"The Pendragon Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blair J. M. C.)

THREE

The weather was good for traveling, though clouds loomed in the west. Petronus commented, hoping they would make it to Dover before any storms might strike.

“This is England, Petronus,” Merlin lectured softly. “There are always storms coming. If they do not strike now, they will hit us in Dover.”

On the road from Darrowfield, heading for the main highway, they passed Stonehenge once again; they saw it in the distance to their left. It was still early morning; the monoliths cast long, strange shadows across the fields. Petronus asked if they might make at least a brief stop to inspect the monument.

“On our way home, Petronus.” Merlin wanted no part of the suggestion. He hardly needed to explain that the place’s association with religion, or superstition as he called it, was the reason why. “The celebration of the autumn equinox will be occurring. Even with Morgan there, doing her high priestess act and wielding her battery of poisons, it should be an entertaining festival.”

“She seems so different from the king. How can they be brother and sister?”

Merlin lowered his voice. “They did not have the same mother. That accounts for so much in our so-called nobles. Have you not been paying attention these last few days?”

“I thought you like Arthur.”

“So I do. He is one of my very few true friends.”

For the first time Nimue spoke up. “If that is true of the nobles, how much more so must it be true of the common people? We are a mongrel nation, Merlin. Can such a race really engender the shining society-the peace and truth and justice-you envision?”

“Englishmen are human beings, Nimue, no more or less. You know I am not a religious man, but every religion I know of teaches that human nature is corrupt. It is precisely that corruptness that we must overcome. They also preach that we can attain the sublime.”

He spurred his horse ahead, as if the conversation or perhaps the sight of the ancient stones in the distance unsettled him. The others spurred their mounts to keep up with him.

Dover was bustling with people when their party arrived, in late afternoon. The autumn fair was already getting under way. They reined their horses at the top of a hill, where the road began to wind down to the town, the harbor, the beach and the famous chalk cliffs. The harbor was crowded with ships from all parts of the Mediterranean, even as far away as Egypt and Palestine; a surprising number of them had painted sails.

From his pack Merlin produced a set of his “viewing lenses” and they all took turns inspecting the scene that spread before them. Petronus tried to count off as many national flags as he could recognize on the ships’ masts, and he counted more than thirty. There were still others unknown to him.

“The Hebrew holy books tell of an attempt to build a tower to the sun.” Merlin slipped into his best schoolteacher mode. “But the effort was undone and thrown into chaos by the huge confusion of languages. Dover must be like that now.”

“Trust you to find some dark old myth for every situation.” Nimue was in no mood for his cynicism. She held the lenses to her eye again. “Look at it all. I find it very exciting. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many people gathered in one place.”

From their position at the top of the hill, she scanned Dover and beamed at it all. “We are making progress, Merlin. The rest of the world is beginning to recognize England as a valuable venue for trade. Perhaps even a vital one.” She was careful to add, “You and Arthur have a great deal to be proud of.”

Merlin’s mood changed quickly as they descended the road to Dover. Slowly a smile crept across his face. All the people and activity were affecting him despite himself. Nimue enjoyed his mood; it was rare for him to relax and enjoy himself.

“And a lot of the ships down there look prosperous,” she added. “Look at how low they are riding in the water. They are heavy with goods. The Mediterranean economy must be strong.”

Merlin smiled a satisfied smile. “We should all be proud, Nimue. Someday-soon, I hope-this country will be of international importance. I would like to think my life will last at least long enough to see that. We have spent far too long in the shadow of the European powers. The only time the historians ever even mention us is to note that the Romans invaded us.”

“And Hadrian built that wall of his.” Petronus was grateful for the chance to show off his learning.

They spurred their horses to move quickly down the road, and before long they reached the town’s outskirts.

Vendors’ booths began to appear along the road. Nimue bought a little cake from the first baker’s stand they came to, bit into it and made an unpleasant face. “If we do gain international stature, it will not be for our cooking, I presume. How can you ruin something as simple as a poppy seed cake? The reputation of the French as superb pastry chefs is quite secure.”

“It has nothing to do with nationality. The French hold no monopoly on culinary talent.”

