"The Pendragon Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blair J. M. C.)

FIVE

Plague. The word, quite justifiably, caused panic.

More and more reports reached Camelot, often multiple ones in the same day. Dover was devastated; the disease spread more quickly there than seemed quite possible. Not everyone who was infected died; but the survivors, on the assumption they could not be reinfected, were pressed into service collecting and burying the dead in mass graves. In Canterbury, once it became inescapable that plague had arrived, there were riots. People hoarded food; robbers attacked the well-to-do and took their gold and their supplies of household goods, against the coming food shortages. The wealthy barricaded themselves in their houses, partly for protection from the mobs, partly in hopes of avoiding the disease.

Rumors of what was happening spread more quickly than the disease itself. There were riots in London days before any cases manifested there. Merlin and Britomart put up a map of southern England and kept careful note of outbreaks, riots and the other attendant horrors.

“Look,” Merlin said to her. “It is following the main trade routes-the roads. Spreading like a living thing, like a carpet of flowers.”

“Odd analogy, Merlin. But then, you always look at things in the most perverse way possible.”

“Perverse? If you say so, Britomart. But no one has yet found a way to combat this awful disease. It strikes so quickly, its victims are often dead before the physician can arrive.”

She pounded her fist. “We must have Arthur issue an edict. Have it proclaimed in every town and village in the country. No unnecessary public gatherings. Markets must be canceled. No festivals of any kind, not even religious ones. The people will want religion, for comfort, but they must pray at home, with their families, to whatever gods they choose to believe in.”

“Yes, Brit, of course. Those are all very sensible precautions. But…”

“Yes?”

“There are physicians in every town of any importance.”

“You’ve seen the reports. A lot of them have fled to the hills, Merlin.” She made a sour face. “Doctors.”

“Still, a great many remain. A network of communication among them must be set up, so that they can share information. If we can discover why it is that some people die of this disease while others survive and still others never get sick at all, it may give us a clue how to fight it. We must have Arthur send out riders to help establish the kind of communication this will take.”

“So the riders can bring the plague back to Camelot?”

He frowned. “It will come here anyway. We have sealed off the castle from unnecessary contact with the outside world, but it will come here anyway. It is as inevitable as sunset.” He sat down wearily. “So much for Arthur’s new England.”

“That is hardly the observation of a scientist, Merlin.”

“It is. Everything we have tried to do here-fairness, social justice, all of it-depends on a calm, prosperous society. This disease will undo that. Petty kings and warlords will reassert themselves. Central government will count for next to nothing.”

“It won’t be that bad. It can’t be.”

He looked at her. “Hope is not a word I use often. But Brit, I hope you are right.” He shifted his gaze to the window. “I keep wishing for rain. Not merely a shower but the kind of massive rainstorm we have had in the past. If nothing else, it would keep people indoors.” He sighed. “It will be winter soon enough. That may save us, if anything can.”

This was all too theoretical for Britomart. “I’ll meet with my senior officers. We’ll find a way to keep the plague out of Camelot, at least.”

“If it can be done, I am certain you are the one to do it. But I have my doubts.”

“It must be done. We are fighting for our lives. That’s when knights are at their best.”

The next morning Arthur summoned his closest advisors to a council on the crisis. Merlin was there, of course, with Nimue assisting him and taking notes, along with Britomart, Simon of York, and the most experienced of his knights, Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors and Sir Kay. Sir Dinadan would normally have been included, but he was in deep mourning over the deaths of this wife and son. Nimue and Petronus stood against a wall and listened, in case Merlin should need them.

Arthur was terse. “We all know the crisis we are facing. The question is what to do. I want to hear every idea you have.”

Merlin as usual took the lead. He laid out everything that was known about the plague-the symptoms, the rapidity with which it spread and the social fallout from it. “We do not know how this disease is transmitted from person to person. It may be airborne, as we believe malaria to be. It may be passed from one victim to the next by physical contact. We have no way of knowing. But not everyone who becomes ill dies. And not everyone becomes ill at all. That is our one hope. Both Colin and Petronus had close contact with the first victim, for instance. If we can discover what makes the difference…” He looked around the table, from one of them to the next. “That is the only faint hope I can see.”

Brit explained what was known about the riots, the food hoarding, the widespread panic. “Rumors of the plague,” she told them all, “seem to have reached as far west as the Welsh border and as far north as Hadrian’s Wall. We English have always been a taciturn people. Not now; not in the face of this. People seem unable to stop talking, and the talk is all alarming.”

Various suggestions were made for imposing martial law. The knights seemed to like the idea. “We station troops in all the cities,” Bedivere proposed with enthusiasm. “Then we can control the situation. There will be no riots then.”

“And what will you do when the plague strikes the troops themselves?” Merlin asked.

“It will not. Our soldiers are all in splendid physical condition.”

“More so than the rough sailors who died at Dover?”

Bedivere glared at him, but before he could say anything in response, Brit interjected, “We hardly have enough men to do that, anyway, Bed. How many men does it take to hold a city? And how many cities do we have?”

