The party set out at once but made slow progress. The muddy roads-not much more than wide footpaths, really-ensured that. Robin’s men drove the two carriages; Merlin and the others went on foot, which only served to slow things even more. One of Robin’s soldiers discovered Bruce, sleeping in Merlin’s carriage, and rode up to report to Robin. “You had best come and see this, sir.”
Robin went with him and returned a few minutes later to confront Arthur. “Marmaduke’s son has been made your prisoner?”
Arthur nodded. “Not prisoner. Not exactly. He was wounded, and not by any of our people.”
“By who, then?”
Arthur shrugged. “One of yours, I suppose.”
Robin scowled; he could not have looked less happy. He urged his horse to a gallop and sped up to the front of the column.
Merlin whispered to Arthur, “Bruce may be our trump card.”
“How do you mean?”
“He is Marmaduke’s son. We saved his life. That must count for something with our captors.”
“Don’t count on it, Merlin.”
Another of Robin’s men came speeding past them, spurring his horse to a full gallop. Arthur watched, puzzled. “What on earth can that be about?” He looked over his shoulder, back along the road.
“I think I saw him looking into the other carriage. He must have found the Stone, or at least that gaudy shrine you keep it in.”
Arthur sighed. “I’m beginning to think you were right, Merlin, and we should never have made this journey.”
“I never cease to marvel at how quickly you catch on to things. At the very least, we should never have relied on this plan of yours to separate our forces.”
“Be quiet.”
“We are prisoners of your enemy, and you want quiet.”
“I told you to stop it. We will survive this. Bedivere will be here. My plan-”
“Plans have gone wrong before now, Arthur. Even your plans.”
“This one won’t.”
The party set forth. Four of the raiders surrounded the carriage that carried the Stone, as if they knew they were guarding something precious. Bruce was placed on a makeshift litter, as if it might be dangerous to let him occupy one of the carriages. He slept almost continually, and his sleep was interrupted by moans and crying. Peter was herded into line with the knights. Gildas was hustled into the procession well back of Arthur and Merlin. This pleased Merlin considerably, though he was careful not to say so or let it show. All of Arthur’s people were watched over carefully by Robin’s men.
The train of soldiers and their captives moved quickly, bogged down occasionally by the muddy roads, but generally making good time. Robin kept a careful eye on everything.
Two hours later they arrived at Paintonbury. It was not much of a town, not really much more than a large hamlet. Everywhere was mud. A small stream, not much more than a rivulet, flowed along one side of the town; it was dark brown with mud. Houses were made of mud and wattles. There was only one larger building, built of wood, at the far end of the road. Merlin asked one of his guards what the building was. “Marmaduke lives there,” was all the man would say.
“That is the palace here?”
No response. They kept moving.
A few children, naked or near naked despite the cold damp weather, played in the town’s one road. Most of them were covered with mud. Scrawny, emaciated dogs roamed the street. Hens scratched at the mud. Crows perched in the surrounding trees, keeping a careful watch for anything that might be dropped or discarded. There was not much for them.
Merlin noted that there were no adults in view. He commented on it to Arthur. But just as he finished speaking, a woman ran out of a hut, grabbed two children off the street and pulled them indoors. The children went along numbly, as if they had no spirit to resist. More and more adults, presumably parents, appeared and pulled their children indoors as the raiding party and their prisoners progressed though Paintonbury.
Along the side of the road were men in wooden cages, some of them plainly weak, some dying, some dead. The cages were barely large enough to hold their occupants; there was not even room in them to sit or lie. Under his breath Merlin muttered, “Marmaduke’s justice?”
“I’m afraid so.” Arthur looked away from the nearest cages. “There are times when I look at the human race and despair.”
“You are not Marmaduke, Arthur. You have made such strides toward true justice in Britain.”
Arthur made a vague gesture in the direction of the caged men. “Have I? Just look, Merlin.”
At length one adult did appear who showed no interest in the children but kept his gaze fixed squarely on the approaching party. A man in his late fifties or early sixties, he walked out of a large mud-brick structure and planted himself squarely in the center of the road in front of the warriors. And he was the fattest man Merlin had ever seen. He was wrapped in furs; he had a thick, scraggly beard. On his head was a horned helmet, like the ones Viking warriors wore. A stench came from him. Merlin winced and held his nose. After a moment two more men emerged and planted themselves on either side of him.
Merlin whispered to Arthur, “Who on earth can that be? He must weigh four hundred pounds.”
“Don’t you recognize him? No, he was nowhere near so fat when you saw him last. But he is unmistakable. That,” said Arthur, “is Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”
“You’re joking. I can’t recall ever seeing him at all, with any certainty. How could that lump be lord over a society of vigorous warriors?”
“Nevertheless, that is Marmaduke.”
Merlin gaped. “I have only a faint memory of seeing him once before, and I am not certain that memory is reliable. But he was nowhere near so heavy.”
