Arthur nodded and kept firing.
“You may have a point. These petty warlords are even more superstitious than our people at Camelot.”
Arthur scowled at him.
From out of the fog a warrior ran, screaming a battle cry as he came. He was dressed in furs and was wielding a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Kay ran forward to meet him. The mace crashed down onto Kay’s head, making an awful crunching sound. But Kay, perhaps angered by the slaughter of his squire, kept fighting. His sword plunged into the man’s stomach. Guts spilled, and the man fell to earth.
More and more of them came out of the fog, screaming and killing as they went. There were scores of them, easily three times the number of Arthur’s men. In short order nearly a dozen members of the king’s party lay dead, knights, squires, servants.
It was clear the royal party was greatly outnumbered. Arthur called for his men to stop fighting.
“Surrender?” Sir Kay was appalled. “Never!”
“We can’t win, Kay. If we stop fighting, they will. At least we can hope they will. They can hardly want to kill every last one of us. Bedivere and his men will be here before-”
“They must be bogged down in this fog the same as we are. If we’d had any warning… If we’d had time to form all the horses and wagons into a circle, instead of being strung out like sitting ducks…”
“ ‘If’ is a game for scholars, Kay. What if fairies danced on specks of dust? Leave that kind of thinking to Merlin.”
Merlin bristled at this but held his tongue.
And so Arthur stepped forward from under the wagon, hands raised. Seeing him, the rest of his men surrendered as well. In a moment, they were completely surrounded by mounted warriors in fur and rags, arrows and swords pointed at them. More warriors, on foot, augmented their numbers.
One of the mounted warriors rode forward. He focused immediately on Arthur. “You are Arthur Pendragon, self-styled King of the Britons?”
“I am.” Arthur’s face was granite.
The mounted man clapped his hands, and a dozen of his warriors came forward and bound Arthur and his immediate circle, including Merlin and Peter, in chains. The man on horseback, who was clearly the party leader, clapped again, and the entire army started moving forward, with all their prisoners on foot.
Kay muttered, “Surrender, hah! We are knights of Camelot.”
“Bedivere will be here. He must. Would you rather have kept fighting, and be dead knights of Camelot?”
“There is no honor in surrender.”
“Nor in death, Kay.”
Merlin, weighted down by his chains, was having trouble keeping pace with the others. He kept stumbling, and he was stooped by the heavy weight. “Stop complaining, Kay. If anyone here has reason to complain, it is I.”
But Kay was not about to be swayed. “The fact that the king’s chief counselor is here among us, and is so infirm, is one more reason why we should never have given in.”
The lead warrior reined his horse and waited for the captives to catch up to him. “What is all this mumbling?”
“Mumbling. Nothing more.” Arthur tried to use a reasonable tone. “Did you expect us to sing happy songs?”
“Well, stop it.”
“Yes, sir. Uh… may we know who you are?”
The man seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if he was unsure whether to answer this-as if it might be giving something away. Finally he answered, “Robin of Paintonbury. Chief lieutenant to Lord Marmaduke of Paintonbury.”
“I see. It is not quite a pleasure to meet you, Robin.”
Robin laughed, then spit on the ground. “King of the Britons.”
“Tell me, does your master know what he’s bitten off by attacking my party and taking me prisoner?”
“I suppose it makes him King of the Britons, or would if he was enough of a megalomaniac.”
Arthur laughed at this. “My advisor, here, Merlin, is quite infirm. Might you arrange for him to ride, somehow?”
Robin narrowed his eyes. “Merlin? The famous magician?”
Calmly, Arthur said, “The same. I would suggest you not anger him.”
“The man who erected the rocks at Stonehenge with his magic?”
“You have it.”
Merlin was looking less and less comfortable with this. Finally he said, “Arthur, stop.”
Robin laughed. “He doesn’t look like much of a magician to me.”
“If truth be told,” Merlin said to him, “I am not one.”
Skepticism showed in Robin’s face. “Of course not. I would advise you not to try any of your spells while you’re in this territory. We know how to deal with sorcerers here.”
“I am not a-”
“There is no place in Paintonbury for the black arts. Except those of our own priestess.”
“Of course not.” Merlin raised his shackled arms and clanked his chains.
“Let’s get moving. Marmaduke is expecting us.”
SEVEN
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 on
e 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. Th
e 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.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 16