The discussion grew more and more heated. Merlin kept insisting there was no effective way to combat the disease, absent any real understanding of it; the knights kept countering that military force was the only recourse to prevent social disintegration.

Then suddenly the door of the council chamber flew open. A strong gust of wind extinguished all the candles. And in the doorway loomed a figure in swirling black robes. Once the initial surprise wore off, they realized who it was.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Arthur said, “Morgan. You certainly do know how to make an entrance.”

“Or, at the very least,” Merlin added, “you know how to use the castle’s drafts to dramatic advantage.”

Arthur went on. “I wish you could enter a room like a normal human being. We already know you are the high priestess.” There was uneasy laughter. “But what are you doing here? This is a private council.”

“I have,” she announced grandly and mysteriously, “determined what has brought this plague.”

Merlin was deadpan. “You have.”

“Yes. And I-and I alone-know what will stop it.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I suppose it is a matter of worship. With you in charge, of course.”

She brushed Merlin aside. “It is a foolish king,” she intoned, “who ignores the gods.”

But Merlin was not done with her. “Yes, of course.”

Arthur got between them. “Merlin, let Morgan tell us what she knows. You have already confessed that you do not know what to do. Perhaps she does.”

Merlin snorted and waved a hand. “Fine. Let her talk, then.”

Morgan moved to the council table, but instead of taking a seat she stood there, dominating everyone else. “I can hardly be troubled to explain the situation to a roomful of doubters.”

“No one doubts you,” Arthur told her. “It is only that we are so frustrated by this awful situation.”

Simon added, “You are our priestess. You are the chosen of the gods. How could we be anything but respectful of what you say?”

Merlin shifted in his chair and shot Simon a withering glance. “How, indeed?”

Morgan, still standing, still imperious, looked slowly around the table, from one person to the next. Her silence was glacial. Then finally she spoke. “It is,” she said slowly and solemnly, “the Stone.”

Everyone in the room, plainly baffled, looked first to Arthur, then to Merlin. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Merlin asked her, “The stone?”

She nodded solemnly.

“What stone? What the devil are you talking about?”

“Now, now, Merlin.” Arthur wanted peace. “That is hardly the tone to take.” He turned to his sister. “But Morgan, might you please clarify what you just told us? Precisely what ‘stone’ are you referring to?”

“You ought to know well enough, Arthur. You spent years trying to find it. You sent one knight after another questing for it. Even now, it sits in that cabinet with your precious Excalibur and your other treasures.”

Nimue, hearing this, could not contain herself. “You mean the Stone of Bran?!”

A faint smile crossed Morgan’s lips. “You take my meaning precisely.”

For the second time the council members looked at one another in obvious bewilderment. Arthur seemed most puzzled of all. He groped for something to say. “The-the-but Morgan, you are the one who prodded me to find it. You told me that having it in my possession would bring uncounted blessings to England. Now you claim that what it has brought is death.”

Merlin snorted derisively. “Might we get back to discussing practical matters? People are dying.”

Before Arthur could respond, Morgan went on. “The god Bran is angry. His sacred Stone has been removed from its resting place. The plague is the expression of his, shall we say, displeasure?”

“But-but-” Arthur was trying to wrap his mind around what she’d said. “But Perceval found it in an abandoned barn in Wales, near a place called Grosfalcon. In a cattle stall. It was buried in three feet of dirt and mud. Now it rests in a place of honor in the most splendid castle in England. What could the god be unhappy about?”

“Nevertheless,” she said smugly. “You have had reports enough of the devastation. And,” she intoned menacingly, “there is worse to come.”

“And I suppose,” Merlin interjected, “the remedy for the god’s displeasure would be to give you more power or more treasure? Or both?”

Once again she ignored him. “This land is under a curse. Cursed of the gods. Deny their influence all you like. But this I promise you. England will know nothing but death until the Stone is returned to its proper place.”

“To the mud, beneath the cow droppings,” Merlin added unhelpfully.

“You have been warned. Ignore the gods at your peril-and at England’s.” With that she turned and swept out of the room, robes swirling, as abruptly as she had entered.

It took a moment for the tension to ease. Finally Merlin said, “And that is the woman who has charge of all our ‘spiritual lives.’ ”

Arthur sat back. “I wish you’d stop picking at her, Merlin. As you said, she is the high priestess of England. She may be on to something. Things have been bad here ever since the Stone was recovered. Remember the murders of my so-squires. And the killing of the French king Leodegrance on our soil.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that they would be alive today if the Stone had not been dug up?”

“Merlin, my sister is a difficult woman. Even an evil one, some people say. But she does understand these things. You keep telling me that you don’t know what brought this plague, or how it is spread.”

“I keep telling you we do not understand, yes. But Arthur, diseases are natural phenomena. They can be dealt with-if not immediately, then ultimately-by using reason. Logic. Science. Morgan’s arcane flummery will accomplish nothing. But then when, in due time, the plague runs its natural course, she will take credit. She will claim to have ended it with incense or cat’s blood or eye of newt.”

Arthur fell silent for a moment. “No, I think Morgan may be on to something.”

