thing.”
“Something you said yesterday has been haunting me. Daughters.”
Merlin looked at him quizzically. “You said it, not I.”
“I must have some. I mean, if only by chance, some of the children I’ve fathered would be-”
“You are wondering where they are? And what they are like?”
“Exactly, Merlin.” He looked at the old man. “Tell me, do you ever regret not marrying?”
“No, never. I could never give a wife the attention she deserves. Half of my life is inside my head. I could never be fair to her.”
“But… but a daughter. To help you? To take care of you? Even a stoic like you would have to find comfort in that.”
Merlin grew uncharacteristically dreamy. For a moment his eyes had a faraway, hazy look. “A daughter, yes.” Then he snapped out of it. “I hope our messenger reaches Camelot quickly.”
“Your talent for changing the subject amazes me at times.”
“I have not changed it.”
“Don’t get cryptic on me, Merlin. Here.” He had a wineskin hanging at his side. “Have a drink of this. It will warm you.”
“No, thank you, Arthur.”
“Another blanket, then, to help cover you.”
“I am fine. Winter is the truth.”
“If I lose you to pneumonia…”
Merlin laughed. “I am made of heartier stuff.”
“If you had a daughter…”
“Arthur, go and lead your knights.”
Progress continued at a slow pace. The skies remained fair but the cold, driving wind never let up. The terrain changed from thick forest to low, sparsely treed hills.
Here and there along the way they spotted more love-makers. Couples, groups, some naked, some fully or partially clothed, some mature, some young, some not much more than children in the first flower of adolescence. Many of them seemed to be drunk in the bargain. None of them seemed to mind being spotted.
Along the column there was more and more talk about it, some disapproving, some not. Gildas lectured everyone who would listen about sin; most of his target audience laughed at him. But everyone was as fascinated as he by these brazen copulating people.
In time they reached Smalfalcon. It was not much more than a widening of the road, with a few small houses and a barn or two. Dogs, pigs, chickens ran loose in the street. Naked children chased them happily.
A mature man in rags, his arms around a bare-breasted woman young enough to be his granddaughter, waved and approached. “Hello. If you’ve come here to plunder, go right ahead. Take anything you want. Take anyone you want. There is no need for any violence.” He held up a cup. “Have some wine. Enjoy life, as we’ve learned to.” He kissed his young woman and she kissed him back. They became lost in their embrace, oblivious to anything else.
Bedivere spoke to shake them out of it. “What is this place? Is this really Smalfalcon?”
The woman looked at him and laughed.
“Your children and your livestock are running unattended.”
Her companion joined her laughter. “They already know how to enjoy themselves. It is we adults who have to re-learn.”
Slowly other residents of the hamlet were appearing. Most were quite naked. Most were drinking. Most stared at the column of knights with frank indifference. Here and there couples engaged in sexual play. Merlin left his coach and joined Arthur at the head of the column.
Finally Arthur spoke, in his best command voice. “What kind of town is this? Where are the elders? Who is in charge?”
The man who had approached them originally spoke up. “I suppose I am. I am the mayor. Why do you care?” His female companion left his side, tore off her clothes happily and joined a trio of revelers.
Bedivere told the man who Arthur was. “You should display more decorum before your king.”
“Decorum? All that is over with. We’re dead men.”
“The air is frigid. Why is everyone unclothed?”
“Why should the dead bother with clothing?”
Arthur watched the woman and her new companions. “That’s mighty lively activity for corpses.”
“Have you not heard? There’s plague in England. It’s going to take all of us.” He took a hearty drink.
Arthur looked back along the column. A few of his men had dismounted and seemed to be joining the more forward of Smalfalcon’s residents. Sir Sagramore was in the process of removing his armor. A handful of squires and servants, already half undressed, were romping with the locals, kissing, fondling…
Bishop Gildas shouted an order to them to stop. They ignored him. He rushed to Arthur’s side. “Arthur, sire, we must put a stop to this rampant immorality.”
Arthur was equally concerned at the breakdown in discipline but amused at Gildas’s intensity. “How, would you suggest?”
“Order them to stop, that is how.”
“Gildas, you are a man of the world. You’re an Italian, for that matter. Surely you must realize that no order known to mankind can stop hormones from flowing.” He looked back along the line of men. “And frankly, I’d say they aren’t simply flowing but beginning to gush.”
Gildas frowned. “But this kind of carnal lust-”
“I’ll see what I can do, all right?”
The bishop, mollified but sullen, went back to his place.
