By early afternoon, calm was beginning to emerge out of the morning’s chaos. Most of Marmaduke’s men had either fled or surrendered, those that weren’t wounded or dead. Bedivere took charge of seeing that all of Arthur’s knights who had been held prisoner were fed.
The fog was finally beginning to dissipate; after so long, it seemed a miracle. But the winds that scattered the mist were cold; they carried the first breath of winter. And though they dissipated the mist, they brought heavy gray storm clouds.
Arthur kept a careful eye on the sky, fearing snow. “The last thing we need,” he whispered to Bedivere. “Our going has been heavy enough already. With an early snowfall… This chill breeze will be hard enough on us. I can taste the ice on it.”
“We’ve brought cloaks and blankets,” Bedivere offered. “And there are trees for firewood. We’ll be fine, Arthur.”
“That isn’t what frightens me.”
“Then…”
“Do you suppose there really are gods? Do you suppose Lulua could be right?”
Bedivere put a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten. Come on.” As they were walking to the cook-fires he added, “Besides, if it gets cold enough for the ground to freeze, it will speed up our progress. Perhaps that is the gods’ gift.”
“Why is everything they do so ambiguous?”
“There is nothing ambiguous about winter, Arthur.”
People whispered that the wind must be Merlin’s doing, and when the rumors reached his ears he grew irritable.
But he dutifully tended to the wounded, cleaning stab wounds, dressing cuts and bruises, applying salves where he thought they would help. One of the squires had a broken leg, and he set the bone and applied splints. Peter assisted him, as best he could, and Merlin instructed Robert in ways to treat the simpler, more routine cases. Neither of them had any real medical training but they both learned quickly. A good many of the knights refused their ministrations, claiming to be men enough to brave out the healing process. Merlin was amused and thought them foolish but said nothing.
Once all of Arthur’s men and their retainers had been cared for, he turned his attention to the remainder of Marmaduke’s people. At one point Arthur asked him how it was going.
“If it is any comfort to you, Arthur, their wounds and injuries are, for the most part, worse than ours. I suppose that is a testament to the skill of Camelot’s fighting men. One or two of them will almost certainly die.”
“But how many of our men are fit to fight?”
“Nearly all of them. Ninety percent of them, at least.”
Arthur dealt personally with Lulua and Marmaduke. He interrogated them as thoroughly as he could, trying to find out whether his sister Morgan was up to something nefarious. The cross-examination proved inconclusive. Lulua refused to say much of anything except to make veiled-and not-so-veiled-threats against Arthur’s kingship. When it was clear they would tell him nothing useful, he ordered Bedivere to have them taken to Camelot under armed guard, to await trial for treason. The most badly wounded of Arthur’s men were to go with them.
“Put Kay in charge of them. It will do him good to get home. Half a dozen mounted knights should be sufficient to guard our corpulent prisoners. I doubt either of them has much fight left.”
“Yes, but we will have to protect our own people against possible hostility.”
Arthur frowned. “You’re right. Consult with Kay, and send whoever you think you need to.”
Bedivere gave a cursory glance at the two prisoners. “We have some of those large packhorses from Scotland. They’ll have to ride those. Ordinary mounts would buckle under their weight in no time.”
“Why burden unsuspecting horses with all that flesh? Let them walk.”
“All the way? Arthur, they’ll never make it.”
He smiled. “I think they will. The exercise will take weight off them. And if they succumb…” He shrugged.
“Leave them to rot in the nearest ditch. But why punish the horses?”
The party left for Camelot soon after.
Of Arthur’s men, the one in the worst condition was Accolon, the young French knight. His skin was covered in bloodred blotches, the largest of which were slowly turning black, and he had a raging fever. Merlin checked on his condition hourly. He was not worsening but not improving either.
Merlin ordered him removed to Marmaduke’s house. “All this cold dampness cannot be good for him. Carry him gently.”
The servants he gave these orders to balked at them. “He has the plague!” one of them cried out. “We’ll catch it and die.”
“Nonsense. You must be careful not to touch him, that is all. The contagion may be spread through bodily contact.”
“And it may not be,” said another of them. “Plagues are divine visitations.”
“Divine or not, if Accolon was spreading disease, we would all be ill by now. Take him, and be careful.”
The servants were plainly unhappy. They sulked and appealed to other leaders, ultimately even to the king himself. And at every stage they were told to do as Merlin ordered. Finally, glumly, and facing the threat of a whipping for disobedience, they wrapped Accolon in sheets of coarse fabric and carried him off to the little wooden building Marmaduke had called his palace.
Merlin had not eaten since the battle and his capture. Once he had seen to all the wounded, he made his way to Bedivere’s command station. Three cook-fires were blazing. Knights, squires, servants huddled round them. Arthur was there.
“Merlin.” Arthur was having a goblet of wine. “Is everything ready? All the men treated who need it?”
Merlin nodded. “I smell meat. I have had nothing since we were captured. I am hungry enough to eat Lulua.”
“I thought you said you want meat. Lulua is pure fat.”
Bedivere offered him a plate loaded with meat and fruit. “Here. Eat your fill-there’s plenty more. One thing Marmaduke did was to keep plenty of good food on hand. This roast beef is the best I’ve had in ages.”
Merlin gaped at the plate. “So much. Not even I could finish it all.”
“A minute ago you were famished.” Arthur laughed. “Eat up. Our host is gone, but we can still enjoy his hospitality. I had forgotten how pleasant warfare can be.”
“Not to mention gluttony. Go easy on that wine, Arthur.”
“Nonsense. We have a victory to celebrate. You should have some yourself.”
Merlin ate pensively. “I need sleep. I got none in that bloody cage. When I’m finished eating, I mean to take a good nap. Have someone wake me in an hour. I want to keep an eye on Accolon.”
Arthur took a long swallow of wine. “How bad is he?” “I do not know yet. If he has the plague-”
“He has. What else could it be?”
“If he has the plague,” Merlin repeated with emphasis, “he should be watched carefully. This will be my first opportunity to study the disease’s progress.”
“He will die. Another one.”
Merlin looked into his eyes. There was no need for him to speak. They both knew what the king was thinking, and there was nothing he could say.
Bedivere asked Merlin if he wanted more venison.
“No. No, thank you, Bed. Just find me a nice, warm blanket so I can curl up somewhere and get some rest.”
“We’re building fresh fires. All of Marmaduke’s have burned too low to be of any use.”
“Good. We will need them.” He looked up at the deepening cloud cover. “At least this cold will staunch the plague.” He added, “If plague this is.”