Arthur shrugged. “These things happen to leaders. Have you ever seen the Pope?”
“Not this one. They keep changing. But the Pope is-”
Before Merlin could say any more, Marmaduke raised a hand and bellowed, “Stop!” The voice, unlike the body from which it emanated, was vigorous and impressive.
Obligingly, the party stopped. Robin trotted his horse to Marmaduke’s side and they shared a brief, whispered conversation. Even whispering, Marmaduke’s voice was loud enough to carry, though the specific words were lost.
Finally Marmaduke looked directly at his prisoners and bellowed, “Arthur!” He laughed a bit too heartily for the situation. “King Arthur!”
Arthur kept his face and his voice carefully neutral. “Yes, Marmaduke?”
Marmaduke laughed, and the sound roared through the street. “King of the Britons.” The derision was impossibly loud. “My prisoner. The prisoner of humble Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”
If Arthur bristled at this, he didn’t let it show. “Prisoner? I thought I was your honored guest.”
Again Marmaduke roared with laughter. “And so you are. Exactly like these other honored guests.” He gestured at the cages lining the road.
Loudly Robin said, “Arthur is not the only prize we have taken this day. Look.”
From under his cape Robin produced a parcel wrapped in black cloth. With a flourish he removed the cloth and let it fall to the ground. High aloft he held the crystal skull, the Stone of Bran. It gleamed.
Marmaduke eyed it avariciously, as if it might be a huge diamond. “Give me that.”
He took it from Robin’s hands greedily. Carefully he inspected it, running his fingers over it, feeling its contours. Then he looked at Arthur again. “This is your famous Stone of Bran? The one all England heard about when you found it two years ago?”
Arthur was granite-faced. “It is the Stone of Bran, yes. Handle it carefully.”
Marmaduke tested its heft, then tossed it from hand to hand. “Pretty thing. How can it be so evil?”
Merlin spoke up. “Evil? What on earth do you mean?”
Marmaduke glared at him, then narrowed his eyes and peered. “You are Merlin, the magician?”
“I am Merlin, yes.”
“Then you know perfectly well what I mean.”
“No, I do not.”
Marmaduke laughed again, more loudly than before. It was not clear why.
A small child, a girl, ran out of one of the huts toward him. Without missing a beat he drew his sword and pointed it at the child’s neck. “Go back to your mother.”
The child stopped in her tracks. Looking confused and vaguely hurt, she turned and walked back to the hut. When she was inside again, Marmaduke turned back to his prisoners. “One of my children,” he said. “One of my true children, not one of the bastards that were foisted on me by my late lady wife.”
Arthur could not keep the alarm out of his voice. “Margaret is dead?”
More laughter from Marmaduke. “She died.” The irony in his voice left no doubt that her death had not been natural.
Merlin decided he had nothing to lose. “What happened? Did she suffocate while you were making love to her?”
For an instant Marmaduke glared. Then he calmed himself and turned to Robin. “This little crystal skull is most valuable. The priestesses will want to know we have it. They will notify the Great Queen.
“Take our two honored guests to their ‘quarters.’ Send the rest of their men to the field west of town. But keep close guard on them. Make sure they understand that any attempt to rescue Arthur will result in his death.”
Robin bowed his head slightly. “You want us to keep both Arthur and Merlin?”
Marmaduke nodded. “Disarm the rest of them and hold them in a little camp where they can rest themselves and lick their wounds. Keep careful guard over them. But they won’t make any trouble as long as we’ve got their king.”
“And what shall we do about him?” Robin pointed to the litter that carried Bruce.
Marmaduke squinted, then took a few steps toward it. Unhappy at what he was seeing, he muttered, “I’ll have to think. Disarm the rest of them. Keep them all in one place, and make sure there are enough of our men guarding them so they won’t try anything.” He grinned. “Not that they would, while we hold their king.”
He held the Stone of Bran at arm’s length and inspected it, beaming. He tried polishing it with a sleeve, but that served only to smear it with mud. Then he turned and stomped off toward his wooden “palace.” His feet made repulsive squishing sounds in the mud.
It was nearly dusk. Soldiers armed with spears and broad-swords led Merlin and the king off to a place where empty cages, of the kind that lined the road into town, were waiting. Each of them was forced into a cage at sword point. The cages were made of wood and were barely large enough to hold one man apiece. They were apart from the other ones; the nearest were ten yards away.
Then peasants, from the look of them, under the supervision of Robin, hauled the cages to a place at the side of the main road, in the center of town. Once they were in place, Marmaduke reappeared, carrying a torch against the fading afternoon light, plainly ready to gloat. “Arthur, King of the united Britain.” He spat. The saliva dribbled down his beard and the front of his clothing but he seemed not to notice, or not to care. “England was better off divided.”