Arthur conferred quickly with Bedivere and Merlin. “I hate to admit it, but Gildas is right. We can’t permit this.”
“They are knights, yes, Arthur, but they are men, too.” Bedivere was eyeing a red-haired young man wistfully.
“I would suggest,” Merlin offered, “that we simply move on. Quickly, before this takes hold of more of our men. It will be hard enough to stop it now. If we let it get further out of hand…”
Arthur sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re right. Bed, give the order to form up. We’ll move out at once. It does seem a pity to waste all these willing young women, though.”
“The young men seem equally willing. Not to mention the old ones.” Bedivere was getting caught up in the carnal atmosphere. “Look at that trio over there.” He pointed. “Not one of them can be under sixty.”
The trinity of merrymakers disappeared behind a cottage. Merlin scowled at the place where they’d been. “At their age.”
“There are times,” Arthur goaded, “when you sound more like Bishop Gildas than either of you would like to admit.”
“Do not be rude, Arthur. Let us get moving and complete our mission as quickly as we can, so we can get back to Camelot. We have a ‘sacred relic’ to bury, remember? Or is it a blasphemous pagan idol?”
Arthur scowled. “Look at what the plague is doing. And it hasn’t even struck here yet. We have to do what we can to stop it. Come on, Bed, let’s get the men back in order and move on.”
And so with some difficulty Bedivere got everyone back into the column. There was grumbling. Many of the men considered him a spoilsport anyway; this only confirmed that opinion. But Bedivere pointed to Arthur in his gleaming battle armor to remind them of their duty. And the column moved on.
Away from the hamlet, the people and their carnal activities were less in evidence. Here and there among the trees a couple or a group would be seen, copulating gleefully. Those of them that saw the line of soldiers waved. Gildas registered more displeasure with each incident.
At one point the trees thinned out and a small lea appeared. In it was a man cavorting with a sheep. Gildas spurred his horse to Arthur’s side and sputtered. “This… must… be… stopped.”
Arthur was amused. “We’re in the country, Gildas. Even in normal times-”
“It is a violation of God’s law!”
“Then I suggest we leave it to God to punish it.”
“But-but-”
“What’s wrong?” Bedivere was laughing openly at the bishop’s fervor. “Can’t we trust your God to enforce his own laws?”
Gildas sulked, fell silent and returned to his place in the column.
In his carriage Merlin was only vaguely aware of everything that was happening. But he could see how unhappy Gildas was, and it pleased him. Every time he looked out of the carriage and saw the frowning bishop, he chuckled.
“Do you really think you should ridicule him so openly?” Peter asked.
“Gildas is a fool.” Merlin laughed. “As if there was some way to persuade people to stop enjoying themselves.”
“But… but a sheep! Really, Merlin.”
“I would not worry, Peter. There is no danger the sheep will get pregnant.”
“That isn’t the issue, and you know it.”
“What I know,” Merlin told him calmly, “is that anything that annoys that man cannot be all bad.”
“His religion has moral standards. Is that such a bad thing?”
Merlin switched to his schoolteacherly demeanor. “The greatest ‘Christian’ power in the world is Justinian’s Byzantine Empire. Or ‘Roman Empire’ as they so grandly call themselves.” He wrinkled his nose. “Most of its grandees could not find Rome on a good map.”
Peter watched the industrious shepherd. “What has that to do with Gildas and that sheep-loving fool out there?”
“There have been whispers that the Byzantines may have sent this plague to decimate us. It seems unlikely to me, but they have been known to spread disease among their enemies in the past.” He was rueful. “And for better or worse, they seem to count us among their enemies. Or at least as a people to be conquered.”
The carriage had moved on past the little meadow. “But a man with a sheep, Merlin!”
“Do you not know the stories they tell about Justinian’s wife, the Most Christian Empress Theodora?”
“No, I suppose I don’t. What about her?”
“She came from lowly origins. She was a slave. And she used to perform in the arena.” Merlin gazed directly at him. “Doing things with wild beasts. Donkeys, oxen, sheep. Even apes and worse.”
“But that was in the past, before Justinian fell in love with her and elevated her to the throne.”
“Nevertheless. The Byzantines were Christians even then. The fact that they would countenance that kind of entertainment, much less revere a woman who took part in it…” He shrugged, then peered at Peter. “You are not a Christian, are you?”
“No, of course not. But-”
“There are more ways to be human than Gildas’s world-view could ever permit.”
“I know that, Merlin. But-”
“We must never be too hasty to condemn other people for their humanity. Your energy would be better channeled into finding Lord Darrowfield’s killer.”