Merlin napped, and an hour later he woke to Bedivere shaking him. The air had grown still colder; a stiff breeze blew from the north. Merlin had wrapped himself in a blanket, but he had kicked it off in his sleep. He was shivering with the cold.
“What on earth-?”
“You wanted to be wakened, remember?”
“Since when do you care what I want?”
“Don’t be disagreeable, Merlin. You have to check on Accolon. Have a cup of wine and go see to him.”
Slowly, stiffly, Merlin got to his feet. “Oh, this bloody arthritis. If there are any gods, they must hate humanity or they would never have devised winter.”
“You complain like a soldier.”
“Do not be rude, Bedivere.”
He spent a few minutes warming himself by the largest of the cook-fires with a cup of spiced wine. Then, accompanied by a servant and leaning heavily on his cane, he headed off to the “palace.”
As Bedivere had predicted, the muddy ground was freezing. The morning’s battle had left it rough, uneven. Merlin found the footing difficult. The roads in the heart of Paintonbury were not quite frozen yet; the mud was thick and viscous. He found it even more unpleasant. Most of the residents had fled. Only the elderly and a few children were left. Small as it was, the village had the saddest appearance.
Two torches blazed brilliantly at either side of the entrance to the “palace.” One was too close to the wall; the wood was charring. As Merlin approached, an elderly man came out of the building and bowed to him. “Ralph of Paintonbury, at your service, sir.”
Merlin pointed to the charring wood. “You had better do something about that. This place will go up in smoke.”
“Would that matter, sir?”
“Possibly to the people inside.” He introduced himself. “You were in service to Marmaduke?”
“Yes, sir. I am his majordomo.”
Merlin laughed. “A majordomo, here. This is not much of a domo to be major of, is it?”
“When I was a young man, I was a warrior, in service to Marmaduke’s father.”
Merlin ignored this. “I sent a sick man to be tended here. Where is he? Take me to him.”
Ralph made a slight bow. “This way, sir. One of your men is with him, sir.”
“Peter, yes. But what is that awful smell?”
Just at that moment, Peter appeared in the doorway. “Merlin. I was just coming to look for you. I need fresh air. I’m not certain keeping Accolon here is a good idea.”
Merlin waved Ralph away and began to walk past Peter into the building. “Why not? We have to keep him warm and dry if he is to-”
“The poor man has to breathe. Can you not smell the awful odor?”
Merlin stopped in his tracks. “Good heavens. What an awful stench. It smells like-”
“I’m afraid that is exactly what it is. Rotting garbage mixed with-well. Let’s just say that Marmaduke was an even worse pig than we thought. Are you certain you want to come in?”
“I have to check on Accolon, stench or no stench.”
The interior of the palace, such as it was, was lit by torches. They were set too far apart to do much good against the gloom. But more than the darkness, Merlin was struck by an increasingly strong, increasingly unpleasant odor.
“It’s over there,” Peter indicated. “There is an entire room full of it. Apparently the concept of sanitation had not penetrated with Marmaduke. There are open pits dug in the floor where they-well, you understand.”
“A full room? You are joking.”
“I’m afraid not, Merlin. Would you care to see it? Aside from the foul stuff itself, there are worms, centipedes, rats… I’ve seen to it that Accolon is as far away from it as possible.”
“Very wise.” He sighed. “At least Marmaduke confined it to only one room. Which way?” He held up his fingers and pinched his nose. “You are right. Marmaduke is a pig in more ways than we realized.”
Peter led him along a hall to the rear of the palace. Torches flickered; room after room opened up as they passed along the corridor. The awful odor abated somewhat, but it was always there.
In a room with no windows, lit by three torches, lay Accolon. Merlin did a quick examination. “He seems no worse than before. But we must move him. Find a room with windows, take him there and let him get fresh air.”
“Windows? As far as I’ve found, there are none. The entire building is as close as this room.”
Again Merlin heaved a sigh. “Let us get him out of here. Breathing air this foul cannot be good for him. Find servants to carry him.”
Peter went; Merlin followed him to the entrance. Old Ralph was waiting there, leaning casually against the front of the building.
“What a horrible man your master was. Did he ever bathe or clean himself? Did anyone, at his court?”
Ralph ignored the question and spat on the ground.
“Answer me, old man.”
Ralph laughed. “Who are you to make sneering references to anyone’s age?”
Merlin took him by the collar. “We have a seriously ill man inside.”
Unruffled, Ralph spit again. “I thought it was odd, you bringing him here.”
“We did not know what a sty your overlord occupied. There must be other buildings here. Cleaner ones.”
“If there are, I’ve never noticed them.”
Merlin released him. “An entire village of swine. What about the fat witch, Lulua? She did not live in this foul hamlet. Where was her residence?”
Ralph reached up and removed Merlin’s hand from his collar. “Lulua occupied a big old mill a mile and a half from here.” He smiled and pointed to the muddy rivulet. “Downstream.”
“Where? Which way is it?”
Ralph pointed casually to the muddy brook. “Just follow that stream.”
“That… that tiny trickle of mud?”
Ralph leaned back against the lintel of the palace door. “That rivulet floods every time it rains. You’d be surprised how much fury it can unleash. I’m surprised it hasn’t left its banks already, with all the rain we’ve had. Besides, it joins a larger stream.”
Just then a servant approached with a message from Arthur. “A messenger from Camelot has finally made it to us. There is a letter for you.”
Merlin focused on Ralph. “Two miles downstream, you say?”
Ralph spit again, then nodded. Merlin turned to the servant. “Let us get back to the king.”
There was indeed a courier from Camelot. Arthur was walking briskly about the camp, overseeing everything. Bedivere was at his side. Most of the wounded were fit for travel; a few required more time for healing and rest. Everyone had been fed amply. A crew of servants was digging trenches for latrines.
Arthur scratched his head. “No one can seem to find any sanitary facilities, so we have to make our own. What did the residents do, I wonder.”
“Trust me, Arthur,” Merlin said in a low voice. “It is not something you want to inquire into.”
“Tell me, what have you learned?”
“No, Arthur, I really-”
“Tell me!”
So Merlin described the interior of Marmaduke’s palace. “I have had Accolon taken there. He needs to be kept out of the elements. But that place cannot be healthy. I am told Lulua occupied a large old mill a few miles upriver. We should take him there, along with any other wounded men who may need more care.”
“Excellent. Before you go, though, there is this.” He produced a letter. “From Colin at Camelot.”
Merlin took the letter and unsealed it. It was in Nimue’s hand and was headed Confidential. Only for Merlin.
