J. Blair - The Pendragon Murders

This caught Merlin off guard. “I never claim to be a wizard. There is no fraud. Do not be disagreeable, Peter.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

A particularly ferocious gust caught Merlin’s robes and nearly knocked him off balance again; Peter caught him by the arm and steadied him. “Thank you, Peter. But what on earth are you talking about?”

They began to move toward the door of the mill. “I am talking about you. You preach a life of reason, of the mind, of austerity. Yet when a good chef comes your way, you all but leap at him. You are as much devoted to the senses as any Roman emperor.”

Merlin’s hat started to blow off and he raised a hand to steady it on his head. “Pleasure is essential to life, Peter. The things that give me the most pleasure are not the usual ones, though. I derive more pleasure from a good book than from any woman I have ever known. Besides, I have lived longer than the typical Roman emperor.” He smiled. “Much longer.”

They stepped inside the mill and Peter pushed the door shut against the wind.

Merlin shrugged. “I never claim to be an ascetic, and I certainly never suggest that anyone else should live a life without gratification. I am merely… different in my choice of pleasures, that is all.”

“Different indeed. And does unmasking murderers give you pleasure, then?”

“Let us say satisfaction . More satisfaction than I can say.”

“Have you ever not found a murderer you were pursuing?”

Merlin brushed bits of dead leaves and twigs from his robes. “Young George will be waiting. Come. I want my new cook in good spirits.”

“Sybarite.”

“Cynic.”

In the mill room the great stones turned more quickly than they had earlier, driven by the furious water in the furious wind. They made a constant grinding sound. Merlin wished there was some way to brake them, but the mechanism offered no such option. A fire roared in a huge open hearth not far from the stones.

George was waiting there, pacing and looking nervous. Robert was standing off in a corner, trying to look unobtrusive but clearly keeping an eye on George.

When Merlin entered, he waved Robert away. “Thank you, Robert. You may go and get some rest.”

“I don’t think I could rest with that horrible groaning. I’d really like to stay.”

“Go, I said.”

Robert pouted. “You need protection, Merlin. And I am in your service.”

“Do you think George, here, is going to assault me with a bowl of soup? Go and sleep.”

“Yes, Merlin.” Sullenly he went.

Merlin found a stool for himself, then turned his attention to George. The boy was looking anxious, and Merlin smiled to reassure him.

“That Robert fellow doesn’t trust me.” The expression on George’s face was part apprehension, part bewilderment. “Why?”

“You are Lulua’s servant.” He tried to make his voice calming.

“What of that, sir?”

“Well…” Merlin chuckled. “She does fancy herself a witch, after all.”

“She’s more like a priestess to all of the local tribes. Not a witch like a mean old woman.”

Merlin gave the boy a brief summary of what had nearly happened to Arthur and himself at the hands of Marmaduke and Lulua. “So you see, Robert wonders if you can be trusted. You serve the woman who wanted me dead.”

“But you said she is a prisoner now. She can’t hurt you. Can I sit down, please?”

“Of course.”

George looked around for another stool. Not finding one, he sat on the floor five feet in front of Merlin. “Lulua has taken care of me since my mother died. I owe her a lot.”

“That is the first good thing I have heard anyone say about her. Besides, your cooking made her fat-or kept her that way. I would say you had repaid your debt to her more than sufficiently.”

The boy lowered his eyes. “I feel like I owe her a lot more.”

“Feed her much more than you have, George, and she may explode. But tell me, what happened to your mother?”

“She died, sir.”

“Yes, but how? What happened to her?”

“She just… stopped living, that’s all.”

“And where did this happen?”

“Paintonbury, sir. She was Marmaduke’s cook. She taught me.”

“I see. So your family has made a tradition of fattening up villains.” Merlin’s bench wobbled. Irritably he got to his feet. “Now, tell me about Morgan.”

George’s face turned blank. “Who?”

“Morgan le Fay. The king’s sister.”

It registered. “Oh-the Great Queen.”

“She calls herself that?”

“Everyone calls her that. She is the rightful ruler of England.” He paused uncertainly. “Isn’t she?”

“Her brother Arthur is King of all the Britons. You would do well to remember that.”

“Yes, sir. But-but the Grea-but Morgan le Fay hasn’t been here for months. Why are you asking me about her?”

Merlin sighed and sat down again. The stool wobbled, and he got quickly to his feet. “Is there no decent furniture is this mill? What did Lulua sit on?” But before George could answer, Merlin held up a hand. “No. That is not a thing I want to know.” He moved to the door. “Robert!”

A moment later the door opened and Robert put his head in. “You need something, Merlin?”

“A good chair. Find one.”

“Yes, Merlin.” He closed the door behind him.

Merlin turned back to George. “The matriarchs effectively ruled England for centuries and styled themselves queens like, apparently, Morgan. Boadicea was the most famous of them. They invoked their gods, cast their so-called spells, worked their supposedly magical charms, did everything they could to cow warlords and common people alike into obeying them. And they had armies. Then they were displaced, first by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, who went a long way toward unifying the country, then by Arthur himself. But you must know all that.”

“I do. Some of it at least. I was taught. But my lessons were never couched in language like yours, Merlin.”

“Of course not, no. But the witches-”

“I was always taught to call them priestesses, sir.”

“Priestesses, then. Under their Great Queen. They want their power back. They have been conspiring against the king. You must tell me what you know of their clandestine affairs.”

The boy looked lost. “I’m afraid I don’t know much, sir. Sometimes the Great Queen would come here to confer with Lulua. Sometimes other priestesses would. But I never knew what they talked about.”

“No, of course not.” Merlin was annoyed but worked to keep it from showing. “But anything you can remember may be of use. Scraps of conversation you overheard when you were serving them, perhaps.”

The boy paused for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin, really I am, but I never heard a thing.”

Merlin sighed a resigned sigh. “No, of course you did not. But try and think back. Try. Anything that comes to mind-”

“It is important, isn’t it?”

“Where is Robert with that chair?” He pulled the door open. Robert was on his knees just outside. He had obviously been eavesdropping. He jumped to his feet. “Here is your chair, Merlin.”

“Thank you. Now go and join the others and get some sleep.”

“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“Go, I said!”

Robert turned his back and left. Merlin watched him go, suspicious of him for the first time. Why had the boy been listening? What did he hope to hear? Then he dragged the chair into place and turned back to George. The boy seemed honest enough. He decided to trust him. “You must not repeat what I am about to tell you. Do you understand that? Not to anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There have been deaths. A series of them. Of people who were close to Arthur.” He lowered his voice. “Potential heirs.” He leaned back in the chair. “These deaths give every appearance of being natural, but I am having more and more doubts. Do you follow me?”