Then suddenly, abruptly, all forward motion halted. The people at the front of the march broke ranks and began to mill about in the most disorganized manner. There were shouts. The music petered out and stopped.
Morgan bellowed, “What is the problem up there? Why have you all stopped?” She turned to Mordred and told him to run ahead and see what the problem was.
Merlin took his two young companions each by the hand. “Let us go and see.”
The orderly procession was quickly dissolving into a disorganized mob. But Merlin was determined to enter the monument and see what the problem was. He, Nimue and Petronus forced their way through the throng just behind Mordred.
Inside the stone circle, Mordred stopped and seemed to freeze. Merlin pushed past him.
The horseshoe of trilithons loomed around them, each formed by a pair of massive stone uprights topped by a stone lintel. The space at the center was empty of people; they were backing away.
Then he saw what was alarming them. Lashed to the altar stone at the monument’s center were three men. One was prone on the top of the stone; the other two were lashed securely to its sides. A web of leather thongs held them in place.
The throat of each man was slashed. The altar stone and the earth around it were covered in dried blood.
And then he recognized them. “In the name of everything human.” The dead men were Lord Darrowfield and his sons.
FOUR
“Plague? You can’t be serious, Merlin.” Arthur paced and glared at Merlin. “Yes, of course I got your message from Dover. But I assumed you were joking.”
“Joking! Arthur, sometimes I feel you don’t know me at all.”
They were in the king’s study. As always, there was not enough light. The three portraits of Arthur were still there, on their easels. Pacing, Arthur stumbled over one of them. “Simon!” he bellowed. “Get these damned things out of here!”
“Calm down, Arthur.” Merlin presented his soberest manner. “I am perfectly serious. Do you really think I would joke about such a thing?”
“Yes, I told you, I got the bloody message.” He rubbed his shin where it had struck the easel. Then he took the letter from the table and shook it at Merlin. “I thought it had to be a joke. Or a mistake. Something brought on by too much wine-or too much whatever-at the festival. So did Britomart.”
“It is hardly a thing I would joke about. Four men died, all sailors. As near as we were able to determine, their ships had all stopped in Algiers to take on cargo. Arthur, it will spread.”
Arthur stopped moving about the room and glared at him. “You can’t possibly be certain of that. This is England. No Englishmen have died from this thing, have they?”
“Do you hold the opinion that the human body in England is different, in some way?”
“Algerian plague.” He snorted.
Simon of York appeared with an assistant. “You are finished with these, Your Majesty?” He indicated the portraits, one of which was now on the floor.
“Yes, get them out of here. They take up too much room.”
“As I have been telling you for weeks, Sire.”
“Don’t you start, too. It’s bad enough that I’ve got him picking at me.” He made a vague gesture in Merlin’s direction. “You know which one I want?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put the artists to work on it right away. I want those new coins in circulation as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated and looked from the king to Merlin and back again. “Is-is everything all right?”
“No, everything is not all right.” Arthur mocked his conciliatory tone.
“If I can be of any help, sir…”
“You can be of help by doing what I asked you to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Simon clapped his hands, and his assistant gathered up the portraits and their stands. “Oh, and Your Majesty?”
“What? What else?”
“That jester person is here.” He frowned in obvious disapproval of the “jester person.”
But Arthur suddenly, unexpectedly broke into an enormous grin. “John of Paintonbury?”
“I believe that is his name, sir.”
“Excellent. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” With that, Simon bowed and he and his assistant left.
There was a moment’s silence between Merlin and the king. Merlin looked unhappy. Finally he asked, “A jester?”
“Yes.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I told you about him.”
“Memory fails. There has been so much else-”
“A very clever fellow. I met him on that visit to Coventry last month.”
“And you decided to bring him here-to admit him to our court-without consulting anyone.”
“This is not ‘our court.’ It is mine.” Arthur sighed. “Do me a favor and don’t pick at me today. I have too much on my mind. Including this plague of yours from Algiers, it seems. I don’t even know for certain where Algiers is.”
Merlin stood and stared at him.
And Arthur wilted under it. “All right, fine. This plague of ours, then. Is that better?”
“Thank you, Arthur. We do not know, yet, if it really is a plague. I suggest you contact your sheriffs in every part of southeast England and have them send daily reports. If there is an outbreak someplace other than Dover-”
“What can we do?”
For a long moment Merlin said nothing. Then finally, “Hope. That is all.”
“Hope is not a commodity in long supply, in my life.”
“Even so. If I were a superstitious man, I would say pray.”
“Should I summon my sister Morgan to Camelot? Should I have her conduct some kind of public rite? It might reassure people, if nothing else.”
Merlin smiled faintly. “The way she reassured Lord Darrowfield?”
Arthur frowned. “Poor Darrowfield. Tell me what happened.”
“I told you the basic facts.” Merlin shrugged slightly. “We found him and his sons at Stonehenge. Their throats were cut.”
“But surely you investigated. I know you. You could never have resisted.”
“I was on holiday, Arthur, remember? And this disease is a much more urgent matter. Besides, Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff there, took matters into his hands. He seems an able enough man. I did not want to tread on his authority.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “But you know who did it. Or think you do. You always do, Merlin.”
“Not in this case. The obvious suspect would be Lady Darrowfield. There was nothing but unpleasantness between her and her husband. And she would hardly be the first vindictive wife in England.”
Arthur stiffened at this. “Leave Guenevere out of this. Leave her out of everything.”
“Of course. I’m not at all certain I see Lady Darrowfield in that mold, anyway. If it was only her husband who had been killed…” He made a vague gesture. “But the boys were slaughtered as well. She hardly seems like the type of woman to play Medea.”
“Then…?”
He hesitated. “Your sister was there.”
“Morgan?”
“Yes, with her son Mordred in tow. Nominally she was there in preparation for the equinox. But word has it that Darrowfield was flirting with conversion to the Christian religion. And Morgan was none too happy about it.”
“You don’t think she killed him, surely?”
“It would hardly be her first time removing an, er, inconvenient opponent. We both know her history. And she had Mordred there to do her dirty work.”
“He was the only attendant she brought?”
“She had others, but they were at Stonehenge, preparing for the festival there.” He paused uncertainly, then decided to go on. “But they could easily have gotten to Darrowfield Castle to help Mordred with any… business.”
Arthur brooded. “I know Morgan’s bloody reputation. I’ve never quite convinced myself she could be so lethal.”