“Was the killer not ‘being human,’ too?”
“He-or she-took a life. No society can countenance such a thing.”
“Of course not, Merlin. But if you know how much like Gildas you sound-”
“Rubbish.”
“You both want moral strictures. You simply disagree about where the boundary should be set.”
“No, we disagree about why the boundary is necessary at all. If I ever become as prudish as Gildas, you may call me on it.”
Peter laughed at him. “Bishop Merlin.”
“Stop it.”
It took a moment for Peter’s laughter to die down. Then he rode in silence, leaving Merlin to his thoughts. But Merlin found himself wondering, for the first time, about Peter’s soundness.
Just before dusk the party approached Grosfalcon. The wind had calmed, but a light, gentle snow was falling. The terrain was more and more hilly; in the far distance, the Welsh mountains could be glimpsed through the snow. In the middle distance the village itself loomed. And it was ablaze with light.
Arthur commented on it to Bedivere. “It looks as if they’re having a festival. They must have a thousand torches burning.”
“It is winter.” Bed shrugged. “People need light and heat.”
“At my father’s court, we used to celebrate Bran’s birthday with lights and music. And at my mother’s court we celebrated feasts in honor of the Morrigan, the goddess of death. But I can’t recall either place being lit up as brightly as this little backwater village. What do you suppose can be behind it?”
Again Bedivere shrugged. “Bumpkins.”
But it soon became apparent that the lights were spreading out from Grosfalcon into the surrounding forest. Before long, torchbearers reached Arthur’s column. There were dozens of people, waving torches about wildly, reveling, singing, dancing, making love. Some were dressed, some not, some only partially. Musicians played loud, frolicsome airs. Boys carrying wineskins accompanied them, pouring libations for any and all who wanted to drink. Dogs followed them all, happily snapping up scraps of food that they dropped. Some of the torches set fire to low-hanging tree branches. A group of merrymakers, most of them only partly dressed, set fire to a thick bush, then danced around it in a circle, as if it was a perverse kind of maypole. The falling snow, plus the snow already lying on the trees, made the fires sputter out quickly.
Arthur summoned Perceval to his side. “Well, we’re here. Now, where is this barn where you found the Stone?”
Perceval held up a hand to shield his eyes. “There is a hill just east of the village, a little one but steep. The barn is on the far side of it.”
Gildas followed Perceval to the front of the column. “Arthur, look at all this glee. You must order these people to stop at once.”
“You think,” Arthur said with amusement, “the most powerful king on earth could order a stop to all this? Honestly, Gildas, there are times when I think Merlin is right-your view of the world is so terribly naïve.”
“The social order is breaking down, Arthur. Look at them. Morality itself is breaking down. Order must be restored.”
The king chuckled. “What would you suggest?”
“Arrest them. Use the whip and the sword.”
Bedivere spoke up. “Small as this village is, there are more people here than we have knights. Arresting them all is a practical impossibility.”
“One of them, then. Is it beyond your power to make an example of one of them?”
Arthur heaved a deep sigh. “For heaven’s sake, Gildas, look around you. It’s not as if this was only a matter of a few intransigents. It’s the entire countryside. We’ve been seeing this for miles. We’ll be lucky to keep our own men under control, much less the general population. Bed, go and fetch Merlin. I want to hear what he makes of all this.”
Bedivere spurred his horse and rode back to the carriage. Gildas snorted.
A band of young women approached and began flirting outrageously with the knights. Arthur shouted an order to maintain discipline. But it was apparent the knights were tempted. They would not maintain their self-control very long.
Bedivere returned a moment later with Merlin. Arthur briefly explained the situation. “Gildas here wants me to arrest everyone in sight. What do you think?”
Gildas glared at Merlin as if daring him to disagree. But Merlin was not about to be cowed. “The snow is beginning to fall more heavily. It will put an end to all this… what would you call it? Celebration?”
“Order must be restored!” The bishop bellowed it.
“It is a simple matter, then, Gildas. All you have to do is roar a few orders at the citizens and they will stop.” Merlin paused to give Gildas an opening, but the bishop grumped and stayed silent. Merlin turned to Arthur. “In the name of everything human, Arthur, let us get the bloody Stone buried and get back to Camelot before winter descends on us with its full force.”
Arthur brushed a snowflake from his eyelash. “Gildas does have a point, Merlin. We do have to restore order.”
“It might be more useful for you to restore clothing.”
Arthur ignored the comment. “Look around. You can hardly deny it. The question is how to do it.”