“We do.” Petronus sulked defensively. “Everyone knows it.”

“If Arthur is wise in nothing else, he always selects the best cooks. Take Marian of Bath, for example. She could do very well by striking out on her own. Arthur treats her more than well enough to keep her at Camelot.”

Nimue spurred her horse. “Come on. Let’s find our way to the garrison.”

Merlin stiffened. “Garrison? We are on holiday. I want nothing with any scent of government. Let us find a nice warm inn.”

“With the festival in progress, won’t that be expensive?”

He pulled a little purse out of his pocket and jingled it. It was plainly filled with coin. “A gift to us from the king. As I said, he likes to keep his people content. A nice inn with a roaring fire and a good supply of wine will be just the thing.”

Vendors and merchants were in the process of setting up kiosks in every street. Performers-minstrels, troubadours, acrobats, actors-were everywhere. Ordinary people crowded around them and the merchants. Dover was a huge press of people, all of them in a buoyant mood, all of them eating, drinking, singing off-key, applauding the performers… There were visitors who were easily identifiable by their clothing, Turks, Egyptians, North Africans, Byzantines; and others dressed in a more homogeneous European style.

Nimue and Petronus took it all in with relish. They seemed determined to try every kind of food on offer. After a few minutes, the boy disappeared into the crowd. Merlin grumped to Nimue, “Where is he? My hip is beginning to hurt. And the two of you are making yourselves fat. I want to find an inn and rest.”

“This is a festival, Merlin. Eat.”

Petronus rejoined them more exuberant than before. “There are Frenchmen here. I talked with one, and he says this is the liveliest festival he’s ever seen. I am so proud to be an Englishman now.” The boy looked slightly abashed. He lowered his voice. “I am one, am I not?”

A fat merchant pushed his way past them, stepping on Nimue’s foot, and disappeared into the crowd. She glowered after him. “Are you really certain that’s what you want to be?”

“Who do they represent, these Frenchmen you met?” Merlin made his inquiry with a smile. “What part of France do they hail from?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.” Petronus was mildly embarrassed.

“You do not have the makings of an intelligence officer. I wonder if you are really suited to any kind of government service-except possibly the military.”

A look of alarm spread across the boy’s face; he seemed to have no idea he was being kidded. “Please, Merlin, do not give me to the knights. Service with Lancelot was enough to convince me that-”

“I am only joking, Petronus. You have already made yourself so helpful to me.”

Relief showed. “Thank you, sir. Can I buy some more cakes?”

Merlin sighed. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. But I am hungry, too.”

This amused Nimue. “We already have some. Here.” She handed him a bun. “That carefully constructed public image of yours-the wise man impatient with human weakness-always vanishes when your appetites take over, doesn’t it?”

“Be quiet.”

“Look. There’s a nice inn in the next street. Why don’t we try there?”

“Yes. But first I want another cake.”

Nimue was about to make another wisecrack about Merlin’s appetites, but he shot her a warning glance and she kept quiet.

To Merlin’s disappointment, all the inns in Dover were full to capacity. After they tried five of them, he announced, “Not even the king’s gold can open their doors to us. I suppose we will have to stay at the garrison after all.”

Petronus was still eating breads and cakes. “Suppose they’re full up, too?”

“We are high officials of the king. They will have to make room for us. If need be, some of the soldiers can double up.”

“Two soldiers to a bed.” Nimue was wry. “Like ancient Sparta.”

“It may not come to that. There may be sufficient room. Still, I would prefer not to stop there. That will make it too easy for Arthur and Britomart to find me, for whatever crisis may arise this week. But it seems we have no choice.” A passing juggler bumped against him, and he winced in pain, then scowled. “At least the soldiers will be disciplined enough to behave properly.”

“Oh, yes.” She could not hide her amusement. “No place bespeaks manners and decorum like a barracks room.”

“Stop being disagreeable, Colin.”

Petronus was eating his seventh cake. “The commander here is named Captain-Captain-?”

“Commander Larkin. I have met him at court but I do not know him at all well. Colin has corresponded with him a number of times.” He looked at her. “What is your impression of him?”

