“And well they should be. This plan of his-”

“He has gone back inside. He said he wanted to fetch that supercilious jester of his. No one has seen the boy all morning.” He looked around impatiently. “Arthur should be out here, helping to impose some order on all this. But you know how he likes to make a dramatic entrance.”

“Honestly, Simon. You act as if he has never traveled before. How much order is needed? How many of these journeys has he made?”

Simon shrugged. “The king loves his country.” He glanced up at the sky. “He should be joining us shortly. Along with that rude young man of his.”

“John.”

“Precisely. Oh dear, some of the knights are squabbling.” He rushed off to try to calm them.

A group of musicians emerged from the castle, playing a fanfare. Merlin turned in their direction, expecting to see Arthur. But instead, Morgan le Fay swept out into the courtyard, her black robes swirling magnificently. A few paces behind her was her son Mordred, looking even paler and more sickly than usual in the morning light.

Simon crossed to her, rather anxiously it appeared. They exchanged a few words; before long, neither of them looked happy. Merlin decided it would be wise to get between them.

Approaching them with a smile, he asked, “Is there some problem? Good morning, Morgan, Mordred.”

“There is a problem indeed. This fool”-she indicated Simon-“refuses to obey my instructions.”

Simon stiffened. “I am the majordomo of Camelot. I answer to no one but the king.”

“Now, now, Simon.” Merlin was all conciliatory unction. He turned to Morgan and asked her what she required.

“A carriage. I have no intention of letting this expedition proceed without me.”

“I see.” Merlin made a show of rubbing his chin pensively. “I was not aware you were planning to come along. Did Arthur not order you to remain here?”

“Of course I will come. If only to make certain that fool Gildas remembers his place.”

“I see.” Scanning the crowd, he asked Simon, “Where is Gildas, anyway? The good bishop does not seem to be in evidence.”

Simon shrugged. “The king only mentioned two carriages, one for the Stone and its shrine, one for yourself and your new valet.” He wrinkled his nose at Robert.

Morgan smiled a political smile. “Perhaps we might ride along with you, Merlin.”

Alarmed, Merlin said that there was likely to be much more room in the Stone’s transport. “Besides, the king’s orders…”

Morgan stiffened slightly. “I see. Very well, then.” She gestured to Mordred that he should get into the coach; he did so glumly.

Simon put a hand on the boy’s arm, to stop him.

But she was not finished. Looking from Merlin to Simon she said sternly, “It would behoove the two of you to remember who I am. Who we are.”

“Morgan, we know.” Merlin was in no mood to be lectured. Why did she not simply go back inside the castle and let the matter rest? What could she possibly hope to accomplish by needling everyone?

“I am a member of England’s royal house. If something should happen to my brother, I stand next in line to the throne.”

“I would not be too smug about saying so.”

She ignored this. “Even if the barons should bristle at the thought of a woman on the throne…”

“Yes, Morgan?”

“Even so, Arthur has no heir. My son Mordred would then inherit the crown.”

“Such a heavy crown for such a frail boy.” Merlin was suddenly amused at her morbid seriousness.

She glared at him, angry at his insouciance. Simon pointedly stood between the two of them and the carriage door. Morgan tried to push Mordred into the carriage but Simon quite effectively blocked his way. Morgan glared and put a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “Come. We will discuss this with your uncle.” In a moment they were lost in the press of people.

As they left, Merlin whispered to Simon, “She has a point, you know. Despite all her pretentious balderdash, she is next in line for the throne. You would do well to show her a bit more deference.”

“The way you do?” Simon scanned the crowd, watchful for more trouble.

“I have known Morgan almost as long as I have known Arthur. I know her moods and her caprices; I know just how far I can taunt her. And I know that hiding behind my titles would be useless, if she was really angry at me.”

Simon stared at him blankly. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“Only this: When handling a venomous serpent, it is best to use a light touch. And Morgan has more venom than any serpent I know of.”

Peter of Darrowfield came out of the castle, carrying a pack. He joined Merlin and Robert. After bidding them good morning he asked, “Where are our horses?”

“Horses?” Merlin laughed. “With my poor back? I have ridden enough horses to last me till doomsday. We will be riding in this carriage.”

“Ah, I see. If you don’t mind, I’ll get in now. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well.”

“Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

More musicians appeared, playing still another fanfare, this one slow and regal in tone. Arthur emerged from the castle, dressed in his best battle armor and accompanied by Bishop Gildas, who looked more self-satisfied than Merlin had ever seen him, and John of Paintonbury, who looked quite out of his depth.

They walked slowly, deliberately, in accord with the music. Arthur looked neither to his left nor right, but kept his gaze magnificently forward; no Byzantine emperor could have looked more regally aloof.

But it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. John was tottering as he walked; and he was mumbling something to himself. Arthur and Gildas seemed not to notice.

John stumbled but caught himself and kept walking. His complexion flushed. He coughed violently. Then he started waving his arms about wildly and shouting, “The dragons! Keep them way from me!” The sound of his distressed voice carried clearly over the music.

Merlin rushed forward to help the boy. “John! John, what is it? Tell me what is wrong.”

John fell into his arms, and Merlin eased him to the ground. The boy was hot, feverish. Red-black blotches began to appear on his skin. “The dragons!” he cried. “Their fires are devouring me!”

His body gave an enormous shudder and was still. Merlin checked for a pulse and breathing, then looked at Arthur. “He is dead.” His voice held a trace of astonishment.

Arthur’s face was a mask; it might have been made of wax. Slowly, in a tone so low it was barely audible, he asked, “Is it-?”

But before Merlin could respond, someone in the crowd cried out, “Plague! The plague is here!”

People scattered. People rushed about madly, as if mere activity might protect them. Up in Merlin’s tower a dozen ravens took to the air, squawking shrilly. Yet nothing seemed to offset the awful stillness of John’s body.

SIX

The mere suggestion of plague seemed almost to have a magical power, or at any rate a superstitious one. People fled into the castle or to the various wooden buildings surrounding it, as if to be in an enclosed space with the plague-infected might be safer than being out of doors with them. In only moments, most of the crowd in the courtyard had vanished; the only ones left were Arthur, Merlin, Nimue, Robert, Peter, Gildas, Morgan and Mordred in the carriage, and a few knights. Peter of Darrowfield stood apart, evidently uncertain whether he should be so forward as to join the king’s inner circle.

Merlin watched the panic with a sort of detached alarm. “This should not be happening,” he said softly.

Arthur’s face was stone. “And so the plague comes to Camelot.”

“No one touch the body.” Merlin spoke much more forcefully than usual for him, even though no one had made a move to touch John’s corpse. “I must conduct an examination as soon as possible.”