“Arthur, no. This is too serious a situation for-”

“I want to consult my other spiritual advisor. If he agrees with her-”

“Bishop Gildas? The ‘Christian Bishop of England’? The day he and Morgan agree on anything will be the day pigs stop hunting truffles.”

“You concur, then. If Gildas agrees with Morgan about the cause of the plague, we may be certain. Thank you, Merlin.”

“In the name of everything human, Arthur, that is not what I said, and you know it perfectly well.”

“I believe that is as much as we can accomplish here today. You may all go.”

“But, Arthur-”

“Go, I said.”

“Yes, Arthur.”

And so the council meeting ended. Inconclusive as it was, it left no one feeling optimistic.

“The-the Stone of Bran.” Nimue was still incredulous. “So Arthur really thinks that may have brought this pestilence.”

Merlin nodded. “I demonstrated clearly enough that the thing is a fraud when I used its so-called magic to unmask the squires’ killer. But Arthur and most of the court cling to their belief that it is a talisman of unimaginable power. Why does superstition always die so hard?”

Calmly practical as she nearly always was, she told him, “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Bishop Gildas is certain to tell the king Morgan is wrong. With luck, that will put an end to the matter.”

“But not to the plague. How many people will die while Arthur is shilly-shallying with these fools? But at least Gildas will have the chance to prove that he’s good for something other than passing his collection plate.”

“You are too harsh, Merlin. People’s beliefs bring them comfort.”

“The death toll from the plague has topped three hundred. How much comfort do you think the dead took from Morgan’s spells and charms?”

“They might have died at peace with themselves. We have no way of knowing.”

He sighed. “That is more than I will do, in all probability. I wish my mind was not so restless. So impatient of foolishness.”

Nimue kissed him on the cheek. “Then you wouldn’t be Merlin.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me, in some way?”

“It’s supposed to tell you that I love you, old man. My own father was distant, cold-to say the least. You have never been anything but encouraging to me.”

“You are worth encouraging.”

“So are you, Merlin. So are you.”

“Fine, Nimue. But so is Arthur. Every time I think I’ve managed to persuade him that our laws, our government, our society should be based on reason, he reverts to this preposterous belief in gods and curses and whatnot. I’m surprised he’s not seeking advice from old Pellenore.”

“Pellenore? He’s mad.”

“My point exactly.”

Old King Pellenore was indeed mad, and getting madder, and everyone in Camelot knew it. He never stopped fighting the imaginary dragons, griffins, manticores he encountered on his various imaginary quests through the halls of the castle. That afternoon he was doing battle with a sphinx in the castle refectory, waving his sword wildly at the thin air, when John of Paintonbury came upon him.

In his brief time at Camelot, John had managed to alienate virtually everyone he’d met. The knights, he learned quickly, did not appreciate being the objects of his “satire” and tended to react to it with undisguised hostility. The castle functionaries, up to and including Simon of York, regarded him with overt disdain. Several of the servants had spit on him. But Arthur stood by him firmly. Since the king was not noted for having a strong sense of humor, this generated a great deal of puzzlement and not a little resentment.

The young man, now dressed in jester’s motley except for the usual cap and bells, paused to watch the spectacle of Pellenore sparring with empty air for an instant, then asked the old king, amused, “May I inquire what you’re doing?”

Pellenore, breathlessly fighting his nonexistent beast, inhaled deeply and explained, “Protecting you.”

“Me? I don’t believe we’ve met. Why should you feel bound to protect me from-from-whatever it is you’re protecting me from?”

Not missing a beat in his swordfight with his sphinx, Pellenore explained, “They are most ravenous beasts. They devour humans, you know. I am protecting everyone in the castle. I am the only one who can see her, you see.”

“I see.” John took a step back away from the old man. “I’d be careful with that sword, though. You could do a lot of damage to those of us you want to protect.”

“Pellenore,” said the old king.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am King Pellenore. I live here.”

“Oh. I see. And I am John of Paintonbury, King Arthur’s satirist.”

“Satirist? Why are you dressed as a court fool?”

John stiffened. “It appears to me that that position may already be filled.”

“Where is your cap and bells?”

“The ringing gives me headaches.”

“And what does Arthur need with a ‘satirist’ when there are so many fools here already?”

“I am to mock pretension. Puncture false pride. Ridicule the power hungry. Belittle the arrogant.”

“Watch out! Duck!” Pellenore caught John by the arm and threw him to the floor, where he struck his elbow.

Rubbing it, he got back to this feet. “What on earth did you do that for? If you weren’t an old man, I’d-”

“She almost slashed you with her tail. They have venomous barbs in them, you know.”

“They-meaning sphinxes?”

Just at that moment Merlin entered the refectory. “Paintonbury, we’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

In his best ironic manner, John said, “I’ve been helping this old madman fight off a dragon.”

“Sphinx,” Pellenore corrected.

“Yes, sphinx.”

“And you are nothelping me.” Pellenore thrust again at the nonexistent monster. “I’m protecting you.”

Merlin, amused that John seemed to be in over his head, told him, “Arthur wants you.”