Merlin,
Reports from around the country have slowed due to these awful autumn rains. But the state of affairs, as near as I can determine, is this:
Cooler weather seems to have slowed the plague’s progress, as you expected it would. The area around Dover has been hardest hit, naturally, and the nearby towns have all reported outbreaks. There have been a few cases reported as far west as London. We have received no news of plague farther west than that.
Camelot, except for the death of John, has been spared. Not one more case has erupted here. Perhaps that is because we were quite prompt and diligent in cremating John’s body and having the ashes buried, not scattered.
There are reports that in some sections of the country social standards are breaking down. Large numbers of people are drinking much more heavily than is usual, and even larger numbers are engaging in orgiastic sexual abandon. (We have had tentative news that the same thing is happening across Europe, wherever this plague has erupted.) But with the plague on the wane, that will stop in time. And if it does not, it will be a problem for local authorities. In due course order will return, as it has already begun to do.
It may be premature to be optimistic, but it appears that the worst of this crisis is behind us.
Nimue
Merlin folded the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. When he was finished reading he noticed that Perceval had joined Arthur and Bedivere. The three were conferring, presumably about how best to reach the spot where the Stone of Bran had been buried.
Perceval was saying, “I’m not certain how we should proceed. We were more lost in that bloody fog than we realized.”
Arthur told him, “We have maps with us. It should not be too difficult to find our bearings and decide how to proceed.”
Merlin interrupted their discussion. “Let me see who else should be removed to Lulua’s mill. There should not be many, I do not imagine. Marmaduke’s warriors were… less than skillful. Thankfully.”
“I think we should spend a day or two here before we move on.” Arthur told Perceval to go and check the maps, then turned back to Merlin. “A good rest will do us all good. Can’t you treat Accolon and the others here?”
“They should be kept warm, indoors. And the buildings in this awful hamlet are pigsties. It will be easier to keep them warm and tend to their needs in the mill. Assuming Lulua was more fastidious than Marmaduke, that is.”
“She would almost have to be, from what you’ve told me. I want to go and inspect Marmaduke’s little castle myself.”
Merlin looked at him inquiringly.
“Call it morbid curiosity.”
“Of course. But before you do it, Arthur, might I suggest that you get out of those tattered clothes? You look a good deal less than kingly.”
Arthur grinned. “There were times during the civil wars when I looked considerably less kingly than this. But you’re right, Merlin. I need to bathe and change. I don’t suppose you saw anything resembling a bathtub in the palace?”
“Hardly. A bathtub for a man as fat as Marmaduke would be the size of a small pond.”
“I’ll look around. There must be something I can use. Meanwhile, go and tend to the wounded and make whatever arrangements you need for their transport.”
“I’ll see to it right away, Arthur. Oh, and I’m told this foul little stream we are using joins a larger, cleaner one not far from here.”
“Good.”
Arthur began pulling his tunic off. Merlin saw that there was a huge gash in his left side. “In the name of everything human, Arthur. That wound!”
“It isn’t very painful. Marmaduke himself struck the blow.”
“Were you going to keep it a secret? What would be the point? You must let me clean it. I have some healing salve that will help it. And after you have had your bath-if that is possible-you must let me dress it with a bandage.”
“Don’t fuss, Merlin.”
“It is my duty, remember? We can hardly have King Arthur die because his wound went untended. We read that several Roman generals-”
“Spare me the history lecture.” The king sighed. “Very well, if you must. But go see to the others first, all right?”
And Merlin sighed in return. “If you insist. But do not think I will forget about it.”
“Your relentlessness is part of what makes you so valuable to me. Go, now.”
There were three more men whose needs could be better tended in the makeshift infirmary Merlin planned to set up in Lulua’s mill. He arranged for them to be transported there in the two carriages. The Stone of Bran was to remain with Arthur at Paintonbury for safekeeping. When Merlin had seen to all the necessary arrangements, he went back to Arthur to tend his wound. “You have put me off long enough, Your Majesty.” He leaned on the title with irony. Arthur grumbled but let him do what he needed to.
“When we are ready to move on, Arthur, I would suggest that you ride in a carriage for a few days, just to be certain there are no complications from this. It is not terribly serious, but it is close to your heart. If something should happen to tear it open…” He made a gesture as if to say, There would be very little I could do.
Arthur scowled. “If I listened to you, I’d be wearing an apron and hiding in Camelot’s kitchen all the time.”
“Hiding among the women did Achilles no harm.” He grinned. “Perhaps you should take a lesson from that noble hero.”
“I have a country to run. Achilles had nothing to do but tend to his concubines and fight. When you get to Lulua’s mill, if any of her people are still there, I want you to interrogate them. If Lulua was in league with my sister to make trouble, they will know about it. See what you can learn. I will stop there tomorrow to see how things are progressing.”
The road out of Paintonbury went northwest, paralleling the creek. About a mile out of town it joined with a much larger stream to make a small river. Merlin and Peter rode on horseback, side by side. The carriages followed.
“I do not recall this river on any of the maps, Peter. I am beginning to fear we may be more lost than Arthur realizes.”
“We don’t have good maps? I had the impression-”
“The ones we are using date from the civil wars, nearly two decades ago. Arthur has never seen a need to have the whole country surveyed and accurate maps made. I will have to have a word with him.”
“It does seem like a great deal of effort. Perhaps-”
“If we are ever to make England a truly unified nation, good charts are essential. How can we hope to unify it when we do not really know what is here? No, I think Arthur will have to make it a priority.”
The new creek was much larger and much clearer than Paintonbury’s one. When the two met, the muddy water from Paintonbury made what looked like a huge brown smudge in the new, larger stream. But after a few yards it was lost in the clearer water. Merlin’s eyes took it all in. “This is good. We will have fresh water. I was quite concerned we-and our wounded-would have to continue drinking that foul stuff.”
After another mile, the mill came into view. The first thing in sight was its thatched roof, then more and more of it appeared. It was much larger than Merlin had expected, and in surprisingly good condition. The roof was thatched with what appeared to be fresh straw. Either the place was new or Lulua had kept it in excellent repair. The one sign of ill repair was a loud, low moaning sound made by the waterwheel. It carried clearly to Peter and Merlin three fourths of a mile up the road. The ground sloped gently downward; the wheel turned briskly.
Peter made a show of covering his ears. “Horrible sound.”
“It will be worse when we actually reach the mill.”
“Whatever can be causing it?”
“I have heard its like once before, on my travels through Egypt. There are ancient waterwheels at a place called Me dinet El-Fayyum. After long millennia they are still turning, still providing power and still making a deafening wail. The residents call their moaning the crying of the gods.”
“Splendid. I don’t suppose there’s any chance these ‘gods’ might be silent for a while?”
“I am afraid not. But you will find that you get used to it rather quickly.”