“You mean that you were better off.” Arthur remained calm and self-possessed. “With no constraints on what you wanted to do. It must have been quite luxurious for you back then. You were able to treat anyone just exactly as you pleased. The rule of law-”
“I still can.” Marmaduke roared with laughter again. “That must have dawned on you by now. Besides, that’s an odd thing to hear from a man who runs around the country impregnating other men’s wives.”
“Marmaduke.” Arthur forced himself to speak calmly. “You must not do this thing to us.”
“Thing? What thing?” Marmaduke did not understand what Arthur was getting at, and it showed.
“You must not make us your prisoners. You will regret it.”
More loud laughter. “Regret it? When, Arthur? When will that happen?”
“Sooner than you think.”
Marmaduke stopped laughing and turned to Merlin. “And you, Wizard. You must have known better than to let Arthur do what he’s done. Bringing the plague to a peaceful land.”
So that was it. Marmaduke believed Arthur had somehow caused the plague. Merlin wondered whether Paintonbury had actually been touched by the disease, or whether Morgan’s and Gildas’s nonsense about the Stone of Bran had reached this far west. Taking his cue from Arthur, he spoke calmly. “Plague? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t try to bluff me, old man. Everybody knows the plague has struck the southeast. Dover is dead. Canterbury is dying. And everybody knows it was Arthur, digging up that crystal skull, that brought it on.”
Merlin turned to Arthur and mouthed the name, “Morgan.” Then to Marmaduke he said, “But we are on our way back to Wales to rebury the Stone. The god Bran will be placated. You do not wish to impede that, do you?”
“Oh.” He furrowed his brow. New thoughts were plainly difficult for him. He scratched his stomach. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think. I’ll have to ask the witch what to do.”
“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.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Merlin asked, “The boy is dead, then?”
Marmaduke’s face turned to stone. “I loved him. Or I used to. But when I realized… when I knew that he…” He could not make himself finish the thought. Instead, he returned to the cage holding Bruce’s body and moved his torch close to the dead boy’s face. It was covered with red-black blotches.
“You brought this, Arthur. My son or yours, he is dead, and you are the cause of it. The Great Queen Morgan warned us years ago that you would be the end of England.” He opened Bruce’s cage and eased the body out. “We are all dead men. It is your doing.”
Merlin spoke up, loudly and, he hoped, forcefully. “There are no reports of plague this far west, Marmaduke. No one in our party has any signs of it. Plague is not what caused his death. It must have been something else.”
“Rot. Look at him.”
He placed the boy’s body back in its cage and turned to one of his men. “Build a pyre.” Then he turned and glared at Arthur and Merlin in their cages. “My boy is not the only one who will burn on it.”
Another of this lieutenants said in alarm, “We have a rat by the tail, Marmaduke. Provoke it and it will bite. Their men will try to rescue them.”
“If they do, you are to kill them at once. I will make sure their men understand that.”
“What difference will that make? If they are going to be executed anyway, what will their soldiers have to lose by trying to save them? You are only giving them more reason to try.”
In the torchlight it was clear that this was a new thought for Marmaduke. The effort of thinking showed in his features. Finally he barked, “Don’t confuse me,” and began to stomp off back to the main part of the camp.
“What shall we do with the boy, Marmaduke?” one of his men called.
He turned and exhaled deeply. “Leave him here for now. The pyre will be ready soon enough.”
Merlin called after him, “If it really is the plague that killed the boy, you are most unwise to leave his body in the open.”
Marmaduke halted for an instant, turned and looked back at them and muttered, “What difference does that make? We are all dead men. All England will die.” He kept walking.
Merlin looked at Arthur. “Everyone says you are a military genius. Even Britomart endorses that view. Just look what your genius has brought us to.”
“Be quiet. I’m thinking.” Arthur barked the words impatiently.
“Like Marmaduke? Perhaps the two of you could get together and compare notes on the way intelligent leaders behave.”
“Merlin, if you don’t stop needling me, I’ll-”
“You will what? Come, Arthur, make your best threat. What will you do? Burn me alive on Bruce’s pyre? Arrangements for that are already being made.”
“Stop it, will you?” Arthur lapsed into silence for a moment, then said, “If only Bedivere-”
“Yes, if only Bedivere.”
Arthur glanced at the distant end of the camp, where there was a large clearing. His men were being held there. For the briefest moment he thought they might break loose and come to his rescue. But they were badly outnumbered-and unarmed. For them to try anything would be tantamount to suicide.
Half an hour later, amid considerable fuss, a small carriage pulled into the camp. It was jet-black, pulled by four black horses. It glistened in the torchlight. And it was riding low, as if it was carrying something very heavy. A small contingent of lightly armed guards accompanied it on horseback, all dressed in black. The two caged prisoners watched it, more than curious. Arthur said, “My sister. I should have known she wouldn’t stay at Camelot.”
