Arthur echoed him. “Now, Bedivere!”
From somewhere deep in the surrounding fog, a trumpet sounded, playing a military charge. Marmaduke looked around, alarmed.
Lulua did likewise. “This isn’t possible. He could never-”
“He has done it, Witch.” Marmaduke called to his men, “All of you, draw your weapons! We are under attack!”
The men looked around, confused.
From the fog, a second trumpet sounded.
Then the first of Arthur’s soldiers, led by Bedivere, appeared clearly from out of the mist. They were on horseback, swords and spears drawn, charging at full gallop. They shouted a battle cry. More and more of them followed. Marmaduke’s men panicked, some bracing themselves for the fight, but most scattering. The pyre burned more and more brightly. A third battle call issued from the unseen trumpet.
Amid the confusion, Lulua remained calm. She looked around for her carriage and began slinking toward it, or what passed for slinking in a woman so heavy. Arthur, noticing her, caught her by the back of her robe. “No, you don’t, Witch.”
She struggled. “Let go of me, pretender.”
“Be careful, Witch. I once saw a hog mired in mud. It was stuck for days. The same is apt to happen to you.”
She swiped at him. “Let go of me!”
Arthur extended a leg and tripped her. She fell, and the muddy ground made an unpleasant sucking sound as she hit it. She called out for her attendants, but they were in the process of mounting the carriage and speeding away in it. Arthur laughed at her. “Root around, while you’re down there. You might find some truffles.” He turned to Merlin. “Come over here and deal with this harridan. You and she talk the same language.”
Merlin stiffened. “I most certainly do not speak the-”
“You both deal in the same mystical flimflam. Come over here and take her in charge.”
Most of Marmaduke’s men had vanished into the mist by now, in the opposite direction from where Bedivere’s men were still charging. Marmaduke kept shouting encouragement to the ones who remained. “Fight! Fight for your wives and children! Fight for Paintonbury!” He made for Merlin, plainly intending to slaughter him.
But Arthur took a sword from one of the fallen men and followed him, thwacking him across the buttocks repeatedly.
“Stop that,” the flustered warlord ordered him.
But Arthur only laughed and kept spanking him. “Surrender, lump. Why let any more of your men be killed?”
“My men will fight on to the last.”
“Surrender, for God’s sake. Use your wits, for once.”
“Never.”
But Bedivere’s men had them outnumbered four to one. The fighting ended quickly. Individual warriors surrendered. The ground was littered with their fallen comrades and dropped swords.
Then, when it was apparent he had lost, Marmaduke dropped his own sword. Puffing heavily he said, “You win. Again. Arthur, King of England.” He made an ironic little bow, then spat.
“Why, Marmaduke, how nice of you to acknowledge my kingship-once more.”
The warlord sulked and said nothing more.
But Arthur was not finished gloating. “Remind me, Marmaduke. My memory is failing me, I’m afraid. Was it this simple to best you, back in the civil war?”
The pyre was roaring with flames by now. Marmaduke fixed his gaze on it and remained silent.
“Come, now, Marmaduke, it was twenty years ago. Not so long, really. Longer for me than for you, at any rate. I have had the burden of government on my shoulders all that time. You have had… what? Mud? You might at least have had a bath sometime in twenty years.”
“You damned, self-styled aristocrats. You romp around the country violating men’s wives and then have the gall to complain to us. ‘Oh, how hard my royal life is. Pity me.’ ” He spat again.
Arthur smiled indulgently, in a way he hoped would be conciliatory. “It was only the once, Marmaduke. And she wanted it. They tell me I was quite a handsome young man.”
“ ‘They tell me I was a handsome young man,’ ” the warlord mimicked. “You make me sick, Arthur. All of you, you’re all alike. Your father was just as bad, in his day. But at least he was content with his own little kingdom. You wanted all of England, and all the women in it.”
Something the fat man said made Merlin’s ears prick up. He stared at Marmaduke fixedly and did not move a muscle.
“What is that about Uther?” he asked.