She shrugged. “Solid. A military officer. A bureaucrat. There has never been the least flash of wit or irony in any of his communiqués, and certainly no imagination. So he is either very discreet or very dull.”

“Splendid.” Petronus wrinkled his nose. “The weather is so gorgeous. Why don’t we sleep out of doors?”

“Are you joking?” Merlin was tart. “If I spend the night on the ground and waken wet with dew, I will be so stiff you will have to carry me home on a litter.”

And so they made their way to the fort. It sat at the edge of one of the cliffs, overlooking the harbor and commanding a magnificent view of the English Channel. Merlin handed Petronus one of his ingenious viewing devices, a set of lenses supported in a wooden tube. “There.” He pointed. “Your homeland, Petronus.”

The boy took the device and held it to his eye. “I can’t honestly see a great deal. It’s a pity you haven’t been able to make these any more powerful.”

“In time, Petronus. Science and knowledge tend to advance slowly.” He stumbled on a small rock and winced with pain. “Like myself.”

In a few minutes they reached the gate of the fort and knocked. A sentry admitted them and asked them to wait there.

As it turned out, Commander Larkin was away on “official business”; Merlin did not bother to inquire what that meant. They were greeted by his lieutenant, an Irish sergeant named Ewan McGovern. “Merlin. We’ve heard so much about you here. And Colin. We all know your names so well. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Merlin introduced Petronus and explained that they needed a place to stay for the duration of the festival.

“I’m afraid we’re rather crowded in here.” Ewan smiled, apparently embarrassed. “But I think we can find you rooms. If you’ll only be patient for a few moments while we rearrange the living quarters…?”

“Of course. Please, take your time. We do not wish to be more of a burden than is avoidable.”

He vanished, then a few minutes later reappeared to install them in a suite of rooms against the back wall of the garrison. A window overlooked cliffs and the Channel; and a huge fire roared in the hearth. Then he proceeded, happily for everyone concerned, to leave them on their own.

Nimue sighed deeply. “I was afraid he’d feel obligated to entertain us. Which would have meant telling us all his soldier’s stories. You know how the Irish are.”

“Indeed. But as long as he keeps us warm, dry and well fed, I see no reason to complain.”

Petronus ignored all this. “I wonder if I might meet some nice girls here,” he chirped.

“Nice girls?” Merlin sounded incredulous. “In Dover? Like every port town everywhere, it is ridden with whores. And the ones here are notorious for leaving their clients with unexpected souvenirs of their coupling. Britomart always calls them ‘fire ships.’ She insists the men of the garrison be lectured about avoiding them once every month by a physician who is also charged with examining them.”

“The women are earning a living, Merlin.” Nimue was quite serious. “And a poor enough living, at that, I imagine. In a city this full of people, all interacting merrily, the spread of disease is inevitable. Singling out one segment of the population-”

“That is enough.” Merlin turned uncharacteristically stern. “I was not attempting to ‘single anyone out.’ I merely want to warn Petronus that the friendly girls he meets here might have ulterior motives.”

His enthusiasm punctured, Petronus sulked. “According to you, sir, everyone has ulterior motives.”

“And so they do, Petronus. So they do.”

The festival continued for two weeks. Every day more and more revelers arrived, and more and more vendors sprang up-“like toadstools,” Merlin said-to sell them food, drink, clothing and everything else conceivable. Wine and ale were everywhere. The press of the crowds in the streets was increasingly unpleasant for Merlin, and exhilarating for his young companions.

An engineer from London came and set up a mechanical roundabout, and people lined up in large numbers to take a ride. Petronus stood in line for hours and did not want to ride alone, but he was not able to convince either Merlin or Nimue to join him. “I am dizzy enough, from the crowds and the wine,” Merlin told him. “Apparently you are not.”

“You ride that mechanical lift of yours often enough.” Petronus sulked; his fun was being cramped.

“And if this contraption could help me bypass a long flight of stairs, I would ride it, too.”

Nimue complained that she was gaining weight as a result of all the food at the festival.

Merlin told her in a low voice, “Relax, Colin, no one cares how fit or otherwise a scholarly boy may be. If you start acting like a vain girl, you will give the game away.”

