“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 anxio
us, 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 ev
eryone 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.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 21