But before Marmaduke could answer, Lulua, trying to rub the mud off her robes, said to Merlin, “Well? Are you coming for me or not?”
“Be quiet, woman. I am talking to Marmaduke.”
“No, you’re not. Look.”
Two of Bedivere’s men prodded Marmaduke with spears and led him away.
Bedivere approached. Arthur glared at him. “Where the devil have you been?”
The knight was out of breath and puffing. “I’ve been trying to impose some order on this scene, while you stood here taunting that fat idiot Marmaduke.”
Cowed, Arthur said nothing.
“The men who were with you, Arthur-they haven’t been fed since they were captured.”
Arthur rubbed his stomach. “Neither have I, for that matter. Find out where Marmaduke keeps his provisions, and feed us all.”
“And one of the knights has taken sick. Maybe it was the lack of food. That can’t have helped him, at any rate.”
“Which one?”
“Accolon.”
A look of grave concern crossed Arthur’s face, then vanished. He called, “Merlin, come over here.”
Merlin joined them. Arthur asked Bedivere to repeat what he’d said.
“Accolon?” Merlin turned thoughtful. “He is one of-” He caught himself. “He is one of the younger knights. What is wrong with him?”
Bedivere looked away. “Well, Merlin, it looks like… That is, we think it might be…”
“Say it.”
Bedivere looked directly into his eyes, then into Arthur’s. “The plague.”
EIGHT
By early afternoon, calm was beginning to emerge out of the morning’s chaos. Most of Marmaduke’s men had either fled or surrendered, those that weren’t wounded or dead. Bedivere took charge of seeing that all of Arthur’s knights who had been held prisoner were fed.
The fog was finally beginning to dissipate; after so long, it seemed a miracle. But the winds that scattered the mist were cold; they carried the first breath of winter. And though they dissipated the mist, they brought heavy gray storm clouds.
Arthur kept a careful eye on the sky, fearing snow. “The last thing we need,” he whispered to Bedivere. “Our going has been heavy enough already. With an early snowfall… This chill breeze will be hard enough on us. I can taste the ice on it.”
“We’ve brought cloaks and blankets,” Bedivere offered. “And there are trees for firewood. We’ll be fine, Arthur.”
“That isn’t what frightens me.”
“Then…”
“Do you suppose there really are gods? Do you suppose Lulua could be right?”
Bedivere put a hand on his shoulder. “You haven’t eaten. Come on.” As they were walking to the cook-fires he added, “Besides, if it gets cold enough for the ground to freeze, it will speed up our progress. Perhaps that is the gods’ gift.”
“Why is everything they do so ambiguous?”
“There is nothing ambiguous about winter, Arthur.”
People whispered that the wind must be Merlin’s doing, and when the rumors reached his ears he grew irritable.
But he dutifully tended to the wounded, cleaning stab wounds, dressing cuts and bruises, applying salves where he thought they would help. One of the squires had a broken leg, and he set the bone and applied splints. Peter assisted him, as best he could, and Merlin instructed Robert in ways to treat the simpler, more routine cases. Neither of them had any real medical training but they both learned quickly. A good many of the knights refus
ed their ministrations, claiming to be men enough to brave out the healing process. Merlin was amused and thought them foolish but said nothing.
Once all of Arthur’s men and their retainers had been cared for, he turned his attention to the remainder of Marmaduke’s people. At one point Arthur asked him how it was going.
“If it is any comfort to you, Arthur, their wounds and injuries are, for the most part, worse than ours. I suppose that is a testament to the skill of Camelot’s fighting men. One or two of them will almost certainly die.”
“But how many of our men are fit to fight?”
“Nearly all of them. Ninety percent of them, at least.”
Arthur dealt personally with Lulua and Marmaduke. He interrogated them as thoroughly as he could, trying to find out whether his sister Morgan was up to something nefarious. The cross-examination proved inconclusive. Lulua refused to say much of anything except to make veiled-and not-so-veiled-threats against Arthur’s kingship. When it was clear they would tell him nothing useful, he ordered Bedivere to have them taken to Camelot under armed guard, to await trial for treason. The most badly wounded of Arthur’s men were to go with them.
