J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

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 fell 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.

Merlin took a step slowly, carefully, away from his body. “So much for that hope.”

Nimue impulsively moved to the corpse, plainly wanting to do something to help.

“Do not touch him. He is dead, Colin. Nothing will do any good. We must keep our wits about us. How long were you with him?”

She explained.

“And this struck so quickly? It has all the symptoms of plague, but I have never heard of symptoms developing so rapidly. If plague is what we are actually facing-if he did not have some odd form of the pox or whatever-this may turn into a major crisis.” They both stood over the body, to warn passersby not to touch it and risk contagion. Fortunately, no one seemed to want to. There were a few curious glances, and one woman suggested consulting the local priestess of Bran, “for your sick friend.”