Peter wrinkled his features. “Horrible sound. It sounds as if the earth itself is in pain.”
“It is a fit place for a hospital, then.”
“Seriously, Merlin, can’t we simply make a camp somewhere nearby and keep our patients warm with fires?”
“We are here, Peter. Let us make the best of it.”
The patients had slept more or less soundly on the entire journey. All of them but Accolon, that was. He kept waking from his slumber, ranting incoherently about fantastic beasts devouring him. At one point, just as they reached the mill, he cried, “The dead! The dead are leaving their tombs and attacking me! They are living skeletons, and they claw at me with their sharp, bony fingers!” At times his rant was a shout; at others it was not much more than a whisper, barely audible above the moaning of the waterwheel.
Merlin tried to comfort him, but for the longest time it was no use. Then finally he fell back into sleep.
When they reached the mill, Robert and the other servants carried the patients inside. Merlin followed and was pleasantly surprised to see that the place was clean and well kept. Of Lulua’s servants there was no sign. Presumably they had received word of the way the battle had gone, and they had fled.
Merlin and Peter followed the servants. Once they were certain the patients had weathered the trip well, they went to explore the mill. There were a great many small rooms. They were tall, dark and shadowy, right up to the thatched roof. “This is not at all what I was hoping for. But I suppose it is what I should have expected, given that Lulua lived here.” Merlin noted that all the windows were glazed, though there were not enough of them to cut the darkness very much. But he was quite pleased to find stores of food and even wine.
The one exception to the mill’s general gloominess was the kitchen. There were a half dozen windows. And there were three ovens, two of which were still giving off heat. Peter found a small pantry with a great many bottles of wine. “At least the wine will keep us warm tonight. We can heat it up. And there are spices for it. Lulua has an herb garden outside. Nothing cuts the cold like good mulled wine.”
In the one large room the two huge millstones turned slowly, driven by the waterwheel outside. Their friction against each other made a low grinding noise; it was all but drowned out by the sound of the waterwheel. There was no sign of any grain for them to mill; there was no sign that there had been any for years. Peter observed it disapprovingly. “It seems such a waste. This place could feed the whole countryside.”
“Indeed.” Merlin inspected the mechanism that turned them, fascinated. “Look at this assemblage of gears. I was wondering how a relatively small stream could turn such large stones. But these gears must improve the mechanical advantage. I must make sketches of them. I would like to use something similar to improve my lift mechanism at Camelot.”
Everywhere, the loud groan of the waterwheel penetrated. When they went outside to inspect it, Merlin was quite startled to see that the axle on which the wheel turned was made of metal. “I have seen such wheels in Africa and in a few of the eastern stretches of Europe. Never in England.”
“How could Lulua have obtained this, then?”
“We do not know that she was actually responsible for the building of the mill. She may simply have… appropriated it. The question that vexes me is how she-or anyone else-could have afforded such a thing as a metal axle for the wheel.”
“Priests and priestesses grow wealthy. They find money wherever it is.” Peter smiled and squatted down to inspect the wheel more closely. “It is a law of nature, like swine hunting for truffles.”
Merlin chuckled. “Still, importing this-and importing an engineer to devise those gears inside-would have been quite a considerable extravagance. Lulua was more than wealthy enough to grow as fat as she is. She must be even wealthier still.”
“Or the sorority of witches is.” Peter stood again. “That groaning will drive me mad. How can you stand it, Merlin?”
He shrugged. “I have arthritis in my knees and hips. When you learn to withstand the pain, you are able to withstand most anything.”
Peter squinted and stared at him. “You take drugs to kill the pain.”
“Let us go back inside, Peter.”
As they were heading back indoors, Peter commented that he found the whole place ominous. “It is too dark, too gloomy. And there is that awful noise from the wheel. I would like to go back and rejoin Arthur.”
Merlin shook his head. “You are valuable. I need you.” “Something terrible is going to happen here, Merlin. I feel it.”
“Nonsense.”
Robert and the other servants had done everything they could to make the mill comfortable for the patients. As Merlin and Peter went back inside, there was a minor hubbub. Robert had found a young man hiding there. “He was hiding in one of the pantries, sir. What shall we do with him?”
Merlin peered at the man; he was not much more than a boy. “What is your name?”
“George, sir.” The boy had a thick shock of black hair and bright blue eyes. He was Robert’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. He was slender and quite pale. “George o’ the Mill.”
“They call you that?”
“Yes, sir. That, or George the Miller. And sometimes George Cook.”
“Well, George o’ the Mill, what are you doing here?” He smiled. “You were in the pantry. Was Lulua going to eat you?”
“I live here, sir. I always have. In service to the witch of Paintonbury.”
“The others seem to have run away. Why did you not go with them? Where are your parents?”
The boy looked from Merlin to Peter to Robert, then to Merlin again. A trace of fear showed in his face. “Please, sir. They said my mistress had been captured-taken prisoner. By whom, sir?”
“By Arthur, the rightful King of England. Your true lord and master.”
The boy’s face was a complete blank. “Who?”
“Never mind. You are now a prisoner, too.”
For the first time his face registered emotion. His fear was obvious. “Are you-are you going to kill me, sir?”
“I have not decided.” Peter noticed the twinkle in Merlin’s eye.
George clearly did not. “Please, sir, spare me. I will do anything.”
Merlin furrowed his brow and stroked his chin, to make a show of thinking. “I shall have to ponder that awhile. Meantime… can you cook?”
Timorously the boy nodded. “I always cooked for my mistress.”
“A large job, no doubt.”
“Yes, sir.” He beamed with pride.
“Well, you shall cook for us now. We have four men with us who are quite ill. They will need good soup for the time being. And there are a dozen more of us.”
“Uh, yes, sir. I made delicious soup for my mistress. She always said so.”
This took Merlin aback. “Are you telling us that she grew that fat on soup?!”
George mistook his surprise for menace. “N-no sir. She ate everything. Everything. I was always busy.”
“I believe it. The pantry is well stocked.”
He nodded. “Shall I make soup, then, sir?”
“Soup for our patients. Bread and meat for the rest of us. Make cakes for our dessert. Robert, go with this young man and keep a careful eye one him.”
Robert snapped to attention. “Yes, Merlin.”
The two boys left. Merlin turned to Peter. “At least we will have a good lunch, albeit a late one.”
And a good lunch it was. The venison was succulent, the bread fresh and aromatic, the cakes delicious. Robert brought a cask of fine wine from the pantry. The patients were glad of George’s soup, all but Accolon, who was only half conscious and muttering in his sleep about living corpses and dragons.