“Put Kay in charge of them. It will do him good to get home. Half a dozen mounted knights should be sufficient to guard our corpulent prisoners. I doubt either of them has much fight left.”
“Yes, but we will have to protect our own people against possible hostility.”
Arthur frowned. “You’re right. Consult with Kay, and send whoever you think you need to.”
Bedivere gave a cursory glance at the two prisoners. “We have some of those large packhorses from Scotland. They’ll have to ride those. Ordinary mounts would buckle under their weight in no time.”
“Why burden unsuspecting horses with all that flesh? Let them walk.”
“All the way? Arthur, they’ll never make it.”
He smiled. “I think they will. The exercise will take weight off them. And if they succumb…” He shrugged.
“Leave them to rot in the nearest ditch. But why punish the horses?”
The party left for Camelot soon after.
Of Arthur’s men, the one in the worst condition was Accolon, the young French knight. His skin was covered in bloodred blotches, the largest of which were slowly turning black, and he had a raging fever. Merlin checked on his condition hourly. He was not worsening but not improving either.
Merlin ordered him removed to Marmaduke’s house. “All this cold dampness cannot be good for him. Carry him gently.”
The servants he gave these orders to balked at them. “He has the plague!” one of them cried out. “We’ll catch it and die.”
“Nonsense. You must be careful not to touch him, that is all. The contagion may be spread through bodily contact.”
“And it may not be,” said another of them. “Plagues are divine visitations.”
“Divine or not, if Accolon was spreading disease, we would all be ill by now. Take him, and be careful.”
The servants were plainly unhappy. They sulked and appealed to other leaders, ultimately even to the king himself. And at every stage they were told to do as Merlin ordered. Finally, glumly, and facing the threat of a whipping for disobedience, they wrapped Accolon in sheets of coarse fabric and carried him off to the little wooden building Marmaduke had called his palace.
Merlin had not eaten since the battle and his capture. Once he had seen to all the wounded, he made his way to Bedivere’s command station. Three cook-fires were blazing. Knights, squires, servants huddled round them. Arthur was there.
“Merlin.” Arthur was having a goblet of wine. “Is everything ready? All the men treated who need it?”
Merlin nodded. “I smell meat. I have had nothing since we were captured. I am hungry enough to eat Lulua.”
“I thought you said you want meat. Lulua is pure fat.”
Bedivere offered him a plate loaded with meat and fruit. “Here. Eat your fill-there’s plenty more. One thing Marmaduke did was to keep plenty of good food on hand. This roast beef is the best I’ve had in ages.”
Merlin gaped at the plate. “So much. Not even I could finish it all.”
“A minute ago you were famished.” Arthur laughed. “Eat up. Our host is gone, but we can still enjoy his hospitality. I had forgotten how pleasant warfare can be.”
“Not to mention gluttony. Go easy on that wine, Arthur.”
“Nonsense. We have a victory to celebrate. You should have some yourself.”
Merlin ate pensively. “I need sleep. I got none in that bloody cage. When I’m finished eating, I mean to take a good nap. Have someone wake me in an hour. I want to keep an eye on Accolon.”
Arthur took a long swallow of wine. “How bad is he?” “I do not know yet. If he has the plague-”
“He has. What else could it be?”
“If he has the plague,” Merlin repeated with emphasis, “he should be watched carefully. This will be my first opportunity to study the disease’s progress.”
“He will die. Another one.”
Merlin looked into his eyes. There was no need for him to speak. They both knew what the king was thinking, and there was nothing he could say.
Bedivere asked Merlin if he wanted more venison.
“No. No, thank you, Bed. Just find me a nice, warm blanket so I can curl up somewhere and get some rest.”
“We’re building fresh fires. All of Marmaduke’s have burned too low to be of any use.”
“Good. We will need them.” He looked up at the deepening cloud cover. “At least this cold will staunch the plague.” He added, “If plague this is.”