Merlin sighed. “Arthur, think. For once, winter will be a blessing. Cold weather is already ending the plague in the southwest. It will put an end to this revelry soon enough, as well. Nature will correct itself. The natural order will reassert itself. You will see.
“When we return to Camelot, you must send heralds to every corner of the country with the news that the plague has died. It is fear of the plague that engenders this kind of ribaldry. The end of the disease will bring an end to this, too. When the people realize that death is not at hand-that they must scramble to keep themselves and their families alive, just as they always have…” He left the thought unfinished.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Arthur turned pensive, at the same time eyeing an attractive young woman.
“Arthur!” Merlin was shocked to see it. “Have you forgotten everything we’ve talked about?”
“No, of course not. But-”
“Remember what happened to Ulysses’ men in the land of the lotus-eaters.”
Gildas snorted at this. “Pagan rot.”
“You think there is only one ancient book that contains any wisdom?”
But Arthur had listened to enough. “Stop it, both of you. I need to think. Let us ride on. We still have a way to go before we reach that barn of Perceval’s. By the way, where is Perceval?”
He looked around. Perceval, along with half a dozen other knights, had dismounted and was talking to a young woman. Some of the lesser knights were already locked in embrace with locals. Several were kissing and fondling.
Arthur was shocked at the lack of modesty-and discipline. “Bed, get them back into line. We have a mission to complete.”
Bedivere and a few of the older knights bellowed orders and managed, slowly, to restore order and discipline. Arthur muttered, “Lotus-eaters, indeed.” After a few minutes the column was ready to move on.
Arthur was expecting Grosfalcon to be abandoned. But the town was populated, albeit sparsely. Children played in the streets, unattended. Some were crying, looking about fu tilely, even desperately, for their parents. Elderly citizens shuffled about, evidently trying to maintain some semblance of life as usual. A few parties in the prime of life reeled drunkenly, oblivious to what was happening around them, or perhaps merely ignoring it.
Merlin joined the king and Bedivere as they surveyed still another part of the realm that had seemingly abandoned any sense of order. Seeing the concern in Arthur’s face, he tried to be reassuring. “Winter will do its work, Arthur.”
“I don’t want winter, I want England.”
“Unfortunately that isn’t your choice.”
Arthur ignored this and stopped an old woman. “Who are you?” he asked.
She glared. “Who are you?”
Bedivere explained who Arthur was, but the woman seemed unimpressed. “King of the Britons? Don’t make me laugh. You think anyone here cares about a king? Especially one who lives at the far end of the country?”
“Arthur is king. He rules here.”
The woman spat. “Let’s see him stop this plague, then.”
Merlin started explaining in his best teacherly voice that the cold weather would bring an end to the plague. But Arthur interrupted this. “Who rules here, woman? Who represents order? Where is the local baron?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” She glared at him, then at Merlin. “And who are you?”
Merlin introduced himself.
And unexpectedly the woman smiled. “The wizard? I’ve heard of you.”
“I assure you, I am not a-”
Another woman, slightly younger, joined her. “You are looking for Lord Tambour?”
“Tambour?” Bedivere consulted one of his maps. “As near as I can recall, the warlord here was named Timothy.” He lowered his voice and told Arthur, “You remember him, Arthur? He fought side by side with Marmaduke.” He made a sour face. “He was never much of a warrior, as I recall.”
“No, I don’t remember him at all.”
“He was that kind of baron. I suspect he gained power here because no one else could be bothered. Look at this place. It’s almost as forlorn as Paintonbury.”
The younger woman said loudly, “Tambour seized power three years ago.”
“Why was Camelot not informed?”
Her older companion laughed. “You are trying to be funny.”
Arthur ignored this. “Where is Tambour now?”
“Who knows?” The younger of the two shrugged. “He ran off with the group of catamites who have always surrounded him. The plague-”
“The plague is dying. No one here is threatened. The world will soon be itself again.”
“So the men here can start drinking and fighting among themselves for power? Now all they do is drink. My husband ran off with Tambour. Honestly, death by plague would be a blessing.”
Bedivere nudged Arthur. “Look.”
At the far end of the street stood a figure in swirling black robes. A woman. She slowly raised her arms as if she was trying to cast a spell, or at least as if she wanted to appear so.
Softly Arthur whispered, “Morgan.” Then, in his best command voice, he called, “Sister!”
Morgan nodded slightly but said nothing in response.
Arthur thanked the two women for their information and spurred his horse to meet Morgan. The rest of the column followed.
