Morgan moved to the council table, but instead of taking a seat she stood there, dominating everyone else. “I can hardly be troubled to explain the situation to a roomful of doubters.”
“No one doubts you,” Arthur told her. “It is only that we are so frustrated by this awful situation.”
Simon added, “You are our priestess. You are the chosen of the gods. How could we be anything but respectful of what you say?”
Merlin shifted in his chair and shot Simon a withering glance. “How, indeed?”
Morgan, still standing, still imperious, looked slowly around the table, from one person to the next. Her silence was glacial. Then finally she spoke. “It is,” she said slowly and solemnly, “the Stone.”
Everyone in the room, plainly baffled, looked first to Arthur, then to Merlin. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Merlin asked her, “The stone?”
She nodded solemnly.
“What stone? What the devil are you talking about?”
“Now, now, Merlin.” Arthur wanted peace. “That is hardly the tone to take.” He turned to his sister. “But Morgan, might you please clarify what you just told us? Precisely what ‘stone’ are you referring to?”
“You ought to know well enough, Arthur. You spent years trying to find it. You sent one knight after another questing for it. Even now, it sits in that cabinet with your precious Excalibur and your other treasures.”
Nimue, hearing this, could not contain herself. “You mean the Stone of Bran?!”
A faint smile crossed Morgan’s lips. “You take my meaning precisely.”
For the second time the council members looked at one another in obvious bewilderment. Arthur seemed most puzzled of all. He groped for something to say. “The-the-but Morgan, you are the one who prodded me to find it. You told me that having it in my possession would bring uncounted blessings to England. Now you claim that what it has brought is death.”
Merlin snorted derisively. “Might we get back to discussing practical matters? People are dying.”
Before Arthur could respond, Morgan went on. “The god Bran is angry. His sacred Stone has been removed from its resting place. The plague is the expression of his, shall we say, displeasure?”
“But-but-” Arthur was trying to wrap his mind around what she’d said. “But Perceval found it in an abandoned barn in Wales, near a place called Grosfalcon. In a cattle stall. It was buried in three feet of dirt and mud. Now it rests in a place of honor in the most splendid castle in England. What could the god be unhappy about?”
“Nevertheless,” she said smugly. “You have had reports enough of the devastation. And,” she intoned menacingly, “there is worse to come.”
“And I suppose,” Merlin interjected, “the remedy for the god’s displeasure would be to give you more power or more treasure? Or both?”
Once again she ignored him. “This land is under a curse. Cursed of the gods. Deny their influence all you like. But this I promise you. England will know nothing but death until the Stone is returned to its proper place.”
“To the mud, beneath the cow droppings,” Merlin added unhelpfully.
“You have been warned. Ignore the gods at your peril-and at England’s.” With that she turned and swept out of the room, robes swirling, as abruptly as she had entered.
It took a moment for the tension to ease. Finally Merlin said, “And that is the woman who has charge of all our ‘spiritual lives.’ ”
Arthur sat back. “I wish you’d stop picking at her, Merlin. As you said, she is the high priestess of England. She may be on to something. Things have been bad here ever since the Stone was recovered. Remember the murders of my so-squires. And the killing of the French king Leodegrance on our soil.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that they would be alive today if the Stone had not been dug up?”
“Merlin, my sister is a difficult woman. Even an evil one, some people say. But she does understand these things. You keep telling me that you don’t know what brought this plague, or how it is spread.”
“I keep telling you we do not understand, yes. But Arthur, diseases are natural phenomena. They can be dealt with-if not immediately, then ultimately-by using reason. Logic. Science. Morgan’s arcane flummery will accomplish nothing. But then when, in due time, the plague runs its natural course, she will take credit. She will claim to have ended it with incense or cat’s blood or eye of newt.”
Arthur fell silent for a moment. “No, I think Morgan may be on to something.”
“Arthur, no. This is too serious a situation for-”
“I want to consult my other spiritual advisor. If he agrees with her-”
“Bishop Gildas? The ‘Christian Bishop of England’? The day he and Morgan agree on anything will be the day pigs stop hunting truffles.”
“You concur, then. If Gildas agrees with Morgan about the cause of the plague, we may be certain. Thank you, Merlin.”
“In the name of everything human, Arthur, that is not what I said, and you know it perfectly well.”
“I believe that is as much as we can accomplish here today. You may all go.”
“But, Arthur-”
“Go, I said.”
“Yes, Arthur.”
And so the council meeting ended. Inconclusive as it was, it left no one feeling optimistic.
“The-the Stone of Bran.” Nimue was still incredulous. “So Arthur really thinks that may have brought this pestilence.”
Merlin nodded. “I demonstrated clearly enough that the thing is a fraud when I used its so-called magic to unmask the squires’ killer. But Arthur and most of the court cling to their belief that it is a talisman of unimaginable power. Why does superstition always die so hard?”
Calmly practical as she nearly always was, she told him, “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Bishop Gildas is certain to tell the king Morgan is wrong. With luck, that will put an end to the matter.”
“But not to the plague. How many people will die while Arthur is shilly-shallying with these fools? But at least Gildas will have the chance to prove that he’s good for something other than passing his collection plate.”
“You are too harsh, Merlin. People’s beliefs bring them comfort.”
“The death toll from the plague has topped three hundred. How much comfort do you think the dead took from Morgan’s spells and charms?”
“They might have died at peace with themselves. We have no way of knowing.”
He sighed. “That is more than I will do, in all probability. I wish my mind was not so restless. So impatient of foolishness.”
Nimue kissed him on the cheek. “Then you wouldn’t be Merlin.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me, in some way?”
“It’s supposed to tell you that I love you, old man. My own father was distant, cold-to say the least. You have never been anything but encouraging to me.”
“You are worth encouraging.”
“So are you, Merlin. So are you.”
“Fine, Nimue. But so is Arthur. Every time I think I’ve managed to persuade him that our laws, our government, our society should be based on reason, he reverts to this preposterous belief in gods and curses and whatnot. I’m surprised he’s not seeking advice from old Pellenore.”
“Pellenore? He’s mad.”
“My point exactly.”
Old King Pellenore was indeed mad, and getting madder, and everyone in Camelot knew it. He never stopped fighting the imaginary dragons, griffins, manticores he encountered on his various imaginary quests through the halls of the castle. That afternoon he was doing battle with a sphinx in the castle refectory, waving his sword wildly at the thin air, when John of Paintonbury came upon him.
In his brief time at Camelot, John had managed to alienate virtually everyone he’d met. The knights, he learned quickly, did not appreciate being the objects of his “satire” and tended to react to it with undisguised hostility. The castle functionaries, up to and including Simon of York, regarded him with overt disdain. Several of the servants had spit on him. But Arthur stood by him firmly. Since the king was not noted for having a strong sense of humor, this generated a great deal of puzzlement and not a little resentment.