As the days passed, Merlin spent more and more time in their quarters, reading and avoiding the crowds quite pointedly.

“Come out with us,” Nimue implored him on the festival’s next-to-last day. “This will be over soon. You won’t have another chance.”

“I am quite content here, thank you. I have procured a lovely manuscript of poems by Catullus, Theocritus and Tibullus from a bookseller in town.”

“Romans and their lovers-both girls and boys.” She clucked her tongue and teased, “An important figure like you, reading such objectionable poetry?”

“Object all you like.” He smiled and sat in a stuffed chair beside the fire to enjoy his reading. “I shall be passing my time among the finest minds Rome produced.”

So Petronus and Nimue went out without their mentor, as they had been doing for days.

Petronus enjoyed passing time at the waterfront, where sailors from all over the Mediterranean could be found, drinking, wenching and spinning exotic tales of faraway lands. He was mesmerized by accounts of knights in Arabia and the djinn, demons and other spirits they encountered and frequently fought.

On that afternoon he managed to meet a group of sailors from a French ship, the Mal de Mer. One of them took a fancy to Petronus and “Colin,” and the three of them went into town to explore the delights on offer.

His name was Jean-Gaston. He was tall, olive-skinned, athletic, he was second mate on the ship, and he exuded the easy charm the French were famous for. Nimue found herself regretting her male disguise; she would have liked to meet Jean-Gaston as her true self. He spoke no English, and she had very little French, so Petronus translated. Being the center of the threesome pleased him. At one point he stammered and refused to translate something Jean-Gaston had said. “It is quite improper,” he explained. “Quite lewd.”

“Good.” She put on an impish grin. “Translate, then.”

He did so, and the two of them giggled and followed the sailor through the crowd.

Late in the day Nimue decided their new friend should meet Merlin. Petronus explained this to him and they headed back in the direction of the garrison. Just as they reached the edge of the festival, Jean-Gaston began to cough uncontrollably. They stopped; Nimue put an arm around him and asked him, through Petronus, if he needed help.

But he could not stop the coughing. His face turned bright red, and blotches of a darker red, mingled with black, began to appear on his hands, his arms, his face, on every area of exposed skin. A moment later he fell to the ground, clutching his throat. In alarm, Nimue told Petronus to run and fetch Merlin. “And make sure he brings his medical kit.”

She bent over the fallen sailor. The dark red blotches had begun to swell into large blisters; his complexion, other than the blotches, turned ghostly white. His skin was hot and feverish. Not knowing what else to do, she took his hand in hers, hoping it might calm him. He kept muttering in French, softly, almost inaudibly. Finally she saw Petronus coming back along the path, with Merlin in tow.

Merlin looked down at the man on the ground and asked, “What is the problem? What has happened?”

Nimue described the course of events.

“It happened that quickly?”

“Yes. He was fine only moments before the coughing began.”

Merlin got down on a knee and felt his wrist. “The pulse is slow and weak.” He looked up. “Very weak. Both of you, back away. Has either of you touched him?”

Nimue said that she had.

“Then quickly, find a clean cloth and wipe your hands. Wipe vigorously. Make sure every trace of him is gone from your skin.” He swabbed his own hands with the hem of his robe.

“What is wrong with him?” Petronus asked.

“I cannot be quite certain, but those reddish-black swellings on his skin… I can only think that they are buboes.” He got to his feet and wiped his hands on his robes once again. “I am afraid that this is plague.”

“No!”

“I have never seen plague before. But this must be it. It conforms to all the descriptions in the medical texts. Let us hope he recovers. Then he will be able to tell us where he might have contracted this. And where he might have spread it. Petronus, run and fetch Sergeant Ewan. Tell him to come at once. At once, do you hear? We must send men into town to learn what may be happening there. There will be other men on his ship who are also infected.”

Petronus was frozen, a look of horror on his face.

“Run, I said!”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment after the boy left, Jean-Gaston heaved a loud sigh. He coughed up a huge quantity of blood. His body shuddered, and he was still.

Merlin took a step slowly, carefully, away from his body. “So much for that hope.”

Nimue impulsively moved to the corpse, plainly wanting to do something to help.