“The king?” The jester stepped aside to avoid another of Pellenore’s stabs.

“The king is the only Arthur we have.” Merlin could not hide the fact that he found the scene entertaining. “He wants you. He is having a meeting with Bishop Gildas and myself, and he wants you there. I cannot imagine why, but for once I will enjoy having you around. You can have at Gildas all you want, with my blessing. Arthur says it is time for you to start learning how things are done at Camelot.”

Watching Pellenore warily, John answered, “I can see how things are done here.”

“Do not be too hasty to judge, John. Madness is in the eye of the beholder.”

John was lost. “Do you mean to say there really is a beast here?”

“No. There is none.” Pellenore produced a kerchief and mopped his brow. “I have driven it off.”

Merlin took John by the hand and adopted a mock-friendly manner. “Come along, jester. You are plainly out of your depth here, and Arthur wants you.”

Numbly, dumbly, John went with him.

They walked silently for a few moments. Then Paintonbury couldn’t resist asking, “Who is that old fool?”

“Do you mean my friend Pellenore?”

“What other old fool would I mean?”

Merlin sighed. “You would do well to tone down your professional derision until you learn your way around better. From what I hear, you have made some powerful enemies already.”

“There is at least one kitchen girl who likes me.” Paintonbury put on a lascivious leer.

“The kitchen servants won’t keep you alive. Do you not understand the difference between satire and schoolboy nastiness?”

This seemed to be a new thought. “You are saying I should tone down my ridicule.”

“It might not be a bad idea. You might last longer.”

“Do you mean last as Arthur’s jester, or simply last?”

They reached Arthur’s tower and began the ascent to the king’s chambers. Merlin decided to change the subject. “Have you met Bishop Gildas yet?”

“No, I haven’t had that privilege.”

“He is a peculiar man. Some would even say delusional. He seems actually to believe he can unseat Morgan le Fay as England’s spiritual leader.”

“And what do you think? Will he do it?”

“I think,” Merlin said slowly and deliberately, “that you may find him the ideal object of satire.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Assuming that what you do actually qualifies as satire.”

John bristled at this. “I know you think I’m a country bumpkin. Everyone does. But I can read. That is more than most of these knights and nobles can say. And we had a first-rate schoolmaster in our town. I’ve studied the Greek and Roman classics. Juvenal was more harsh on his subjects than I am. So was Martial. They didn’t hesitate to mock the imperial court.”

“You surprise me, John.” Merlin looked at him with new eyes. “There is more to you than I thought.”

“Merlin, I know it. You judged me much too quickly. So much for your reputation for wisdom.”

“For once, I deserve your ridicule. But here we are. Arthur and Gildas will be in the king’s study. If you think I merit your barbs, just wait till you meet Gildas.”

“I thought you didn’t want to encourage me.”

“Whatever else I may be, I am a practical man, John.” Arthur and Gildas were seated at the table in Arthur’s study, waiting impatiently for Merlin and John to join them. Gildas, looking more thin and gaunt than usual, was dressed in flowing robes of crimson silk. When they entered, Gildas barked at them, “Here you are at last. You should know better than to keep the king waiting.”

“The king?” Merlin’s eyes twinkled. “How nice of you to be concerned for him. Or-is it possible you are more concerned over being kept waiting yourself?” Then, not waiting for an answer, he turned to the king. “I have written to Peter of Darrowfield, Arthur. I have not heard from him in days, and I want to know what progress he has made in his investigation of the murders.”

“We can discuss that later, Merlin.”

“Surely you do not want the slaying of a peer to be ignored?”

“Later. We have other things to discuss.” He smiled at John. “Have a seat, jester. Welcome to your first private meeting of state. Have you met Bishop Gildas?”

“No, I haven’t had the… honor.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Arthur made a show of introducing them and of explaining to Gildas that John was to become a permanent resident at Camelot. “Like yourself,” he added.

Gildas stiffened. “Are you comparing me to a mere court fool? And a boy, at that?”

Merlin laughed; he couldn’t help it.

John, unruffled, said, “I have heard about your belief system, Bishop. And it must all be true. What startling honesty.”

Gildas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

John grinned. “You wear robes of the color associated with whores.”

Merlin laughed again, out loud. Even Arthur chuckled at this. Gildas was fuming but it was obvious to him that he was expected to put up with the jester’s barbs.

Struggling to control his pique-and it showed-he turned to Arthur. “Your Majesty, you have summoned me here to discuss this plague we are facing.”

All the amusement disappeared from Arthur’s face. “How do you know what I want?”

“I do not know it, sire. I divine it. This visitation is all anyone is talking about. I have heard that Morgan le Fay thinks the plague has been brought about by a certain pagan relic in your possession. A certain stone, carved in the shape of a human skull. Is this not correct?”

Uncertainly, thrown off balance by what the bishop knew, Arthur told him, “It is.”

Merlin added, “You have assembled a remarkably efficient intelligence machine in your time here, Gildas.”

Gildas was serene. “The Lord enlightens me.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does. The Lord, plus a few paid operatives. Who do you have on your payroll?”