Merlin napped, and an hour later he woke to Bedivere shaking him. The air had grown still colder; a stiff breeze blew from the north. Merlin had wrapped himself in a blanket, but he had kicked it off in his sleep. He was shivering with the cold.
“What on earth-?”
“You wanted to be wakened, remember?”
“Since when do you care what I want?”
“Don’t be disagreeable, Merlin. You have to check on Accolon. Have a cup of wine and go see to him.”
Slowly, stiffly, Merlin got to his feet. “Oh, this bloody arthritis. If there are any gods, they must hate humanity or they would never have devised winter.”
“You complain like a soldier.”
“Do not be rude, Bedivere.”
He spent a few minutes warming himself by the largest of the cook-fires with a cup of spiced wine. Then, accompanied by a servant and leaning heavily on his cane, he headed off to the “palace.”
As Bedivere had predicted, the muddy ground was freezing. The morning’s battle had left it rough, uneven. Merlin found the footing difficult. The roads in the heart of Paintonbury were not quite frozen yet; the mud was thick and viscous. He found it even more unpleasant. Most of the residents had fled. Only the elderly and a few children were left. Small as it was, the village had the saddest appearance.
Two torches blazed brilliantly at either side of the entrance to the “palace.” One was too close to the wall; the wood was charring. As Merlin approached, an elderly man came out of the building and bowed to him. “Ralph of Paintonbury, at your service, sir.”
Merlin pointed to the charring wood. “You had better do something about that. This place will go up in smoke.”
“Would that matter, sir?”
“Possibly to the people inside.” He introduced himself. “You were in service to Marmaduke?”
“Yes, sir. I am his majordomo.”
Merlin laughed. “A majordomo, here. This is not much of a domo to be major of, is it?”
“When I was a young man, I was a warrior, in service to Marmaduke’s father.”
Merlin ignored this. “I sent a sick man to be tended here. Where is he? Take me to him.”
Ralph made a slight bow. “This way, sir. One of your men is with him, sir.”
“Peter, yes. But what is that awful smell?”
Just at that moment,
Peter appeared in the doorway. “Merlin. I was just coming to look for you. I need fresh air. I’m not certain keeping Accolon here is a good idea.”
Merlin waved Ralph away and began to walk past Peter into the building. “Why not? We have to keep him warm and dry if he is to-”
“The poor man has to breathe. Can you not smell the awful odor?”
Merlin stopped in his tracks. “Good heavens. What an awful stench. It smells like-”
“I’m afraid that is exactly what it is. Rotting garbage mixed with-well. Let’s just say that Marmaduke was an even worse pig than we thought. Are you certain you want to come in?”
“I have to check on Accolon, stench or no stench.”
The interior of the palace, such as it was, was lit by torches. They were set too far apart to do much good against the gloom. But more than the darkness, Merlin was struck by an increasingly strong, increasingly unpleasant odor.
“It’s over there,” Peter indicated. “There is an entire room full of it. Apparently the concept of sanitation had not penetrated with Marmaduke. There are open pits dug in the floor where they-well, you understand.”
“A full room? You are joking.”
“I’m afraid not, Merlin. Would you care to see it? Aside from the foul stuff itself, there are worms, centipedes, rats… I’ve seen to it that Accolon is as far away from it as possible.”
“Very wise.” He sighed. “At least Marmaduke confined it to only one room. Which way?” He held up his fingers and pinched his nose. “You are right. Marmaduke is a pig in more ways than we realized.”
Peter led him along a hall to the rear of the palace. Torches flickered; room after room opened up as they passed along the corridor. The awful odor abated somewhat, but it was always there.
In a room with no windows, lit by three torches, lay Accolon. Merlin did a quick examination. “He seems no worse than before. But we must move him. Find a room with windows, take him there and let him get fresh air.”
“Windows? As far as I’ve found, there are none. The entire building is as close as this room.”
Again Merlin heaved a sigh. “Let us get him out of here. Breathing air this foul cannot be good for him. Find servants to carry him.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 19