“I’ll be fine, Merlin.” Impulsively she hugged him, then turned and left.
Simon was puzzled by the exchange. “What was that about?”
“I am collecting specimens for my botany collection. Let us go and comfort the king on his father’s death.”
“Congratulate him, you mean.”
“Either way, Simon, let us go.”
Arthur was pacing. When Merlin entered the study he stopped and glared at him. Before Merlin could speak, Arthur barked, “Well, what do I do about this?”
Merlin stayed calm despite the king’s obvious agitation. “There is not a great deal that can be done about death.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I need counsel. Counsel me.”
Merlin arranged his robes and sat. “I am not at all certain I see the problem. Obviously you must attend the funeral. Uther had a great many friends and allies. It would hardly do to offend them. Will he be buried in Cumbria?”
Arthur nodded. “There is a little graveyard near his castle. I always found it appropriate.” He looked Merlin in the eye. “I loathed the old viper. He loathed me. You know that.”
“Still, Arthur, there are certain proprieties to be observed. If you were to let him go to his rest with no family present…” He sniffled. “I had a handkerchief, but I seem to have forgotten it. Send one of the servants for one, will you?”
Arthur ignored this. “Morgan will be there. The two of them were always close. Would you get into bed with a viper just because she happened to share your blood?”
Merlin paused. “Perhaps you should take Mordred with you. Not as a hostage, of course. Nothing official. But the mere show of having him with you may deter her from… from whatever villainy she may be planning. I would suggest taking as large a party as possible. Surround yourself with a great many people. As the Romans used to say, there is safety in numbers.” He lowered his voice a bit. “Do not let her get near you.”
“Pellenore and Uther were friends. He will want to go.” Arthur turned pensive. “And a few of my knights, the older ones, were originally part of his army. And…”
“Do not make the mistake you made on that journey to Wales. Take plenty of people. Knights.” Suddenly, violently, Merlin sneezed.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t coming down with the ague that’s been having its way with our people, are you?”
“No, Arthur. It was nothing more than a sneeze.”
He looked doubtful. “At any rate, the journey to Cumbria will be a lot less eventful. It is a much more civilized part of the country.”
“Yet it comes fully equipped with ‘old vipers.’ ”
The king sighed. “Point taken. I’ll get Simon and Bed to work preparing the party right away. You are coming, of course.”
“Me?! No! I mean, I’ve only just-I-I-Arthur, I need a spell of rest.”
“You can rest in the carriage. The roads are good. The ride will be smooth.” Suddenly something occurred to him. He snapped his fingers. “Old Fedora!”
“I beg your pardon, Arthur?”
“Fedora, the midwife. She was at Uther’s court before she came here. She always says she feels a certain loyalty to me.” He turned shamefaced. “She delivered me, you know.”
“I had always assumed as much. So she oversaw your mother Igraine’s confinement. At Uther’s court.”
Arthur nodded. “Ancient history.”
Again Merlin sniffled. “And was your mother still married to Gorlois, or had she and Uther made their union official by that time?”
“I don’t wish to dig up the past.” Arthur glared. “And so help me, if you say, ‘Like father, like son,’ I’ll toss you down the steps.”
“I do not speak in clichés.” He sighed. “But please, Arthur, do not make me go along on this trip.”
Arthur waited for him to go on.
“The journey to Grosfalcon was hard on me. You know that. And now this spell of frigid weather. Every joint in my body is aching like the devil.”
“But-”
“Another long trip would do me no good at all. Please, Arthur. It is only a funeral. You can hardly need me.”
Arthur scowled. “Very well, I suppose you’re right. There is nothing you can do.” He broke into a grin. “Unless you can work a spell to bring the old reprobate back to life.”
“You have been spending too much time with Bishop Gildas.”
Arthur left the following morning, accompanied by one hundred knights, plus squires and attendants of various kinds. It was a three days’ ride to Cumbria. If the weather stayed dry, they could travel quickly and be back at Camelot within a week.
Merlin went to the courtyard to see them off. His nose was runny and he carried a kerchief, and he had another one in his pocket. He took the king by the sleeve and led him aside. “It occurs to me that there is another good reason why you should attend this funeral.”
Arthur was in a good mood, smiling and energetic. “And what would that be?”
Merlin lowered his voice. “Your patrimony.”
“Are you serious? I have all of England.”
“Even so. Think, Arthur. Uther was widely respected in his day, marital indiscretions or no. You are his heir. Claiming your inheritance rights will only help to bolster your claim to the throne.”
“But I already-”
“Equally to the point, you must make certain that Morgan has no chance to make herself Uther’s heir.”
“I see your point.” He seemed to lose energy. “But-but-”
“Hm?”
“Whatever people may think about the legitimacy of my parents’ marriage, I am the eldest. Morgan is arguably even less legitimate than I am. Her mother was-”
“Do you think the technical points of genealogy will matter if she gets the barons to support her?”
Arthur whistled. “I had best get moving. No use giving her more time to subvert my loyal subjects.”
“I thought you would see it that way. Travel well, Arthur. Send messages as things develop.”