John interjected, “Don’t be absurd, Merlin. Just look at him. It is clear that Bishop Gildas spends all his money on silk from China.”

Gildas stiffened. Once again he turned to the king. “I should like to see this so-called Stone of Bran, Your Majesty.”

“See it?” Arthur was deadpan. “What on earth for?”

“Word has it that the thing is demonic. I should like to ascertain that for myself.”

“You can tell by merely looking at it?”

Serenely Gildas replied, “I can.”

Without saying a word, Arthur sighed, got to his feet and gestured that they all should follow him. He led them into his private den. A guard was on duty there. In an enormous glass-fronted wooden cabinet were Arthur’s treasures-the crown jewels, the sword Excalibur and, at a central place in the display, a gleaming crystal skull.

“There,” Arthur said. “The Stone.”

John asked, “Can you see Satan’s fingerprints on it?”

Gildas glared at him, then stooped to examine the skull more closely. “Legend has it,” Merlin said helpfully, “that it was carved by the god Bran himself. Some people even believe it is the god’s own skull.”

Gildas leaned even closer to the glass. “May I hold it?”

“You may not.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back from the cabinet. “The palace jewelers have polished it to a high gloss. I don’t want anyone smudging it up.”

“But, Your Majesty-”

“That is enough. You wanted to see it and you have. What is your opinion?”

“My opinion,” the bishop announced importantly, “is that Morgan is right. For the wrong reasons, as usual, but the Stone must be replaced where it was found. Its presence here-”

“Among all these tempting jewels and all this valuable gold,” John said.

But Gildas ignored him and went on. “Its presence here is blasphemous. The Most High is displeased. Return it, and the plague will end.”

This left Merlin reeling. “You are not serious, are you? You and Morgan-actually agreeing on something? On a religious matter?”

Serenely Gildas announced, “Even a blind pig can find an acorn.”

John snorted at him, doing a perfect imitation of a pig. “You are referring to yourself, aren’t you, Bishop?”

Gildas faced the king. “The Lord has spoken. Camelot must be freed from the baleful influence of this pagan thing. England must be rid of it.”

“You are serious.” Merlin had had a moment to reflect. “You are really serious. You believe this preposterous skull caused plague to erupt in Dover?”

“Great is the power of the Lord.”

“Of course.”

“Well. That settles it.” Arthur looked grave. “It is clear what we must do. Both Morgan and Gildas say so. I don’t understand it, Merlin. I doubt if even Gildas, here, does. But it is clear this stone has brought a curse down upon England.”

“From which god or gods, precisely?”

“Stop it, Merlin. I will have Simon prepare a travel party. Perceval will come along; we will need him to show us the exact spot where he found the skull.” To Merlin and John he added, “And I will want the two of you to accompany us.”

“No, Arthur.” Merlin spoke firmly. “I should remain here, to coordinate the fight against the plague. Even now, my assistant Colin is drafting instructions for burying the plague dead. They must be buried outside city walls, where they will be less likely to spread the disease.”

“That is all well and good, Merlin.” Arthur put on a formal smile. In his heartiest manner he patted Merlin on the back. “As usual, you render excellent service to the country. But Colin may remain here to continue that work. I want you to come on this journey.”

“Colin is not a trained physician. He can hardly-”

“Enough. I want you along, and that is that.” He pointed a finger at John. “You, too. Please don’t be difficult.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll come along and hold your hand. It is only fitting that I come, after all. Merlin is right-this is a fool’s errand.”

Merlin laughed. Arthur frowned. Gildas persisted. “You are certain I am not to be permitted to examine this evil thing more closely?”

“Quite certain.” He forced a slight smile onto his lips. “You will come along, also?”

“It is not my habit to travel with court jesters. But if Your Majesty wishes it…”

“I do.”

“Then of course it will be my honor to travel alongside you, Sire. But now, if you will excuse me, other duties call. It is almost time for Vespers.” He bowed slightly.

John started to make another snide remark, but Arthur cut him off. “Of course you may go. I am most grateful for your counsel. England is a finer land for your presence here.”

Merlin rolled his eyes skyward at this. John laughed. And Gildas, ignoring them, bowed again and left. As he was going, John called after him, “My regards to your dress-maker.”

Gildas paused slightly, then sped up his pace. In a moment he was gone.

Arthur turned to face the boy. “Now you go, too.”

“But Arthur, I thought you wanted me at your side.”

“Go and eat your dinner or something.”

“Yes, sir.” And he followed the bishop.

As soon as the boy was out of earshot, Merlin, frowning, confronted Arthur. “He is one of your bastards. There is no other reason you would put up with him.”

“My-! What the devil do you mean?”

“The devil is precisely what you’ve gotten up to, far too many times. Exactly how many of them have you sired? The two who died last year, and this one, and-how many more?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go back to your tower, Merlin. Read a book, or write one. I’m in no mood for this.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that obnoxious boy is not one of your illegitimate sons.”

“I have to meet Sir Bedivere in the courtyard.” He started to go.