Merlin whispered to Peter that he might take George back to Camelot to be his personal cook. “Then I would never have to leave my tower. With Colin and young George, I might never again have to leave my books and my laboratories.” He smiled, plainly finding the thought pleasant.
“You lead too insular a life already, Merlin.” Peter chewed his venison enthusiastically. “You should get out and about more.”
“That is what Arthur tells me. But I am content in my tower, when I am able to stay there. With Plotinus and Aristotle for company, what do I need with anyone else?”
“I envy you your misanthropy.”
“It is hardly misanthropy, Peter. I do not hate my fellow human beings. But I find life so much more restful when I do not have to deal with them.”
“You can hardly detect crime from your tower, Merlin.”
He shrugged. “You are the sheriff, not I. Besides, crime happens whether I am cloistered in my tower or not. And criminals… I find I have seen enough of them. And of humankind in general. I should like nothing better than to retire to Egypt, under the protection of my old friend Germanicus, and live an even more isolated existence.”
Peter sipped his wine and said wryly, “I understand they have crime there, too.”
“Yes, but in a much more lovely setting. And with much better weather.”
Just after sunset a ferocious wind blew up. Trees trembled in it; the waters of the stream were roiled wildly and even sprayed up onto the banks. The roar of the wind was loud enough even to drown out the incessant moaning on the waterwheel at times. Bits of the mill’s thatched roof tore free and blew away; the wind gushed into several rooms. But George prepared a meal for the party, and it was every bit as good as Merlin hoped.
“You are quite an excellent cook,” he told the boy.
“My mother taught me.” He seemed abashed by the compliment. “She was really good. You should have known her.”
“Where is she?”
“She died six years ago, sir. Lulua took me in, or I would have… I don’t know.”
There was a tiny barn adjacent to the mill, and Merlin ordered that the mounts and the pack animals be moved there for shelter from the driving wind.
Peter oversaw this. Then he reported to Merlin, who was standing beside the stream, watching the waves, “The building is quite small. The horses are unhappy at being so crowded.”
Merlin’s robes were blowing wildly, to the point where they almost knocked him off balance. “They would be un-happier still if they had to stay out in this horrible storm. At least, that dreadful groaning will be less loud there. It cannot be pleasant for them.” He raised an arm to protect his face from some blowing leaves, then glanced up at the sky. “Let us hope this wind does not bring rain. Or worse yet, snow.”
Robert came out and joined them. “Please, Merlin, the sick men are all asleep. And they are right in the main part of the mill. Should we leave them there?”
“Find another room large enough to quarter them-and myself. I shall sleep in that same room, so that I might keep an eye on them.”
“What about the room where the millstones turn? It’s the biggest in the mill. It should be more than big enough.”
“If you can find no other place for us, that will be fine. I only hope the turning of the stones does not disturb their rest.”
“If the damned sound of the waterwheel does not keep them awake, nothing could.” Peter raised an arm to protect himself from the wind. But a twig blew and hit his cheek. There was a trickle of blood. “Of all the horrible places for a hospital.”
Robert had not moved. “If you please, sir, that boy-”
“George?”
“Yes, sir. He has eaten and rested, as you ordered. You wanted to know, so that you could question him.”
“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”
“You… you want to know about the witch?”
He nodded. “Arthur requires intelligence. And while I am at it, I may ask the boy for his recipes, just in case he does not want to return with us. Dinner was delicious. Go and place the boy in the mill room. I will join you there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” Covering his face for protection from the wind, Robert ran back inside.
Peter stared fixedly at Merlin. “Wizard, you are a fraud.”
This caught Merlin off guard. “I never claim to be a wizard. There is no fraud. Do not be disagreeable, Peter.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
A particularly ferocious gust caught Merlin’s robes and nearly knocked him off balance again; Peter caught him by the arm and steadied him. “Thank you, Peter. But what on earth are you talking about?”
They began to move toward the door of the mill. “I am talking about you. You preach a life of reason, of the mind, of austerity. Yet when a good chef comes your way, you all but leap at him. You are as much devoted to the senses as any Roman emperor.”
Merlin’s hat started to blow off and he raised a hand to steady it on his head. “Pleasure is essential to life, Peter. The things that give me the most pleasure are not the usual ones, though. I derive more pleasure from a good book than from any woman I have ever known. Besides, I have lived longer than the typical Roman emperor.” He smiled. “Much longer.”
They stepped inside the mill and Peter pushed the door shut against the wind.
Merlin shrugged. “I never claim to be an ascetic, and I certainly never suggest that anyone else should live a life without gratification. I am merely… different in my choice of pleasures, that is all.”
“Different indeed. And does unmasking murderers give you pleasure, then?”
“Let us say satisfaction. More satisfaction than I can say.”
“Have you ever not found a murderer you were pursuing?”
Merlin brushed bits of dead leaves and twigs from his robes. “Young George will be waiting. Come. I want my new cook in good spirits.”
“Sybarite.”
“Cynic.”
In the mill room the great stones turned more quickly than they had earlier, driven by the furious water in the furious wind. They made a constant grinding sound. Merlin wished there was some way to brake them, but the mechanism offered no such option. A fire roared in a huge open hearth not far from the stones.
George was waiting there, pacing and looking nervous. Robert was standing off in a corner, trying to look unobtrusive but clearly keeping an eye on George.
When Merlin entered, he waved Robert away. “Thank you, Robert. You may go and get some rest.”
“I don’t think I could rest with that horrible groaning. I’d really like to stay.”
“Go, I said.”
Robert pouted. “You need protection, Merlin. And I am in your service.”
“Do you think George, here, is going to assault me with a bowl of soup? Go and sleep.”
“Yes, Merlin.” Sullenly he went.
Merlin found a stool for himself, then turned his attention to George. The boy was looking anxious, and Merlin smiled to reassure him.
“That Robert fellow doesn’t trust me.” The expression on George’s face was part apprehension, part bewilderment. “Why?”
“You are Lulua’s servant.” He tried to make his voice calming.
“What of that, sir?”
“Well…” Merlin chuckled. “She does fancy herself a witch, after all.”
“She’s more like a priestess to all of the local tribes. Not a witch like a mean old woman.”
Merlin gave the boy a brief summary of what had nearly happened to Arthur and himself at the hands of Marmaduke and Lulua. “So you see, Robert wonders if you can be trusted. You serve the woman who wanted me dead.”
“But you said she is a prisoner now. She can’t hurt you. Can I sit down, please?”
“Of course.”
George looked around for another stool. Not finding one, he sat on the floor five feet in front of Merlin. “Lulua has taken care of me since my mother died. I owe her a lot.”