Fifteen minutes later the party left. Merlin remained standing alone in the courtyard, looking after them, not moving. Suddenly he was overcome by a fit of coughing. One of the sentries approached him. “Is anything wrong, sir?”
“I hope not.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I hope not.”
Roc flew down out of the sky and perched on his shoulder. He stroked the bird’s head and went back inside Camelot.
By sundown Merlin was quite ill-feverish, achy, congested. He took to his bed and slept. Roc and the other ravens seemed puzzled. They lingered by his bedside for a few minutes, then when he did not respond they left. Petronus watched over him as best he could with his limited medical knowledge.
Nimue returned from Darrowfield the next day, having made the journey there and back again in very good time. She realized that Merlin had contracted the same influenza she had just recovered from. She brought him soup from the kitchen and kept monitoring his condition carefully. Petronus wanted to help, but she warned him to stay away lest he fall victim to the disease, too.
For days he remained unconscious, waking only to eat and even then not seeming aware of his surroundings. In his sleep he muttered, vague but alarming words about murder near the crown, traitors striking near the very heart of England. At times he raved quite deliriously.
The infection spread in the castle. It struck knights, squires, servants with varying degrees of severity. Even Simon of York fell victim to it. No one was certain what to do, since to nurse the sick could only serve to spread the disease to the ones doing the nursing. The only one in the castle with substantial medical knowledge and experience was Merlin, and he was out of commission. Nimue did her best to present a confident front and to manage all the efforts to contain the disease; but it was only a front, and she felt inadequate.
When she was not tending to the outbreak, she did her best to keep current on all the reports that were coming in from local officials about the plag
ue. Cold weather did indeed seem to be halting its spread. There were still occasional riots, especially for food, but those could be safely left in the hands of local authorities.
Then on the fourth day Merlin’s fever broke. He awoke, sat up in bed, looked around and barked at Nimue, “I’m hungry. Why hasn’t Simon sent my breakfast?”
Nimue watched him with a smile. “So you’re finally up.”
“What do you mean, finally? I’m hungry.”
“You’ve been asleep for four days, Merlin. And it’s nearly sundown, not time for breakfast.” She crossed the room to him and put a hand on his forehead. “Your fever’s finally broken.”
Realization began to dawn. “I have had the influenza?” “You and several dozen others. I’ll send for some porridge.”
“Porridge? I need my strength. Send for some beef.”
“Yes, Merlin.” Amused by his ferocity, she went to the door and called for a servant. When the boy was gone, she turned back to Merlin. “You’ve been missing the fun. Simon has been sick, too. They say he’s been complaining like an old woman.”
“Well, what can you expect? That is what he is.” He sat up. “What word have we had from Arthur?”
“None at all.”
“Blast. And how widespread is this awful infection?” He narrowed his eyes. “You are the one who gave it to me.”
“A few dozen people are ill. The knights are grumbling about a disease that does not respect their rank.”
“They would. How serious do things look?”
“Two people have died. Two elderly servants. So I was worried about you.”
“I am not elderly.”
She laughed at him. “No, only your hips are. Anyway, other than those two, people seem to recover and show no signs of being the worse for wear.”
“That is good. But tell me, what did you find in Darrowfield?”
She shook her head. “Nothing of any real interest. Lady Darrowfield was not cultivating belladonna. Peter helped me inspect her garden. There was nothing suspicious.”
“Peter.” Merlin sat on the edge of his bed. His voice betrayed his misgivings.
“Why that tone? Do you suddenly distrust him? He was a great help to you on the trip to Grosfalcon. You said so yourself.”
“Yes, of course. Only…”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes when we are asleep our minds function with special clarity. Peter was present when each of the murders occurred. John, Bruce, Accolon, little George, even the attempt on Arthur…”
She did not try to hide her skepticism. “You were delirious, Merlin. Can you really make an accusation like that based on fever dreams? Why would he have done all those awful things? What could he have gained?”
“Then it must have been Morgan. Get me my slippers.” He yawned. “I suppose we should be grateful so few have succumbed to this awful disease. No more deaths here, then.”
“Only the very young and the very old seem to be affected in dire ways.” She added pointedly, “The very, very old.”
“Spare me your sarcasm. I am hungry.”
“They say old Fedora is quite unwell. You know-that horrible old midwife. If she goes, I doubt anyone will care much.”
“Fedora!”
“Yes. The most venomous old crone in Camelot.”
“She must not die! I must go to her at once!” He got to his feet and looked around for his cane.
“I thought you were hungry.”
“For the truth, Nimue. Go and fire up my lifting device. I must get to Fedora at once.”
The lift creaked ominously as Merlin descended, and the chains that held his chair swayed. He had to force himself not to look down the full height of the tower.
Nimue, having started the mechanism, raced down the steps to meet him at the bottom. “You’re going to kill yourself on that thing someday. You really ought to have Simon arrange for a suite of rooms down here among the people.”
He got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Perish the thought. If I had to live every day surrounded by knights, serving girls and Simon of York, I would certainly go mad.”