But Merlin caught him by the sleeve. “Arthur, I know it is a king’s privilege. But do you not think you have overdone it? It must have occurred to you that keeping them secret will only lead to more unpleasantness. Does it not occur to you that this may be what drove Guenevere to her various rebellions?”

“I was faithful to her. Right up to the day she-”

“Of course. Arthur, how many are there? Have you ever met a pretty country girl you didn’t rut with? Keeping all these sons secret can only lead to unpleasantness. You must be aware of that. Even you, with your dogged determination to avoid inconvenient facts till they smack you in the eye.”

“John is a good boy. A bright boy.” Arthur raised a finger and pointed at Merlin. “Even you must have seen that.”

“Granted, Arthur, but-”

“Of all of them-and no, I don’t know the number-of all of them that I know of, he is the brightest.”

“And so you have made him your fool.” Merlin’s disapproval could not have been plainer.

“He has a gift for sarcasm,” Arthur said weakly. Then a bright thought occurred to him. “Like you.”

“Do not attempt to change the subject.” Suddenly he had a revelatory thought. “All this talk of yours about finding a successor-!”

“Merlin, don’t.”

“That is what is at the bottom of this. But Arthur, you cannot possibly think that making him court fool now will make it easier for everyone to accept him as king when the time comes. You have sabotaged the boy and your own plans for him.”

“He-he-”

“Yes, Arthur?”

“I like him. He likes me. Do you have any idea how rare that is between a father and son?”

“I do. But Arthur-”

“There were others. The two boys Mark killed. You remember them. I loved them. I loved their mother. Surely you would not deny me the simple joys of love, Merlin?”

“No, of course not. But love in royal families is the exception, not the rule. You love this one?”

“Yes, unlikely as it seems.”

“Then why have you put him in a place that is certain to make everyone in Camelot loathe him?”

Arthur froze; this was a new thought to him. After a moment’s thought he said, “I will simply have to keep him close to me, that’s all.”

“How long have you known him? Do you know him, really, at all?”

“I will not let any harm come to him.”

“Can he fight? Can he defend himself, if it comes to that? No, not if, when.”

“I will keep him safe, Merlin. I will.”

“I hope so, Arthur. I do not mind telling you I am beginning to like the boy.”

“Good. I want you to like him.”

“But he has spent his life raising geese. He is hardly prepared for court life. I only hope that you have not turned him from a goose farmer into a sitting duck.”

Camelot was abuzz with the news that Arthur would be making a pilgrimage to rebury the Stone of Bran. Simon of York was busy preparing the entourage. John and-against his wishes-Merlin were to go along on the journey. Various functionaries would accompany them, as well as a retinue of knights and squires. Gildas was to go along, but Arthur wanted Morgan to remain at Camelot; she bristled at this and insisted that at the very least she should return to her own castle, but Arthur was quite firm. And of course there would be enough servants to tend everyone. It was a large undertaking to be planned impromptu, and Simon was in his glory, fussing over details and complaining about everything.

Arthur hinted that he had come up with a strategy to ensure the party’s safety as it progressed through the territories of possibly hostile barons. Britomart disliked the plan-she said it was far too risky and wanted to go on the journey herself. But Arthur was adamant. “With Merlin gone, you should be here to keep a careful eye on the plague and all the problems it may cause. You will have absolute authority to deal with it any way you see fit.”

Brit was unhappy, but acquiesced to the king’s will.

When Merlin returned to his study that evening he found one of Marian’s twin sons waiting for him. The boy seemed anxious; his hair was unkempt, his clothes disheveled. “Please, sir, I want to go with you.”

“With me? Where?”

“Please, sir, on this journey to Wales. Everyone has heard about it. I want to go.”

Merlin peered at him. “First, tell me who you are.”

“Who I am?” The boy seemed puzzled. “I am Marian’s son. You remember.”

“Yes, I do. But which one?”

“Oh. Oh, that. I am Robert. I’m afraid I forget that my brother and I look alike.”

“You are twins.”

“Wayne loves having a double. I hate it. I always have.”

“I see. And how does your mother feel about it?”

“She loves having twin sons. She encourages us to dress alike, talk alike, do everything as similarly as we can. I have always disliked it. Very much.”

“Then?”

“Mother is a strong-willed woman. She wears me down. Wayne sides with her. But I have never liked being one of identical sons. I never will. That is why I want to come on this journey. It will get me away from them, at least for a time. And for that time I can be myself. I don’t get many opportunities for that. I want to be Robert, not part of a set.”

Merlin sighed. “I see. Families. My own was no bed of roses. Still-how would your mother feel about this?”

The boy stiffened. “Does that matter?”

“Possibly to her.”

“I’m old enough to be on my own.”

“Yes.” A faint smile crossed Merlin’s lips; Robert was not certain what it might mean. “I suppose you are.”

“Please, sir. I can be your valet. I make a good personal servant. You won’t be sorry.”

“My valet.” Merlin turned the thought over in his mind. “Yes. I deserve a bit of pampering.”

Eagerly Robert said, “I’ll pamper you. I’ll see to your every wish.”