“Do not touch him. He is dead, Colin. Nothing will do any good. We must keep our wits about us. How long were you with him?”

She explained.

“And this struck so quickly? It has all the symptoms of plague, but I have never heard of symptoms developing so rapidly. If plague is what we are actually facing-if he did not have some odd form of the pox or whatever-this may turn into a major crisis.” They both stood over the body, to warn passersby not to touch it and risk contagion. Fortunately, no one seemed to want to. There were a few curious glances, and one woman suggested consulting the local priestess of Bran, “for your sick friend.”

Petronus returned with Sergeant Ewan. Merlin explained what had happened, and what he suspected was the cause. “Have some men come and take the body away and burn it. Caution them not to touch it.”

“Should they wear armor, sir?”

“No, I do not think that will be necessary. But have them wear gloves, and warn them not to come into contact with any exposed skin. Most physicians who have known the plague think it is probably airborne, but precautions will not hurt.”

“Yes, sir. And I will send more men into town to warn everyone that there may be plague here. We cannot keep the populace in ignorance of the danger they may be facing.”

“They will panic, Ewan. That will not be good.”

“Let them. If nothing else, it will clear them all out of Dover.”

“But if some of them are already infected with plague, they will spread it to every corner of southern England. No, it would be better to cordon off the town and quarantine everyone here.”

“That would take more men than I have. There are seven major roads out of town, and any number of small footpaths.”

“You will have to find the men to staff inspection points on all of them. Erect roadblocks.”

“And you think that will not cause a panic?”

Merlin sighed. “We must take the chance, I suppose. We have never had to deal with a thing like this before. Every precaution must be taken.”

Merlin looked at the dead sailor, then back at Ewan. “We cannot be certain this is plague until… well, until it becomes a plague. But we can hardly afford to take any risks. We do not want the whole country infected. I will write a message to the king. You must send one of your men to Camelot to deliver it to him. He will instruct Britomart that we need more soldiers here.”

“And if my men panic?”

“We will have to hope they do not. England’s future may depend on what we do here. Enforce whatever discipline is necessary. Colin, here, has some experience at planning large-scale operations. He will give you whatever assistance he can.” Merlin nodded to Nimue, indicating that she should go with Ewan.

“Will you be staying to direct all our operations, sir?”

“I must return to Camelot as quickly as possible. If plague actually does break out, Arthur will need my counsel.” Again he looked at the body. “More than ever.”

Ewan and Nimue prepared plans for the soldiers of the garrison to place a cordon around the town and not permit anyone to leave. It was a larger operation than either of them had anticipated. The roadblocks required would be substantial-otherwise people could simply either walk or ride around them-and the manpower daunting. They planned shifts of men to rotate at the checkpoints. The garrison was stretched very thin. With luck, all plans would be in place by sunrise; with more luck, Britomart would post more men to Dover quickly.

A small group of men was attached to Merlin who, assisted by Petronus, monitored news from the town. The least indication of unusual illness, or of civil unrest fueled by alarming rumor, was to be reported to them. Merlin instructed them to ask discreet questions to try to determine what other ports the French ship had visited before coming to Dover. These soldiers were also to work in shifts. A small detachment of men was assigned to build a pyre and burn Jean-Gaston’s body.

Then that night another sailor from the Mal de Mer died, in exactly the same way as Jean-Gaston. Not much later a third man died, this one from a Greek ship, the Sophia, that had come to Dover after a trading stop in North Africa.

Rumor spread quickly among all the festival-goers in the town. The word plague was bandied about freely, and the town and its visitors were palpably edgy. Then, when a fourth sailor, from still another ship, took ill, complete hysteria erupted. Foreign visitors flocked back to their ships. English visitors hastened to pack and leave for their home-towns; residents of Dover took to the countryside. Merlin and Ewan scarcely had time to react; in a startlingly short time-before midnight struck-Dover was nearly deserted. The roadblocks did little good to halt the exodus or even to slow it. And the plague, if plague it really was, was loose in England.

Next afternoon, with Dover quite empty of people, Merlin decided he would be of most use back at Camelot.

