J. Blair: The Pendragon Murders

“You have been spending too much time with Bishop Gildas.”

Arthur left the following morning, accompanied by one hundred knights, plus squires and attendants of various kinds. It was a three days’ ride to Cumbria. If the weather stayed dry, they could travel quickly and be back at Camelot within a week.

Merlin went to the courtyard to see them off. His nose was runny and he carried a kerchief, and he had another one in his pocket. He took the king by the sleeve and led him aside. “It occurs to me that there is another good reason why you should attend this funeral.”

Arthur was in a good mood, smiling and energetic. “And what would that be?”

Merlin lowered his voice. “Your patrimony.”

“Are you serious? I have all of England.”

“Even so. Think, Arthur. Uther was widely respected in his day, marital indiscretions or no. You are his heir. Claiming your inheritance rights will only help to bolster your claim to the throne.”

“But I already-”

“Equally to the point, you must make certain that Morgan has no chance to make herself Uther’s heir.”

“I see your point.” He seemed to lose energy. “But-but-”

“Hm?”

“Whatever people may think about the legitimacy of my parents’ marriage, I am the eldest. Morgan is arguably even less legitimate than I am. Her mother was-”

“Do you think the technical points of genealogy will matter if she gets the barons to support her?”

Arthur whistled. “I had best get moving. No use giving her more time to subvert my loyal subjects.”

“I thought you would see it that way. Travel well, Arthur. Send messages as things develop.”

Fifteen minutes later the party left. Merlin remained standing alone in the courtyard, looking after them, not moving. Suddenly he was overcome by a fit of coughing. One of the sentries approached him. “Is anything wrong, sir?”

“I hope not.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I hope not.”

Roc flew down out of the sky and perched on his shoulder. He stroked the bird’s head and went back inside Camelot.

By sundown Merlin was quite ill-feverish, achy, congested. He took to his bed and slept. Roc and the other ravens seemed puzzled. They lingered by his bedside for a few minutes, then when he did not respond they left. Petronus watched over him as best he could with his limited medical knowledge.

Nimue returned from Darrowfield the next day, having made the journey there and back again in very good time. She realized that Merlin had contracted the same influenza she had just recovered from. She brought him soup from the kitchen and kept monitoring his condition carefully. Petronus wanted to help, but she warned him to stay away lest he fall victim to the disease, too.

For days he remained unconscious, waking only to eat and even then not seeming aware of his surroundings. In his sleep he muttered, vague but alarming words about murder near the crown, traitors striking near the very heart of England. At times he raved quite deliriously.

The infection spread in the castle. It struck knights, squires, servants with varying degrees of severity. Even Simon of York fell victim to it. No one was certain what to do, since to nurse the sick could only serve to spread the disease to the ones doing the nursing. The only one in the castle with substantial medical knowledge and experience was Merlin, and he was out of commission. Nimue did her best to present a confident front and to manage all the efforts to contain the disease; but it was only a front, and she felt inadequate.

When she was not tending to the outbreak, she did her best to keep current on all the reports that were coming in from local officials about the plague. Cold weather did indeed seem to be halting its spread. There were still occasional riots, especially for food, but those could be safely left in the hands of local authorities.

Then on the fourth day Merlin’s fever broke. He awoke, sat up in bed, looked around and barked at Nimue, “I’m hungry. Why hasn’t Simon sent my breakfast?”

Nimue watched him with a smile. “So you’re finally up.”

“What do you mean, finally? I’m hungry.”

“You’ve been asleep for four days, Merlin. And it’s nearly sundown, not time for breakfast.” She crossed the room to him and put a hand on his forehead. “Your fever’s finally broken.”

Realization began to dawn. “I have had the influenza?” “You and several dozen others. I’ll send for some porridge.”

“Porridge? I need my strength. Send for some beef.”

“Yes, Merlin.” Amused by his ferocity, she went to the door and called for a servant. When the boy was gone, she turned back to Merlin. “You’ve been missing the fun. Simon has been sick, too. They say he’s been complaining like an old woman.”

“Well, what can you expect? That is what he is.” He sat up. “What word have we had from Arthur?”

“None at all.”

“Blast. And how widespread is this awful infection?” He narrowed his eyes. “You are the one who gave it to me.”

“A few dozen people are ill. The knights are grumbling about a disease that does not respect their rank.”

“They would. How serious do things look?”

“Two people have died. Two elderly servants. So I was worried about you.”

“I am not elderly.”

She laughed at him. “No, only your hips are. Anyway, other than those two, people seem to recover and show no signs of being the worse for wear.”

“That is good. But tell me, what did you find in Darrowfield?”

She shook her head. “Nothing of any real interest. Lady Darrowfield was not cultivating belladonna. Peter helped me inspect her garden. There was nothing suspicious.”

“Peter.” Merlin sat on the edge of his bed. His voice betrayed his misgivings.

“Why that tone? Do you suddenly distrust him? He was a great help to you on the trip to Grosfalcon. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, of course. Only…”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes when we are asleep our minds function with special clarity. Peter was present when each of the murders occurred. John, Bruce, Accolon, little George, even the attempt on Arthur…”

She did not try to hide her skepticism. “You were delirious, Merlin. Can you really make an accusation like that based on fever dreams? Why would he have done all those awful things? What could he have gained?”

“Then it must have been Morgan. Get me my slippers.” He yawned. “I suppose we should be grateful so few have succumbed to this awful disease. No more deaths here, then.”

“Only the very young and the very old seem to be affected in dire ways.” She added pointedly, “The very, very old.”

“Spare me your sarcasm. I am hungry.”

“They say old Fedora is quite unwell. You know-that horrible old midwife. If she goes, I doubt anyone will care much.”

“Fedora!”

“Yes. The most venomous old crone in Camelot.”

“She must not die! I must go to her at once!” He got to his feet and looked around for his cane.

“I thought you were hungry.”

“For the truth, Nimue. Go and fire up my lifting device. I must get to Fedora at once.”

The lift creaked ominously as Merlin descended, and the chains that held his chair swayed. He had to force himself not to look down the full height of the tower.

Nimue, having started the mechanism, raced down the steps to meet him at the bottom. “You’re going to kill yourself on that thing someday. You really ought to have Simon arrange for a suite of rooms down here among the people.”

He got to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Perish the thought. If I had to live every day surrounded by knights, serving girls and Simon of York, I would certainly go mad.”