“That is the first good thing I have heard anyone say about her. Besides, your cooking made her fat-or kept her that way. I would say you had repaid your debt to her more than sufficiently.”
The boy lowered his eyes. “I feel like I owe her a lot more.”
“Feed her much more than you have, George, and she may explode. But tell me, what happened to your mother?”
“She died, sir.”
“Yes, but how? What happened to her?”
“She just… stopped living, that’s all.”
“And where did this happen?”
“Paintonbury, sir. She was Marmaduke’s cook. She taught me.”
“I see. So your family has made a tradition of fattening up villains.” Merlin’s bench wobbled. Irritably he got to his feet. “Now, tell me about Morgan.”
George’s face turned blank. “Who?”
“Morgan le Fay. The king’s sister.”
It registered. “Oh-the Great Queen.”
“She calls herself that?”
“Everyone calls her that. She is the rightful ruler of England.” He paused uncertainly. “Isn’t she?”
“Her brother Arthur is King of all the Britons. You would do well to remember that.”
“Yes, sir. But-but the Grea-but Morgan le Fay hasn’t been here for months. Why are you asking me about her?”
Merlin sighed and sat down again. The stool wobbled, and he got quickly to his feet. “Is there no decent furniture is this mill? What did Lulua sit on?” But before George could answer, Merlin held up a hand. “No. That is not a thing I want to know.” He moved to the door. “Robert!”
A moment later the door opened and Robert put his head in. “You need something, Merlin?”
“A good chair. Find one.”
“Yes, Merlin.” He closed the door behind him.
Merlin turned back to George. “The matriarchs effectively ruled England for centuries and styled themselves queens like, apparently, Morgan. Boadicea was the most famous of them. They invoked their gods, cast their so-called spells, worked their supposedly magical charms, did everything they could to cow warlords and common people alike into obeying them. And they had armies. Then they were displaced, first by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, who went a long way toward unifying the country, then by Arthur himself. But you must know all that.”
“I do. Some of it at least. I was taught. But my lessons were never couched in language like yours, Merlin.”
“Of course not, no. But the witches-”
“I was always taught to call them priestesses, sir.”
“Priestesses, then. Under their Great Queen. They want their power back. They have been conspiring against the king. You must tell me what you know of their clandestine affairs.”
The boy looked lost. “I’m afraid I don’t know much, sir. Sometimes the Great Queen would come here to confer with Lulua. Sometimes other priestesses would. But I never knew what they talked about.”
“No, of course not.” Merlin was annoyed but worked to keep it from showing. “But anything you can remember may be of use. Scraps of conversation you overheard when you were serving them, perhaps.”
The boy paused for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin, really I am, but I never heard a thing.”
Merlin sighed a resigned sigh. “No, of course you did not. But try and think back. Try. Anything that comes to mind-”
“It is important, isn’t it?”
“Where is Robert with that chair?” He pulled the door open. Robert was on his knees just outside. He had obviously been eavesdropping. He jumped to his feet. “Here is your chair, Merlin.”
“Thank you. Now go and join the others and get some sleep.”
“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
“Go, I said!”
Robert turned his back and left. Merlin watched him go, suspicious of him for the first time. Why had the boy been listening? What did he hope to hear? Then he dragged the chair into place and turned back to George. The boy seemed honest enough. He decided to trust him. “You must not repeat what I am about to tell you. Do you understand that? Not to anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There have been deaths. A series of them. Of people who were close to Arthur.” He lowered his voice. “Potential heirs.” He leaned back in the chair. “These deaths give every appearance of being natural, but I am having more and more doubts. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, Merlin.”
“That knight who is ill, Accolon-”
“That poor Frenchman?”
“Exactly. I am suspicious of his illness.”
“He is related to the king?” The boy whistled softly.
Merlin avoided the question. “And my valet, Robert, the one who was just here, he may be at risk as well.” Softly, almost as if in a reverie, he added, “If he is the ille-” He caught himself. “Listen, shortly the wounded men, including Accolon, will be brought to this room for the night. I will sleep here as well. And I want you to, also. Be alert for anything unusual that may occur.”
“Yes, Merlin.” The boy lowered his eyes. “Is this… is this a test?”
“Let us say it is a challenge. Watch everyone.”
“Yes, sir. I will. Trust me, sir.” The boy hesitated, then went on. “Merlin, something you said…”
“Yes?”
“Do you really mean to say that the wi-the priestesses do not have any magical abilities?”
“That is precisely what I mean to say.”
George fell silent. This was obviously a new thought for him.
A moment later servants appeared, under Peter’s supervision, carrying the wounded on litters. Accolon was muttering in his sleep. Two of the others were awake and evidently amused at being treated like invalids. The third of them, to appearances, was sleeping soundly. Peter was clearly in charge, telling the servants where to lay them. “Make certain they all have blankets. And bank the fire as high as you can. The night will be cold.”
Robert also entered the room, carrying a large bowl. He smiled at Merlin. “I’ve had a bowl of spiced wine heated. I thought, with this frigid wind blowing-”
“Very good, Robert. Pour cups for all our patients. And one for me. And for Peter, of course.”
“And for me?” George smiled eagerly.
Merlin looked at him doubtfully, then said, “All right, but only a small cup.”
Once all the patients were made comfortable, Peter saw that beds were made up for Merlin and the boy. Servants extinguished all the lamps in the room but one. Merlin drank his wine, and it was delicious. Soon he grew drowsy. He climbed onto his pallet and wrapped the blanket around himself. Soon the one remaining lamp burned itself out, and there was nothing but the light from the fireplace.
The wind outside howled and blew wildly. Once or twice the mill actually shook in it, but it was built solidly enough to withstand the storm. The great millstones turned and made their constant grinding sound.
After a few moments everyone in the darkened room found the stones’ sound comforting, reassuring. It lulled them to sleep.
Merlin slept, and his sleep was troubled. He dreamed about Arthur’s sons. One by one they were being devoured by the dragons of their imaginings, and he stood watching, powerless to stop it. He would wake in the huge dark room lit only by the fire in the hearth, to the sound of the millstones turning, disoriented. When, after a moment, he remembered where he was, he would close his eyes again, only to have more dreams. Each time, the fire burned lower.
In his dreams he saw Darrowfield and his sons, bound to the altar stone at Stonehenge, screaming for their lives, a faceless villain cutting them, blood streaming from their throats.
All these deaths were connected somehow, but how? The murdering dragons laughed at him.
There were sounds in the night, muffled, agonized screams.
More dreams came.
And again he would dream of the plague ravishing the English countryside. Fevers raged, red-black spots erupted, populations expired. Then came gentle snows and the plague stopped. He stood in a snowbound landscape wondering again and again, Where are the winds that will save Arthur’s sons?
