“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 woul
d 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 fel
l 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.
The Pendragon Murders Page 6
