The Pendragon Murders

by J. M. C. Blair

  “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 co
lumn 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 sta
lked 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!”