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.
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-”