Merlin awoke to an agonized scream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. As it had every time he had wakened through the night, it took him a moment to remember where he was. The fire in the hearth was nearly gone; a few wisps of low, dying flame danced there and embers glowed, but their light was not much help against the night. The great room was growing cold and his arthritic hip was aching. “Peter! Robert!”
In the night there was nothing but the sound of the turning stones. Slowly he stood and strained his eyes trying to see what was happening in the room. “Robert! We want light!”
Slowly he regained his bearings. The sound of the millstones reminded him where he was, and why.
“George?”
Nothing. No sound but the stones.
More loudly he called, “George!”
A soft groan came from the direction of the millstones.
“George?”
The door opened and Peter entered, carrying a lamp. “You called, Merlin?”
“Get more lights in here. Something is wrong.”
“You should never have used a room this large for your infirmary. It’s so cold in here.” He looked around. “Let me put more logs on the fire.”
“Do it quickly. Then get lamps.”
From the shadows near the millstones came another groan.
“George?”
No answer.
To Peter, Merlin said, “Get your lamp close to the stones. Something is wrong. I feel it.”
Peter finished arranging the logs in the hearth and took his lamp to the stones.
And there was George. He was between the stones, and they were turning inexorably. The entire left side of his body was crushed and bleeding. The stones moved on in their circular path. George was barely conscious. He turned his head feebly, looked to Merlin and moaned again. Softly, almost inaudibly, he mouthed the words, Help me.
“In the name of everything human!” Merlin jumped to his feet and rushed to the boy. “George, how did this happen? Who did this?” He took George’s good hand.
“Help me, sir. Please.” It was not much more than a whisper.
“Lift him out, Peter. Quickly!”
Peter handed the lamp to Merlin and slid his arms carefully under the boy’s crushed body. George cried, “No! It hurts!”
“Pull him out, Peter. We can’t leave him there. Quick, before the stones come around again.”
Peter pulled George out from the stones’ path. George screamed quite horribly.
Robert appeared in the doorway, carrying two more lamps.
George’s cries had wakened the other patients, all but Accolon, who was still seemingly asleep. Merlin took a few steps toward them and had to steady himself against a table. From behind him, from George’s side, Peter said, “This boy is dead.”
Merlin closed his eyes. It was as if he was still dreaming, still in that nameless, featureless place ruled by monsters. Still feeling off balance, he gripped the edge of a table and told Peter, “Leave him there, then, and check the others.”
Peter took his lamp to the patients and inspected them one by one. The pupils of their eyes were dilated, and they said they were feeling vertigo. But they seemed to be all right otherwise, wounds still healing, no new complaints.
“My head is spinning also.” Merlin tried to take a few more steps but had to stop and steady himself once more.
Peter moved to the side of the pallet where Accolon lay. After a quick examination he turned to Merlin. “This man was another of the king’s sons?”
Merlin nodded. “So it has always been whispered.”
“Merlin, he is dead.”
Merlin put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes. “No. That cannot be.”
“Come see for yourself.”
He took a step toward Peter. The room spun around him and he fell to the floor. Peter rushed to his side. “Are you all right?”
Groggily he replied, “Yes.”
“No bones broken?”
“No.”
“No other damage?”
“Peter, just help me to my feet, will you? If the room would stop whirling about me, I would be perfectly fine.”
Peter helped him up. Merlin leaned on him quite heavily. “Let me get you back to your bed, Merlin. You need more rest.”
“With all this death around me? You think I could sleep?”
“You are unsteady. It shows. Just exactly how much did you drink last night?”
“This is not the result of too much wine. I have not felt the aftereffects of too much drink since I was a boy. Help me to Accolon’s pallet. I want to examine him.”
Slowly they made their way to the dead knight’s side. Merlin bent down and examined the body, and it was like the corpses of all the other plague victims.
“Are you satisfied?” Peter took his arm to help him up again. “It is the plague that took him.”
“And was it the plague the killed young George, there? In the name of all that is human, Peter, cover up his body. It is quite indecent to leave him like that.”
After he had Merlin securely back at his own pallet, Peter found a large drop cloth and covered George’s mangled corpse with it. When he returned to Merlin’s side he said, “The boy was drinking last night, like all of us. He must have stumbled and fallen between the stones. A terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless.”
Merlin gaped at him. “I heard him cry out, Peter. He was begging for help. I thought it was a dream.” He glanced at the cloth covering the boy. “Someone did this to him. It was no accident.”
“Of course it was. A boy that age, drinking wine. He could never have handled it.”
Again Merlin closed his eyes. “I cannot seem to wake up.”
“Sleep, then, Merlin. I’ll see to it that the bodies are disposed of properly.”
Groggily Merlin told him, “We have been drugged. All of us in this room. That wine last night…”
“Nonsense. You’ve just let these events overwhelm you, that’s all. Get some sleep. Have you been outside yet?”
“Of course not.” He yawned.
“It’s snowing. The world has turned magically white overnight.”
Merlin’s drowsiness overcame him completely. Again he fell into sleep.
And woke to Peter shaking him. “Merlin, get up. The king is here.”
Slowly he opened his eyes. An enormous yawn overtook him. “What did you say?”
“King Arthur is approaching. With a band of knights.”
Another yawn. “Where is Geo-Never mind. My head is aching quite ferociously.”
“So is mine. So is everyone’s.”
“Our surviving patients, too?”
Peter nodded.
For a moment Merlin fell silent, obviously lost in thought. Then he looked at Peter, filled with sudden resolve. “Help me to my feet. We must go and greet the king.”
“Do you want to check on the other wounded men?”
“Later. They are all doing well enough.” He clasped his hands to his head and glanced at his patients. They were all asleep. “I hope their heads are not ringing the way mine is. Sleep is merciful.” For a third time he yawned, much more widely than before. “The world would be a much finer place if we would all sleep all the time. There would be no crimes then.”
Peter placed a hand under his arm to steady him. “Except the ones in our dreams.”
Merlin looked at him as if the statement startled him. “Yes, there are always those. Come. Arthur will be expecting us to meet him.”
There was very little activity in the mill. A fire roared in the main hearth, and its flames made almost the only motion. Word of the night’s events had spread. The two deaths seemed to cast a pall over everything and everyone.
From the kitchen came aromas of cooking food. Merlin started to react without thinking. “That smells quite wonderful. There is nothing like fresh-baked bread in the morning. Arthur will be pleased. He will want to thank young Geo-” He caught himself. “He will want to thank whoever is doing the baking.”