“Morgan? I think not. That carriage is too small for her taste. So is the guard. She likes things extravagant.”
“It is she. It must be. She will not permit them to harm us.”
“No, of course not. She would never permit anything that might result in her taking the throne.”
“Stop it, Merlin. She is my sister.”
“Exactly the point.” With more than a little distaste he muttered, “Nobility. Besides, look at that carriage. It is riding low. It must be burdened with some enormous weight.”
“Morgan-”
“It cannot be Morgan, Arthur.”
The carriage pulled to a stop just at the entrance to Marmaduke’s “palace.” Its guards lined up ceremonially outside it. Slowly the door opened. Something large and black appeared at the door, then stopped.
“What on earth-?” Merlin strained to see.
It soon became apparent to him that what he was seeing was a woman, a terribly fat one. She tried to exit the carriage, but the door was too narrow for her. Two of her soldiers took her by the hands and pulled, and finally she managed to squeeze her way out of the coach. Heavily she descended. She was wrapped in black robes. On a slimmer woman they would have swirled and billowed, as Morgan’s always did. On this woman, they were as tight as anything.
Merlin turned to look at Arthur. “Morgan, is it?”
“Be quiet. I’ve never seen a human being so heavy. She makes Marmaduke look petite. Who on earth can she be?”
“There was mention of a witch of Paintonbury. At a guess, I would venture that is she.”
“Witch.” Arthur turned the thought over in his mind. “No, that cannot be.”
“In the name of everything human, why?”
“Look at her, Merlin. She’s fatter than Marmaduke. Witches, they say, fly on their broomsticks, but no broom-stick ever made could support a burden like that. How much good black cloth must go into her robes?”
Merlin chuckled and watched the woman as she took a few ponderous steps toward Marmaduke’s palace. But she was spared having to walk too far. Marmaduke came out and walked to meet her. Compared with her ponderous movements he seemed almost sprightly.
When he reached her, Marmaduke extended his arms to embrace her. She did likewise. But they were too large to be able to hug each other. Instead they bumped stomachs lightly, rubbed each other’s arms, then stepped quickly apart.
They exchanged a few words, and Marmaduke pointed to his two caged prisoners. The woman looked and frowned. One of Marmaduke’s men brought out the Stone of Bran. She inspected it, nodded in approval, and the man took it back inside.
Then the two of them walked toward the cages. Slowly.
Arthur gaped. “Is it possible they hold such a creature in reverence here?”
“Once you have trained people to accept the fantastic without evidence, you can make them accept anything. Religion. Superstition.” Merlin watched them as they approached. At one point the woman became stuck in the mud and had to be pulled free. “On some of the Greek islands they dig up ancient statuettes of the fertility goddess. You should see her. She makes even this creature look dainty.”
Marmaduke and his companion approached the cages. He said to her, “Here they are. Arthur and his advisor Merlin. The gods have been kind enough to deliver them into my hands.”
Slowly the woman spoke. She seemed to have trouble digesting what Marmaduke had said. Her voice, when it emerged from among her multiple chins, was deeper than his. “Kill them at once.”
Marmaduke seemed shocked at this. “Surely not. Not now. We must wait until dawn and sacrifice them to the rising sun and the god whose soul it reflects.”
She squinted; she thought. “You are right, Marmaduke. The gods would be angered by an improper sacrifice.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Merlin found his voice. He peered at the woman and asked, “Who are you?”
Casually, unfazed, she told him, “I am Lulua. I am known as the witch of Paintonbury.”
“And may I ask,” he went on in an equally casual tone, “how many hens it takes to feed you each morning?”
“Merlin!” Arthur tried to make his tone stern, but he couldn’t resist chuckling. “You must be polite to this woman. Even if she does want us dead.”
Merlin chuckled. “You be polite to her, then, Arthur. I do not have enough politeness in me for such copious amounts of flesh.”
Marmaduke ignored this. He told Lulua, “They have brought plague with them. My son Bruce has died of it.”
Slowly, as if thinking was an effort, she responded, “Plague. The Great Queen has sent us word of it in the south. This is the first I’ve heard of it reaching this far into the heartland.”
“Would you care to examine the body?”
She shuddered. Sympathetic vibrations set in, and her entire anatomy became animated. “That is a job for an undertaker, not a priestess. The body must be burned.”
“Yes, Lulua. My men are making the pyre even now. We’re planning to burn him at dawn.”
She narrowed her eyes. She was thinking again, and the struggle showed. Finally she said, “Burn these two on the pyre as well. England will be well off without them.”
“That was our plan.”
“If they carry the plague…” She shrugged. Again thought came with difficulty. “If they carry the plague, they will have to be burned anyway, eventually. The sooner, the better.”
“Yes, Lulua. What about their men? And their servants? There are more than fifty of them.”