“Morgan. How interesting to find you here. What the devil do you want?”
She was serene. “I am the high priestess of England, remember? I have business everywhere in the realm.”
Gildas left his place in the column and moved to a spot just behind the king. In a whisper he said, “Ask her about Marmaduke and Lulua. She must have been a party to their treason.”
But before Arthur could say anything, Morgan intoned, “I am seeking my disciple in these parts. A fine priestess called Lulua. But she seems to have vanished. I don’t suppose you’ve had any intelligence of her, Brother?”
Gildas could not restrain himself. “Your disciple is under arrest for treason.” He smiled a smug little smile. “Along with your minion Marmaduke.”
Morgan frowned deeply. Ignoring Gildas she asked, “Is this true, Brother?”
Arthur shrugged. “They tried to have me killed. I hope you don’t mind that I survived them.”
“Lulua is a good woman, a loyal servant of the crown of England.”
“Perhaps so, Morgan, but she hardly seems to know who wears that crown.”
Merlin joined the conversation. “How peculiar that you have shown up here, in the midst of their treachery. You are not a part of it, by any chance?”
Morgan glared. “Are you going to permit your servants to continue addressing me in this churlish manner, Arthur? Respect for the royal bloodline would dictate-”
“Respect for the royal bloodline would dictate that subjects not plot against their king, Morgan. Or do you suppose that yours is the only royal blood that matters?”
“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.
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.”
“I beg your pardon? Arthur, is this true?”
The king nodded.
“But… but it is sacred. I naturally assumed you would come to your senses and there would be a formal ceremony to reinter it. With appropriate prayers-led by myself, not by that fool who calls himself-what is it? Bishop?”
“Morgan, it is done.”
“But, Brother-”
“That isn’t what I want you for.” He was offhand. “I’ve had Perceval and the others bury the Stone six feet deep, exactly as if it was a real burial. Let us hope that, one way or another, it ends this plague. But Morgan, I doubt if your prayers could reach it.”
“Then-?” She scowled.
Merlin took up the conversation. Looking as stern as he could manage, he told her, “I’m afraid it is a delicate matter, Morgan. His Majesty wants to know what you are doing here.”
For a moment Morgan was off guard. Then, “It was at my urging that you made this journey. Have you forgotten?”
“Indeed he has not.” Merlin pressed on, unruffled by her manner. “Your urging and Gildas’s. But His Majesty specifically instructed you to remain at Camelot.”
“I have duties. The high priestess of England can hardly-”
“Morgan.” Arthur cut her off. “I want to know about your priestess Lulua. And about Marmaduke of Paintonbury. What is your connection to them?”
She was serene. “Lulua is a good and faithful servant to the gods.”
“And the fat warlord Marmaduke?”
She made herself smile, a politician’s smile. “Surely his corpulence is testament to the bounty of your rule, Arthur.”
Merlin was in no mood for her evasions. He glanced at the king, who nodded faintly. “His Majesty wishes to know whether you were aware of their treason. And whether you were involved in it, however slightly.”
She stiffened. “Treason? How dare you make such an accusation.”
“They collaborated in an attempt to murder Arthur.” He added, almost as if it was an afterthought, “And myself.”
“No! That is not possible!”
“It is not only possible, Sister, it happened.” Arthur’s manner was calm. With a kind of detached amusement he asked her, “Were you involved?”
“Arthur!”
“Spare me the mock outrage, Morgan, and answer the question.”
“If what you are charging is true, it certainly happened without my knowledge or collusion.”
Merlin seemed pleased to hear it. “You will testify to that effect at their trial, then?”
“Trial?”
He repressed a smile. “As Gildas told you so cheerfully, they are on their way back to Camelot under heavy guard. With luck they are already there. They will be kept under lock and key, tried and, if found guilty, executed.” He was happy about this, and it showed. “I will conduct the prosecution myself.”
Morgan was angry but worked to control it. “Lulua is a priestess. She is beyond secular authority.”
“Even so. Her status as a priestess hardly gives her license to kill the king. Clerical treason is still treason.”
She collected herself and said calmly, “The people of England will not stand by idly while the representatives of the gods are ill-treated.”
Arthur laughed at this. “Do you really think you help your case by making more threats against me?”
Almost casually she replied, “My case is the case of the gods themselves.”
But Merlin ignored this and went on. “Of course, if their testimony conflicts with your own, you may ultimately be charged, too.” He smiled beatifically. “But I am quite certain it will not come to that. We do have your word, after all. You insist you knew nothing of their nefarious actions?”
