“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 de
vil 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.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 17