She frowned. Once again, thinking seemed to come with difficulty for her. Finally she pronounced, “They must all be killed. See that they are guarded most carefully. If one plague-infected man should escape…”
“Yes, Lulua.”
Arthur had listened to this exchange with mounting alarm. “Obviously, you don’t know who you’re dealing with here.”
Marmaduke laughed. “With two fools in cages. You will be surprised at how quickly the wood burns, and with what heat.”
Arthur was not about to be intimidated, not to let it show. “Do you forget who my companion and advisor is? He is not just any petty courtier. He is Merlin, the greatest sorcerer in Europe.”
“Arthur! I am no-” Merlin began to protest.
But Arthur cut him off. “This is no time for false modesty, Merlin. Be quiet.” He turned back to Marmaduke and Lulua. “You know the stories. You know his reputation. This man, who has permitted himself and me to be made your prisoners, is the man who made the stones march down from Ireland and form themselves into the monument at Stonehenge. The man who brought life back to my dead squire, to unmask the boy’s killer. You are dealing with a greater power than you know.”
Marmaduke seemed taken aback by this. But Lulua only smiled. “Let him make his cage dissolve, then.”
Arthur kept up his bluff. “He will. And your copious flesh along with it.”
“Bid him do it soon, then. Before dawn, if he’s to do it at all.” She laughed. Her body vibrated. “Whatever power he possesses cannot be a match for the power of the Good Goddess.”
She turned and walked off. Marmaduke followed in glum, confused silence. As they were leaving, Merlin heard her say, “I want you to prepare a nice, big breakfast for me. Beef. Eggs.”
Arthur whispered to Merlin, “There cannot be enough hens in Paintonbury.”
Merlin chuckled. “Have you ever seen anyone fatter? But Arthur, did you have to bring up my supposed magical powers? That was foolish.”
“If we can’t prey on their superstition, we are lost, Merlin. What other weapons do we have?”
“It ill becomes me to tell a king ‘I told you so,’ Arthur, but you were warned about the dangers of traveling this way. By Bedivere, by Britomart, by nearly everyone. What would you suggest we do now?”
“Don’t nag, Merlin. You have fooled people with a show of sorcery before. You must do it again.”
“Would you care to suggest how, precisely? When I have done it in the past, it has involved what my old friend, the actor Samuel Gall, calls showmanship. Props. Lighting. Elaborate preparation. There is not much I can do in this cage.”
“You must do what you can.”
“I am not a real magician, Arthur. I cannot make something out of nothing.”
Arthur looked away from him. “If only Bedivere would get here with the army. He could dispatch these bumpkins with no trouble at all.”
Merlin fell silent for a moment. Then he said softly, “Arthur, we may die when the sun rises. I am ready for it. At my age, how could I not be?” He hesitated, then asked, “Are you?”
“Don’t be absurd, Merlin. Bedivere will come.” Arthur’s tone made it clear this was not something he wanted to think about.
“I merely ask the question.”
“You always ask the inconvenient ones. That’s what makes you such a valuable advisor, damn you. But look at me. I have Morgan le Fay for a sister. I have been married to Guenevere for more than a decade. I fought ten years of civil wars, with half the barons in England after my blood. After all that, how could I not be ready for death? I’ve lived with it all my life. Now try and get some sleep, will you? I have to think what we’re going to do to get out of this.”
Merlin leaned back and let his head rest against the bars. “I was not involved much in the wars. Not on the military side, at any rate. You know that. But I do know that you emerged from that horrible period with a reputation as a brilliant military strategist. What has happened? How could you let us end this way?”
“We will not end. Bedivere will get here in time.”
“Of course.”
“Go to sleep, Merlin.”
Merlin closed his eyes. “The fog is thickening. Even if Bedivere is en route, what makes you think he will be able to find us in this?”
“Be quiet.”
They both fell silent. Soon enough, despite everything, they were asleep again. Exhaustion had taken its toll on them.
Morning light woke Merlin-what there was of it. While he and Arthur were sleeping fitfully, uncomfortably in their cages, the fog had built even more thickly than before. It was almost perfectly opaque. Torchlight reflected back from it, as it would from a blank wall. Dawn only brought a kind of half-light; it might almost not have been daybreak. At least the rain had stopped. Fires burned brightly throughout Paintonbury.
Merlin opened his eyes slowly. The damp air, and the fact that he had had to sleep standing upright in his cage, had made his entire body ache. When he realized that, despite the absence of light, it was morning, he whispered softly to himself, “Damn this arthritis. Damn my old age.”
Arthur roused himself. Slowly, groggily, he asked, “What? Did you say something?”
“Nothing that matters. I have been thinking.”
“In your sleep?”
“Our unconscious minds often tell us things that do not occur to our conscious minds.”
Arthur started to yawn, but the cage was too small to permit him to stretch. His body shuddered. “What insight has the god of dreams brought you?”