Ewan was alarmed. “You can’t leave me, sir, not with all this happening. Remember, I am only a sergeant.”

“With the people gone, there is not much for you to do. Is Captain Larkin not due back shortly?”

“On the day of the equinox, sir. Tomorrow.”

“There should be no problem, then. You have done a first-class job, Sergeant, and I will make certain to tell Britomart and the king. Do you have a carriage you could spare for us?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make the arrangements. When do you wish to leave? First thing in the morning?”

“No, now, I think. There is no time to be lost. We must travel all night to reach Camelot, if need be.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll send a spare driver along, then, so you will lose as little time as possible.”

“Excellent. We will leave our two soldiers with you. And you will of course brief Captain Larkin on all that has happened in Dover?”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Splendid. We will get our things together and leave as soon as possible, then. Our two soldiers will remain here, to replace them and give what help they can.

“Please instruct Captain Larkin that we will expect daily communications from Dover, advising us on the situation here. The residents will have to return, eventually. There may be further outbreaks of illness or, worse, riots. We will need to know what is happening here. And of course you must include any news you may hear of things in the surrounding countryside.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

It took little over an hour for Merlin and his aides to pack for the journey back to Camelot. By that time, Ewan had their carriage prepared. The three of them climbed in and braced themselves for the long ride home.

Nimue was in a glum mood. “I’ve never lived through anything like this.”

“No one has. No one here, at any rate.”

“It’s going to rain.”

“This is England. It is always going to rain.”

No one laughed at Merlin’s little joke, not even Merlin himself. The carriage moved forward with a considerable jolt, and they were off. Petronus asked still again if they could stop at Stonehenge to witness sunrise on the morning of the equinox. “I think we should get there just about at the right time.”

“We are facing a national emergency, Petronus.” Merlin looked out the window, not at the boy. “There is hardly time for sightseeing. Besides, see those clouds building up? I doubt there will be a sunrise for anyone to see.”

“The ceremony, then? Surely a few minutes cannot make such a big difference?”

“When this is all behind us, I will bring you to Stonehenge myself and give you a tour.”

Nimue could not resist. “And what better tour guide than the wizard who built it with his magical powers?”

Merlin snorted and shifted so his back was to them.

The first leg of their route took them directly through the heart of Dover. Streets were deserted; abandoned animals looked in vain for their owners; one lone ship remained in the harbor, its crew seemingly frozen into immobility; it all had the eeriest air. Nimue said she had never seen a place so melancholy.

“Hell may be coming to England, Colin. It may already have arrived. None of us will survive if we do not learn to love one another. Willful cruelty is the usual pastime of the human race. Let us hope this will change that. Arthur and I want to make a world where-” Unexpectedly he broke off. “No, this is no time for a speech. I am the greatest fool the world has known.”

She put her hand on top of his, hoping the gesture reassured him, and they rode on in silence. Before long the rhythmic motion of the carriage and the clatter of the horses’ hooves had lulled them all into a gentle sleep.

Not long after dark the rain began, a fierce, driving downpour. The noise of it woke the passengers. They shuttered the windows and rode on, quite safely encapsulated, without much conversation. Nimue offered blankets to the drivers, to help keep them dry, but it was useless. The blankets were soaked through in no time at all.

After a time, they slept again, all but Merlin, who was preoccupied wondering if the natural calamity he feared would be the undoing of the England he and Arthur had made. In time, he slept, too.

Early the next morning, well before dawn, the carriage’s pace slowed almost to a stop. It woke Merlin and Petronus. The others slept on.

“What’s wrong?” Petronus asked softly.

Merlin held a finger to his lips and said quietly, “There is no sense disturbing Colin.” Then he leaned out the window and called softly to the driver, “What is happening? Why have we slowed?”

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle that showed no signs of letting up. The sky was still overcast, almost black, though occasional breaks in the cloud cover could be seen. The driver, himself drowsing, did not hear him. On the seat beside him the second man, his relief, was fast asleep. “How they can sleep in this rain-” Merlin muttered.

He repeated his question a bit more loudly, and this time the man responded. “The rain, sir, has turned the road to mud. We can only go so fast. On top of that, the road is clogged with travelers. Most of them are on foot.”

