J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

Peter went; Merlin followed him to the entrance. Old Ralph was waiting there, leaning casually against the front of the building.

“What a horrible man your master was. Did he ever bathe or clean himself? Did anyone, at his court?”

Ralph ignored the question and spat on the ground.

“Answer me, old man.”

Ralph laughed. “Who are you to make sneering references to anyone’s age?”

Merlin took him by the collar. “We have a seriously ill man inside.”

Unruffled, Ralph spit again. “I thought it was odd, you bringing him here.”

“We did not know what a sty your overlord occupied. There must be other buildings here. Cleaner ones.”

“If there are, I’ve never noticed them.”

Merlin released him. “An entire village of swine. What about the fat witch, Lulua? She did not live in this foul hamlet. Where was her residence?”

Ralph reached up and removed Merlin’s hand from his collar. “Lulua occupied a big old mill a mile and a half from here.” He smiled and pointed to the muddy rivulet. “Downstream.”

“Where? Which way is it?”

Ralph pointed casually to the muddy brook. “Just follow that stream.”

“That… that tiny trickle of mud?”

Ralph leaned back against the lintel of the palace door. “That rivulet floods every time it rains. You’d be surprised how much fury it can unleash. I’m surprised it hasn’t left its banks already, with all the rain we’ve had. Besides, it joins a larger stream.”

Just then a servant approached with a message from Arthur. “A messenger from Camelot has finally made it to us. There is a letter for you.”

Merlin focused on Ralph. “Two miles downstream, you say?”

Ralph spit again, then nodded. Merlin turned to the servant. “Let us get back to the king.”

There was indeed a courier from Camelot. Arthur was walking briskly about the camp, overseeing everything. Bedivere was at his side. Most of the wounded were fit for travel; a few required more time for healing and rest. Everyone had been fed amply. A crew of servants was digging trenches for latrines.

Arthur scratched his head. “No one can seem to find any sanitary facilities, so we have to make our own. What did the residents do, I wonder.”

“Trust me, Arthur,” Merlin said in a low voice. “It is not something you want to inquire into.”

“Tell me, what have you learned?”

“No, Arthur, I really-”

“Tell me!”

So Merlin described the interior of Marmaduke’s palace. “I have had Accolon taken there. He needs to be kept out of the elements. But that place cannot be healthy. I am told Lulua occupied a large old mill a few miles upriver. We should take him there, along with any other wounded men who may need more care.”

“Excellent. Before you go, though, there is this.” He produced a letter. “From Colin at Camelot.”

Merlin took the letter and unsealed it. It was in Nimue’s hand and was headed Confidential. Only for Merlin.

Merlin,

Reports from around the country have slowed due to these awful autumn rains. But the state of affairs, as near as I can determine, is this:

Cooler weather seems to have slowed the plague’s progress, as you expected it would. The area around Dover has been hardest hit, naturally, and the nearby towns have all reported outbreaks. There have been a few cases reported as far west as London. We have received no news of plague farther west than that.

Camelot, except for the death of John, has been spared. Not one more case has erupted here. Perhaps that is because we were quite prompt and diligent in cremating John’s body and having the ashes buried, not scattered.

There are reports that in some sections of the country social standards are breaking down. Large numbers of people are drinking much more heavily than is usual, and even larger numbers are engaging in orgiastic sexual abandon. (We have had tentative news that the same thing is happening across Europe, wherever this plague has erupted.) But with the plague on the wane, that will stop in time. And if it does not, it will be a problem for local authorities. In due course order will return, as it has already begun to do.

It may be premature to be optimistic, but it appears that the worst of this crisis is behind us.

Nimue

Merlin folded the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. When he was finished reading he noticed that Perceval had joined Arthur and Bedivere. The three were conferring, presumably about how best to reach the spot where the Stone of Bran had been buried.

Perceval was saying, “I’m not certain how we should proceed. We were more lost in that bloody fog than we realized.”

Arthur told him, “We have maps with us. It should not be too difficult to find our bearings and decide how to proceed.”

Merlin interrupted their discussion. “Let me see who else should be removed to Lulua’s mill. There should not be many, I do not imagine. Marmaduke’s warriors were… less than skillful. Thankfully.”

“I think we should spend a day or two here before we move on.” Arthur told Perceval to go and check the maps, then turned back to Merlin. “A good rest will do us all good. Can’t you treat Accolon and the others here?”

“They should be kept warm, indoors. And the buildings in this awful hamlet are pigsties. It will be easier to keep them warm and tend to their needs in the mill. Assuming Lulua was more fastidious than Marmaduke, that is.”

“She would almost have to be, from what you’ve told me. I want to go and inspect Marmaduke’s little castle myself.”

Merlin looked at him inquiringly.

“Call it morbid curiosity.”

“Of course. But before you do it, Arthur, might I suggest that you get out of those tattered clothes? You look a good deal less than kingly.”

Arthur grinned. “There were times during the civil wars when I looked considerably less kingly than this. But you’re right, Merlin. I need to bathe and change. I don’t suppose you saw anything resembling a bathtub in the palace?”

“Hardly. A bathtub for a man as fat as Marmaduke would be the size of a small pond.”

“I’ll look around. There must be something I can use. Meanwhile, go and tend to the wounded and make whatever arrangements you need for their transport.”

“I’ll see to it right away, Arthur. Oh, and I’m told this foul little stream we are using joins a larger, cleaner one not far from here.”

“Good.”

Arthur began pulling his tunic off. Merlin saw that there was a huge gash in his left side. “In the name of everything human, Arthur. That wound!”

“It isn’t very painful. Marmaduke himself struck the blow.”

“Were you going to keep it a secret? What would be the point? You must let me clean it. I have some healing salve that will help it. And after you have had your bath-if that is possible-you must let me dress it with a bandage.”

“Don’t fuss, Merlin.”

“It is my duty, remember? We can hardly have King Arthur die because his wound went untended. We read that several Roman generals-”

“Spare me the history lecture.” The king sighed. “Very well, if you must. But go see to the others first, all right?”

And Merlin sighed in return. “If you insist. But do not think I will forget about it.”

“Your relentlessness is part of what makes you so valuable to me. Go, now.”

There were three more men whose needs could be better tended in the makeshift infirmary Merlin planned to set up in Lulua’s mill. He arranged for them to be transported there in the two carriages. The Stone of Bran was to remain with Arthur at Paintonbury for safekeeping. When Merlin had seen to all the necessary arrangements, he went back to Arthur to tend his wound. “You have put me off long enough, Your Majesty.” He leaned on the title with irony. Arthur grumbled but let him do what he needed to.