Before she could respond, Arthur went on. “You are to return to Camelot with us and remain there till the trial is over.” He smiled solicitously. “As our guest. You don’t mind, do you?”
“It is my intention to return to my own castle. There are numerous affairs pressing on me.”
“You may have your secretaries or Mordred bring the paperwork to Camelot.”
“But-”
“That is all, Morgan. You may leave the royal presence.”
She fumed; it showed. But she got stiffly to her feet and stood before them, tall and imperious. “It is as you wish, of course, Brother. But you will find that imprisoning the high priestess will have repercussions.”
“Only if the high priestess herself stirs them up.” Merlin beamed at her. “Surely you would never do that, would you, Morgan? In the middle of a treason trial?”
She turned without saying a word and stalked off.
Arthur turned to Merlin. “Will she make trouble, do you think?”
“Not while she is in our custody. Not even Morgan could be that dull.”
“She is the high priestess, Merlin. She does have followers.”
“She may have followers, but we most certainly have her. I think she will behave.”
Arthur yawned. “This journey has been more exhausting than it should have been. Let’s get some sleep.”
“And hope the roof doesn’t collapse on us.”
“Why is your view of everything so rosy, Merlin? I always sleep well in rainy weather. Let’s hope tonight is no exception. Good night, Merlin.” He yawned and stretched. “Thank heaven there’s still some hay left in here.”
Lights were extinguished; Arthur and his men prepared to sleep. There were no dry spots on the barn floor. A few of the more enterprising knights climbed up to the hayloft and made to prepare their bedrolls there. But when the wood began to creak ominously they came back down and slept on the damp floor with the others.
The sound of dripping rainwater made an oddly calming sound. Most of the party were lulled gently to sleep by it. But Merlin slept fitfully. The dampness aggravated his arthritis. He wakened more than once with pain in his hip and had to readjust himself to ease the pressure on it. The fact that most of the others seemed to be sleeping soundly irritated him. Somewhere in a far part of the barn one of them was snoring, and the sound reverberated. Under his breath he muttered, “Knights.”
Then in the small hours, just before purple dawn, there was the sound of someone moving, followed by a cry in the dark. A dozen men woke and looked around, groggily trying to orient themselves.
Merlin was barely asleep. He sat up. “What is that? Who is crying out?” No one answered, but as his mind cleared he realized it had been the king’s voice. “Arthur?”
More sounds. Another cry, a gurgling sound and what appeared to be someone rushing about in the dark.
“Arthur?”
The king did not answer.
Merlin called out, “Lights! We need lights!” He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, groped for his cane and took a few steps toward the place where Arthur had been sleeping. “Someone get a torch or a lantern!”
One of the squires managed to strike a flint. In an instant a torch was blazing.
“Here!” Merlin called. “Bring it here!”
In a moment he had the torch in his hand. Leaning heavily on his cane with the other hand, he limped toward the spot where Arthur had been.
The king lay soaked in blood. A dagger stuck out of his chest. He was unconscious. Merlin gasped. “In the name of everything human! Arthur, no!”
Peter appeared out of the darkness behind him.
“Run and get my medical kit. Quickly!”
Peter ran.
Bedivere, hearing the commotion, rushed into the barn. “What has happened?” Then he saw Arthur and cried, “No! No! This cannot be!”
Peter returned with Merlin’s medical things. He quickly got down on his knees-as quickly as his arthritis would let him-and examined the king. After a moment he looked to Bedivere. “Fortunately, this is not too deep. The assassin missed his heart.”
Bedivere thanked the gods.
“Thank our good luck. I should be able to dress this wound as soon as the bleeding slows.” He fell to cleaning it. Then a thought occurred. “Bed, I told you this is not a deep wound.”
“What of that? We’re fortunate. Arthur is. He’s always had good luck.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“Then-?”
“The wound is shallow.” He paused, then said, “Almost as if it had been struck by a woman.”
“A woman? But we-”
“Where is Morgan?”
More lights were being lit, but the cavernous interior of the barn was still only dimly lit. Bedivere glanced around. “Morgan! Morgan le Fay!”
There was no reply. The other men looked around. There was no sign of her.
Bedivere returned to Merlin’s side. “Is he all right? Will he recover?”
“He will have to rest for a few days. He will have to ride in a carriage on our return journey. Thankfully the one that brought the Stone is empty now. Bring me Morgan. I want to question her.”
“Merlin…” He hesitated and looked around the barn one more time. “Merlin, she is gone.”