Merlin squinted and looked up the road ahead of them. Through the rain and the darkness he could see that there were enormous numbers of people on the road. They progressed in silence and in darkness; the rain had extinguished whatever lights they might have had. “Travelers? In such huge numbers? Who on earth can they be?”

The man shrugged. “People fleeing from Dover. We’ve finally caught up with them.”

“Has everyone from Dover taken the same road, then?”

“And I think a lot of them must be pilgrims, heading to the shrine.”

“Shrine? Oh. Stonehenge.”

“Yes, sir. It’s too bad. They won’t see the sunrise.”

“They will face worse disappointments soon enough.”

Before long the press of people forced the carriage to slow to the pace of a man walking. Merlin suggested trying to find a way around the crowd.

“Look at them, sir. They are all around us. Everywhere.”

And so they were. Hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands, as far as Merlin could see. They crossed the plain, clogged the road, made further progress excruciatingly slow. Soon enough, Merlin realized, it might be necessary to stop altogether. He said so to Petronus, who did not try to disguise his delight. “Then I will be able to see the monument after all!”

“Yes, I suppose so. Assuming the plague is not spreading through this crowd even as we speak.”

The carriage inched forward. The driver woke his companion, and they tried shouting, “Make way for the king’s advisor!” It had no effect.

“Tell me what it’s like, sir. What should I expect?” Anticipation showed in Petronus’s face.

But Merlin’s mood was growing darker by the minute. “Expect a crowd of superstitious fools.”

“But-”

“You have seen sketches of Stonehenge, surely.”

“Yes, sir, but-”

“Expect to be disappointed, then. For all its reputation, Stonehenge is not all that large or imposing. People always expect something on a titanic scale, like the Pyramids or the Colosseum in Rome. This is nowhere near so massive. There is a stone circle, uprights with stone lintels connecting them. Inside, there are five more of these ‘trilithons’ as they are called, uprights and lintels, forming a rough horseshoe. Then near the center is a huge stone used as an altar. And there are a few other bits of debris; they have been given fanciful names like the Heel Stone and the Slaughter Stone. But for all the whimsy, they are only rock. It is nothing to be excited about.”

“I’m excited, sir.”

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it. Wouldn’t you have been, when you were my age?”

“I was never your age. And even when I was, I would never have admitted it.”

In the distance ahead Stonehenge appeared, lit by scores of torches. The great stone circle glowed eerily, almost pre ternaturally. Merlin wondered why the rain did not put them out.

But the rain was easing; within a few moments it almost stopped. It had done its job; the plain was a sea of mud. They would be lucky if the carriage wheels did not become mired in it.

Then there was the sound of another carriage behind them. Merlin leaned out the window to look. It was an enormous thing, painted jet-black, drawn by a team of six black horses. On either side of the driver torches burned brilliantly. “Morgan,” he whispered softly to himself. Then to Petronus he said, “Apparently the high priestess of England is not daunted by terrible weather.”

“They say she can control it, sir. Maybe that’s why the rain is stopping now.”

“Do not be preposterous.” To the driver Merlin suggested, “The crowd will part for Morgan. Follow her carriage and we will make quick progress as far as the monument, at least.”

And the crowd did indeed part for their priestess. Merlin’s driver steered their coach behind hers. The quick forward jolt woke Nimue. She rubbed her eyes and asked what was happening.

Petronus excitedly told her, “We’re going to see Stonehenge and the equinox rites.”

Merlin grumped and kept his gaze outside.

Hordes of people surrounded the great stone monument, all of them seemingly with torches; they passed the fire one to another. The great stones glowed and shimmered in the predawn. They might have been fired by lightning. But he noticed that all the torches were outside the stone circle. Presumably the worshippers were waiting outside, away from the altar stone, in deference to their priestess.

Morgan’s coach drew to a halt just at the paved pathway that led into the heart of Stonehenge. Merlin’s stopped just behind it.

The crowd fell silent with anticipation. Slowly the door of Morgan’s carriage opened and she descended. She was dressed magnificently, in voluminous black robes embroidered with silver. Just behind her, her son Mordred emerged from the carriage, looking self-conscious, dressed like her in black and silver.