Merlin ruminated briefly. “Yes, you may accompany us.”

The boy beamed. “Oh, thank you, sir.”

“You can thank me by being a good valet.”

“I will, sir.”

“First, I want you to go and find Simon.”

“Simon of York?”

“Exactly. He is probably over in the King’s Tower. He clings to Arthur like a barnacle to a ship. Tell him you’ll be coming along. And find out when, exactly, we will be leaving. Then come back here and let me know.”

“Yes, sir.” Robert jumped to his feet. “I can’t wait to have this time away from Mother and Wayne. Thank you so very much.” He dashed out of the room, leaving Merlin to wonder what life would be like with a personal servant.

Later, he told Nimue about it. “I have never had a valet before. It will be an interesting experience. I only hope he does not cling to me too fussily.”

Nimue was wry. “Does he know what he’s in for? Does he know what a curmudgeon you are? Does he know how foolish you think this journey is, and how irritable that will make you? Within two days, he’ll avoid you like the-” She caught herself.

“The plague?” Merlin smiled ruefully. “If only avoiding the plague was that easy. Now if you will excuse me, I want to get some sleep. This journey is likely to be long and frustrating. If I am not rested, I will never survive it.”

An hour later, Merlin crawled into bed. The night was chilly, and he always slept with his windows open so his birds could get in and out, so he pulled a fur coverlet over himself and curled up for what he hoped would be a good night’s rest.

But almost at once there came a knock at his door. He sat up wearily. “Yes?”

The door opened and Robert looked in. “Excuse me, sir. I was sent to fetch you.”

“Sent? By whom?”

“By Simon of York, sir. You are wanted-by the king.”

“By Arthur? What the devil does he want? If he has been drinking again-”

“I don’t know, sir. I was told to say please excuse the late hour, but you must come at once.”

“In the name of everything human!” He climbed out from under the cover. “Hand me my clothes. And fire up the boiler for my lift. Do you know how to do that?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

“Drat. I will have Petronus show you, as soon as possible.”

Ten minutes later, assisted by Robert, Merlin climbed the spiral stairs to the King’s Tower. Halfway up, they encountered Simon.

“Merlin.” The majordomo smiled too widely for it to be genuine. “And his new valet. How nice to see you.”

“How did you know I’d taken a valet, Simon? It only just happened tonight.”

“It is my job to know everything that occurs in Camelot.” He smiled again, pleased with himself. “The boy came to me and told me he’d be accompanying you on the journey. He said you sent him. I questioned him at length.”

“You sound awfully smug about being a busybody.”

“In the service of the king.” Simon lowered his eyes in mock humility.

“Anyway, what on earth does Arthur want at this hour?”

“There is a visitor.”

“What?! You got me out of bed for that?”

“It is Peter of Darrowfield.”

“Oh.” Merlin turned to Robert. “Give me your hand. We ought to get up there quickly. Good night, Simon.”

Moments later he was at the door of Arthur’s study. He told Robert to wait outside, arranged his clothing so it looked neat, not disheveled, and went in. Peter was there, with the king, still dressed for travel and covered with dust from the road. They both smiled when they saw Merlin, and Peter stood.

“Peter. How wonderful to see you here. Does this mean you have found Lord Darrowfield’s murderer?”

“I regret not. No, Merlin. I came because I have not received any communications from you for more than a week.”

“I have written every day.”

“So His Majesty tells me.”

Arthur rubbed his hands together and poured goblets of wine. “We have just been discussing the situation. Apparently someone has been interfering with our couriers.”

“I see. And whoever it is must be the killer.”

“I thought so.” Peter took his wine and drank deeply. “Naturally I thought you should know. I’m afraid my inquiries have gone nowhere. But if we can find out who’s been doing this…” He left the sentence unfinished and took another drink.

“And who is protecting the village and the castle while you are here?”

“I have two deputies. I have trained them quite thoroughly. Darrowfield is in good hands.”

“I see. How is Lady Darrowfield?”

“Wracked by grief. More for her sons than for her husband, but even so… She is not too mournful to work at consolidating her position as Lord Darrowfield’s heir.”

“She wants the fiefdom for herself?” A look of concern crossed Merlin’s face.

Peter nodded.

“I have just been telling Peter about this journey we’re making.” Arthur drained his cup and poured himself more. “We won’t have time to get a full report from him. There is too much for him to tell. The murders, whatever has been happening to our envoys… I’ve suggested that Peter come along with us. He can ride in your carriage and give you all the information you require. Unless you’d rather wait till we get back for Peter’s report.”

“No, no, it will be fine, of course. It has come as a surprise, that is all.”

“Government is always a matter of surprises, Merlin.” Arthur drained another cup.

“Please do not remind me. Or, if you must, at least try not to sound so hearty about it.”

“Stop grumping at me.”

“Well, it is late, and I need my rest. I will see you both in the courtyard tomorrow morning, then.” He found Robert and went back to the Wizard’s Tower and bed.