“My mind,” Merlin said pointedly, “has examined our situation. It occurs to me that if we can sow the seeds of mistrust between Marmaduke and Lulua, set them to doubting one another, it may give us more time to wait for Bedivere.” He smiled a mordant smile. “Assuming that he and his men haven’t perished in a swamp somewhere.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“We read of an entire Persian army that was swallowed by the Sahara Desert. They were-”
“Spare me the pedantry, Merlin. I happily cede the lamp of learning to you. Just tell me what you’ve come up with.”
“Our plump friends think they are on the same side. We must get them to realize they are not.”
It took Arthur an instant to digest this. “I see what you’re suggesting. And how would you propose we do that?”
“They will be coming for us soon. Just follow my lead.”
“Yes, Merlin. You are the strategist now. Dazzle me.”
“You are in your late thirties, Arthur. Too old to be a brat. You should have more kingly dignity.”
Arthur shrugged. “What can I say? I had a good teacher.” He glanced up at the sky. It was slowly lightening but not by much. “If something doesn’t happen soon, we’ll all be dead of the plague.”
“You still think the plague is what did those boys in? What kind of plague is it that only attacks individuals, not populations? And very specific individuals, at that?”
“I’ve never heard a corpse ask how it got that way.”
“No, of course not, Arthur. It is for us, the living, to ask that question. And to find the answer.”
“If you have to ask questions, Merlin, ask into the deaths of Lord Darrowfield and his sons. Those killings were-”
Merlin cut him off impatiently. “I have a growing suspicion those murders were related to these. Somehow, I don’t know how. Not yet.”
Dawn was showing itself more and more, or what passed for dawn in those conditions. The world was still dark, but the first faint traces of morning light were beginning to show. Banks of fog kept rolling in, thicker and thicker. Daylight illuminated them; the whole world seemed bathed in a dull gray, opalescent light. Scattered fires throughout the hamlet provided the only real contrast; everything else was matted to the same dull, dark, but brightening gray. And the fog was so thick Merlin and Arthur could hardly see a thing. Merlin kept scanning the landscape.
Through the blinding fog, he noticed that more and more torches were being lit in the town. No people were visible through the pervasive fog, only their lights. Softly he said, “They will be coming for us anytime now.”
He had hardly finished the sentence when the various torches and the men carrying them formed into a procession and headed in the direction of the caged prisoners. But also through the fog he thought he saw another light, a more distant one. It flared into existence, then vanished, presumably quickly extinguished. Were Bedivere and his soldiers here at last, then?
The marchers and their lights approached. Slowly the forms of Marmaduke, Lulua and Robin became visible through the mist, more and more distinctly as they came nearer and nearer. They were walking with unnatural rapidity. Marmaduke led them all, and he was grinning like a naughty schoolboy who had just pulled a prank. Lulua was plainly struggling to keep up with the others. She puffed, and her breath added a bit to the mist in the air.
Marmaduke stopped six feet in front of the cages, and a moment later Lulua took her place at his right side. “Well,” he said heartily, “good morning. I am sorry there is no sun for you. This would have been the last sunrise you’ll ever know.”
Arthur glared and said nothing. Merlin, seemingly at ease with himself and the situation, smiled and said, “We have had our last midnight. That is enough.”
Marmaduke laughed more loudly than seemed appropriate. “You’re in a pleasant mood, Wizard, for a man facing his end.”
Merlin shrugged. “Philosophy teaches us nothing if not how to face death. I am facing the two of you. Socrates himself would envy me.”
Marmaduke was unsure whether he was being ridiculed, and it showed. His grin vanished and he stopped laughing. “Arthur, do you have nothing to say?”
Before Arthur could respond, Lulua spoke up. She pointed a finger at Merlin. “Some sorcerer you are. Spending the night trapped in a cage. Hah!”
It was the opening Merlin had been waiting for. He ignored her and faced the warlord. “You want to be King of all England, not just Paintonbury, Marmaduke, to take Arthur’s place. Do you really think killing us this way will accomplish that?”
Marmaduke seemed taken aback, not by the question itself, but by the fact it was being asked. “When you are out of the way,” he said slowly, as if he was thinking at the same time and it was an effort, “when all of this nonsense about peace and love and brotherhood is gone, too, then England can get back to warfare. That is the way it’s always been. It’s what we know. All we have ever known. I was a man then, a true warrior, a leader. I was respected and feared. Those were better times.”
Suddenly, loudly, Lulua belched. Her chins quivered.
Merlin looked to her. “And you. You have promised Marmaduke your support, of course?”
She held a fingertip up to her mouth and pressed it to her lips. “The blood of kings carries special properties. Magical ones. When Arthur is dead, we will know if he truly was a king, and meant to rule.”
“And what about Marmaduke’s blood? When will you test that-after Morgan le Fay is on the throne of England?”