Outside the world had indeed turned white and the temperature had grown bitterly cold. Snow was falling heavily. Three inches of it covered everything. Trees were lacy white marvels. A strong, steady wind blew; snowflakes danced in it. Patches of ice were forming on the surface of the stream.
Softly, at the bottom of his breath, Merlin muttered, “Winter. And there are people who believe in benevolent gods.”
The king’s party could be seen in the middle distance through the falling snow. They were riding slowly, wrapped in heavy, dull-colored cloaks. Under his, Arthur wore his ceremonial armor, and it gleamed in the white landscape.
“It is too cold, Peter. This wind-Run inside and fetch me a cloak.”
Peter vanished into the mill. Two of the servants emerged and placed themselves just behind Merlin, in case he should need anything else. He leaned on their arms to steady himself.
Arthur’s band arrived. Bedivere and Sagramore were among his companions. The king jumped heartily down from his horse. “Merlin! I trust everything is well here. How are you? More to the point, how are my knights?”
“Things are not well, Arthur.”
Peter emerged from the mill with a cloak and placed it around Merlin’s shoulders. A sudden, particularly fierce gust of wind blew up, and he pulled the cloak tight around himself. “In the name of all that is human, Arthur, let us go inside before we freeze to death.”
Inside, servants were busily placing more logs on the fires in all the rooms. Merlin, the king and his men arranged themselves around the main fireplace and warmed themselves eagerly. Merlin asked a servant to bring wine. “Not the remnants of the wine from last night. Open new bottles.”
Then he turned to Arthur. “Somewhere in this mill is my valet, Robert. You must send men to find him and arrest him.”
“Good heavens, Merlin, why?”
Merlin told him about the night’s events and the deaths of George and Accolon. “The boy died a horrible death. But none of us could help him. We were all quite insensible. Robert gave us wine laced with some narcotic.”
Two knights got to their feet and made ready to leave.
Merlin told them, “If he is not in the mill, then he has run away. That would not surprise me. You will see his footprints in the snow. Find him if you can.”
He turned to Arthur. “You must send him back to Camelot under heavy guard. And send word to Simon to have his mother and brother arrested as well.”
Bedivere sipped his wine. “Camelot’s jailors will have a busy winter.”
Merlin ignored this. “His mother is one of your cooks, Arthur. She has access to the castle’s herb garden. I can only imagine what she must be growing there. Something to make us sleep. And something that can simulate symptoms of the plague.” A thought struck him. “Belladonna, perhaps.”
“But-but your valet?” Arthur was having trouble digesting it all.
Merlin took a large cup of wine. “Perhaps this will clear my head. My ears are ringing. Robert gave us all drugged wine last night.”
“He tried to kill all of you? Why, for goodness’ sake?”
“At the very least, he wanted to render us unconscious. As to motive, at this point I can only speculate.” He glared at Arthur accusingly. “Perhaps you know better than I could.”
Arthur squirmed. “Enough of that.”
Bedivere, too, seemed to be having trouble understanding. “But-but-a pastry cook and two serving boys. Why would they-?”
“As I said,” Merlin told him, “I can only speculate as to what motivated them. I will know more when I have had the chance to interrogate them. But they have been present so often when death has occurred. Even at Darrowfield Castle. You sent them there, remember, Arthur? The murders at Stonehenge would have been most difficult for one man alone to have committed. One killer, three victims. Most improbable. But three killers, or even merely two, if the boys did it without their mother’s assistance…”
“But-but-why would they have killed Darrowfield and his sons? What possible reason could they have?”
Calmly Merlin pronounced, “We shall know that soon enough.”
A moment later the two knights reappeared, dragging Robert between them. His face showed fear and confusion, and he was struggling, but the knights were much too strong for him.
“No!” he cried. “Why are you doing this?”
The knights ignored his cries and pulled him toward the king and Merlin.
“Merlin, help me!” Robert pled. “Why have they taken me? I haven’t done anything.”
When they reached Merlin and the king, the two of them exchanged glances. Then Merlin turned to the boy. “You know perfectly well.”
“No!”
“What was in the wine you gave us last night?”
“Nothing.” The bewilderment in Robert’s face was plain to see. “Nothing. I swear it.”
Merlin looked to the king again and nodded. Arthur said to the knights, “Get two more knights from our main column. Take him back to Camelot. Guard him carefully. We will want to question him more thoroughly when we get back.”
He went on. “You will almost certainly overtake the party that has Marmaduke and Lulua under guard. I can’t imagine they’re making very good time, not with those lumps. See to it that they’re all placed in very secure cells in the dungeon.”
The knights saluted and turned to go. Robert was still pleading with Merlin, protesting his innocence, as they dragged him off and shackled him. The boy fought, and one of the knights struck him. After that he was quiet.
Only minutes later they were ready to leave on their return to Camelot. Arthur and Merlin watched them depart and quickly disappear behind a curtain of falling snow. Arthur had an air of self-congratulation. “I knew you’d get to the bottom of the killings. You always do. But tell me. Why do you think he did it? What could have possessed him?”
Merlin looked away from him. “Can you really not guess? We have discussed it often enough.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Merlin. I want to know.”
Merlin heaved an enormous sigh. “You want an heir. You have sired a great many potential ones. More, even, than is usual for a nobleman in this country. Does it really surprise you that some of them should resort to murder in hopes of gaining the throne?”
“Heirs? I-no!” Arthur caught him by the arm.
“I make no judgment, Arthur. But it must have occurred to you at some point that so many children, in or out of wedlock, would lead to many problems.”
“That boy is not mine. He cannot be!”
Merlin shrugged. “I cannot imagine you keep track of all the women you have bedded. Robert’s mother, Marian, is one of your servants. You must have had many opportunities to-”
“No! Merlin, I tell you, he is not mine. He and his brother-don’t you think I’d know it if I had fathered twins?”
“Then tell me, Arthur, what other motive could they have had for all this death? Darrowfield and his sons, John and Bruce, Accolon… Even if they were not all your bastards, people thought they were. And what about daughters? How many of them have you sired?”
“Darrowfield was twenty years older than me. There is no way he could possibly be my son. Not even with the help of a sorcerer. No, there must be some other explanation. I want you to find it.”
“I can think of no other. But if Your Majesty wishes it-”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Merlin. Morgan, Marmaduke, Marian and her sons… When I think about it my head spins.”
Merlin turned pensive. “Marmaduke.”
“What about him? You think that he-?”
“No, it is not that, Arthur. There was something he said. Something that resonated with me. But I cannot remember what.”
“You will. You always do.”
“If I could only remember.” He looked at the king. “But for once I think you may be correct about these crimes, Arthur. I fear this is not over yet.”