J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

As they were heading back indoors, Peter commented that he found the whole place ominous. “It is too dark, too gloomy. And there is that awful noise from the wheel. I would like to go back and rejoin Arthur.”

Merlin shook his head. “You are valuable. I need you.” “Something terrible is going to happen here, Merlin. I feel it.”

“Nonsense.”

Robert and the other servants had done everything they could to make the mill comfortable for the patients. As Merlin and Peter went back inside, there was a minor hubbub. Robert had found a young man hiding there. “He was hiding in one of the pantries, sir. What shall we do with him?”

Merlin peered at the man; he was not much more than a boy. “What is your name?”

“George, sir.” The boy had a thick shock of black hair and bright blue eyes. He was Robert’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. He was slender and quite pale. “George o’ the Mill.”

“They call you that?”

“Yes, sir. That, or George the Miller. And sometimes George Cook.”

“Well, George o’ the Mill, what are you doing here?” He smiled. “You were in the pantry. Was Lulua going to eat you?”

“I live here, sir. I always have. In service to the witch of Paintonbury.”

“The others seem to have run away. Why did you not go with them? Where are your parents?”

The boy looked from Merlin to Peter to Robert, then to Merlin again. A trace of fear showed in his face. “Please, sir. They said my mistress had been captured-taken prisoner. By whom, sir?”

“By Arthur, the rightful King of England. Your true lord and master.”

The boy’s face was a complete blank. “Who?”

“Never mind. You are now a prisoner, too.”

For the first time his face registered emotion. His fear was obvious. “Are you-are you going to kill me, sir?”

“I have not decided.” Peter noticed the twinkle in Merlin’s eye.

George clearly did not. “Please, sir, spare me. I will do anything.”

Merlin furrowed his brow and stroked his chin, to make a show of thinking. “I shall have to ponder that awhile. Meantime… can you cook?”

Timorously the boy nodded. “I always cooked for my mistress.”

“A large job, no doubt.”

“Yes, sir.” He beamed with pride.

“Well, you shall cook for us now. We have four men with us who are quite ill. They will need good soup for the time being. And there are a dozen more of us.”

“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.”