Marmaduke glanced at her. Plain suspicion showed in his face. But Arthur had caught Merlin’s drift, and before either the witch or the warlord could answer, he spoke up. “If you want the throne, Marmaduke, handing it to this woman is an odd way of getting it.”
Marmaduke’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Arthur smiled an indulgent smile, like a schoolteacher lecturing a slow pupil. “Think, for goodness’ sake. Why would you assume her loyalty is to you?”
He was wrestling with the thought. It showed. “She’s the witch of Paintonbury. Who else would she be loyal to?”
Slowly, still smiling serenely, Arthur intoned, “To my sister.”
And Merlin added quickly, “Yes, to Morgan le Fay.”
Marmaduke glared at Lulua. Suspicion was growing, and that was what the prisoners wanted. “You told me-”
“It’s a lie!” Lulua screeched the words. “Can’t you see what they’re trying to do? Think.”
“These women,” Merlin went on quite calmly, “these witches, used to reign virtually supreme in England by claiming they had the ear of the gods. Their word was law, their will went unchallenged. By anyone, not the strongest baron. The civil wars and Arthur’s ascent put an end to that.”
Lulua started to object, but Arthur took up the game. “My sister has hardly made it a secret that she wants the throne. As high priestess of the witches and their religion-as the ‘Great Queen,’ as she styles herself-she thinks it is her right. But men rule here now. If you kill us-if you kill us at the behest of this woman”-he snarled the word-“you will be handing it back to them.”
“No!” Lulua’s alarm was growing. Her face, like Marmaduke’s, was a book where all her thoughts could be read. “I serve Paintonbury. I serve you, Marmaduke!”
But the seeds of doubt had been planted. Marmaduke furrowed his brow, like a slow dog trying to figure out how to get a bone. “Lulua, we have to talk about this.”
“There is nothing to talk about. They are lying, trying to set us against each other. Can’t you see that?”
“Follow me. We have to talk.” He turned on his heel and began to stalk away. Lulua glared at the prisoners, then started to follow.
Arthur called after them. “I’d talk quickly, if I were you. With the light of dawn, Merlin’s power increases.”
Over his shoulder Marmaduke said, “Power? What power? He can’t get out of a wooden cage.”
“You’ll see, Marmaduke.”
The warlord and the witch kept walking. After a moment they were far enough away for a private conversation. Each in turn gesticulated wildly and raised his voice, obviously threatening, however mildly. Watching them, Merlin said to Arthur, “Playing for time is never very hard with these types. I wonder England has lasted as long as it has, with people like these running things. But I thought I had dissuaded you from dredging up this wizard nonsense.”
“It’s useful.” Arthur was sanguine. “Have you not seen what is growing around us, out there in the fog?”
“I have. What is the point of-”
“Be quiet. They’re coming back.”
“But Arthur, you can’t see any more through this fog than I can. Suppose these aren’t our men. Suppose they are more of Marmaduke’s? Or a raiding party from some other warlord?”
“Be quiet, I said.”
The sky was lightening more and more. The world was still that dull gray, not light yet but not exactly dark. Merlin watched the surrounding fog and saw more and more glints of armor and weaponry. Then he glanced at the nearby mud where Bruce’s body was slumped.
Marmaduke stopped ten feet away. “This,” he said firmly, indicating the poor object that had been his son, “will be burned. My men have nearly finished building the pyre. You,” he added, pointing from Arthur to Merlin, “will be burned with it.”
Arthur, keeping a close watch on the surrounding fog, intoned loudly, “You are making a great mistake, Marmaduke. Merlin is the greatest wizard in the world. He can summon armies out of the air,” Arthur threatened. “All the forces known to the wisest philosophers are at his command.”
Marmaduke spat. “Let him get out of his cage, then.”
Lulua added, “All the most powerful magicians are women. Witches. Merlin does not qualify.”
Marmaduke laughed, more heartily than seemed appropriate. “If he’s going to summon an army, he’d better do it quickly.” He gestured to a few of his men, who surrounded the cages, poised to open them and pull the prisoners out. Two more of them lifted Bruce’s body.
Merlin watched them. “If he really did die of the plague, your men would be most unwise to handle his body.”
“Why?” Marmaduke narrowed his eyes. “He’s dead. What harm can be done?”
“In the name of everything human, it is the plague. Plagues spread. It is what they do. That is what makes them plagues and not ordinary diseases. You must let me examine Bruce’s body.”
Marmaduke thought for a moment, then brushed this aside. “Nonsense. My men are strong and vigorous.”
“Good for them. But-”
“I’d concentrate on making that army appear, if I were you.”
Marmaduke raised his hand, and at that signal the group of his men surrounding the two cages drew their swords. One of them unlatched the cages, then stepped back and drew his own sword. With it he gestured that Merlin and Arthur were to step out.