“There are people who think that the fact that you trust this absurd mechanism is a sign of madness.”
“Be quiet, Colin. We must get to Fedora as quickly as possible.”
There were three old women sitting in the hallway outside Fedora’s room, praying over candles, wailing like forlorn banshees, apparently mourning the imminent demise of their friend.
Merlin, accompanied by Nimue, made his way slowly along the corridor. None of the women showed the least sign of noticing them. They gazed into the candle flames and wailed their orisons, to all appearances aware of nothing else.
They even seemed quite unaware of an overpowering stench that filled the hallway. Nimue covered her mouth and nose with her hand. “Goodness, can that actually be from Fedora?”
“The dissolution of the human body is never agreeable, Colin.” Merlin paused for a beat, then moved on. To the first of the women he encountered, he said, “You should not have those candles burning unsheltered. There is too much that could take fire. Tapestries, wood…”
The woman interrupted her show of mourning. “Stone does not burn.” She went immediately back into her wail.
“Camelot is more wood than stone. Every castle is. You could start a blaze that would endanger us all.”
She wailed.
Merlin nudged her with the tip of his boot. “What is that awful smell? How can you stand it? How can you leave Fedora here?”
She looked up at him. “We are following her instructions. We have sacrificed nine black puppies to the Good Goddess for her.”
“In the name of everything human, woman, what good can you possibly think that will do?”
“It is standard practice, Merlin,” Nimue whispered in his ear. “Morgan used to do it whenever someone in her household was seriously ill. She bred black dogs against the eventuality.”
“Fools!” He bellowed it. “Superstitious dolts!”
He pushed past them, moving more quickly than before. Fedora’s room was pitch-dark. The awful odor seemed to billow out of it. He stared into the blackness for a moment and listened. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear breathing. Except for that, the room was pervaded with the eerie stillness of death. Then softly came the sound of her coughing.
He went back to the hall, took one of the candles and went back inside. Then quietly came Fedora’s voice. “No, young man, you may not have my hand.”
Gently, almost whispering, he said, “Fedora, it is I, Merlin.”
“All you lovely young men. I know what you want. But you may not have it.”
He moved to the bedside and put a hand on her arm. “Fedora, it is Merlin.”
“Merlin?” His voice seemed to register with her. “No. Not Merlin. Not at all.”
Her mind had regressed to her far-off youth. It took him a moment to realize. “Tell me about your young men, Fedora.”
“No!” It was almost a hiss. The sharpness of the expletive made her cough again.
“Fedora,” he whispered, “I have come to make love to you.”
“No, not you. Not any of you. My love is for the women here.”
“Yes.” He stroked her arm. “Yes, Fedora. I love you.”
He moved the candle close to her. She was soaked in sweat. Her skin was pale as the candle wax, and her breath smelled of imminent decay. There was blood on her lips; she had coughed it up. Merlin took his kerchief and wiped it away.
Like a serpent gifted with speech she hissed, “None of you! Not one of you! I have seen what you do to your women. You will not defile me. It is them I care for, them I tend.” Suddenly, quite abruptly, she shouted, “Uther Pendragon! All your women! All your sons! What will they benefit you now?”
The stench in the room was growing stronger, or Merlin was succumbing to it. It was coming from under the bed. He looked, and by dim candlelight he saw the bodies of the young dogs,
arranged in circle, in a basket. The corpses glistened with moisture. Decay was taking them quickly. He called for Nimue.
She stepped into the room and stood just inside the doorway, outlined faintly by light from the hall, and held her hand over her nose. “Merlin, how can you stand this?”
He gestured under the bed. “Remove them.”
She bent and took the basket, then glanced at Fedora. “She isn’t-is she-?”
“Not yet.” He looked at the dying woman and said almost tenderly, “She told me once that she knows secret things. Let us hope she remembers them in her death throes. And will speak them.”
Nimue looked doubtful. She bent and took the basket with the dogs with one hand. Covering her nose with the other, she left quickly.
Merlin lowered his voice. In a whisper he said, “Fedora, it is I, Uther. I need you.”
“Again?” Eyes closed, she chuckled. “Another one? You are insatiable.”
“You know who the woman is. Who the son is. Tell me their names.”
Fedora opened her eyes wide and without warning spit in his face. She coughed up more blood. “Men! Kings! Your women deserve better than you give them.”
“I know it.”
“You treat them like swine.”
“I know it. I know it. But tell me, Fedora, who is this one? What is her name? What is the name of the child?”
Her hand caught his and squeezed. All the life seemed to leave her body.
Agitatedly he shook her. She must not die. She must not, not till she talked. “Fedora! Wake up! Speak to me.”
Feebly, her eyelids parted. The candle flame seemed not to reflect in them. They were black, dying.
“My new son, Fedora.” He shook her. He whispered. “What is his name?”
So faintly it was almost not a sound but a breath she said the word, “Darrowfield.”
“Darrowfield? Old Lord Darrowfield’s son was really Uther’s?”
The Pendragon Murders Page 28