When she saw Merlin and the others get out of their carriage, she crossed to him. “What are you doing here?”

Merlin resented her tone. He put on a sarcastic grin and said, “Why, Morgan. How nice to see you.”

“I asked you what you are doing here. I can’t recall a time when you were not disdainful of the ancient, solemn rites that made England what she is.”

He was all sweet innocence. “We’ve come to see the monument. My assistant never has, you know. Surely you do not object to our visiting this sacred place?” He did not mean a word of it, and they both knew it.

“You are a sacrilegious old fool, Merlin. I will not have the equinox defiled by your presence. The ritual must be postponed.”

“Postpone the movement of the sun? Really, Morgan, I had no idea even you had that kind of power.”

“Do not be sarcastic, Merlin. You said yourself this is a holy place.”

“Please, Morgan, do go on with what you came for.” He made a sweeping gesture at the crowd. “I give you my word I will not interfere in any way. Look at the audience you have.”

“Congregation,” she corrected him.

“Congregation, then. These people have come from all over England to hear you invoke the sun god. My assistant Petronus is especially eager to witness the rites. It would be terrible of you to disappoint them all.”

She stiffened and said nothing; she was obviously turning over the options in her mind. After a moment she turned to Mordred and told him, “Signal the celebrants that we are about to begin.”

“Yes, Mother.” In a flash he disappeared into the crowd.

She clapped her hands, and from her carriage an attendant produced a high stool. He placed it in front of her. Then she held out a hand and he helped her climb up onto it. Thus towering over the crowd, she intoned, “People of England!”

Her voice thundered, quite uncharacteristically. Merlin wondered who had coached her in the way to project it.

From seemingly nowhere, a band of musicians appeared out of the throng and played a low, mournful fanfare. And the vast crowd fell silent.

“The sun is dying.” Morgan intoned the words solemnly, and they echoed across the plain.

To Nimue, Merlin whispered, “It is doing no such thing. It is merely following a course lower in the sky. It does so every year.”

“Soon enough,” Morgan went on, “it will be gone from us, only to be gloriously resurrected come springtime.” Her voice echoed across the plain. The people were rapt.

Merlin glanced at Petronus. The boy was quite caught up in the moment. He watched Morgan wide-eyed, as if her flummery made any sense. Merlin shook his head and whispered to Nimue, “I really must teach the boy more firmly.”

“And while you’re at it, why don’t you teach all the rest of them? You will never cure humanity of this, Merlin. It means too much to them.”

Morgan went on and on about the sun, the gods, the promise of a resurrected life after death, as demonstrated each year by the sun itself. Merlin wanted her to get on with it; she showed no inclination to do so.

Overhead there were occasional breaks in the clouds. They grew more and more numerous, more and more frequent, and Merlin realized that Morgan was extemporizing to kill time in hope that the sun itself might become visible.

Finally a few shafts of sunlight broke through the clouds. Morgan continued her oration. But when the sun began to disappear once again, she ended it quickly and clapped her hands another time. “Let the autumn rites begin.”

The musicians, who had obviously been rehearsed, formed themselves into a column and began to play a mournful march. Young girls with torches made a column behind them. Morgan, followed by her son, fell into place at the rear. And slowly, stately, the processional advanced into the heart of Stonehenge.

Merlin, Petronus and Nimue joined the ceremonial march. Petronus was plainly excited by the crowd, the music, the hundreds of flaming torches and the air of solemnity. Nimue’s face reflected casual interest, no more. Merlin leaned close to her and whispered, “Our young friend is almost quivering with expectation. Why aren’t you?”

“I grew up in Morgan’s household, remember? Back when I was still living as Nimue, not Colin. I have seen her preside over this sort of thing before. When I was a child, it was all very exciting. Now…”

“Are you trying to imply that Petronus is still a child?”

“Stop trying to stir up trouble, Merlin.”

The torches still shone brightly in the half-light. Glowing patterns danced on the monument’s stones as the procession moved in to the heart of the monument. The clouds overhead closed up again; the sun, which they were there to celebrate, was lost completely behind them.

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.