The king and the pseudo-wizard exchanged resigned glances and started slowly to march toward the village center. As they did so, Marmaduke told them, “Be happy I didn’t leave you to die in those. The carrion birds around here are having a lean season.”
“Again, you should tread carefully, Marmaduke.” Arthur spoke the words solemnly. “Merlin speaks the language of birds.”
Marmaduke laughed. “Let him tweet up a few thousand of them to rescue you, then.” He nodded to his men.
Soldiers prodded the prisoners with their sword tips, two of them carried Bruce’s body, and the entire party continued to move in the direction of the town’s center. Merlin looked around furtively; yes, there were dim figures moving in the fog.
At the center of town a wooden funeral pyre had been erected. Four torches burned brightly at its corners. Other lights in the town were being extinguished gradually, one by one, as the morning light grew.
The pyre was a good ten feet tall. Two boys were atop it, pouring oil over it. When the party reached it, the men carrying Bruce’s body took it to where a pair of wooden ladders rested side by side against it and slowly, awkwardly, carried the corpse to its resting place on top. The two oil boys, their task finished, jumped down to the ground.
Arthur whispered to Merlin, “Now is the time. Summon your army.”
Merlin shot him a disapproving glance. “My feet hurt. This bloody arthritis-”
“Do it!”
The two soldiers climbed down from the pyre and took places at Marmaduke’s side. Lulua, at a signal from Marmaduke, raised her hands high over her head. “O Bran,” she intoned, “mightiest of the gods of England-”
But Merlin interrupted her. He raised his hands even higher in the air and chanted in Latin. “Caveat emptor. Cum grano salis. Et tu Brute. Omnes Gallia in tres partes divisa est. E pluribus unum.”
“Stop that!” Lulua barked.
But Merlin chanted on, intoning over and over, “Caveat emptor. Cum grano salis…”
Arthur pointed a finger at Lulua. “Do not interrupt, woman. He is summoning all the dark forces of the universe.”
Marmaduke, visibly unhappy, told the men at his sides, “Light it. Now!”
The two men took up two of the torches and lit the pyre. Thanks to the oil, it took fire quickly; the flames burned bright and hot, and they spread quickly. In a matter of moments the entire thing would be consumed.
“Omnes Gallia in tres partes divisa est.”
Marmaduke snapped his fingers at the two pyre men. “Get them up there. At once.”
The men drew their swords and began prodding Arthur and Merlin toward the ladders. Merlin, still chanting his Latin, stumbled, and a soldier prodded him with his sword point. Merlin drew himself up to his full height and shouted, “Nunc, Bediverus!”
Arthur echoed him. “Now, Bedivere!”
From somewhere deep in the surrounding fog, a trumpet sounded, playing a military charge. Marmaduke looked around, alarmed.
Lulua did likewise. “This isn’t possible. He could never-”
“He has done it, Witch.” Marmaduke called to his men, “All of you, draw your weapons! We are under attack!”
The men looked around, confused.
From the fog, a second trumpet sounded.
Then the first of Arthur’s soldiers, led by Bedivere, appeared clearly from out of the mist. They were on horseback, swords and spears drawn, charging at full gallop. They shouted a battle cry. More and more of them followed. Marmaduke’s men panicked, some bracing themselves for the fight, but most scattering. The pyre burned more and more brightly. A third battle call issued from the unseen trumpet.
Amid the confusion, Lulua remained calm. She looked around for her carriage and began slinking toward it, or what passed for slinking in a woman so heavy. Arthur, noticing her, caught her by the back of her robe. “No, you don’t, Witch.”
She struggled. “Let go of me, pretender.”
“Be careful, Witch. I once saw a hog mired in mud. It was stuck for days. The same is apt to happen to you.”
She swiped at him. “Let go of me!”
Arthur extended a leg and tripped her. She fell, and the muddy ground made an unpleasant sucking sound as she hit it. She called out for her attendants, but they were in the process of mounting the carriage and speeding away in it. Arthur laughed at her. “Root around, while you’re down there. You might find some truffles.” He turned to Merlin. “Come over here and deal with this harridan. You and she talk the same language.”
Merlin stiffened. “I most certainly do not speak the-”
“You both deal in the same mystical flimflam. Come over here and take her in charge.”
Most of Marmaduke’s men had vanished into the mist by now, in the opposite direction from where Bedivere’s men were still charging. Marmaduke kept shouting encouragement to the ones who remained. “Fight! Fight for your wives and children! Fight for Paintonbury!” He made for Merlin, plainly intending to slaughter him.
But Arthur took a sword from one of the fallen men and followed him, thwacking him across the buttocks repeatedly.
“Stop that,” the flustered warlord ordered him.
But Arthur only laughed and kept spanking him. “Surrender, lump. Why let any more of your men be killed?”
“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.”