And so the next morning, well before dawn, the party assembled in Camelot’s main court. Dozens of people-squires, knights, servants-were there, forming up in a rough line, some to accompany the king, some to see him off.

A score of Camelot’s knights, dressed to the teeth in their armor, though no one anticipated much danger, strutted about, jockeying for position; each of them wanted to ride as close to the king as possible. Arthur had solved the problem of their constant bickering within Camelot by adopting his famous circular table. But once they were outside the castle, it was a free-for-all. Perceval was there of course, to guide them to the place where he had found the Stone. And Bors, Gawain, Kay, Agravaine, Accolon, Lionel… they squabbled like old women after succulent fruit in the marketplace. Merlin watched them with detached amusement.

Simon of York was there, fussily overseeing last-minute preparations, dressed in his finest clothing as if he thought it might impress someone. He went from person to person and from group to group issuing orders, which they promptly ignored.

Bedivere and Britomart, neither of whom was leaving on the journey with Arthur, emerged from the castle and approached him. The king greeted them with robust heartiness. “Do you have it clear what I want you to do, Bed?”

“Yes, Arthur, but-”

“Do it, then, and don’t bicker. You are to follow us one day later. If we have any trouble, you will come along and fix it.”

“If it is still fixable. I hardly have to tell you how much can go wrong in a day. This idea of you making your progress with only forty armed men-”

“How many times do we have to go over this? We were up half the night, arguing about it. The country is in turmoil. If I travel with a sizeable force, it will give the appearance of tyranny or, worse, that I want to start the civil wars again. I will not try and explain to you still again how catastrophic that could be. If we-”

“Would you rather have them think the king who was victorious in those wars is a fool?” Bedivere was offhand.

Arthur worked to maintain patience. “Look, you know how tenuous our position is. Half the barons in England would start fighting again on the least pretext. More than half. Look at John’s father, Marmaduke of Paintonbury. He’d go back to war against us gleefully. We can’t afford-I can’t afford-to give him that pretext.”

“That does not make what you want to do sensible, Arthur,” Brit protested. “I beg you to reconsider this foolish plan. Or at least take more knights with you now. We have no idea what dangers may-”

“That is quite enough, both of you. I have decided on this, and that’s that. It is the royal will.”

“But strategically this is-”

“Enough, Brit! I have decided, and that’s that.”

She glared at him. “This is what comes of listening to Merlin on military matters instead of your military staff.”

“Merlin does not enter into it. You know I never consult him on things touching the army.”

“Be serious, Arthur. You can’t expect us to believe that.”

Arthur made a quick survey to see that the preparations were proceeding. Then, still talking, still bickering, the three of them went back inside the castle.

A large carriage had been readied for Merlin; he had made it clear to Arthur and to Simon that he had no intention of suffering a journey of this length on horseback. And there was also a second carriage, solely to carry the Stone of Bran in its silver shrine, along with two guards.

Robert met Merlin beside the carriages. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Robert.”

“This is all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

“That is not the adjective I would use.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nonsensical would be the correct word.”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

“Never mind. You have packed all my things, as I instructed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My medical kit?”

The boy nodded. “It is all in the carriage. I was up before dawn getting it all ready.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “Are we-is there really any chance we’ll encounter the plague, sir?”

A squire pushed past them, nearly knocking Merlin off balance. He glared at the young man. “I certainly hope so. If there is any justice in England.”

“You shouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”

“What makes you think I am joking?”

Nimue joined them. Merlin went over last-minute instructions with her. “I shall want daily reports on the disease’s progress. Send the most reliable riders you can find. Someone’s been interfering with communications between Camelot and Darrowfield. We can’t let that happen to us. Write more often than daily, if you think it warranted.”

“Yes, Merlin.”

“And you must keep in careful contact with the mayors of all the important cities. Tell them what you must, to avoid panic. Invent, if need be.”

“We’ve been over all this, Merlin. Three times.”

“This is not a situation we can take chances with,” he grumped. “Have you met Robert?”

She smiled at the valet. “Yes, of course. At Darrowfield.”

“Of course. I had forgotten. As I told you last evening, Robert is to be my new valet. Oh-and do not let Petronus fall behind in his lessons. You know how lazy he can be.”

“Yes, Merlin.”

“I wish the king did not want me on this foolish trip.”

“Yes, Merlin.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do I detect a note of patient condescension?”

“Yes, Merlin.” She turned to Robert. “How long do you think it will take you to get used to this?”

“Believe me, compared to my mother, Merlin is the soul of calm reason.” He smiled, first at Nimue, then at Merlin.

Simon came past again, consulting a sheaf of papers in his hand and barking orders at everyone, quite ineffectually. Merlin could not resist goading him. “And do you have any instructions for the plague dead, Simon?”

Simon glared at him and kept moving.

“Don’t go.” Merlin didn’t want to give up his little game so easily. Simon turned and faced him again, not trying to disguise how unhappy he was.

“What do you want, Merlin?”

“Do you know what the king was talking to Brit and Bed about? It seemed like a tense little conference.”

Simon shrugged. “They are worried about the king’s safety.”

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

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

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

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

“John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Morgan?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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