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.
“When we are ready to move on, Arthur, I would suggest that you ride
in a carriage for a few days, just to be certain there are no complications from this. It is not terribly serious, but it is close to your heart. If something should happen to tear it open…” He made a gesture as if to say, There would be very little I could do.
Arthur scowled. “If I listened to you, I’d be wearing an apron and hiding in Camelot’s kitchen all the time.”
“Hiding among the women did Achilles no harm.” He grinned. “Perhaps you should take a lesson from that noble hero.”
“I have a country to run. Achilles had nothing to do but tend to his concubines and fight. When you get to Lulua’s mill, if any of her people are still there, I want you to interrogate them. If Lulua was in league with my sister to make trouble, they will know about it. See what you can learn. I will stop there tomorrow to see how things are progressing.”
The road out of Paintonbury went northwest, paralleling the creek. About a mile out of town it joined with a much larger stream to make a small river. Merlin and Peter rode on horseback, side by side. The carriages followed.
“I do not recall this river on any of the maps, Peter. I am beginning to fear we may be more lost than Arthur realizes.”
“We don’t have good maps? I had the impression-”
“The ones we are using date from the civil wars, nearly two decades ago. Arthur has never seen a need to have the whole country surveyed and accurate maps made. I will have to have a word with him.”
“It does seem like a great deal of effort. Perhaps-”
“If we are ever to make England a truly unified nation, good charts are essential. How can we hope to unify it when we do not really know what is here? No, I think Arthur will have to make it a priority.”
The new creek was much larger and much clearer than Paintonbury’s one. When the two met, the muddy water from Paintonbury made what looked like a huge brown smudge in the new, larger stream. But after a few yards it was lost in the clearer water. Merlin’s eyes took it all in. “This is good. We will have fresh water. I was quite concerned we-and our wounded-would have to continue drinking that foul stuff.”
After another mile, the mill came into view. The first thing in sight was its thatched roof, then more and more of it appeared. It was much larger than Merlin had expected, and in surprisingly good condition. The roof was thatched with what appeared to be fresh straw. Either the place was new or Lulua had kept it in excellent repair. The one sign of ill repair was a loud, low moaning sound made by the waterwheel. It carried clearly to Peter and Merlin three fourths of a mile up the road. The ground sloped gently downward; the wheel turned briskly.
Peter made a show of covering his ears. “Horrible sound.”
“It will be worse when we actually reach the mill.”
“Whatever can be causing it?”
“I have heard its like once before, on my travels through Egypt. There are ancient waterwheels at a place called Me dinet El-Fayyum. After long millennia they are still turning, still providing power and still making a deafening wail. The residents call their moaning the crying of the gods.”
“Splendid. I don’t suppose there’s any chance these ‘gods’ might be silent for a while?”
“I am afraid not. But you will find that you get used to it rather quickly.”
Peter wrinkled his features. “Horrible sound. It sounds as if the earth itself is in pain.”
“It is a fit place for a hospital, then.”
“Seriously, Merlin, can’t we simply make a camp somewhere nearby and keep our patients warm with fires?”
“We are here, Peter. Let us make the best of it.”
The patients had slept more or less soundly on the entire journey. All of them but Accolon, that was. He kept waking from his slumber, ranting incoherently about fantastic beasts devouring him. At one point, just as they reached the mill, he cried, “The dead! The dead are leaving their tombs and attacking me! They are living skeletons, and they claw at me with their sharp, bony fingers!” At times his rant was a shout; at others it was not much more than a whisper, barely audible above the moaning of the waterwheel.
Merlin tried to comfort him, but for the longest time it was no use. Then finally he fell back into sleep.
When they reached the mill, Robert and the other servants carried the patients inside. Merlin followed and was pleasantly surprised to see that the place was clean and well kept. Of Lulua’s servants there was no sign. Presumably they had received word of the way the battle had gone, and they had fled.
Merlin and Peter followed the servants. Once they were certain the patients had weathered the trip well, they went to explore the mill. There were a great many small rooms. They were tall, dark and shadowy, right up to the thatched roof. “This is not at all what I was hoping for. But I suppose it is what I should have expected, given that Lulua lived here.” Merlin noted that all the windows were glazed, though there were not enough of them to cut the darkness very much. But he was quite pleased to find stores of food and even wine.
The one exception to the mill’s general gloominess was the kitchen. There were a half dozen windows. And there were three ovens, two of which were still giving off heat. Peter found a small pantry with a great many bottles of wine. “At least the wine will keep us warm tonight. We can heat it up. And there are spices for it. Lulua has an herb garden outside. Nothing cuts the cold like good mulled wine.”
In the one large room the two huge millstones turned slowly, driven by the waterwheel outside. Their friction against each other made a low grinding noise; it was all but drowned out by the sound of the waterwheel. There was no sign of any grain for them to mill; there was no sign that there had been any for years. Peter observed it disapprovingly. “It seems such a waste. This place could feed the whole countryside.”
“Indeed.” Merlin inspected the mechanism that turned them, fascinated. “Look at this assemblage of gears. I was wondering how a relatively small stream could turn such large stones. But these gears must improve the mechanical advantage. I must make sketches of them. I would like to use something similar to improve my lift mechanism at Camelot.”
Everywhere, the loud groan of the waterwheel penetrated. When they went outside to inspect it, Merlin was quite startled to see that the axle on which the wheel turned was made of metal. “I have seen such wheels in Africa and in a few of the eastern stretches of Europe. Never in England.”
“How could Lulua have obtained this, then?”
“We do not know that she was actually responsible for the building of the mill. She may simply have… appropriated it. The question that vexes me is how she-or anyone else-could have afforded such a thing as a metal axle for the wheel.”
“Priests and priestesses grow wealthy. They find money wherever it is.” Peter smiled and squatted down to inspect the wheel more closely. “It is a law of nature, like swine hunting for truffles.”
Merlin chuckled. “Still, importing this-and importing an engineer to devise those gears inside-would have been quite a considerable extravagance. Lulua was more than wealthy enough to grow as fat as she is. She must be even wealthier still.”
“Or the sorority of witches is.” Peter stood again. “That groaning will drive me mad. How can you stand it, Merlin?”
He shrugged. “I have arthritis in my knees and hips. When you learn to withstand the pain, you are able to withstand most anything.”
Peter squinted and stared at him. “You take drugs to kill the pain.”
“Let us go back inside, Peter.”
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.”
The Pendragon Murders Page 20