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 stalked 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
“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!”
One of the squires managed to strike a flint. In an instant a torch was blazing.
“Here!” Merlin called. “Bring it here!”
In a moment he had the torch in his hand. Leaning heavily on his cane with the other hand, he limped toward the spot where Arthur had been.
The king lay soaked in blood. A dagger stuck out of his chest. He was unconscious. Merlin gasped. “In the name of everything human! Arthur, no!”
Peter appeared out of the darkness behind him.
“Run and get my medical kit. Quickly!”
Peter ran.
Bedivere, hearing the commotion, rushed into the barn. “What has happened?” Then he saw Arthur and cried, “No! No! This cannot be!”
Peter returned with Merlin’s medical things. He quickly got down on his knees-as quickly as his arthritis would let him-and examined the king. After a moment he looked to Bedivere. “Fortunately, this is not too deep. The assassin missed his heart.”
Bedivere thanked the gods.
“Thank our good luck. I should be able to dress this wound as soon as the bleeding slows.” He fell to cleaning it. Then a thought occurred. “Bed, I told you this is not a deep wound.”
“What of that? We’re fortunate. Arthur is. He’s always had good luck.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“Then-?”
